Sophie (she/her) | 29 | British Girl | Hopelessly In Love With Some Fictional Characters | Requests Open | 18+mdni
Fandoms I am currently writing for:
❧ Supernatural
❧ The Boys
❧ Ten Inch Hero
❧ Tracker
❧ Big Sky
❧ Countdown
On other sites, I have previously written for Vampire Diaries, Red Dead Redemption 2, Umbrella Academy, That 70s Show and Lucifer on Fanfiction.net and Wattpad
Anything that says 'Coming Soon' is work that I have in progress. I have a full time job so I write when I can.
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lowdown ☆ after homelander names you the seventh member of the seven, soldier boy learns exactly what your pretty little party trick can do.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x supe!reader ( f )
miles ☆ 9335 ride style ☆ smut !!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, rough sex, dirty talk, soldier boy being soldier boy, power dynamics, canon-typical toxicity, vought/the seven toxicity, homelander being unsettling, emotional manipulation/power use, public humiliation, manhandling, thigh grabbing, light choking, mirror sex, semi-public risk/vought surveillance implications, praise/degradation, possessive behavior, no actual romance.
liv's log ☆ a little self indulgent because i couldn't get this scenario out of my head after doing my compound v manifestation report .ᐟ 𐚁
the elevator climbs so smoothly, you almost don’t feel it move.
it’s intentional. vought doesn’t let important people feel machinery. it hides all the ugly effort behind glass, gold trim, soft lighting, clean mirrors, polished metals that do not dare show a fingerprint unless someone very rich has approved it. even the elevator is expensive—sterile and floral, some corporate interpretation fo calm sprayed into the vents so no one has a panic attack on the way to meet america’s most unstable collection of national assets.
sage stands behind you with her hands folded in front of her, perfectly still, perfectly bored.
she hasn’t looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead.
“homelander likes symbols,” she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesn’t.
you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. “does he?”
“he likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.”
you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator don’t even pretend to be hidden. “good thing i’m very grateful.”
sage’s reflection looks at you then. her posture doesn’t move entirely, just her eyes. “are you?”
“i’m here, aren’t i?”
that’s not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right now—he’s making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.
that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful.
“he wants the seven to have seven members,” sage continues. “the joke got old.”
“must’ve been a very painful time for branding.”
“branding survives pain better than people do.”
you almost laugh, but you don’t. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long.
the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didn’t want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecracker’s cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend it’s practical.
sage notices you looking at yourself. “don’t overplay it.”
you drag your gaze back to the doors. “my face?”
“your devotion.”
that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words aren’t a warning, but they don’t land cruel, either. they’re just enough to remind you she didn’t get her place here by missing things.
you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. “i would never.”
“everyoen says that before they do.”
the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow.
the hallway outside is colder, brighter—the kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the seven’s meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors.
homelander stands when you enter. that’s the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sage’s hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if she’s presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth.
homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecracker’s smile sharpens in a way that shows she’s trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat.
soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesn’t move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told he’s the prize.
he’s bigger in person. uglier too—but not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. it’s the rest of him that’s ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off.
homelander smiles warmly at you.
“there she is,” he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. “halo fever.”
you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. “sir.”
his smile deepens. “no, no, none of that.” he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. “we’re family here.”
you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it.
“everyone knows who you are,” homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. “but i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal… after all the instability… after people treating this team like some kind of revolving door…” his jaw tightens for half a second—there and gone. “we are moving forward. together.”
firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.”
the deep nods a beat too late.
sage continues watching the entire room.
and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesn’t need to be; in a room trained around homelander’s breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight.
everyone looks. homelander’s smile doesn’t drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues.
soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth.
“sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.”
the room goes quiet. it honestly wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun.
you feel homelander’s attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test.
you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your face—how easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it.
so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. “that’s okay. i know it’s hard when new things happen.”
the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boy’s eyes flick toward him.
the cheaper version of captain america’s grin widens, meaner now. “new? sweetheart, i’ve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.”
“oh, i’m sure.”
“most of ‘em didn’t need a cape to get attention.”
firecracker’s mouth twitches. sage’s face doesn’t move.
homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. “halo fever,” he calls you.
it’s not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you don’t ignore him. you don’t make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to.
“yes, sir?”
his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. “you alright?”
“of course.” you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. “i just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think that’s appropriate.”
you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesn’t belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choice—not compete with it.
homelander’s gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor.
“a demonstration,” he repeats, tasting the idea.
soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. “oh, please.”
homelander turns his smile on him now. “scared?”
the word barely changes soldier boy’s face. it would be easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam.
“of her pretty party trick?” soldier boy laughs once.
homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. “go ahead.”
your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.
the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecracker’s fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesn’t move.
his mistake.
you take one step toward him.
“that’s close enough,” he says.
“is it?”
his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs.
it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find.
soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buried—they are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone else’s bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines.
the gold under your skin flares.
soldier boy’s breath catches. it’s small… but oh, it’s everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer.
then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trick—the glow. the real show is about to present itself.
his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the room—not with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.
his chair scrapes back an inch. “cut it out!” his voice is lower now, strained.
you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. “i thought it was a party trick.”
his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecracker’s expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. it’s soldier boy, america’s first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him.
you could push harder. that’s the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel it—the son, the mirror, the replacement.
your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts.
soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face.
You give him your prettiest smile. “cute party trick, huh?”
no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow it’s worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy.
homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: you’re not starlight. you’re not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. you’re not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machine’s newest favorite blade.
“see?” homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. “that. that is what i’m talking about.”
soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it.
homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. “this is the team,” he says. “this is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.”
sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness.
soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him.
homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. “sit.” he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift.
and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you.
homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when they’re smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty.
“now,” homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. “no more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.”
his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible.
“the seven,” homelander murmurs. “is complete.”
the room empties in pieces.
firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leaves—not hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers.
“welcome to the family,” she says, syrupy sweet.
you smile back. “thank you.”
her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. “you’ll fit right in.” that one is not sweet.
noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because he’s still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander notices—he notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you.
that’s the thing about homelander—when he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. “big day,” he says.
you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. “yes, sir.”
his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. you’re beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience.
“you did well.” not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment.
you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. “i’m glad you think so.”
“i do.” he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. “what you did with him—” his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasn’t moved from his chair. “that was impressive.”
soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose.
homelander hearts it and lets it live. “controlled,” homelander looks back at you. “tasteful. strong.”
“i didn’t want to overstep.”
“no.” his smile brightens. “you didn’t.”
and he shows it again—the pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked.
homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof.
“your suite is already prepared,” he says. “sage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.”
our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.
“thank you. that means a lot.”
“it should.”
and then he smiles like he has given you something sacred—a place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close.
you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelander’s shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be.
sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after he’s gone. then, sage speaks:
“this way.”
you turn from soldier boy without looking like you’re turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone else’s careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open.
you follow sage into the hallway. she doesn’t ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it.
the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again.
your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for america’s heroes.
you nearly laugh. they work fast.
sage notices without looking at the screen. “they had drafts prepared.”
