teamackles96

[teamackles96]

I normally don't get involved with drama, but when someone calls this man ugly because he shaved his beard off, well that makes me angry! Seriously this man had no beard for 15 years playing the role of Dean Winchester, and many years before that he did roles with out a beard for DOOL, Dark Angel, Smallville etc so to attack him at a con for him shaving his beard and calling him ugly WTAF!

Can someone please tell me what the difference is because to me this man is beautiful inside and out, beard or no beard, long hair or short!! 🥹 ❤️

It's been bugging me, so I needed to say something 🤷🏼‍♀️ I will defend this man always!! 🥹 🥰

[teamackles96]

What the actual fuck? I saw this on Instagram and couldn't believe people were doing this. It took Jensen ages to get comfortable at conventions and now 'fans' are doing this?!

He's an actor, he has to change his look up all the time for the role he's playing and if you don't like it keep it to yourself!!!

How would you feel if someone did that to you?

i understand that jensen is a grown man, but people have no right to hurt others. ofc some people like this look, some don't, but let's respect jensen and not say negative things to his face. how can someone call themselves a fan like that? (no member of the cast deserves this)

credit to sarahhwinchester on ig

[teamackles96]

Stay Strong - Chapter Ten

❧ Main Pairing: Mark Meachum x Ex!Reader

❧ Summary: 5 years ago, you and Mark dated. Then one day he leaves with a broken heart and a poor excuse. Now, your forced to face him and work with him again on another task force.

Can you stay strong or will you be hypnotised by this charms again?

❧ Chapter Warnings: Fluff, lots of fluff

❧ Wordcount: 867

Previous Chapter | Stay Strong Masterlist

Chapter Ten- Say It Again (Four Years, 9 months Ago)

You could do this.

You just needed to stay at the bar a little longer and not go upstairs with that man. That was endgame. Don't go upstairs.

Mike Hanson was still perched at the bar, Jason shadowing him a few stools down. With any luck, your detour to the bathroom had bought enough time.

Drawing a steadying breath, you threaded through the crowd back toward him. Mike rose as you approached, eager.

"Ms Hart, ready to see the penthouse suite?" His smug smile made your stomach turn.

You swallowed thickly. This was it. You forced your voice steady. "Lead the way, Mr Hanson." But before he could usher you toward the elevators, another voice cu through.

"Ms Hart," you turned to see Mark.

"Dean Shaw," you blurted, the fake name tumbling out as though rehearsed. " Didn't think I'd see you here."

"Really?" He swirled the whiskey in his glass, smirk tugging at his mouth. "Who else would try to steal your clients?"

"Tried and fail, last I checked." Mark’s smirk widened. Only then did he flick his gaze to the third party, Mike, whose jaw was tightening by the second.

"Dean Shaw. NVIDIA." Mark extended his hand.

"Mike Hanson," Mike bit out, his grip stiff as iron.

"The Mike Hanson?" Mark gestured to the glittering ballroom. "This whole shindig’s yours?"

Mike squared his shoulders. "That’s right. And if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving." He stood, clamping a clammy hand against the small of your back.

"After-party?" Mark asked casually.

"Something like that." Mike winked at you, pulling you tighter into his side. Bile threatened your throat.

Mark’s eyes flicked to Mike’s hand at your waist. His grip on the whiskey glass whitened. "I'll let you enjoy." He dipped his head, but you caught the flicker in his green eyes. He had a plan.

As Mike moved to steer you past, Mark 'mis-stepped,' bumping his shoulder into Mike just hard enough. The whiskey went flying, splattering across Mike’s pristine white tuxedo. "You idiot! This is a six-grand jacket!" Mike exploded, voice echoing across the bar.

"Man, I’m sorry—" Mark grabbed a fistful of napkins, wiping frantically at the spreading stain.

"Don’t! You’ll ruin it more!" Mike snapped, ripping the napkins from his hands. "Dab, don’t wipe. I’ll do it myself."

He stormed off toward the back, cursing. It wasn’t until then you noticed, Jason was gone. The hack was done. And so were you.

You waited ten minutes at the bar before finally slipping out to the parking lot. Mark was there, leaning against your car like he’d been waiting all his life. The bow tie was gone, his shirt undone at the collar, golden skin peeking through the gap. He looked good. Too good.

"Dean Shaw?" He asked as you approached. His arms dropped open in invitation

"You told me to combine two character names. Dean Forrester from Gilmore Girls and Daniel Shaw from Chuck. I thought it suited you." You stood between his legs, staring up at him brow arched. "That was your big plan? Spill a drink on his six grand jacket?"

He chuckled, wrapping his arms arms around you. "You got any better ideas?" You laughed, but he didn't.

Instead, his fingers caught a strand of your hair, twirling it gently. His expression sobered. "I guess, I panicked. I couldn't let you go upstairs with him." His hands pulled you closer until the tension drained from your shoulders. "He had his hands on you and I just wanted to-" he took a deep inhale. "When he touched you… it made me sick. Like I was losing you and couldn’t stop it."

You tilted your head up at him, surprised by how raw his voice was. He didn’t do feelings often. "You didn't lose me."

“I know.” His gaze locked with yours. “But it hit me just how much you mean to me. That I don’t want a life without you. That… that I…” He swallowed hard. “That I love you.” Your lips curved into a smile before you could stop them, eyes stinging. He sighed when he saw your reaction. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Oh, I definitely am.” You grinned. You’d been waiting weeks to hear those three words.

“I know,” he muttered, defeated.

You cupped his face. “I love you too.”

Relief flickered across his features. He pushed off the car, lacing his fingers with yours. “Ready to go home?”

“Wait.” You tugged him back, voice low. “Say it again.”

“Y/N…” He tried to warn, but your eyes lingered on his lips, expectant.

“Please.”

He rolled his eyes, though his voice softened. “I love you.” You kissed him, sweet and sure.

“Say it again,” you murmured against his mouth.

His arm locked around your waist, the other hand sliding to the back of your neck. “I love you.”

“Again.”

He spun you, pressing you against the car. His lips crashed onto yours, hungry now. “I love you.”

You melted into him, the world narrowing to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the press of his body. Your soft moan broke between kisses, lost to him instantly.

You stood there tangled together, making out like teenagers, drunk on love and the relief of finally saying it out loud.

Next Chapter

Main Masterlist | Mark Meachum Masterlist | Ask Me Anything or Request

A/N: I know it's a shorter chapter, but oh boy! We are getting to the good stuff!

Mark Meachum Tag List:

@hayah84 @jaes-last-words @nuoctis @globetrotter28 @ze1nab

Also please comment or fill out the Tag List Form to be tagged with each new chapter. 🩵

[teamackles96]

Seeing all the pictures and videos from the American conventions makes me hope that Jared, Jensen and Misha come to the UK one next year.

PLEEASSSEEEEEE!

[teamackles96]

YAY! 🩵

I'm so glad you liked it!!

Headcanon: If They Ever Hurt You

Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

Scenario: Requested by @mishkatelwarriorgoddess:

'How do our boys handle whenever we've been hurt (verbally) by someone who we thought we could trust????? [Protectiveness]'

pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

Humour

Colter had told you to stay at the motel, otherwise you’d ruin the plan. He probably hadn’t realized how sharp the words sounded, but they cut anyway. Worse, Russell had been right there to hear it. Not that you were about to show how much it stung.

You leaned against the motel wall, watching Colter climb into his car and drive off after the lead. The taillights disappeared, and you let out a long sigh just as Russell came up beside you. "Here." He held out a Styrofoam cup. "Fresh motel coffee. Only the best for you." You accepted it with a small smile, the steam curling between you. He took the spot next to you, both of you staring out over the parking lot.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yep."

Russell sipped his coffee, unconvinced. "He’s an asshole."

A scoff escaped you. "Yep."

Russell tilted his head, a glint of mischief in his eye. "You know, when he was a kid and Dad chewed him out, he’d march out into the woods and do this thing he called shadow karate. Like…fighting the air." He lifted his hands, chopping and punching clumsily, dead serious in the imitation. "Pretty sure the air won most of the time."

The image made you laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it.

"He was a scrawny little thing too," Russell added, shaking his head. "Probably couldn’t karate chop a twig."

You laughed harder, the sting of Colter’s words easing away. "Thanks, Russell." You held up your cup, and he tapped his gently against yours.

"Anytime."

Dean Winchester

On Your Behalf

“Nobody talks to you like that.” Dean’s boots scraped against the motel’s threadbare carpet as he paced, shoulders tight, jaw working. You sat at the end of the bed, staring down at the garish pattern, too hollow to answer. Dean’s anger was loud enough for both of you.

"If I see him again, I swear...I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Hell, if he’s lucky my fist doesn’t meet his face first. What gives him the—" He stopped short.

You hadn’t moved. Your small frame was hunched in on itself, your gaze vacant. Trapped in the echo of words that refused to let go.

You don’t matter. You’re nothing. You’re a waste of space.

And the worst part, it hadn’t come from an enemy. It had come from someone you trusted.

Dean’s anger drained away in an instant. "Hey, sweetheart." His voice softened as he knelt in front of you, filling your blurry vision. Rough hands took yours, grounding you. "Don’t listen to them." Your eyes lifted, glassy and unsure. It nearly broke him. "You do matter. You matter a hell of a lot. To Sammy, to Bobby, and especially to me." His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, steady and certain. "You hear me? He was wrong. So damn wrong."

You blinked, a single tear slipping free. "Okay," you whispered, so faint he almost missed it.

Dean leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against your knees. His voice came low, fierce, almost a growl. "But if you want me to punch him, just say the word."

Beau Arlen

Affirmation

The whole precinct had seen Jenny Hoyt tear into you, and she hadn’t held back. When she stormed off, she left you stranded in the middle of the bullpen, every set of eyes on you, the weight of awkward silence pressing in.

Beau had seen enough. From across the room, he called your name, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Office. Now."