“for me?”
“for everyone.” she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. “you were just the first one homelander wanted this week.” honest. cruel. useful.
the lock clicks open.
your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problem—so beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasion—daytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief.
they have made you a home out of costumes.
your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass.
sage stops beside you. “security is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.”
your lips press together as you absorb the information. “sweet.”
“nothing about this is sweet.”
“i didn’t mean it literally.”
“i know.”
you look at her then. sage’s eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage.
“he’ll test you,” she says.
“homelander?”
sage’s gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. “both of them.”
you don’t answer, because nothing is private and she doesn’t look like someone you can trust fully.
she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “soldier boy doesn’t like being made small.”
you glance toward her. “does anyone?”
“no. but most people don’t have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.” her eyes settle on your face. “don’t confuse humiliation with victory. it’s noisy. victory is quieter.”
“is that advice?”
“it’s information.” then she leaves.
the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.
for the first time since the elevator, you’re alone.
you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator.
the world is going to love this version of you.
you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothes—soft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldn’t break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place.
the door opens behind you. you don’t even need to turn around.
“didn’t hear a knock.”
soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesn’t look ashamed to be there—men like him rarely do—shame would require manners.
“door was open.”
“no, it wasn’t.”
“it wasn’t locked.”
you glance back over your shoulder. “that’s not the same thing.”
he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room.
you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present.
“nice place.”
he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. vought’s pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately.
his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”
“you always this invasive?”
“usually worse.”
he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo.
he gives that one a second look. “they dress you up nice.”
“that supposed to be a compliment?”
“depends on how sensitive you are.”
you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. “you came all the way here to find out?”
he looks at you then. not the way deep had done—not at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. it’s the first quiet thing he’s done. for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sage’s warning differently.
he’s not here because he thinks you’re pretty—though, he does. he’s here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didn’t give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasn’t intimacy—it was trespassing.
“what the hell did you do to me back there?” he asks.
you keep folding. “a demonstration.”
“don’t give me that shit,” he spits out.
“then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
he steps closer. “you think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?”
you smile down at the drawer. “let me?” you repeat.
“you heard me.”
“i asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.”
his jaw shifts.
you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. “and i didn’t play with anything. if i had, you would’ve known.”
soldier boy’s eyes narrow. he’s too close now. not touching yet—but close enough that you can smell him beneath the tower’s clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.
you could touch it again. but you don’t.
that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. “you like doing that? digging around in people’s heads?”
“it’s not mind control.” you scoff. “i’m not in anyone’s heads.”
“whatever.”
“and no.” you pause. “not always.”
“bullshit.”
you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. “you’re very committed to having a bad time in my room.”
“your room.” he looks around, unimpressed. “you been here five minutes.”
“still mine.”
he lets out a low laugh. “everything in this building belongs to vought.”
you smile. “careful. that includes you.”
his expression goes flat and it’s beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. he’s choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.
he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through.
“don’t touch my thing,” you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. “selective hearing. great.”
he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares who’s in it, maybe. more because he’s looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes.
“this your boyfriend?” he asks.
you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. “no.”
he picks another one. “girlfriend?”
“no.”
“fan?”
“are you always this desperate for personal information?”
“are you always this defensive?” he argues back.
“only when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.”
his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. “strange?”
“would you prefer elderly?”
his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when he’s trying to insult you than when he’s trying to understand you.
“you’ve got a mouth on you.”
“and yet you keep inviting it.”
the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boy’s eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough.
you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then it’s just stupid. “i have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.”
“brood?”
“sulk, then.”
“i don’t sulk.”
“you followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.”
the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesn’t require performance because everyone’s seen what he’s capable of.
when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “watch it.”
you look back slowly. this is the line—where a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger.
you don’t apologize. you also don’t press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing.
“then stop acting like i chased you here,” you say, and there’s a drop in your tone—softer now, almost bored. “you came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.”
his stare holds yours. then, because he’s either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer.
you move instantly. “hey!” too late.
his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smiles—slowly. “well.”
“put it back.”
he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are pretty—pale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasn’t holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomach—not embarrassment, exactly.
you refuse to name it.
“these vought-issued too?” he asks. fucker.
“put. them. back.”
he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. “nah. i’m gonna keep ‘em.”
you step toward him. “i’m not joking.”
“neither am i.”
“soldier boy—”
he looks up at your voice. “ben.” the correction is sudden enough to catch.
you stop half a step away.
he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only that—there’s something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites.
“if you’re gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,” he taunts, “you might as well use my name.”
you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that it’s so visible he sees it.
“ben,” you say, clipped and sweet. “put them back.”
his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his head—easy, lazy, infuriating—using every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly there’s no polite distance left between you. just him—solid and warm and too close.
his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it.
he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. “don’t you think about it.”
“what?”
“using that little power of yours.”
you look back up at him. “i’m not using it.”
“sure about that?” the question is quieter than the rest.
for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesn’t know. not fully. he doesn’t know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesn’t know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone.
good. let him wonder.
“i don’t need it for this.”
his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him.
your fingers tighten around his wrist. “last chance.”
“or what?”
you lift your chin. the move brings you closer—close enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet.
you keep your voice calm. “don’t make me ask again.”
soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yours—mean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks he’s hiding.
“or what?” he asks again. “you gonna make glow, doll?”
you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated.
“no,” you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. “i want you to know this is you.”
his smile fades by a fraction.
you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you can’t overpower him that way. that’s not the point—it’s the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. it’s the way his eyes don’t leave your face. it’s that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin.
“put them down,” you tell him.
for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. it’s too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right.
“tell me to leave,” his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still him—but stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you.
you hold his stare. “if i wanted you gone, you’d be.”
his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him.
you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane.
soldier boy kisses like he fights—direct, hungry, impatient with anything that isn’t surrender.
you don’t surrender. not in the way he’d want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. he’s soldier boy. he’s homelander’s father. he’s angry because you exposed him, and you’re turned on because he came back anyway. there’s no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands.
his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs.
“all that control,” he murmurs against your mouth. “and this is all it takes?”
you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying.
“don’t talk.”
his mouth drags to your jaw. “make me stop.”
you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flash—dark and bright—furious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind.
“you came to my room,” you remind him. “touched my things.”
“mhm.”
“you wanted this before i did.”
his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. “there she is…”
“i’m not using it.”
“you’re glowing.”
“because you’re pissing me off.”
he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. “then you’re gonna light up the whole damn tower.”
your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lower—rough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit.
he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable.
cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes.
“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rougher now.
you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind you—bigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflection—watching you watch.
the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands.
his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment.
his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left.
“sensitive.”
“you like it.”
his hand closes more firmly around your breast—enough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. “i like this.”
his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still.
his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. “fuck.”
you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you.
“all this from a kiss?” he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges.
“don’t flatter yourself.”
he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan.
his hand tightens on your breast. “say that again.”
you can’t. not cleany.
his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure.
his name comes out before you can stop it, “ben—”
his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. “again.”
you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper.
your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.”
“there you go,” his voice drops, thick and pleased. “knew you could ask nice.”
“i’m not asking.”
“you will.”
you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room.
instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit.
he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine.
“pretty,” his eyes sharpen.
then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and he’s on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chest—hot and rough—and when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip.
the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his.
“this thing cost them a fortune,” you manage.
he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. “then they can buy you another.”
his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach.
“don’t hold back now,” he says. “room’s probably soundproof.”
“probably?”
his smile is brief and wicked. “guess we’ll find out.”
you pull at the front of his suit. “off.”
that’s all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have.
something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs to—impatient and rough with the fastenings—his mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry.
he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him.
he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too much—your body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face instead—watches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin.
“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.”
you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through.
he stills when he’s fully inside you.
your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing.
“look at me,” he says.
you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal way—jaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you.
“ben,” you whisper.
his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry.
there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn.
“take it,” he manages.
you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it.
so does he.
his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything.
you kiss him through it, messy and desperate—fingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it.
“shit,” he breathes. “you feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.”
“i’m the one making you—”
he thrust deeper. you cry out. “me too, sweetheart.”
his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder.
“oh, god.”
he lifts his head, eyes on your face. “wrong guy.”
you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did.
“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you need.”
“don’t get smug.”
“too late.”
“ben—”
“i know,” his voice drops. “i can feel you.”
he can. there’s no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. he’s not untouched. he’s not above this. he’s not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. he’s burning too.
“you’re glowing again,” you whisper.
his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. “so are you.”
your lashes flutter. he feels that too.
“you like that?” he asks, voice darkening. “like my hand there?”
you don’t answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride you’ve got left.
his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. “tell me.”
“yes.”
his exhale is rough. “good girl.”
the words land low in your stomach.
he kisses you again, and this time there’s less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. you’re close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but there’s nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin.
“come on,” he mutters against your mouth. “let me feel it.”
you shake your head, breathless. it’s not because you don’t want to—but because the edge comes too fast and too bright.
“yes,” he squeezes once. “don’t pull away from me now.”
your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you can’t swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck.
“fuck,” he groans. “that’s it. that’s it.”
he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin.
his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the sound.
when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. you’re still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin.
one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit.
“watch,” he commands before he pushes back inside.
the angle steals whatever breath you had left.
you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear.
“look at you,” he growls. “taking me so good.”
your eyes close from please.
his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. “no. watch.”
you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. it’s filthy seeing it this way—him behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make.
“ben,” you gasp.
his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him.
his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.”
“ben.”
“again.”
you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive.
“i can’t—”
“yes, you can.”
“fuck, no—”
“you can.” his voice is low at your ear. “give me another one.”
you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at once—your body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck.
“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.”
the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirror—the way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection.
he sees you seeing it and he doesn’t have the breath to deny it. “fuck.”
“there you are,” you taunt.
he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. “don’t start.”
he’s falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing it’s stamina.
“so damn tight,” he mutters. “fuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew you’d take it.”
your second orgasm builds meaner than the first—dragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. you’re glowing everywhere—chest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you.
“come for me.”
it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him.
he comes with your name half-buried in a curse.
his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder.
his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you.
your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through.
his glow fades before yours does.
he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart.
behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.
you turn around.
your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up.
for one stupid second, you think he’s going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead.
you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “seriously?”
his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. “yeah.”
“give them back.”
“no.”
your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. “you’re unbelievable.”
“you were saying my name a minute ago.”
you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. “next time you walk into my room without knocking, i’ll make you cry.”
his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. “next time?”
you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. “get out, ben.”
he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door.
at the threshold, he pauses. “i’m keeping these.”
you’re glad he didn’t turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin.
❧ Summary: The day you find out your baby has superpowers.
❧ Pairing: Soldier Boy x reader
❧ Wordcount: 1k
A/N: Inspired by Incredibles 2
Main Masterlist | Solder Boy Masterlist
Ben had always imagined having a son.
Not in the soft, domestic way normal people did. He never pictured bedtime stories or soccer practice or tiny lunchboxes with the crusts cut off. When Ben thought about having a kid, he imagined strength. Legacy. Someone powerful enough that the world would never dare touch him.
What he didn’t picture was this.
Sunlight spilled across the backyard in warm golden streaks, catching against the white fencing surrounding your little suburban paradise. The grill sizzled loudly nearby as burgers cooked beneath Ben’s watchful eye, the smell of charcoal and summer filling the air.
It was disgustingly normal. And Ben fucking loved it.
No Vought. No missions. No cameras shoved in his face. No Homelander.
Just you, him, and the little boy currently sitting in your lap wearing dinosaur shorts and trying to shove his own fist into his mouth.
Ben glanced up from the grill for what had to be the hundredth time in ten minutes. You sat on the lounger beneath the shade umbrella, smiling softly as you bounced your son on your knee. Your laughter drifted across the yard every time he squealed.
Ben felt it low in his chest every damn time. That was his family.
His.
Sometimes the feeling still blindsided him. Soldier Boy. America’s biggest asshole. Retired suburban dad.
If someone had told him years ago that this would become his life, he probably would’ve punched them in the mouth.
But now?
Now he couldn’t imagine wanting anything else.
His gaze softened as he watched you kiss the top of your son’s head. The kid had your eyes. Thank fuck. But the stubbornness? Yeah. That was all Ben.
"You’re makin’ him soft," Ben called over from the grill.
You looked up immediately, offended. "He’s one!"
"Exactly. Prime toughening-up age." Your son babbled loudly in agreement with absolutely nobody. Ben snorted to himself, flipping the burgers. God, he loved that kid. He loved how chubby his tiny hands were. Loved the way he waddled like a drunk old man whenever he tried walking. Loved hearing him laugh so hard he snorted.
Ben had spent most of his life believing he’d never be capable of loving someone properly. Then the little gremlin showed up and ruined him completely. Your son suddenly giggled harder as you made another silly sound at him, tiny shoulders shaking with excitement.
Then his nose scrunched. You froze dramatically. "Ohhh, big sneeze incoming?"
His tiny face screwed up further. Ben looked over his shoulder just in time to see— "Achoo!"
The second the sneeze escaped him, the baby launched twenty feet into the air. You screamed. Ben dropped the spatula instantly. "What the FUCK—"
Your son floated higher above the yard, giggling hysterically like being airborne was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.
"BEN!"
"I SEE HIM!" Ben sprinted across the grass, arms already reaching upward as panic slammed into his chest. The kid tipped backward midair, tiny legs kicking uselessly. "Oh, shit—" Ben caught him against his chest a second before he hit the ground.
You stood frozen beside the lounger, staring wide-eyed at the baby now happily grabbing fistfuls of Ben’s beard.
Ben slowly lifted him away from his body, staring at him in disbelief.
The baby squealed proudly. Ben blinked once. Then a slow grin spread across his face. "Well," he breathed, "that’s my boy."
"Benjamin!"
"He FLEW."
Before you could stop him, Ben tossed the baby gently upward again. Your horrified gasp echoed across the yard. But instead of falling, your son hovered above Ben’s head, spinning lazily upside down while drool dripped onto his own forehead. Ben stared upward like he’d just witnessed the second coming of Christ. You fell back onto the lounger in shock and defeat.