Grateful for the escape, you slipped inside. The door clicked shut, cutting off the stares. Beau stepped closer, big hands settling on your shoulders, grounding you. "Darlin’, look at me." Your gaze lifted from the denim stretched across his chest to meet his steady green eyes. "You didn’t deserve that," he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re good at your job. You’re a good person. Don’t let her words stick—they’re just anger, and you were in the crossfire."

His palms slid up, cupping your face. Rough thumbs brushed over your cheeks, catching the shine of tears before they could fall. He studied you, like he was trying to read if it was hurt, anger, or embarrassment clouding your eyes.

"Look, let me talk to her, set this straight—"

"No." Your voice cracked but held. You drew a deep breath, shoulders squaring. "Please don’t. I can handle it."

Something shifted in his face then, pride softening the frustration. He smiled, gentle but certain. "There she is. There’s my girl."

He bent, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to make the knot in your chest loosen.

Soldier Boy

Violence

"I told you to stay in the fucking car." Butch yelled at you as you entered the apartment. Hughie and Soldier Boy following behind you

"But he was right there! I could’ve helped you."

"I can’t risk you getting hurt!"

"I’m not a child, Butcher!"

"Then when are you going to STOP FUCKING ACTING LIKE ONE?!"

The words ripped out of him like shrapnel. You froze, mouth open, because Butcher had never raised his voice at you. Never talked to you like that before.

That was the spark.

America’s first Supe saw red. In a blur, Soldier Boy crossed the room and slammed Butcher against the wall, one massive hand clamped around his throat. Plaster cracked from the impact, the wall giving under the sheer force he didn’t bother holding back.

"Ben!" you gasped, shocked.

But Soldier Boy’s face was a mask of fury, teeth clenched, eyes blazing. He leaned into Butcher, voice low and lethal.

"What, you gonna kiss me?" Butcher rasped out, choking.

"You fucking talk to her like that again," Ben growled, his voice guttural, "I won’t hold back. I’ll put you through the fucking wall." He looked rabid; shoulders heaving, jaw tight, practically frothing with rage.

Then, just as suddenly, he released him. Butcher collapsed to the floor, coughing, dragging air back into his lungs. Soldier Boy didn’t spare him another look. He stalked down the hall, slammed his door hard enough to rattle the frame, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Mark Meachum

Distractions

Nathan chewed you out in his office, voice carrying through the thin walls like a megaphone. The floor-to-ceiling windows didn’t help either. Every eye in the bullpen flicked up, trying not to stare, trying even harder not to listen.

"Yes, sir," you mumbled, shrinking under the weight of it. You shuffled out, through the bullpen, and slipped into a back room, away from the curious glances.

Your fingers tangled in your hair as you paced, breath coming shallow. You shook out your hands, trying to expel the storm inside you, but it only rattled harder in your chest. You knew you’d earned the lecture, but knowing didn’t make hearing it any easier.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I got suspended from the LAPD?"

The low voice startled you. You spun, finding Mark leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He strolled toward you, his voice steady, unhurried. "We had a guy go undercover in the L.A. Mafia. Real piece of shit, so we knew he’d blend. Problem was, he blended too well. Beat a woman to ‘keep his cover.’" He bent his fingers in sharp air quotes.

"When we finally took the guy down, I didn’t care he wore the same badge. I went straight for him. Punched his lights out. Took three guys to pull me off. Everyone thought I snapped ‘cause he’d gotten the job I wanted. I never told them what he did." He gave a dry chuckle. "Got reamed out in front of the whole precinct. Suspended two weeks. Best two weeks of my life."

You blinked up at him, caught somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement. "What was the point of that story?"

Mark shrugged, easy. "Dunno. Figured it might distract you."

A laugh broke out of you—small, shaky, but real. "Thanks Mark."

He smiled, slipped an arm around your shoulders, and pulled you into his side. A gentle kiss landed on the crown of your head. "Anytime, sweetheart."

Boaz Priestly

Silent Comfort

"At least I can get a guy." Tish snapped. You froze, warning her with your eyes not to go further.

Don’t.

Not here.

But she did.

"And I don’t pine over some guy who doesn’t even know I exist." The words hit harder than a slap. Worse, she gestured right at Priestly.

The air left your lungs. Your stomach dropped. And the secret you’d only ever whispered to her, the crush you’d confided in her, now hung in the air for everyone to see.

Her face shifted the second she realized what she’d done. Eyes wide. Hand lowering like it might erase the betrayal. "Y/N, I—"

But you were already moving. The Grill fell into a silence so heavy you could feel it pressing against your back as you shoved through the door.

Outside, the night air was sharp against your burning cheeks. Tears broke free before you could stop them, spilling fast as you staggered to the alley behind the shop. You pressed your back to the brick wall, curling into yourself, wishing you could disappear.

A touch landed on your shoulder, gentle, steady. Then hands turned you, pulled you forward, and you crashed into a solid chest.

The breath you let out was half relief, half dread. Priestly.

He didn’t say a word. He just held you. Strong arms anchored you while you cried, while your secrets and shame poured out, and for once, you didn’t have to pretend to be okay.

Tag List:

@hayah84 @globetrotter28 @ze1nab @jaes-last-words @nuoctis

Also please comment or fill out the Tag List Form to be tagged with each new post. 🩵

Feel free to Ask Me Anything or Request

Main Masterlist

[teamackles96]

Headcanon: You're Having My Baby

❧ Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

❧ Scenario: How they are when you're pregnant.

❧ Pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

Prepared Tactical Dad

You sat cross-legged on the bed, pulling little treasures out of the shopping bag. Russell was slouched in the armchair across the room, nose buried in yet another baby book.

"Aww, look at these tiny booties," you cooed, holding up a pair of miniature black combat boots.

Russell didn’t move. "Mm-hmm."

"Russell."

"Hm?" He didn’t look up.

"Look. At. The booties."

"Yeah, cute." His eyes stayed glued to the page.

You rolled yours. A few minutes later, he finally snapped the book shut and crossed to the wardrobe. He dragged out a duffel and dropped it on the bed beside you.

Your smile faltered. "Uh… what are you doing?"

"Go-bag," he said briskly, already stuffing it with nappies, onesies, and a blanket.

"Babe, I’m only four months."

"We can’t be too careful." He finally met your gaze, dead serious. "By the way, have you been keeping up with your pelvic floor exercises?"

You gaped at him. "Pelvic flo—" You snatched the book right out of his hands. "That’s it. You’re banned from baby books."

Dean Winchester

Teacher of Cool

You lounged against the headboard, book in hand, shirt tugged up beneath your bust so your bump was bare. One arm draped protectively across it while you read aloud, a bedtime story for the little life inside you.

Sam and Dean had been gone a couple of days, out on a hunt, and you’d been counting the hours until they returned.

The sound of boots in the hallway made your heart skip. A second later, Dean filled the doorway, exhaustion falling away the instant he saw you. His whole face lit up, that smile—the one that was just for you.

He didn’t even bother with grace. Jacket tossed to the floor, he flopped onto the bed, crawling up until his head rested by your bump. "There’s my girls." His lips brushed your skin in a kiss before he looked up at you, eyes crinkling with joy.

"How was your day?" you asked, brushing a hand through his hair as he stroked your stomach.

"Good. Better now I’m here." His fingers threaded through yours, warm and steady. "Got a present."

That made you laugh softly. Dean’s 'presents' usually meant a cassette he’d dug up. Reaching to the nightstand, you handed him the Walkman and headphones. He slid the tape in and settled the headphones gently against your belly.

"So, what is it this time?"

"Led Zeppelin. First album." The music crackled to life, and almost immediately, you felt the baby kick. Dean froze, eyes wide, then pressed both hands against your bump like he could catch every second of it. His awe was written all over him, raw and unguarded. "Did you feel that? She kicked. She’s kicking!" His grin spread slow, reverent. He shook his head, voice low with wonder. "She’s coming into this world with good taste."

Beau Arlen

Overprotective Papa

To say Beau was protective was an understatement. You didn’t think it could get any worse...until you got pregnant.

The first few months weren’t so bad. He was more excited than anything, buzzing with plans. He couldn’t wait to be a father again, to give Emily a sibling.

Then you popped.

The second that little bump showed up, something in him shifted.

One Saturday, you made yourself a simple sandwich. Plate in hand, you headed for the living room. Only for Beau to intercept you like you were carrying live explosives. "Oh, darlin’, let me help you," he said, taking the plate before you could blink. Help you? It was porcelain, not plutonium.

Another night, the two of you came home from a date. Before you could grab your keys, Beau scooped you up and carried you bridal-style to the front door.

It all came to a head in the kitchen. You were chopping vegetables for dinner when a large hand plucked the knife right out of yours. "Beau!"

He slid in front of you at the island, already slicing as if this were normal. "What?"

"I’m pregnant, not made of glass! I can still do things."

"I know, I just…" He paused, jaw tightening. "I just don’t want you stressing yourself out."

You arched a brow. "By cutting vegetables?"

He glanced down at the board, finally realizing how ridiculous he looked. A sheepish laugh rumbled out of him. "I've been a bit much, huh?"

You softened, smiling up at him. "Yes. But I get it." You stood on your tip toes to kiss his cheek. "You're making dinner though."

He smirked, as you took a seat. "Yes ma'am."

Soldier Boy

Story Teller

Your little nightly ritual was always the same.

No matter how long his day had been; saving civilians, doing the Vought song and dance, smiling until his cheeks ached, Ben never skipped it.

You’d be propped against a fortress of pillows, shirt tugged up so your bump was bare. He’d lie beside you, cheek pressed to your stomach, talking like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The problem? Ben wasn’t exactly a G-rated storyteller.

"So then I chucked my shield and ripped his head clean fucking off,” he said cheerfully. “Blood fucking everywhere. The headless body jus—"

"Ben!" You swatted his shoulder.

He lifted his head, brows furrowed. "What? They don’t know what I’m saying."