"He has powers!" he barked excitedly. Then his expression shifted slightly. "…And none of those are mine."
You pointed a warning finger immediately. "Don’t even start."
Ben looked at you innocently. "I’m just sayin’. I don’t float."
"He is literally your clone."
"Well, at least we can keep track of him." Your son sneezed again. And vanished. You both froze.
"Oh no," you whispered.
Then suddenly— Pop.
He reappeared directly in your lap like nothing had happened.
You stared down at him in horror while he happily sucked on the collar of his shirt. "Oh God," you muttered weakly. "He can teleport."
"Doll, there’s one of him and two of us. We’ll be f—" Ben abruptly stopped speaking.
You blinked. Then blinked again. Because there were now two babies in your lap.
Silence consumed the backyard. Slowly, both you and Ben turned to stare at each other.
"…Did he just duplicate?" Ben asked faintly.
One of the babies sneezed. Now there were three.
"Okay!" you yelped. "Nobody say anything else!"
Ben looked genuinely offended. "How is this my fault?"
"Because every time you open your mouth he unlocks a new ability!"
One of the babies crawled up your lap, sucking on your hair. Another disappeared and reappeared underneath the patio table. The third was somehow halfway up the fence already.
Ben stared around the yard for a long moment. Then, to your horror, he started laughing. "Oh, we are SO fucked," he wheezed.
"BEN!"
"This is amazing!"
"You are literally encouraging him!"
"He duplicated himself!" Ben shouted, pointing wildly at the babies currently causing chaos across the backyard, running to gather the little clones.
You groaned into your hands.
A warm hand slid around your waist moments later as Ben sat beside you on the lounger, one baby balanced easily on each arm while the third gazed up at you with big puppy dog eyes. You still had absolutely no idea which one was the original. Ben leaned over, kissing the side of your head softly.
"We got this, doll," he murmured against your temple.
You sighed heavily, leaning against his shoulder despite yourself.
Yeah. Maybe you did.
Even if your son was apparently the most overpowered toddler on the planet. Ben looked down proudly at the babies climbing all over him. "Plus," he added smugly, "we knew this was gonna happen. Kid’s got America’s greatest supe for a dad." You rolled your eyes instantly. One of the babies copied you. "That one's yours," he grumbled under his breath.
❧ Summary: It's the Monday after your date with Mark
❧ Pairing: Mark Meachum x Teacher!Reader
❧ Wordcount: 1.2k
Part One | Part Two | Main Masterlist | Mark Meachum Masterlist
After your Friday night date with Mark and little Charlie, you had been giddy all weekend.
It felt ridiculous, honestly. Like you were back in high school again — the quiet nerdy girl somehow catching the attention of the impossibly handsome guy everyone secretly wanted. The kind of man women stared at when he walked into a room without even realising they were doing it. And somehow, for some reason, he wanted you.
The two of you had messaged constantly all weekend. Little updates. Dumb jokes. Random thoughts.
You heard all about the pizza he and Charlie made Saturday night, complete with photographic evidence of the burnt buns Mark swore were “intentional.” He told you about their How to Train Your Dragon marathon that he definitely didn’t fall asleep halfway through the second movie. Charlie even managed to steal his dad’s phone long enough to send you several blurry selfies consisting mostly of forehead and nostril.
You’d smiled so much your cheeks actually hurt.
Even late at night, when you could barely keep your eyes open, you still found yourself replying to his texts with sleepy little grins on your face.
Which was exactly why Monday morning became a disaster. Your alarm apparently never went off. You woke with a start, blinking blearily at the sunlight creeping through the curtains before checking your phone.
Twenty minutes late.
"Shit."
The next fifteen minutes were chaos. You abandoned your usual makeup routine entirely, throwing on concealer and mascara while brushing your teeth at the same time. Your red floral summer dress was the first thing you grabbed from the wardrobe, paired with battered white Converse. Functional. Cute enough.
As the toaster popped, you twisted your hair into a messy bun with an elastic band you already knew you’d regret later when it ripped half your hair out. Accepting defeat on making proper coffee, you grabbed your bag and prepared yourself for the stale sludge waiting in the teachers’ lounge.
You practically sprinted out the front door.
Only to stop dead.
Mark’s car sat parked outside your house. He leaned casually against the driver’s side door with two takeaway coffees in hand, sunglasses hooked into the neck of his navy sweater. Charlie was hanging halfway out the back window behind him.
"Hi," you breathed, slightly out of breath from rushing.
Mark’s mouth tilted into that devastating smirk you were quickly learning was dangerous. "Hey."
"HI MISS Y/N!" Charlie yelled enthusiastically, waving both arms out the window.
You laughed immediately. "Hi, Charlie."
Your eyes dropped to the second coffee cup in Mark’s hand. "Is that for me?"
"How’d you know?" he teased, stepping forward to hand it over. Your fingers brushed when you took it, warm from both the coffee and him.
You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Do I want to know how you got my address?"
He took a slow sip of his coffee. "Do I want to know how you got mine?"
You huffed out a laugh. "Touché."
Mark rounded the hood of the car, opening the passenger door for you with an exaggerated gesture. "C’mon. We should get going. I gotta drop you two off before I head to the station."
You slid into the passenger seat, warmth immediately filling your chest as the smell of coffee, leather, and Mark’s cologne wrapped around you.
Turning slightly, you looked at Charlie in the backseat. "Are you okay going to school early?"
"I have no choice," he whispered dramatically.
You snorted just as Mark climbed into the driver’s seat. The second he started the engine, ABBA exploded through the speakers.
YOU CAN DANCE—
"Shi—" Mark lunged for the volume knob, hurriedly turning it down while Charlie shouted in protest from the back.
"Bit early for Dancing Queen, isn’t it?" you teased over the rim of your coffee cup.
Mark kept his eyes firmly on the road as he pulled away from the curb. "Charlie likes to start his mornings with it."
"Nuh uh!" Charlie gasped. "It’s YOU!" Mark shot him a betrayed look through the rearview mirror. You laughed into your coffee while Mark muttered something about traitors. The morning sunlight streamed through the windows, warm against your skin as the city slowly passed by outside. It felt strangely domestic. Easy.
"So…" you said carefully, "how was your weekend?"
Mark glanced at you briefly, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. "Pretty good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. "Couldn’t stop thinking about this date I had Friday night."
Heat immediately crept up your neck. "That good, huh?"
"Mm." His grin widened. "Probably the best date I’ve ever had."
You nearly inhaled your coffee. "What?" you coughed. "All we did was watch Cars and make homemade burgers."
"And it was perfect." The sincerity in his voice hit harder than the flirting. He flicked you a quick sideways glance before looking back at the road, but it was enough to make your stomach flip.
"So," he continued casually, "I was thinking maybe I could take you on a second date this weekend?"
You blinked. "Really?"
"Charlie’s at his mom’s this weekend," he explained. "Thought maybe I could take you somewhere nice this time."
A loud gasp came from the backseat. "You’re gonna have a sleepover WITHOUT ME?!" Charlie cried.