"Of course they do. They’re always learning."

Ben rolled his eyes like you were the crazy one. "Fine, fine. I’ll keep it PG. So, the headless body hit the ground, and the kid I saved puked his fucking guts up." He laughed, delighted at his own delivery.

You groaned, covering your face. "Ben, I swear, if this baby’s first word is fuck, I’m killing you."

Mark Meachum

Affectionate Pops

Months ago, he’d accepted the truth: he didn’t have long to live. But now, the treatment was working, and he had a future. A future he refused to take for granted. He never thought he’d get this.

You were out in the garden, watering plants in a light sundress that clung around your bump. The evening sun caught on your skin, warm and golden. Mark leaned against the back door, just watching you. He’d been doing that a lot lately; watching, holding, never missing a chance to show affection.

"You’re glowing," he said softly.

You turned, smiling at him. "It’s either pregnancy or sweat."

He laughed, crossing the lawn to you. "Hi, baby." He crouched, his hand tender over your bump, pressing a kiss there before rising to kiss your lips. "Hi, baby."

"Hi." Your grin widened.

"You look beautiful."

You huffed a laugh, running your hand through damp hair. "I don’t feel beautiful. I’m starting to think you like me more pregnant."

His hands found your waist, thumbs brushing lazy circles. His voice was warm with certainty. "No. I just finally get to appreciate what I have; my gorgeous girl, growing our baby." You grinned at him.

Your future was looking bright.

Boaz Priestly

Feeding The Baby

"Six-inch sub. Turkey, chicken, onions, lettuce, cucumber, and extra pickles. Oh, and all the sauces," Priestly announced as he set the sandwich in front of you with a flourish.

"Toasted?"

"Practically burnt."

"Perfect." You grinned, giving him a quick peck on the lips before tearing into the sandwich. He winced playfully as he watched you demolish it. "This is so good," you mumbled through a mouthful.

Priestly chuckled, shaking his head. Keeping up with your cravings had been a full-time job lately. Last week it was cheese, now it was pickles on everything. He leaned over, swiping a napkin across your mouth to catch the runaway sauces.

"Sorry," you said sheepishly.

"Don’t be sorry." His smile softened. "I’m just glad you’re eating something." The morning sickness had been brutal, hitting like clockwork at nine a.m. every day. Almost the second trimester, you’d read it might start easing up. God, you hoped so.

"Me too," you said, eyeing your empty plate with a small, hopeful smile.

But then the wave hit, nausea, sudden and sharp. Priestly’s grin vanished as he saw your face drain of colour.

"Uh oh." You slapped a hand over your mouth and bolted, darting into the bathroom and locking the door before he could follow.

The shop went quiet, customers staring after you. Priestly threw up his hands. "It’s not the food! She’s pregnant!" He gestured to the sandwiches on the counter. "Food’s good. Totally safe. Great food." He muttered the last part under his breath, shaking his head.

Tag List:

@hayah84 @globetrotter28 @ze1nab @jaes-last-words @nuoctis

Also please comment or fill out the Tag List Form to be tagged with each new post. 🩵

Feel free to Ask Me Anything or Request

Main Masterlist

[teamackles96]

Headcanon: If They Ever Hurt You

Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

Scenario: Requested by @mishkatelwarriorgoddess:

'How do our boys handle whenever we've been hurt (verbally) by someone who we thought we could trust????? [Protectiveness]'

pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

Humour

Colter had told you to stay at the motel, otherwise you’d ruin the plan. He probably hadn’t realized how sharp the words sounded, but they cut anyway. Worse, Russell had been right there to hear it. Not that you were about to show how much it stung.

You leaned against the motel wall, watching Colter climb into his car and drive off after the lead. The taillights disappeared, and you let out a long sigh just as Russell came up beside you. "Here." He held out a Styrofoam cup. "Fresh motel coffee. Only the best for you." You accepted it with a small smile, the steam curling between you. He took the spot next to you, both of you staring out over the parking lot.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yep."

Russell sipped his coffee, unconvinced. "He’s an asshole."

A scoff escaped you. "Yep."

Russell tilted his head, a glint of mischief in his eye. "You know, when he was a kid and Dad chewed him out, he’d march out into the woods and do this thing he called shadow karate. Like…fighting the air." He lifted his hands, chopping and punching clumsily, dead serious in the imitation. "Pretty sure the air won most of the time."

The image made you laugh, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it.

"He was a scrawny little thing too," Russell added, shaking his head. "Probably couldn’t karate chop a twig."

You laughed harder, the sting of Colter’s words easing away. "Thanks, Russell." You held up your cup, and he tapped his gently against yours.

"Anytime."

Dean Winchester

On Your Behalf

“Nobody talks to you like that.” Dean’s boots scraped against the motel’s threadbare carpet as he paced, shoulders tight, jaw working. You sat at the end of the bed, staring down at the garish pattern, too hollow to answer. Dean’s anger was loud enough for both of you.

"If I see him again, I swear...I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Hell, if he’s lucky my fist doesn’t meet his face first. What gives him the—" He stopped short.

You hadn’t moved. Your small frame was hunched in on itself, your gaze vacant. Trapped in the echo of words that refused to let go.

You don’t matter. You’re nothing. You’re a waste of space.

And the worst part, it hadn’t come from an enemy. It had come from someone you trusted.

Dean’s anger drained away in an instant. "Hey, sweetheart." His voice softened as he knelt in front of you, filling your blurry vision. Rough hands took yours, grounding you. "Don’t listen to them." Your eyes lifted, glassy and unsure. It nearly broke him. "You do matter. You matter a hell of a lot. To Sammy, to Bobby, and especially to me." His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, steady and certain. "You hear me? He was wrong. So damn wrong."

You blinked, a single tear slipping free. "Okay," you whispered, so faint he almost missed it.

Dean leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against your knees. His voice came low, fierce, almost a growl. "But if you want me to punch him, just say the word."

Beau Arlen

Affirmation

The whole precinct had seen Jenny Hoyt tear into you, and she hadn’t held back. When she stormed off, she left you stranded in the middle of the bullpen, every set of eyes on you, the weight of awkward silence pressing in.

Beau had seen enough. From across the room, he called your name, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Office. Now."

Grateful for the escape, you slipped inside. The door clicked shut, cutting off the stares. Beau stepped closer, big hands settling on your shoulders, grounding you. "Darlin’, look at me." Your gaze lifted from the denim stretched across his chest to meet his steady green eyes. "You didn’t deserve that," he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re good at your job. You’re a good person. Don’t let her words stick—they’re just anger, and you were in the crossfire."

His palms slid up, cupping your face. Rough thumbs brushed over your cheeks, catching the shine of tears before they could fall. He studied you, like he was trying to read if it was hurt, anger, or embarrassment clouding your eyes.

"Look, let me talk to her, set this straight—"

"No." Your voice cracked but held. You drew a deep breath, shoulders squaring. "Please don’t. I can handle it."

Something shifted in his face then, pride softening the frustration. He smiled, gentle but certain. "There she is. There’s my girl."

He bent, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to make the knot in your chest loosen.

Soldier Boy

Violence

"I told you to stay in the fucking car." Butch yelled at you as you entered the apartment. Hughie and Soldier Boy following behind you

"But he was right there! I could’ve helped you."

"I can’t risk you getting hurt!"

"I’m not a child, Butcher!"

"Then when are you going to STOP FUCKING ACTING LIKE ONE?!"

The words ripped out of him like shrapnel. You froze, mouth open, because Butcher had never raised his voice at you. Never talked to you like that before.

That was the spark.

America’s first Supe saw red. In a blur, Soldier Boy crossed the room and slammed Butcher against the wall, one massive hand clamped around his throat. Plaster cracked from the impact, the wall giving under the sheer force he didn’t bother holding back.

"Ben!" you gasped, shocked.

But Soldier Boy’s face was a mask of fury, teeth clenched, eyes blazing. He leaned into Butcher, voice low and lethal.

"What, you gonna kiss me?" Butcher rasped out, choking.

"You fucking talk to her like that again," Ben growled, his voice guttural, "I won’t hold back. I’ll put you through the fucking wall." He looked rabid; shoulders heaving, jaw tight, practically frothing with rage.

Then, just as suddenly, he released him. Butcher collapsed to the floor, coughing, dragging air back into his lungs. Soldier Boy didn’t spare him another look. He stalked down the hall, slammed his door hard enough to rattle the frame, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Mark Meachum

Distractions

Nathan chewed you out in his office, voice carrying through the thin walls like a megaphone. The floor-to-ceiling windows didn’t help either. Every eye in the bullpen flicked up, trying not to stare, trying even harder not to listen.

"Yes, sir," you mumbled, shrinking under the weight of it. You shuffled out, through the bullpen, and slipped into a back room, away from the curious glances.

Your fingers tangled in your hair as you paced, breath coming shallow. You shook out your hands, trying to expel the storm inside you, but it only rattled harder in your chest. You knew you’d earned the lecture, but knowing didn’t make hearing it any easier.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I got suspended from the LAPD?"

The low voice startled you. You spun, finding Mark leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He strolled toward you, his voice steady, unhurried. "We had a guy go undercover in the L.A. Mafia. Real piece of shit, so we knew he’d blend. Problem was, he blended too well. Beat a woman to ‘keep his cover.’" He bent his fingers in sharp air quotes.

"When we finally took the guy down, I didn’t care he wore the same badge. I went straight for him. Punched his lights out. Took three guys to pull me off. Everyone thought I snapped ‘cause he’d gotten the job I wanted. I never told them what he did." He gave a dry chuckle. "Got reamed out in front of the whole precinct. Suspended two weeks. Best two weeks of my life."

You blinked up at him, caught somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement. "What was the point of that story?"

Mark shrugged, easy. "Dunno. Figured it might distract you."

A laugh broke out of you—small, shaky, but real. "Thanks Mark."