You burst out laughing while Mark rubbed a hand down his face. "No, buddy," he sighed. "We won’t have one without you." He paused. "Unless…"
You smacked his arm immediately. "Mark!"
He laughed — full and warm and completely unashamed. "What?" he grinned. "I’m just saying."
"What about the three-date rule?" you argued.
"I am counting this as a date."
You stared at him. "This?"
"Yeah." He gestured between the two of you. "I picked you up, bought you coffee, and now we’re going on a drive together. That’s a date."
"It’s fifteen minutes long!"
"But I’m driving you home later too."
"Says who?"
"How else are you getting home?"
You opened your mouth. Then narrowed your eyes as he smirked victoriously.
"Exactly," he said smugly. You hated how charming he was.
By the time he pulled into the school parking lot, you were weirdly disappointed the drive was over. Mark parked near the entrance before turning slightly toward you.
"So…" he said quietly, "I’ll see you later?"
You smiled despite yourself. "Guess you will." His eyes softened for just a second before he leaned back against the seat. "Thanks for the coffee," you murmured, leaning over to kiss his cheek quickly. His stubble brushed softly against your lips. You barely pulled back before Charlie was already climbing out the backseat. "C’mon, buddy," you laughed.
The two of you headed toward the school entrance while Mark stayed parked at the curb watching you go. You only realised who was standing at the doors when Charlie reached them first.
"Good morning, Miss Roman!" he chirped.
"Good morning, Charlie," Ellie smiled sweetly before her gaze slowly slid toward you. Oh no. Her expression turned instantly smug. “Good morning?” she sang, wiggling her eyebrows.
You pointed a warning finger at her immediately. "Don’t say a word."
"What would I say?" she asked innocently. "That I saw you getting out of hot dad’s car this morning?"
"Ellie."
"I’m just saying," she whispered dramatically, following beside you down the hallway. "The chemistry? Disgusting." You groaned while she laughed. "My lips are sealed," she promised, miming zipping them shut. Then she immediately pointed at you. "But I want DETAILS later."
Hi! I want to say I love your writing. My request and question will you add CJ Braxton to other characters of JA? I would like to know head canons about him. And also more Mark Meachum. Plus with new episodes of season 5 of The Boys I’m looking forward to new plots of SB/Ben. Hugs.✨✨✨
Aww thank you!🩵🩵
I did think about adding CJ from the start but I don't know his character as well as the others. I've never watched Dawson's Creek. I've seen a couple of his clips in the show but thats it.
I am planning to do a full SB fic as well. I've planned it out, just got to write the damn thing!
hii i hope you’re having a good day/night, i love your fics so much!! i was wondering if you could do a headcannon of jackles characters finding out you have a nut allergy/how their daily life has changed because of that. i don’t normally send requests to writers but i have a nut allergy, severely peanuts, and i never see and mention of it in fics - the reader is for some reason always eating peanut butter lol. thank you if you do this request!!
Headcanon: But I'm Allergic
❧ Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly
❧ A/N: I love this! I'm Celiac (Gluten free) so I can totally relate to this!
❧ 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
Russell’s Malibu convertible sat parked in the forecourt of the gas station, the late afternoon sun gleaming off the hood. You lounged in the passenger seat, enjoying the brief quiet while he paid for the gas and inevitably bought half the snack aisle.
You heard his whistling before the driver’s door swung open. "Let’s roll!" he grinned, dropping into the seat before peeling out of the station and back onto the highway. Warm wind whipped through the car instantly, tangling your hair as the radio crackled softly beneath the roar of the engine.
"We got a few more hours till we hit the motel," he said, one hand loose on the steering wheel while the other dug through the plastic bags in his lap. "So I got supplies." He tossed a bag into your lap. "Chips. Candy." Another followed. "And peanuts—"
"Actually, I have a nut allergy, so no thanks."
Russell’s head snapped toward you for half a second before his eyes shot back to the road. "Wait, what?" His brows furrowed. "I didn’t know that."
You shrugged lightly. "I thought I told you."
"Nope. Would’ve remembered that." His voice was immediate, certain. Without hesitation, he grabbed the bag of peanuts and launched it over his shoulder, sending it flying out of the open roof.
"Russell!" you laughed, startled by how fast he reacted.
"What?" he scoffed dramatically. "I’m not risking your life for a snack." Still focused on the road, he reached across the console for your hand. His fingers threaded through yours easily before he lifted your knuckles to his lips, pressing a quick kiss against them. "You’re worth more than peanuts, sweetheart."
Dean Winchester
You thought you were being quiet as you snuck into the kitchen.
Every creak of the bunker floorboards made you freeze mid-step, grimacing as you glanced over your shoulder. The squeal of the cupboard hinge made you mutter a curse under your breath. Honestly, at this point, you were convinced Dean purposely never greased that one cabinet just so he could catch you doing dumb shit.
And there it was.
The jar of peanut butter sitting innocently on the shelf.
You knew you shouldn’t. You absolutely shouldn’t. But sometimes forbidden things called to you louder than common sense ever could. Sure, eating it could make your throat swell shut, leave your skin blotchy and itching for days, and have you violently sick for the next week.
But right now?
You wanted peanut butter.
Ever since you’d told Dean about your allergy, he’d become ridiculously protective over anything remotely nut-related. It was like he had some sixth sense for your bad decisions.
"Stop!" Dean’s voice boomed through the kitchen so suddenly you nearly jumped out of your skin. Your whole body froze. Maybe if you didn’t move, he wouldn’t notice you. Before you could even react, his hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you away from the cupboard and straight toward the sink.
"What the hell, Y/N?" he scolded, turning on the tap and immediately washing your hands under warm water like you’d touched radioactive waste. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? You know you can’t eat peanut butter."
"I know," you whined. "But maybe I’m fixed now and can magically eat nuts."
Dean stopped scrubbing your hands long enough to slowly turn and stare at you. "That," he said flatly, "is not how allergies work." You huffed as he dried your hands carefully before cupping your face between his palms, his expression softening despite the frustration still lingering around his eyes. "Please don’t do that again," he murmured.
“But—”
Before you could even finish complaining, Dean hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you over his shoulder. "Dean!" you yelped, smacking weakly at his back as he carried you straight out of the kitchen.
"Nope," he said firmly. "You’re staying where I can see you. Next time eat the sunflower butter I bought you."
"It tastes terrible," you groaned dramatically, going limp over his shoulder in protest.
Dean snorted. "Tastes better than an EpiPen and a trip to the ER, sweetheart."
Beau Arlen
After work, you came home to complete chaos in the kitchen. Every cupboard door hung wide open, boxes and jars covering every inch of counter space. You paused in the doorway, staring at the disaster zone.
"Honey?" you called cautiously, loud enough for him to hear from anywhere in the house.
"Hey!" Beau suddenly popped up from behind the kitchen island, making you jump.
"Jesus, Beau!"
He grinned unapologetically. "Welcome home!" He spread his arms wide like he was proudly presenting a masterpiece instead of complete destruction.
You blinked at him. "What exactly is going on here?"