He smiled, slipped an arm around your shoulders, and pulled you into his side. A gentle kiss landed on the crown of your head. "Anytime, sweetheart."

Boaz Priestly

Silent Comfort

"At least I can get a guy." Tish snapped. You froze, warning her with your eyes not to go further.

Don’t.

Not here.

But she did.

"And I don’t pine over some guy who doesn’t even know I exist." The words hit harder than a slap. Worse, she gestured right at Priestly.

The air left your lungs. Your stomach dropped. And the secret you’d only ever whispered to her, the crush you’d confided in her, now hung in the air for everyone to see.

Her face shifted the second she realized what she’d done. Eyes wide. Hand lowering like it might erase the betrayal. "Y/N, I—"

But you were already moving. The Grill fell into a silence so heavy you could feel it pressing against your back as you shoved through the door.

Outside, the night air was sharp against your burning cheeks. Tears broke free before you could stop them, spilling fast as you staggered to the alley behind the shop. You pressed your back to the brick wall, curling into yourself, wishing you could disappear.

A touch landed on your shoulder, gentle, steady. Then hands turned you, pulled you forward, and you crashed into a solid chest.

The breath you let out was half relief, half dread. Priestly.

He didn’t say a word. He just held you. Strong arms anchored you while you cried, while your secrets and shame poured out, and for once, you didn’t have to pretend to be okay.

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[teamackles96]

I can’t take my eyes off him.

[teamackles96]

Stay Strong - Chapter Nine

❧ Main Pairing: Mark Meachum x Ex!Reader

❧ Summary: 5 years ago, you and Mark dated. Then one day he leaves with a broken heart and a poor excuse. Now, your forced to face him and work with him again on another task force.

Can you stay strong or will you be hypnotised by this charms again?

❧ Chapter Warnings: Chaos

❧ Wordcount: 1.4k

Previous Chapter | Stay Strong Masterlist

Chapter Nine - Time To Blow It Up (Present Day)

You were frustrated. Four straight hours buried in Darden’s files and nothing. Not a damn lead. The last case file sat open on your desk, hope fading fast.

With a sigh, you stood, slid the folder back into its box, and stacked it with the rest. At least your office looks less cluttered now. Just a trip to the archives and you could call it.

"Javi wants to test us." Oliveras’ voice carried from the bullpen. You stepped out, joining Blythe, Shepherd, Drew, and Bell just as Meachum and Oliveras returned from their short undercover stint with Los Reyes Nuevos.

"Meaning?" Nathan asked.

"He’s giving us a run," Oliveras said.

Mark slid his hands into his pockets, standing next to her. "He’s got a truck full of contraband coming up from Rosarito. With the heat on Los Reyes, he thinks it’s gonna get jammed up at the border."

"Know what’s inside?" Shepherd pressed.

"Gotta assume heroin," Bell muttered.

"If we can get it through, he’ll trust us," Oliveras said. "And he’ll tell us who he made the fissile delivery for."

"So, we clear the truck through Border Patrol," Finau stated flatly.

"That’s not gonna work. Lopez has some skinny, little Agent-Shepherd-type working for him." Mark gestured vaguely in Shepherd’s direction. "No offense."

Shepherd crossed her arms. "Well, offense taken."

You couldn’t hold back a laugh.

"No, I just mean, like, uh, you know—clickety clackety—" Mark kept digging.

"Mark?" You caught his eye. "Stop." You mouthed the word before he could bury himself further.

"Whatever." He waved you off and turned back to the group. "He ran my cover through NCIC."

"That’s a law enforcement database," Damon said, looking at Nathan.

"Exactly."

"Cartel’s gone Gen Z," Amber muttered.

"He used a Border Patrol login. I saw him." Nathan’s gaze flicked to yours over Mark’s shoulder. After a decade of working together, the two of you didn’t need words. You were both thinking the same thing: this run could get you what you needed—information on the fissile material and where it was headed. But it also meant helping a cartel move heroin, feeding the streets and their bankroll. You gave a subtle shrug. Ugly choices. Necessary ones. For the safety of Los Angeles.

Nathan exhaled. "Bell, Shepherd, I want maps and logistics. Oliveras, Meachum, Finau, get me everything you have on Border Patrol on the Mexican side, and Federales out in Tijuana. Anyone we can trust down there. We’ve got one shot before the cartel closes ranks."

No pressure.

"Y/N, we need a cab for the truck and cars." You nodded. "Drew. My office."

An hour later you came back, keys in hand. Olivas, Finau, Meachum, and Bell were kitting up to head out.

"The cab and cars are downstairs." You dropped the keys into Finau’s palm. "You and Meachum are the only ones driving the rig. You’ve got the licenses. Be careful. If anything happens to it, I’m the one stuck with the insurance paperwork." Finau chuckled. "Good luck." You passed the car keys to Oliveras and Bell, then spared Mark a small smile as he headed out with the rest.

You and Drew were crowded around Shepherd's desk, eyes glued to the Border Patrol feeds. Getting into Mexico was the easy part. Once the team crossed, Ops One would be blind.

The three of you watched in silence as Bell and Oliveras cleared the inspection without issue. But when the cab was pulled aside, you breath caught. Routine probably, but at the border, 'routine' could go bad in seconds.

Less than a minute later, the truck was waved through.

"Relax, it's going to be fine," Damon whispered, his voice just low enough to draw Shepherd's attention.

"I know," you muttered, eyes still on the screen. "It’s just… one thing knowing they’re out there, another watching it live."

"Welcome to my world," Shepherd deadpanned.

You chuckled. "Fair enough. I’m gonna update Nathan on the files. Coffee?"

Both nodded, eyes never leaving the screen.

You headed into Nathan's office, tapping lightly on Nathan's doorframe. "Hey boss, got a minute?" He motioned you inside. "I've finished the Darden files. Nothing. No trail for where the money might've came from, no reason for it. Just… dead ends."

Nathan sighed, leaning back in this chair. "I was hoping that wasn't the case."

"Maybe somebody wanted him gone, made him look suspicious? Wrong place, wrong time, pissed off the wrong person?"

"Could be" He rubbed his temple, weariness bleeding through. "But his murder is the reason this task force exists. We’ve got the man who pulled the trigger…"

"But you want the 'why'."

"The why is everything." His eyes lifted to yours, sharp with determination despite the exhaustion.

You softened, giving him a sad smile. "I can take another run through the files, just in case?"

He shook his head. "Don’t waste your time. Whatever the reason was—it isn’t in those files."

You nodded. "What if he was used as the set-up?"

"Then we find the person who set him up."

All eyes at Ops One were on Shepherd's screen. The truck, the two cars and the Federale police cruiser , Oliveras was in, waited in line at the border. Drew had offered a few words of encouragement over comms, steadying not just the team but your nerves too.

The Mexican Border Patrol was nothing to be messed with. You weren’t too worried about Finau and Bell. But Oliveras could get clocked for not being real police, and Meachum… well. All Mark had to do was open his mouth.

"Shit," you muttered as a police car moved up beside Oliveras.

"It's okay. She can handle it," Drew said softly.

"Meachum," Oliveras’ voice cracked over the radio, sharp with unease.

"I got 'em," Mark responded.

You shared an anxious glance with Shepherd. Both of you were hunched over her desk, as if leaning close could tilt the odds in your team's favour.

Your hand closed into a fist, nails scratching the flesh of your palm.

Even Nathan looked restless. "Stay patient. Getting that truck through clean equals information."

The first hurdle: Guardia Nacional. The guard rounded the cab, checked the licence plate. A beat later, he waved Finau through.

You let out half a breath, only for it to catch again when Shepherd switched feeds. Oliveras was now boxed in, Federales flanking her car on both sides.

Then, the truck rolled up to U.S. Customs. And stopped.

The four of you leaned into the screen. Damon muttered behind you like a prayer: “Come on, come on, come on.”

But the CBP agent didn’t wave Finau through.

An alarm shrileld on Shepherd's second monitor . "They're running OCR on Finau's truck." The alert flashed up. You and Shepherd looked back at Nathan and Damon.

Fuck, you knew what was coming next.

Chaos.

"Time to blow it up," Mark's voice cut through the comms.

Nathan reached forthe phone on Shepherd's desk. You dropped your head between your shoulders. You already knew what this meant: hours of insurance reports.

"This is Special Agent in Charge, Nathan Blythe. I wanna report a suspicious vehicle trying to cross the Tijuana border. Yeah, I got it on satellite no. License plated: Foxtrot-Delta-X-ray-542." Meachum's car.

On the feed, Mark’s sedan suddenly roared backward, then forward, ramming into civilian cars, crunching metal, blowing apart hoods and trunks. No plan, just sheer destruction.

Sirens wailed. Oliveras jumped out of her cruiser, sprinting toward him. You winced as she yanked his body from the car and slammed him to the asphalt. That one was going to sting.

Bell used the chaos, moving fast. While the CBP officer ran to help Oliveras, Bell hustled Finau and the truck through. No words carried over the feed, but you didn’t need them.

The sigh of relief at Ops One was collective. The truck was through. No one was dead.

“Y/N—” Nathan started.

“Yeah, yeah,” you cut him off, already pushing up from Shepherd’s desk. “I’ll expedite Meachum’s transfer to the Bureau. And fill out the insurance claims for every car he just turned into scrap metal.”

You trudged back toward your office, shoulders sagging at the thought of endless paperwork and phone calls.

“Want a hand?” Damon called after you, amusement in his voice.

You flipped him off without looking back. The three agents’ laughter followed you down the hall.

Next Chapter

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[teamackles96]

Stay Strong - Chapter Eight

❧ Main Pairing: Mark Meachum x Ex!Reader

❧ Summary: 5 years ago, you and Mark dated. Then one day he leaves with a broken heart and a poor excuse. Now, your forced to face him and work with him again on another task force.

Can you stay strong or will you be hypnotised by this charms again?

❧ Chapter Warnings: Sleezy guy, protective Mark Meachum, Undercover reader

❧ Wordcount: 1.6k

Previous Chapter | Stay Strong Masterlist

Chapter Eight- Not Tonight (Four Years, 9 months Ago)

"Are you sure you’re okay with this?" you called from the bathroom, leaning into the mirror as you perfected your eyeliner. Your hair was swept into a soft updo, loose curls tumbling down to frame your face. The plush blue robe draped over you was a safeguard between your body and any stray makeup.

"Yeah. It’s part of the job," Mark called back.

"Not mine," you muttered.

Mark had roped you into an LAPD operation, insisting there wasn’t anyone in the precinct 'hot enough' for the role. While you were technically an FBI assistant, you’d been in the field before, though not like this.

You stepped into the doorway, leaning your shoulder against the frame. He was buttoning up his crisp white shirt, muscles shifting beneath the fabric, dark slacks fitting him far too well. The man you loved. You’d told him so only days ago. He hadn’t said it back—but he didn’t need to. You knew. Or at least… you thought you did.

"Nervous?" he asked, catching you staring. His eyes narrowed just slightly—like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

"A little," you admitted. "Feels weird to flirt with someone who isn’t you."

He reached for his bow tie, but you crossed the room and took it from him. Standing in front of him, you began to tie it, aware of every slow, deliberate brush of his thumbs along your waist.

"I know," he murmured, leaning down just enough that you caught the faint trace of his cologne—warm, deep, unmistakably his. "I’ll be close. If he so much as breathes wrong around you, I’m on him."

A laugh escaped you, though your fingers stilled briefly at the steel in his tone. You finished with the bow tie, your hands resting against his chest. His gaze locked on yours, intense, with that smile he reserved for you alone. He started to lower his head, but you pulled away just in time.

"Hey! I just finished my makeup. I need to look good for my man."

One dark brow arched. "You don’t even know his name or what he looks like."

"Still gotta look good for him," you teased.

His arm slid around your waist in a sudden, possessive move, drawing you flush against him. His voice was low and rough when he said, "I’m your man. Don’t forget it."

You tapped his jaw with a smirk. "Not tonight, handsome."

You slipped from his grasp, taking your strapless black gown and disappearing into the bathroom. Behind you, you heard the quiet sound of him swearing under his breath.

You and Mark had to arrive at the gala at different times to avoid suspicion. He was already inside with Jason, Melinda’s boyfriend, posted up near the foyer. Your job was to hold the target’s attention long enough for Jason to hack his phone remotely.

The gala was being held at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in Beverly Hills—an opulent maze of gold trim, marble floors, and chandeliers the size of small cars. The kind of place where the price of a single glass of champagne could pay someone’s rent for a month.

The target, Mike Hanson, was a tech mogul suspected of human and drug trafficking. The kind of man whose fortune was as dirty as his charm. Unfortunately, he was the man you had to flirt with.

Mark and Jason had already spotted him at the bar, ordering the most expensive champagne on the menu while circling women like a shark. Mark’s jaw tightened the moment Hanson’s hand lingered too long on a brunette’s waist. Asking you to be on this op suddenly felt like a mistake—one he was regretting more with every predatory glance Hanson threw your way. The whiskey glass in Mark’s hand creaked under the pressure of his grip.

Jason’s elbow nudged him, but the warning died on Jason’s lips when the doors opened. Mark turned and his breath caught.

You stood framed in the doorway, and for a second, the hum of the room seemed to fade. Minimal makeup because you didn’t need more. Hair pinned up in loose curls with a few artful strands grazing your cheeks. A black silk bodice with a sweetheart neckline, flowing into a layered black tulle skirt. Heels that clicked softly on the marble. A silver clutch that caught the light. The necklace Mark had given you was the only thing missing.

You smoothed your palms over your skirt, partly for the fabric, partly to steady your nerves. Crossing the room toward the bar, you felt two pairs of eyes lock onto you. One warm, steady, protective. The other cold and assessing, a predator measuring prey.

Mike’s stare was enough to raise goosebumps along your arms, but you forced yourself to meet it. Through the crowd of women around him, his gaze swept over you slowly before he arched a brow. You offered a small, knowing smile. He took the bait.

The sea of bodies parted as he approached, champagne glass in hand, chin tilted in arrogance. The white tuxedo jacket was almost a uniform for the self-satisfied, and you knew these next hours were going to feel like a lifetime.

"Hello, gorgeous," he purred, leaning against the bar. "Is this seat taken?"

"No, go right ahead."

"I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Hanson. Mike Hanson." His tone had all the subtlety of a Bond impression. He held out his hand.

You placed yours in it lightly, letting your lashes lower as his rough palm closed around yours. When he brushed your knuckles with his lips, it took effort not to recoil.

"Rachel Hart," you replied with a soft smile, fighting the urge to yank your hand back.

"Ms. Hart… I’ve never seen you at one of these events. Far too beautiful to be a tech nerd."

"Actually, I work for Walker Intel. We build—"

"Microchips," he cut in smoothly. "I know the company. I’ve used your products before."

"I guess they sent me here to keep your business," you said, leaning in just slightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Jason moving into position for the hack. Now you just needed to keep Hanson talking.

"You’re doing a fine job so far."

"Really? I haven’t even started my sales pitch yet." You sipped your drink, stalling for time.

"Whiskey, neat," a familiar gravelly voice ordered behind you. Your shoulders loosened. Mark. Now you were sandwiched between two FBI agents, and your confidence sharpened like a blade.

"No need for a pitch," Mike murmured, gaze sweeping you once more. "I’ve already seen all I need to."

"But I had a 10 minute spiel about why our products are better than NVIDIA."

"Well, maybe you can tell me somewhere a little more… private."

Private? Private?! You’d barely exchanged names. Over Hanson’s shoulder, Jason’s subtle hand signal told you he still needed more time.

"I have a suite upstairs."

Your mind raced. A slow sip of champagne bought you a beat. This guy didn’t seem to hear 'no' often, maybe that was the angle.

"You think I’m that easy? That I want your business that badly?" you purred, crossing one leg over the other so the slit in your dress offered a slow reveal of smooth, tanned skin.

"Don’t you?" His gaze travelled shamelessly. Heel to thigh, thigh to hip, hip to neckline, before locking on your eyes.

"Why don’t you give me a sales pitch then?"

"Me? A sales pitch?" He gave a fake laugh, all polished arrogance. "Gorgeous, I could have any woman I want."

"Exactly, you could." You peered at him over the rim of your glass, voice silk over steel. "So why me? And why should I go upstairs with you?"

He leaned in, hooked. "You’re the most beautiful woman here—by far. There’s something about you… you intrigue me." His voice dropped. "As for why you should come upstairs? Because I can give you the most unforgettable night of your life."

Your skin crawled. Those words from the wrong man felt like grime you couldn’t wash off. You forced your best performance, praying Jason wouldn’t need another second.

"That’s a lot to live up to, Mr. Hanson." You smirked, leaning closer.

"Care to find out, Ms. Hart?" He offered his hand, ready to sweep you upstairs.

No signal from Jason. No out. You needed to stall.

"Let me just powder my nose. Why don’t you order us some drinks for the room?" You winked, sliding gracefully off the stool. A calculated sway of your hips carried you toward the hallway.

Once out of sight, the mask dropped. Your stride quickened past the restrooms to a shadowy alcove. You pressed your back to the wall, eyes fixed on the corridor ahead—no more surprises tonight.

Breathe. In. Out.

"Y/N?"

You flinched at Mark’s voice. He scanned the hallway, then stepped into the alcove with you.

"Please tell me Jason’s done," you whispered.

"Sorry, sweetheart. He still needs more time."

Your forehead fell against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a shield you didn’t know you needed.

"I don’t want to go upstairs with him."

"Hey." He tipped your chin up, green eyes locking onto yours. "You’re not going anywhere with that man. I won’t let him near you, and I sure as hell won’t let him touch you." His gaze flicked past you, already calculating. "We’ll make a distraction. Jason’s still with him, so it shouldn’t be much longer."

"A distraction. Okay. I can do that."

"Just keep him talking. I’ll come in. Improvise and follow my lead."

"I can do that," you echoed, steadying yourself.

He pressed a brief kiss to your forehead, a quick reassurance before heading back out.

"Wait! What’s your name?" you called softly.

"Just mash two character names together," he tossed back with a grin.

"That’s what you do?" you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.

You could improvise. You would. And you weren’t alone—Mark and Jason were here.

You just needed to play your part a little longer.

Next Chapter

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[teamackles96]

The Most Important Meal of the Day

❧ Summary: Soldier Boy digs in.

❧ Pairing: Soldier Boy x reader

❧ Wordcount: 405

Main Masterlist | Solder Boy Masterlist

Crimson Countess hated early wake-up calls.

She had to be up at 6am for an interview at 7. Who even scheduled interviews that early? They expected her to be all chipper and 'Vought' approved before breakfast?

An hour later, the interview was done and her stomach grumbled. Finally, she could eat and start her day properly.

She opened the kitchen door—and froze.

You were on top the kitchen table, leaning back on your hands. The skirt of your super suit was pushed up to your hips. Both heels sat on the edge of the table, legs wide and spread making it easier for Soldier Boy. From where Countess stood she could see her 'boyfriend's head in between your legs, strong hands wrapped around the top of your thighs gripping the flesh.

She could guess what he was doing by the loud moans coming from your mouth and the way your head was dropped back.

"What the fuck, Benjamin?!" she screamed, making both of you turn toward her.

“Hey, baby,” Soldier Boy said, calm as ever, a cheeky grin tugging at his mouth. His tongue poking out to lick up your juices around his mouth.

“Hi, Countess,” you chimed, smiling like this was the most normal thing in the world.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Countess yelled again, voice rising.

"Eating breakfast," saying it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He gave you a wink, making you giggle. "You told me it was the most important meal of the day."