"Well," he started, rubbing the back of his neck, "since you’re moving in, I figured now was the perfect time for a clean-out."
"A clean-out?" you repeated slowly, glancing at the mountain of food covering the counters.
"Yeah." He shrugged casually. "I wanted to make sure you’re safe and comfortable here, so I’m getting rid of anything with nuts in it."
Your expression softened instantly. "Really?"
"Course." His voice gentled as he walked over to you, hands settling naturally on your waist before pulling you closer. "I told you I’m gonna keep you safe, darlin’. That includes your allergies."
Your chest tightened painfully with affection. No one had ever done something like this before. Not without being asked. Not without complaining about inconvenience or making you feel difficult for it.
But Beau acted like it was the easiest thing in the world. You smiled, rising onto your tiptoes to press a kiss against his cheek.
"You know," you murmured softly, "you’re ridiculously sweet."
Beau’s cheeks pinked slightly despite the proud grin tugging at his mouth. "Yeah," he drawled. "Don’t go tellin’ people that. I got a reputation to maintain."
Soldier Boy
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?"
Ben’s voice thundered through the tiny apartment, followed by the sound of something crashing against the wall.
You hurried out of the bedroom to find absolute chaos waiting for you.
Ben had Hughie lifted clean off the ground, fist tangled in the front of his hoodie as he pinned him against the wall. Hughie’s sneakers dangled helplessly above the floor, eyes wide with panic while half a sandwich sat abandoned on the counter nearby.
A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "Oh my god," you sighed.
"It’s a PB&J!" Hughie squeaked, hands gripping at Ben’s wrist. "It’s not a big deal!"
"It is a fucking big deal," Ben snapped, mocking Hughie’s panicked tone. "Y/N has a severe allergy. She can’t even be around this shit."
Hughie’s face immediately drained of colour. "Wait—what? I-I didn’t know."
"You didn’t ask," Ben growled.
"Ben," you said carefully, stepping closer. You placed a gentle hand against his back, feeling the tension wound tight beneath his shirt. "He didn’t know."
Ben’s jaw clenched. For a second, you genuinely thought he might throw Hughie through the drywall anyway. Then, with obvious reluctance, he dropped him. Hughie crumpled onto the floor in a heap, coughing as he scrambled backwards away from Soldier Boy like a frightened raccoon.
"Fine," Ben muttered darkly. "Just don’t do it again." He pointed sharply at Hughie. "If something happens to my girl, I’ll break your fingers."
Hughie stared at him in horror. Behind Ben, you melted slightly. "Aww," you cooed fondly.
Hughie looked at you like you’d completely lost your mind. "Aww?"
You shrugged innocently. "What? That’s him being sweet."
Mark Meachum
You and Mark were on a grocery run, slowly wandering through the supermarket while debating dinners for the week and which snacks were absolutely necessary. Mark pushed the trolley beside you while you grabbed things from the shelves, tossing them in as you went. It was comfortable—domestic in a way that still occasionally caught you off guard.
But after a while, you started noticing something odd.
Every now and then, Mark would pick up an item, stare intensely at the packaging for several seconds, then either place it carefully in the trolley or immediately put it back on the shelf. You watched him do it again with a bag of pre-chopped lettuce. "Okay," you laughed, dropping a couple of peppers into the trolley, "what exactly are you doing?"
Mark straightened slightly, clearly not realising you’d noticed. "I—uh…" He glanced down at the bag in his hand. "I was checking it didn’t have nuts in it."
You blinked at him. "You were checking if lettuce had nuts in it?"
Mark shrugged defensively, ears turning faintly pink. "I don’t know. I’m just checking everything’s safe." He gestured vaguely at the shelves. "I’m new to this."
Your expression softened instantly. It was such a Mark thing to do—quietly trying his best without making a big deal out of it. You stepped closer, smiling up at him warmly. "Well, thank you for checking," you said softly. "That’s really sweet."
Mark leaned forward onto the trolley handles, suddenly very interested in the floor tiles beneath him as he tried to hide the blush creeping across his cheeks. "Yeah, well," he muttered gruffly, "would rather look stupid checking lettuce than accidentally poison my girlfriend."
Boaz Priestly
Priestly watched you make your sandwich like it was part of his daily routine.
Because, honestly, it was. Between taking orders and yelling at customers over the diner noise, his eyes always drifted back to you in the kitchen. Watching every little movement. Every ingredient you reached for. And every single day, without fail, you made the exact same sandwich.
Turkey. Lettuce. Peppers. Chillies.
And peanut butter.
Priestly still had no idea how you kept getting your hands on peanut butter. The second Trucker found out about your allergy, he’d banned every nut product from the diner entirely. Which meant one of two things:
Either someone was sneaking it in for you— Or you were bringing it yourself. Neither option made him particularly happy.
So every morning, while you were distracted working, Priestly made a second sandwich. An exact replica of yours, down to the amount of chilli flakes you liked scattered inside.
The only difference was the peanut butter substitute. You thought you were slick sneaking the real stuff into your sandwich every day. But Priestly noticed everything about you. You placed the top slice of bread down with a satisfied little smile.
Perfect. Time for him to strike. Casually, he walked over with the safe sandwich in one hand before sliding his other hand onto your hip, smoothly spinning you around to face him. "So," he asked easily, "we still on for tonight?"
As your attention shifted to him, his free hand quickly swapped the sandwiches on the counter behind you in one seamless movement. "Yeah, of course," you smiled, completely oblivious. "It’s movie night, and it’s your turn to pick, which means I’m emotionally preparing for a terrible horror movie."
"Mhm. Sure." Still smiling, he leaned down to kiss your cheek before casually walking away with the real sandwich hidden behind his back. You didn’t notice a thing. Priestly dumped the dangerous sandwich straight into the bin before glancing back over his shoulder just in time to see you happily take a bite of the safe one.
Crisis averted.
A/N: I haven't been very active on Tumblr recently. I've been in a BTS loop since their album dropped. May be a little bit obsessed at the moment. Sorry.... definitely obsessed at the moment.
a few random mindless questions, just for fun <3 no pressure ofc :)
⟢ if you could magically know how to play an instrument, which one would you choose?
⟡ probably the piano
⟢ if you could have only one superpower, which one would it be?
⟡ teleportation, 1000% it would be so convenient (no side effects tho)
⟢ what's the earliest movie you remember seeing?
⟡ happy feet !! 🐧 I vaguely remember them dancing/stomping
⟢ what's a food you won't ever get tired of eating?
⟡ potatoessss <3 like just about every kind of potato honestly (within reason)
⟢ would you rather explore space or explore the ocean?
⟡ both make me nervous, but probably space bc I love the stars
⟢ do you have a dream car?
⟡ no specific one in mind to be honest (i'm blanking out rn) but I love older cars for the nostalgia and lack of built in technology :-)
⟢ what's your favorite letter in the alphabet?
⟡ I have a soft spot for J ofc but my favorite is probably the lowercase i (anyone else go through a phase where they dotted them with hearts and/or stars?)
⟢ gold jewelry or silver jewelry?