"This is not what I meant!" She screeched, giving a banshee a run for their money.

"Oh, you meant you? Well, you should have been more specific." He bent down to drop a kiss to your inner thigh keeping eye contact with his seething girlfriend. "Plus, Y/N just tastes so sweet."

"Really?" you smiled.

"Yeah, can't get enough," he growled. He used his grip on your thighs to pull you closer. He turned back to Countess. "Mind if I finish?"

Countess threw her hands in the air, stormed out, and slammed the door behind her. You both turned to each other and shrugged, grinning. He dropped his head back down to the faint chorus of Countess' screaming, cursing and trashing the rest of Payback's apartment.

As soon as his tongue met your wet core, you quickly forget about what just happened. Your mind clouded by the pleasure from the man in front of you.

Crimson who?

Soldier Boy Tag List:

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A/N: This was my first time writing anything smutty adjacent. Hopefully it was okay!

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[teamackles96]

Countdown Episode 10

May contain Spoilers but I'll try to be vague.

I just watched episode.

I was excited from the cliff hanger of the last episode and I felt ..... disappointed.

That was a weird episode to watch. I get it was a filler episode but it felt lazy? Like no one had a good idea for a full episode, so they just put some little scenes together.

The scene on Mark's porch was cute, but I still don't see the chemistry because the rest of their scenes just felt like friends.

Put it this way Nathan had more chemistry when he went home than those two did.

Also FUCK YOU DA VALWELL!!

[teamackles96]

Yes! Love it! 🩵

Headcanon: I'm Just A Jealous Guy

Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

Scenario: He gets jealous (Girlfriend Reader)

pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

He’d only gone to the bathroom. Couldn’t have been gone longer than five minutes. You were still at the bar, nursing your drink, when he came back, only to find some guy in his seat trying his hardest to impress you.

Russell saw the way your polite smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. You weren’t the type to flat-out tell someone to get lost, no matter how badly you wanted to. That was fine. He could do it for you.

The familiar sound of his boots striking the hardwood floor caught your attention before you even saw him. You’d already told the stranger you were here with your boyfriend, but he’d been too busy bragging about his glory days as a college fraternity president to care.

Russell stopped behind the man, clearing his throat. No response. With deliberate ease, he stepped closer, resting one arm across the back of your stool, claiming you without even touching you. "Look here, Malibu Ken," he said, voice low and edged in amusement. You had to bite back a laugh. Now that you were looking, the bleach job was… atrocious. "Either get out of my chair, or I’ll pull you out,” Russell continued. “I’m having a night out with my girl, and I don’t need you ruining it."

The stranger blinked up at him, glassy-eyed. "You’d… pull me out of my chair?" Russell took a slow step forward, letting his height and build do most of the talking. The man shrank back instantly. "Uh… okay. Sorry, dude." He slid off the stool and slunk back toward a group of equally inebriated friends in the corner.

"Malibu Ken?" you asked, arching a brow as Russell sat back down.

He smirked, taking a sip of his drink. "You can’t tell me he didn’t look like him." You laughed, leaning against his shoulder.

Dean Winchester

You and Dean knew you were it for each other. After all the years of sidestepping the obvious tension, you’d both waited, and now that you had each other, neither of you was letting go.

That’s why, whenever Dean caught sight of you talking to another guy, he had to remind himself you were his, and he was yours. The jealousy always burned quick and fast before melting into that warm, steady feeling in his chest.

Bars during or after hunts were the worst. Leave you alone for a minute and some cocky idiot who’d been eyeing you all night would swoop in. The lines were cheesy, the bragging unbearable, it was almost funny. Almost.

Dean would stroll back over, calm as ever, but only because of the look. Every single time, the second you saw him, your eyes lit up and that slow, knowing smile curved your lips. It was the kind of look that made his heartbeat trip over itself.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he’d ask.

"I’m better now," you’d purr, just loud enough for the other guy to hear. That was usually when the stranger realised his mistake and backed off, tail firmly between his legs. You’d flash Dean a smile as he re-joined you at the table. "Asserting dominance?" you teased, fingers finding his on the tabletop.

He chuckled, squeezing your hand. "Something like that," he said with a wink.

Beau Arlen

Beau had brought you, his girlfriend, to a work party celebrating the station’s success in their latest case. You were excited, nervous, too. His deputies had never met you, and tonight was your first chance to put faces to the names he mentioned. The gathering wasn’t just deputies; friends and family mingled in the mix, laughter and music filling the space.

At some point, Beau stepped away to thank a few colleagues, leaving you with a drink in hand and a friendly smile for anyone who passed. From across the room, while chatting with Poppernak, he spotted a man approaching you. Beau kept talking, but his attention shifted, his sharp gaze tracking the exchange to make sure nothing crossed the line.

After a few minutes, Poppernak noticed where his boss’s focus had gone. "Is that the famous girlfriend?" he asked, grinning.

"Yeah," Beau replied, his voice low, eyes never leaving you.

Poppernak glanced over his shoulder. "Looks like some guy’s trying his luck with the Sheriff’s girl. Might wanna head over there." Beau clapped him on the shoulder in thanks and moved through the crowd toward you.

He didn’t say a word when he reached the man. Instead, he caught his eye, tapped the badge clipped to his belt, and then tipped his head toward you in a silent warning. Recognition dawned instantly. The man’s eyes widened, and he muttered something under his breath before making a hasty retreat without so much as a goodbye. You felt Beau’s arm slide around your waist, warm and solid, and you didn’t even have to look to know what had happened.

"Did you just use your authority to scare him off?" you asked, glancing up at him with a teasing smile.

He only shrugged, eyes twinkling. "Maybe." He gave you a slow wink, and you laughed, leaning into him.

Soldier Boy

Ben didn’t handle people thinking they could have what was his. Like most things, he handled it violently.

The two of you were at a Vought gala, an appearance you’d been ordered to make. At least now that your relationship was public, you could attend together. Not that it stopped a few Supes from trying their luck with Soldier Boy’s girl.

Edgar had pulled Ben aside to schmooze with a group of potential investors. Big fans, apparently, and the kind of people Vought wanted on their side. Ben played along, all charm and handshakes.

You, meanwhile, were cornered by a new Supe. He was full of compliments about your “work” and “presence,” but the way he said it made your skin crawl. Cocky. Slippery. Arrogant. Not quite Soldier Boy arrogant. More like the knockoff brand.

You’d tuned out halfway through his pitch when you heard the unmistakable sound of heavy, angry stomps behind you. Ben’s hand was on the guy’s collar before you even turned. He hauled the younger Supe up like he weighed nothing.

"You think you can flirt with my girl?" Ben’s voice was low, lethal. "You think I’m gonna let you get away with that?"

The kid stammered, scrambling for excuses, but Ben wasn’t hearing any of it. He was seconds away from turning the Vought gala into a crime scene.

"Baby, it’s okay." You stepped in, laying a hand on his arm. Ben’s head snapped toward you, his grip loosening just enough to let the guy drop to the floor like a bag of bricks. The would-be flirt scrambled off, wisely disappearing into the crowd. Your focus stayed on Ben. Your hand slid from his arm to his chest, grounding him. "You know," you murmured, trailing your fingers upward, curling them lightly around his neck, "you’re the only man for me." You smirked. "But you are so hot when you get jealous."

"I wasn’t jealous" he growled, pulling you closer with one strong arm. A pause. "Okay, maybe a little. But I like to look after what’s mine."

Mark Meachum

Mark Meachum didn’t do jealousy. At least, that’s what he told you. You knew it was bullshit. He never said it outright, Mark rarely wasted words, but his actions? They gave him away every time.

After the task force wrapped a major case, he decided to take you out to a swanky lounge in LA. It was an excuse for both of you to get dressed up, escape for the night, and maybe forget the world for a few hours.

The place was heaving with the Saturday night crowd. Mark headed to the bar to get drinks, only to find himself stuck behind half the city. With only two bartenders working, the wait dragged on. Ten minutes later, finally holding a glass in each hand, he turned to head back to you.

His eyes swept over you slowly, taking in every inch. Then he saw him. Some corporate suit leaning in, grinning like he had a shot.

Fuck that.

Mark didn’t bother with excuses or niceties. He crossed the room with a controlled stride, set the drinks down hard enough to make the table wobble, and caught the guy’s attention with nothing more than an unblinking stare.

Without a word, he cupped your face and kissed you deep, unapologetic, in the middle of the crowded lounge. You melted instantly, the noise and chatter around you vanishing. Mark opened his eyes just enough to see the suit backing off, disappearing into the crowd. His lips curved against yours.

"Jealous much?" you teased, breathless as you pulled back.

That smirk, sharp, knowing, entirely Mark, slid onto his face. "Shut up," he muttered, pulling you into another toe-curling kiss that told you exactly how he felt without a single extra word.

Boaz Priestly

Priestly did get jealous. Jealous, and then insecure, almost instantly.

The guys in Santa Cruz were all beach-god surfers, the kind any girl might swoon over. So, of course, he felt a pang every time one strolled in.

Day after day, they’d show up just to flirt with you or Tish. You’d give them a polite smile, nothing more than good customer service, and they’d melt like butter on hot sand.

But Priestly wasn’t like them. His hair changed colours depending on the mood or the week. Piercings glinted when he moved, tattoos inked stories across his skin, and half the time he wore a kilt just because he could.

And that, exactly that, was why you loved him.

Still, you could feel his gaze whenever you chatted with those surfer boys, taking their orders. It wasn’t about control, and it wasn’t about who you were talking to. It was about the voice in his head, the one whispering that one day you’d realize you could do “better.”

But to you, no one was better. No one was hotter. No one was Priestly.

Sometimes the guys leaned in while you scribbled their order, convinced you’d fallen for their lazy charm. You never had. You never would.

You’d turn and pass the ticket to Priestly, letting your eyes linger on him just long enough to send the message. "Don’t worry, babe," you’d murmur, glancing up at his hair. "I like my men a little more…" You smirked. "Spikey."