⟡ i'm a silver girly 🩶 but I will switch to my gold septum ring every now and then just to change it up :]
⋆˙⟡ no pressure tags; @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @chevroletdean @zepskies @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @jensensswthrt @b-eees-world @bettystonewell @the-wind-around-the-willow @ackles-pleaser @waynes-multiverse + anyone who'd like to join !! <3
❧ Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly
❧ Scenario: Where you like to touch them
❧ 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
Hair
You were obsessed with Russell's longer hair.
Every time your fingers slipped through it, you noticed how soft it was—silky in a way that didn't make sense for someone like him. You didn't know what he used, of it he even used anything at all, but whatever it was... it worked.
In motel rooms, late at night, when the TV droned on in the background, he’d stretch out beside you and rest his head in your lap like it was second nature. Your fingers would drift into his hair without thinking—combing through the strands, gently scratching at his scalp, easing the tension from the day.
On the road, it was quieter. You’d turn toward him mid-conversation, letting your hand brush through his hair or curl at the nape of his neck.
Sometimes, when it got too long, he’d sigh and ask, almost casually, "Think I should cut it?"
And every single time— "No." Immediate. Firm.
He’d glance at you, half-amused, half-curious, like he already knew the answer but asked anyway.
Dean Winchester
Face
Dean Winchester had a face that begged to be looked at.
You could never quite tear your eyes away from those boyish green eyes, the faint dusting of freckles across his skin, or those soft, pouty pink lips. There was something about him—something magnetic. Hypnotising.
He knew it, too. Knew he was attractive—beautiful, even. And he wasn’t above using it to his advantage.
But that’s why you loved touching his face.
Tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Cupping his cheeks in your hands. Letting your thumb brush just beneath his eye. It undid him.
The moment your hands were on him, he softened. The walls dropped. The hunter disappeared, and for a second, he was just a boy again, leaning into your touch like he never wanted it to end.
His gaze lost its edge, turning warm and open. His freckles seemed more pronounced, standing out against his skin. And his lips parted slightly, like he was caught somewhere between a breath and a sigh.
It was your favourite version of him.
Dean Winchester knew he was hot. But he also knew you were his weakness.
Beau Arlen
Hands
Beau was always doing something with his hands.
On patrol, they rested on the wheel—steady, ready, almost restless beneath the surface. Waiting. And when something did happen, they moved with purpose—firm, controlled, tightening handcuffs with practiced ease.
In his office, it was different. Quieter. He’d pace with that old football in his grip, turning it over and over as he thought, or clicking his pen absentmindedly while working through paperwork.
His hands were rarely still.
Which is why it always surprised you how soft they were. Warm and smooth, in a way that matched him perfectly.
Whenever you walked together, your hand would find his without thinking, fingers slipping between his like they belonged there. He always assumed it was for safety—something instinctive, something protective.
But really you just liked the feel of him.
Even at dinner, you’d reach across the table, tracing over his knuckles, playing with his fingers as you talked. Small, quiet touches that kept you connected.
His warmth anchored you. A steady reminder that he was there. That you were together.
Soldier Boy
Arms
You loved having a superhero boyfriend.
He had infinite stamina, could protect you from just about anything, and—well—his body didn’t exactly hurt either.
You’d always been an arm girl, but with Ben? It bordered on obsessive.
Whenever he worked out, your eyes tracked every single rep. The slow curl of a dumbbell, the flex and release of his bicep, the way the muscle tightened under his skin—it was impossible not to watch. And he knew it. Of course he did. You could see it in the way his movements got just a little slower, a little more deliberate… how he’d casually add a few extra sets just because you were there.
Show-off.
But his arms weren’t just for your viewing pleasure.
They were practical, too.
They’d scoop you up off the sofa when you fell asleep mid-movie, carrying you to bed like you weighed nothing at all. They’d wrap around you from behind while you cooked, his chin resting on your shoulder as he rambled about his day, holding you close like he couldn’t help himself.
And when you were out? One arm was always around you—firm, steady, protective. A silent promise that nothing was getting near you without going through him first.
You didn’t just love his arms.
You loved what they meant.
Mark Meachum
Back
You’d normally wake up to the sound of Mark in the garage.
You’d brew two coffees, still half-asleep, then pad your way outside—barefoot, wrapped in one of his shirts—pausing in the doorway just to watch him finish his set.
Your eyes always followed the movement. The way his back muscles shifted and rippled as he lowered himself, then pulled back up again. Controlled. Strong. Effortless in a way that never failed to hold your attention. It was, without question, your favourite way to wake up.
Later in the day, that same strength would melt into something softer.
He’d come home, barely make it through the door before collapsing on top of you on the sofa, all heavy limbs and quiet exhaustion. You’d laugh softly, adjusting under his weight as your hands found his back without thinking. Your fingers would press into the tight muscles, working out the tension from the day. Slow strokes up and down his spine, gentle pressure easing him down.
And then there were the harder days. The ones he tried to hide from you.
Back when he was at his sickest, he never wanted you to see him like that—didn’t want you to see the cracks, the pain, the moments where he couldn’t hold it together.
But you always found him.
You’d just sit behind him, pressing yourself against his back, grounding him in something steady. Letting him cry, letting him rage, letting him feel whatever he needed to feel.
Your arms wrapped around him. Your lips pressed gently against his back—warm, quiet reassurance that he wasn’t alone.
Priestly
Chest
Priestly was a very affectionate guy.
He never really hid it either. A kiss dropped on your cheek as he passed by, a playful smack on your hip when he needed to squeeze past you behind the counter. It was constant, casual, instinctive.
On his breaks, he’d lean against the counter and pull you into his arms without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d melt straight into him, resting against his chest—your favourite place to be, your favourite kind of quiet.
Wrapped in him, everything softened. His warmth settled around you, his scent familiar and comforting, and beneath it all, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.
It always gave him away—how it picked up when you got close, like his body reacted before he had time to think. It grounded you in a way nothing else did. You could quite literally feel his love in the way he held you.
Even when you were at home, curled up on the couch watching a movie, that need for contact never really stopped. Your fingers would drift across his chest absentmindedly, tracing slow, idle patterns over the broad expanse of him. Shapes you weren’t thinking about, movements that didn’t need meaning. Just touch. Just connection.
That was always where you ended up—safe, settled, and completely at ease in him.
A/N: I've found it really hard to write lately. I have so many WIPs, it's ridiculous. My ADHD has been completely out of whack and I can't get myself to sit and write, even if I want to.
Headcanon Tag List:
Also please comment or fill out the Tag List Form to be tagged with each new post. 🩵
❧ Summary: Dean thought he lost everything. He just needed to wait a while to see he had everything he ever wanted.
❧ Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader
❧ Wordcount: 1.3k
❧ Warnings: Miscarriage
Main Masterlist | Dean Winchester Masterlist
Coming back to the bunker felt... empty.
You hadn't quite processed it.
Going to the appointment. Sitting in the waiting room, absentmindedly caressing your bump—your little girl safe beneath your hand. Talking to Dean about names
Then your name being called.
You could still feel the cold of the bed beneath you. Still see the screen as the doctor moved the wand.
And then—
"I'm sorry. I can't find a heartbeat."
The words echoed, over and over.
You'd begged her to keep checking. Dean's hand tightening around yours with every passing second.
She’d left you alone after that.
Your eyes never left the screen. You knew if you looked at Dean... you'd shatter. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to put yourself back together again.
The silence followed you everywhere. Out of the room. Into the car. Through the bunker doors.
Sam had approached you, smiling—his mouth moving—but you couldn’t hear a word. You just… kept walking. Walking until you reached the room.
Her room.
One wall painted pink. Boxes still unopened—the crib, the changing table, tiny pieces of a life that would never exist.
Your chest caved in.
You wanted to scream. To cry. To apologise to Dean—even though it wasn't your fault. But that cruel little voice whispered otherwise.
You failed.
How could you not do the one thing your body was meant to do?
You sank to the floor, clutching the small teddy bear Dean had picked up for her after a hunt. You stared at it, unfocused, tracing the soft tufts of fur.
Until Dean was suddenly there.
You hadn't even heard him come in. The moment your eyes met his, something inside you broke. You collapsed into him, curling into his chest as the grief finally tore through you. He held you just as tightly, like if he let go, he'd lose you too.
You stayed like that for hours. Neither of you moving.
A few months later, Dean wasn't just mourning your daughter.
He was mourning you too.
The hunt had gone wrong. Badly. And this time... you didn't make it back.
A year later, Dean died.
And the truth was—he was ready.
The only thing that had kept him going was Sam. But Sam was okay now. He could have the life Dean never thought possible—something normal. Something good.
So Dean let go.
When he opened his eyes, everything felt... different.
Peaceful. A foreign feeling Dean wasn't used to.
The sun was warm against his skin. Endless stretches of green rolled into the horizon, mountains standing tall in the distance.
For the first time in a long time—Dean Winchester could breathe.
"Well," he muttered, letting out a quiet breath, "at least I made it to Heaven."
"Yep." Dean turned at the familiar voice. Bobby Singer, sat casually outside the Harvelle's Roadhouse, happy to see one of his surrogate sons.
"What memory is this?" Dean asked.
"It ain't," Bobby scoffed. "Ya idjit."
Dean shook his head. "Yeah it is." It had to be. Nothing this good ever lasted for him "Cause the last I heard, you were in Heaven's lock-up." Dean took a couple cautious steps forward.
"Was. Now, I'm not." Bobby said, softer now. "That kid of yours, before he went, wherever—he made some changes here. Busted my ass out." Dean slowly sat in the chair next to him. "And then he, well he, set some things right." Dean looked at the older man in shock, as everything slowly sank in. "Tore down all the walls up here. Heaven ain't just reliving your golden oldies anymore. It's what it always should have been. Everyone happy. Everyone together."
Bobby pointed into the distance, Dean following his hand. "Rufus lives about 5 miles that way with Aretha." Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. "Thought she'd have better taste.," he mumbled before continuing. "And your mom and dad, they got a place over yonder." Bobby pointed in the other direction.
Dean swallowed. "And Y/N?" His voice quiet.
Bobby smirked. "She should be here any minute."
Dean blinked. "She... knows I'm here?"
"Everyone knows.," Bobby said, handing him a beer. "We've been waiting for ya, Dean."
Before Dean could respond, the low rumble of an engine cut through the air.
His head snapped up.
No way.
The Impala rolled into view, sunlight glinting off her black paint as she pulled up beside the Roadhouse. Dean was already on his feet.
He was frozen as the driver's door opened... and there you were.
"Hey Bobby," you called, leaning casually against the roof before your eyes found Dean. "Hey Winchester."
"Y/N..." His voice broke.
He didn't remember moving—but suddenly he was in front of you, pulling you into his arms, holding you like he'd never let go again. "God, I missed you, sweetheart," he murmured into your hair.
"Missed you too," you whispered, breathing him in—leather, whiskey, something uniquely Dean. He pulled back just enough to cup your face, like you might disappear if he blinked. "It's really me, Dean", you said softly. "This is real," you reassured him, like you could read his mind. "No one is chasing you anymore. Nothing is going to take this away from you. This is it."
"Yeah?" His voice cracked.
You nodded "Yeah." Your lips met his—soft at first, then deeper, fuller. A year’s worth of longing poured into a single moment. He melted into you instantly, like coming home. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
For a second, everything was still.
Then—
A small sound. Dean’s head tilted slightly. "What was that?"
You smiled, slipping from his arms. "Oh—" You moved to the Impala, opening the back door. Dean followed slowly, heart pounding. He could hear you speaking softly and cooing as you slowly stood up.
His breath caught. A tiny girl in your arms. Soft brown hair, bright green eyes—curious, alive. " Is that...?" He couldn't finish.
You nodded, smiling through tears. "Dean... this is Gracie. Your daughter."
She reached for him instantly, wrapping her small hand around his thumb like it had always belonged there.He let out a broken laugh as tears blurred his vision. "How...?"
"When I died, I had my own Heaven," you explained gently. "Six months ago, Jack brought everyone together. He showed me where she was." Your voice softened. "She was safe in the nursery we were building for her." Dean's chest tightened. "She's real," you whispered. "And now... she's ours"
Gracie babbled happily, tugging at his sleeve. You didn't need to ask. He took her into his arms carefully, like she was the most precious thing in existence. She curled into him instantly.
Dean froze—afraid to move, afraid to break the moment.
"She's already met Uncle Bobby," you said softly. "Aunt Ellen too. And your parents—they adore her."
Gracie looked up at him. Green eyes meeting green. Dean let out a quiet breath. "Wait 'til Uncle Sam meets you," he whispered.
"He'll be here," you said, taking his hand. Dean looked between the two of you—his whole world, right here. Almost complete. "What do you want to do?" you asked.
His gaze drifted to the Impala. A slow smile spread across his face. "I wanna go for a drive," he said, squeezing your hand. "With my family."
You laughed softly. "Even with a baby seat in the back?"
Dean chuckled. "Even with a baby seat."
He helped you buckle Grace in, then slid into the driver's seat, his hand instinctively resting on the wheel, stroking it affectionately.
You climbed in beside him. He adjusted the rear-view mirror—just enough to see her in the back, happily chewing on her sock covered foot. A quiet laugh escaped him.
Then his hand found your thigh, squeezing gently. "Ready?" you asked.
Dean looked at you—really looked. "Yeah," he said softly. "Perfect."
The engine roared to life. And for the first time—Dean drove to something good.
A/N: Ahh, I'm sorry. This idea came to me in a dream and I had to write it!
PSA to fic readers, it is so hard to freak a fic writer out with your comments. we are just as crazy about the fic as you are.
tell me you love it. tell me it made you slam your laptop shut. tell me you brought it up at your college lecture about kink. key smash in all caps. quote the passage that made you think. i promise, we’ll love it.
we spend hours thinking about it, writing it, editing it. there is no such thing as over enthusiasm when you’re talking about our fics to us. we are sooooo weird about them, i assure you. you are just matching my freak. the freak bar is already set so high. feel no anxiety about enjoying something and letting the creator know.
We’re All Going to Hell, Enjoy the Ride @teamackles96 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