He’d snatch the order from you, trying to hide the pink creeping into his cheeks. Which, of course, only made you lean in on tiptoe and kiss him, making his blush deepen.

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[teamackles96]

Just Need a Minute Part 6 - Teething Problems

❧ Summary: Rosie's teething. You and Dean are at your wit's end.

❧ Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader (pure fluff)

❧ Wordcount: 839

Main Masterlist | Dean Winchester Masterlist

❧ Previous Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

It was the start of the New Year. You and Dean were engaged, and Rosie was almost a year old.

Her first birthday was next month, and the thought made you emotional. Almost a year of her life, a year of being a mom. But right now, you would have traded just about anything for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Rosie had been teething for weeks, but tonight was the worst yet. You and Dean had tried everything—teething rings, cuddles, toys, even pain relief. Nothing worked.

She wailed in your arms as you paced the bedroom, bouncing her desperately. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion and worry etched into his face. He hated not being able to help her, hated feeling useless.

"I don’t know what to do. She won’t stop screaming. I don’t know how to help her," you said, voice breaking as tears of frustration pricked your eyes. Rosie burrowed into your neck, still crying.

Dean stood and gently took her from you. "Hey, come on. We’ll figure it out, okay?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"How? She’s been crying for two hours. We’ve tried everything."

A soft knock pulled both your attention to the door. A bleary-eyed Sam peeked in, hair sticking up every which way. You immediately felt guilty for waking him.

"Sorry, Sammy. She’s teething and we can’t get her to stop," you said, wiping your cheeks.

"No, it’s fine. You can’t help it," he replied, stifling a yawn.

"We’ve tried everything, dude," Dean muttered, still bouncing Rosie.

"What about going for a drive? Didn’t you tell me Dad used to do that when I was a baby and wouldn’t stop crying?"

Dean blinked, then smirked faintly. "Oh yeah. Had to carry both of us out to the car." He looked over at you.

"I’ll try anything," you said, desperate. You grabbed your boots and one of Dean’s hoodies to throw over your pyjamas. Taking Rosie so Dean could pull on some jeans and boots, you called over your shoulder, "Thanks, Sammy! You’re a lifesaver!"

"Don’t thank me yet," he mumbled, already heading back to bed.

By the time Dean joined you in the garage, you had Rosie buckled in. The Impala wasn’t quite the same car these days—her backseat permanently claimed by a rear-facing car seat with a little mirror, the glove box now home to baby wipes, pacifiers, and a couple of rattles.

You weren’t sure if the drive would work; the Impala’s rumble wasn’t exactly subtle.

Ten minutes in, Rosie was still crying. You sat sideways in your seat, back against the window, feet in Dean’s lap, eyes fixed on your daughter. Dean’s hand rested on your calf, thumb tracing slow circles. Trying to distract you, he said, "Remember when you told me you were pregnant?"

You blinked, pulling your gaze to him. "Huh?"

"When you told me," he repeated with a glance, "you were pregnant."

A tired smile tugged at your lips. "Yeah. I was terrified to tell you."

"You were?"

"We’d only been together two years. I didn’t know how you’d react."

Dean gave a short laugh. "Really?"

"You told me you weren’t built for the normal white-picket-fence life. Having a kid, becoming a family… that’s about as normal as it gets."

"Guess it is," he admitted, smirking.

“I got over it quick, though. I was excited. Came up with so many ways to tell you.”

"I still have that baby flannel shirt," he said.

"You do?" you laughed. Hours after taking the test, you’d gone to a baby shop and found a tiny plaid shirt that matched Dean’s style perfectly. "Remember what you said when I showed it to you?"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah. I thought you’d shrunk one of my shirts in the wash."

You were still laughing when your gaze flicked to the back seat. "Dean…” you whispered. “She’s asleep."

He glanced in the mirror, a grin spreading across his face at the sight of Rosie snuggled in her car seat, finally quiet. "Props to Sammy."

With a gentle tug on your calf, he slid you closer along the bench seat until you were tucked against his side. You rested your head on his shoulder, his arm curling around you. He pressed a kiss to your hair. "You know you two are the best thing to ever happen to me, right?"

You looked up at him. "I believe you mentioned that when you proposed."

"Maybe I should say it more often."

"You show it enough," you murmured, smiling. "You’re my forever too, Dean." You kissed his stubbled cheek, drawing a soft chuckle from him.

He glanced back in the mirror, shaking his head. "Still not used to it."

"What?" you asked.

"A car seat in my Baby… with my baby in my Baby."

You laughed. "Better get used to it—we’ve got plenty more years ahead." When the bunker entrance came into view, you hesitated. "Can we keep going?"

Dean smiled, turning the wheel away from home. "Yeah. Of course we can."

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[teamackles96]

Headcanon: I'm Just A Jealous Guy

Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

Scenario: He gets jealous (Girlfriend Reader)

pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

He’d only gone to the bathroom. Couldn’t have been gone longer than five minutes. You were still at the bar, nursing your drink, when he came back, only to find some guy in his seat trying his hardest to impress you.

Russell saw the way your polite smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. You weren’t the type to flat-out tell someone to get lost, no matter how badly you wanted to. That was fine. He could do it for you.

The familiar sound of his boots striking the hardwood floor caught your attention before you even saw him. You’d already told the stranger you were here with your boyfriend, but he’d been too busy bragging about his glory days as a college fraternity president to care.

Russell stopped behind the man, clearing his throat. No response. With deliberate ease, he stepped closer, resting one arm across the back of your stool, claiming you without even touching you. "Look here, Malibu Ken," he said, voice low and edged in amusement. You had to bite back a laugh. Now that you were looking, the bleach job was… atrocious. "Either get out of my chair, or I’ll pull you out,” Russell continued. “I’m having a night out with my girl, and I don’t need you ruining it."

The stranger blinked up at him, glassy-eyed. "You’d… pull me out of my chair?" Russell took a slow step forward, letting his height and build do most of the talking. The man shrank back instantly. "Uh… okay. Sorry, dude." He slid off the stool and slunk back toward a group of equally inebriated friends in the corner.

"Malibu Ken?" you asked, arching a brow as Russell sat back down.

He smirked, taking a sip of his drink. "You can’t tell me he didn’t look like him." You laughed, leaning against his shoulder.

Dean Winchester

You and Dean knew you were it for each other. After all the years of sidestepping the obvious tension, you’d both waited, and now that you had each other, neither of you was letting go.

That’s why, whenever Dean caught sight of you talking to another guy, he had to remind himself you were his, and he was yours. The jealousy always burned quick and fast before melting into that warm, steady feeling in his chest.

Bars during or after hunts were the worst. Leave you alone for a minute and some cocky idiot who’d been eyeing you all night would swoop in. The lines were cheesy, the bragging unbearable, it was almost funny. Almost.

Dean would stroll back over, calm as ever, but only because of the look. Every single time, the second you saw him, your eyes lit up and that slow, knowing smile curved your lips. It was the kind of look that made his heartbeat trip over itself.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he’d ask.

"I’m better now," you’d purr, just loud enough for the other guy to hear. That was usually when the stranger realised his mistake and backed off, tail firmly between his legs. You’d flash Dean a smile as he re-joined you at the table. "Asserting dominance?" you teased, fingers finding his on the tabletop.

He chuckled, squeezing your hand. "Something like that," he said with a wink.

Beau Arlen

Beau had brought you, his girlfriend, to a work party celebrating the station’s success in their latest case. You were excited, nervous, too. His deputies had never met you, and tonight was your first chance to put faces to the names he mentioned. The gathering wasn’t just deputies; friends and family mingled in the mix, laughter and music filling the space.

At some point, Beau stepped away to thank a few colleagues, leaving you with a drink in hand and a friendly smile for anyone who passed. From across the room, while chatting with Poppernak, he spotted a man approaching you. Beau kept talking, but his attention shifted, his sharp gaze tracking the exchange to make sure nothing crossed the line.

After a few minutes, Poppernak noticed where his boss’s focus had gone. "Is that the famous girlfriend?" he asked, grinning.

"Yeah," Beau replied, his voice low, eyes never leaving you.

Poppernak glanced over his shoulder. "Looks like some guy’s trying his luck with the Sheriff’s girl. Might wanna head over there." Beau clapped him on the shoulder in thanks and moved through the crowd toward you.

He didn’t say a word when he reached the man. Instead, he caught his eye, tapped the badge clipped to his belt, and then tipped his head toward you in a silent warning. Recognition dawned instantly. The man’s eyes widened, and he muttered something under his breath before making a hasty retreat without so much as a goodbye. You felt Beau’s arm slide around your waist, warm and solid, and you didn’t even have to look to know what had happened.

"Did you just use your authority to scare him off?" you asked, glancing up at him with a teasing smile.

He only shrugged, eyes twinkling. "Maybe." He gave you a slow wink, and you laughed, leaning into him.

Soldier Boy

Ben didn’t handle people thinking they could have what was his. Like most things, he handled it violently.

The two of you were at a Vought gala, an appearance you’d been ordered to make. At least now that your relationship was public, you could attend together. Not that it stopped a few Supes from trying their luck with Soldier Boy’s girl.

Edgar had pulled Ben aside to schmooze with a group of potential investors. Big fans, apparently, and the kind of people Vought wanted on their side. Ben played along, all charm and handshakes.

You, meanwhile, were cornered by a new Supe. He was full of compliments about your “work” and “presence,” but the way he said it made your skin crawl. Cocky. Slippery. Arrogant. Not quite Soldier Boy arrogant. More like the knockoff brand.

You’d tuned out halfway through his pitch when you heard the unmistakable sound of heavy, angry stomps behind you. Ben’s hand was on the guy’s collar before you even turned. He hauled the younger Supe up like he weighed nothing.

"You think you can flirt with my girl?" Ben’s voice was low, lethal. "You think I’m gonna let you get away with that?"

The kid stammered, scrambling for excuses, but Ben wasn’t hearing any of it. He was seconds away from turning the Vought gala into a crime scene.

"Baby, it’s okay." You stepped in, laying a hand on his arm. Ben’s head snapped toward you, his grip loosening just enough to let the guy drop to the floor like a bag of bricks. The would-be flirt scrambled off, wisely disappearing into the crowd. Your focus stayed on Ben. Your hand slid from his arm to his chest, grounding him. "You know," you murmured, trailing your fingers upward, curling them lightly around his neck, "you’re the only man for me." You smirked. "But you are so hot when you get jealous."

"I wasn’t jealous" he growled, pulling you closer with one strong arm. A pause. "Okay, maybe a little. But I like to look after what’s mine."

Mark Meachum

Mark Meachum didn’t do jealousy. At least, that’s what he told you. You knew it was bullshit. He never said it outright, Mark rarely wasted words, but his actions? They gave him away every time.

After the task force wrapped a major case, he decided to take you out to a swanky lounge in LA. It was an excuse for both of you to get dressed up, escape for the night, and maybe forget the world for a few hours.

The place was heaving with the Saturday night crowd. Mark headed to the bar to get drinks, only to find himself stuck behind half the city. With only two bartenders working, the wait dragged on. Ten minutes later, finally holding a glass in each hand, he turned to head back to you.

His eyes swept over you slowly, taking in every inch. Then he saw him. Some corporate suit leaning in, grinning like he had a shot.

Fuck that.

Mark didn’t bother with excuses or niceties. He crossed the room with a controlled stride, set the drinks down hard enough to make the table wobble, and caught the guy’s attention with nothing more than an unblinking stare.

Without a word, he cupped your face and kissed you deep, unapologetic, in the middle of the crowded lounge. You melted instantly, the noise and chatter around you vanishing. Mark opened his eyes just enough to see the suit backing off, disappearing into the crowd. His lips curved against yours.

"Jealous much?" you teased, breathless as you pulled back.

That smirk, sharp, knowing, entirely Mark, slid onto his face. "Shut up," he muttered, pulling you into another toe-curling kiss that told you exactly how he felt without a single extra word.

Boaz Priestly

Priestly did get jealous. Jealous, and then insecure, almost instantly.

The guys in Santa Cruz were all beach-god surfers, the kind any girl might swoon over. So, of course, he felt a pang every time one strolled in.

Day after day, they’d show up just to flirt with you or Tish. You’d give them a polite smile, nothing more than good customer service, and they’d melt like butter on hot sand.

But Priestly wasn’t like them. His hair changed colours depending on the mood or the week. Piercings glinted when he moved, tattoos inked stories across his skin, and half the time he wore a kilt just because he could.

And that, exactly that, was why you loved him.

Still, you could feel his gaze whenever you chatted with those surfer boys, taking their orders. It wasn’t about control, and it wasn’t about who you were talking to. It was about the voice in his head, the one whispering that one day you’d realize you could do “better.”

But to you, no one was better. No one was hotter. No one was Priestly.

Sometimes the guys leaned in while you scribbled their order, convinced you’d fallen for their lazy charm. You never had. You never would.

You’d turn and pass the ticket to Priestly, letting your eyes linger on him just long enough to send the message. "Don’t worry, babe," you’d murmur, glancing up at his hair. "I like my men a little more…" You smirked. "Spikey."

He’d snatch the order from you, trying to hide the pink creeping into his cheeks. Which, of course, only made you lean in on tiptoe and kiss him, making his blush deepen.

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[teamackles96]

Wednesday is becoming my new favourite day. Its now called hump day for a completely different reason!

I cant wait to see this new episode of Countdown, now that the team and Volchek are face to face.

Dun Dun dunnnnnn

[teamackles96]

Headcanon: It's Your Thing, Do What You Wanna Do

Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

Scenario: Your thing as a couple

pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

Camping

Russell loved being outdoors, it's where he thrived, where he came alive.

To him, nature wasn’t just scenery; it was a living book begging to be read, its pages written in a language he spoke fluently.

Once, he’d led you along a narrow trail just to show you a doe and her fawn grazing in a sunlit clearing. He could tell you which berries were safe to eat and which would drop you in the dirt. Without even looking at a watch, he’d tilt his head, glance at the sky, and name the time by the sun’s position.

Whenever he showed you one of these skills, you couldn’t help but picture him in a little scout uniform—the khaki shirt covered in badges, cargo shorts, and a neckerchief knotted neatly at his throat. You’d always assumed that’s where he’d learned it all.

That’s why camping became your thing.

Nights spent under the stars, warmed by the fire and by the solid heat of his arms. That’s when you learned the truth—his skills hadn’t come from summer camps or scout meetings, but from a life that had demanded them. Some nights you’d roast marshmallows, trading ghost stories until your cheeks hurt from laughing. Other nights, the fire would burn low and you’d talk quietly, sharing truths that never left the woods.

To you, the forest had always been a place of shadows and unknowns. But with Russell beside you, the dark felt less like something to fear and more like a blanket—one you could fall asleep beneath without worry.

Dean Winchester

Long Drives

With a car like Baby, how could you not fall in love with driving? The Impala wasn’t just part of your relationship with Dean—it was the backdrop, the constant, the third passenger. Wherever Dean went, Baby followed. And you weren’t about to complain.

The first time he gave you a tour of the car, it felt like flipping through the Winchester family photo album. He’d shown you the weapons stash hidden in the trunk, an arsenal that could make any hunter proud. He pointed out the spot on the door where he and Sam had carved their initials, back when the car was just theirs and the world felt smaller. The miniature army man Sam had jammed into the ashtray still stood guard. Lego blocks, shoved into the vents by a much younger Dean, rattled faintly when you hit a bump. And, of course, there was his stash of classic rock cassettes—because, in his words, “If it ain’t broke, don’t upgrade it.”

She was his Baby, and he thought she was perfect just the way she was. The Impala wasn’t simply transportation. She was history. A rolling scrapbook.

When he drove, the world blurred beyond the windows. He’d weave stories about his family or past hunts between verses of AC/DC, his voice warm and rough from singing over the roar of the engine. The road ahead, the music, the stories—it all felt like home. And you wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Beau Arlen

Movie Nights

Movie nights had become a staple at Beau’s Airstream. You, Jenny, Cassie, and sometimes Emily would pile onto his deck for the weekly screening, usually some chick flick the women had outvoted Beau on.

But your movie nights with him were different. Those were all about what he wanted to watch. Early in your relationship, Beau had realised you’d missed a surprising number of what he considered “classics.” One slow afternoon at work, he’d pulled out his phone and started a list.

The title he picked was always a surprise. Sometimes he’d drop a vague clue just to tease you, but never enough to spoil anything.

When the night came, the two of you would curl up together in one of the big deck chairs, a blanket draped over your legs, beers in hand and snacks within arm’s reach.

You’d noticed Beau had a habit. He liked watching you more than the movie. His eyes would linger, catching your tiny shifts in expression, the way your eyebrows knit at a twist or your lips quirked at a joke. He soaked in every reaction like it was part of the film itself.

Soldier Boy

Smoking Weed

There wasn’t much in the world that could take the edge off Soldier Boy, but enough weed could mellow him out.

You’d learned that the hard way. Back when you first started smoking with him, you’d pushed your limits, whiting out more times than you could count. Eventually, you figured out your sweet spot, and now it was almost an art form.

After a fight, he was always wound tight. Every muscle in his body seemed to protest even the smallest movement, and he’d groan if you shifted in bed. That’s where the weed came in. Sometimes it was just to help him loosen up after a brutal mission. Sometimes it was for the fun of getting a little silly together, trading giggles and half-nonsense conversations. But most of the time, it was so he could finally let go—drop the weight he carried and just be.

The two of you would melt into each other, a warm tangle of limbs. He’d absent-mindedly run his fingers through your hair, feeling the strands slip between his calloused hands, while you traced slow patterns through the rough softness of his beard.

You could never remember half the things you talked about, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the words. It was about the quiet safety of his arms, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the way you could both finally feel like yourselves.

Mark Meachum

Gun Range

Every time he told you it was to “hone your skills”—because you never knew when you might need them. But you knew better. You were going because he wanted to show off.

The first time you went, you found out he was a Distinguished marksman—highly skilled, precise, the kind of shooter who made it look effortless. It was impressive, even if you’d never admit just how much.

Truth was, you were there because it was hot, seeing your man share something he was passionate about. You didn’t care if he was a terrible shot or the John Wick of L.A. You just loved watching him light up when he taught you something new, or that smug little smirk he wore when he’d impressed even himself.

And toward the end of every session, without fail, he’d step in behind you, broad chest against your back to “correct” your stance or adjust the position of your hands on the gun. You definitely didn’t misplace your grip on purpose… much.

It wasn’t the usual idea of a couple’s activity, but then again, you weren’t exactly a usual couple.

Boaz Priestly

Dying his hair

It had become a ritual—once or twice a week, without fail.

Every few days, Priestly would get bored with whatever colour he had in his hair, which meant a trip to the grocery store. You’d wander the aisles, loading up on snacks and dinner ingredients while he made a beeline for the haircare section, scanning the shelves for his next shade like it was a mission.

Back home, he’d head to the bathroom to rinse out the fading colour while you set up your makeshift in-home salon.

He’d drop into one of the kitchen chairs with lazy confidence, and you’d swing a leg over his lap, settling in to work the new dye through his hair. You’d trade stories about your day, your words punctuated by him feeding you bites of whatever snacks you’d grabbed. His hands would rest lightly on your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your shirt to stroke absent circles against your skin.

Sometimes, you’d switch—him taking the seat while you leaned over the sink, letting him paint your ends with whatever colour he’d chosen, so you could match.

It was your little ritual—messy, colourful, and completely yours. And you loved every second of it.

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