pairing; soldier boy x wife!reader word count; 0.2k 🎀
summary; you can always count on your husband to lift the weight off your shoulders. (kind of literally in this case)
tags/warnings; established relationship (married), pregnant!reader, fluff, soft feels
notes; more sappy lovesick husband ben <3 just a baby drabble to get back into writing, it's been a minute ;_; + I imagined this being in the same universe as holly jolly headache but can be read as a standalone 🌸
♪ now playing; much better off — smokey robinson
ben masterlist ♡ main masterlist
You let out a content sigh, your shoulders sagging in relief as you lean back against your husband. “Y’know I’m pretty sure it’s those sounds that led us here sweetheart.” He teases, murmuring the words against your head.
A soft chuckle escapes you, warm and tired. “Hey I’m waddlin' around with this heavy ass melon of a belly, feels nice to have that weight off for a moment.”
Only a few weeks away from your due date, you couldn’t wait for this pressure to be alleviated for good (and to meet your sweet baby of course). For now, you have Ben to help you—super strength and all.
He stands behind you, his arms wrapped around your frame and under your pregnancy bump. He’s lifting it gently, carefully holding your stomach up but certainly not enough to hurt you. It fills you with pure relief.
“Can’t believe she’s almost here already.” You say, leaning your head back against him and closing your eyes. “Feels like a dream.”
He smiles, slow and thoughtful before leaning to kissing your cheek softly. He's glad there's no one around to call him a sap, but he wouldn't care either way (maybe just glare at them).
He never thought he’d get to have this.
A lovely wife, a kid on the way, a home. He’d accepted the grim fate he always envisioned long ago, but he’s here now, grateful to be holding his growing family close. “Speaking of, we should get you to bed, hmm?”
“Just a little longer.” you whisper, voice full of exhaustion and your eyes already closing.
He’d stay forever if you asked, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.
end note; he'd be so down bad for his wife, I just know it. thanks for reading !! 🫶🏽
NOTES & TW: no plot I fear, jumping right into it, definitely giving dom!ben, just something to keep us up and running <3
MASTERLIST
Soldier Boy’s hand closes around your wrist the second you get a little mouthy with him, tugging you forward until you stumble right between his knees.
He leans back in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world, one brow lifting as he looks up at you.
“There it is,” he says slowly, voice rough with amusement. “That fuckin’ attitude.”
His grip slides from your wrist to your hip, firm, claiming, pulling you closer until the front of your legs are pressed up against the chair. The other hand tips your chin so you have to meet his eyes.
“Y’know what happens to girls who run their mouths?” he murmurs. The corner of his lips curls, smug and dangerous. “They find out real quick who’s in charge here.”
But the grin on his face gives him away. His thumb drags slow along your bottom lip, eyes dark and amused.
“Then again,” he says, tilting his head, “I think you’d like that a little too much, sweetheart.”
Not my usual MO but I had a lot of fun writing this little thing! Let me know if you’d like to see more of this kind of content—it’s definitely a little more manageable for me atm than full length fics
Hi~ would like to request a fic with dean's reaction to the reader getting a tramp stamp with his name ;p no need to have anything explicit if ur not comfortable (or inspired lol) but at least a lil suggestive 👀 luv ur stuff (especially the baby fever one, it was too cute!)
𓏲ּ𝄢Marked
Summary: You come home late with a fresh tattoo—his name in bold black across your lower back. Dean sees it, loses his mind, and spends the night fucking you from behind so he can stare at his own name while he claims you harder.
warnings: smut, possessive!Dean, tattoo kink, rough sex, established relationship
۶ৎ a/n: so hott🫠 loved the idea!! Tysm for the request, hope u guys like it!
The motel door creaked open just past midnight.
Dean was already on his feet—arms crossed, jaw tight, phone still warm in his hand from the fourth unanswered call. The lecture was loaded and ready: Where the hell were you? You could’ve been dead in a ditch. Again.
But then you stepped inside, the words died in his throat.
You were smiling—small, secret, the kind of smile that said you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Your hair was a little messy, cheeks flushed from the night air, and the relief that had been clawing at his chest instantly rerouted itself somewhere much lower.
“Hey,” you said softly, kicking the door shut behind you. “Miss me?”
“You’re two hours late and didn’t answer your damn phone,” he started, but the heat was already bleeding out of the words. “What the hell—”
“Got held up,” you said lightly, kicking the door shut behind you. “Had something done.”
Dean’s brows knit. “Something done?”
You didn’t answer with words.
Instead you turned slowly, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your low-rise jeans, tugging them down just enough.
There it was.
Black ink, fresh and still slightly raised, curling across the small of your back and dipping low over your right hip—a delicate, vicious little tramp stamp. His name in thw midle of it, 'dean' stylized, twisted into delicate vines and thorns, the very edge of it disappearing beneath the denim like it was daring him to follow.
Dean’s breath punched out of him.
His pupils blew wide. His jeans were suddenly painfully tight.
You glanced back over your shoulder, catching the exact second realization hit him like a freight train.
“Surprise,” you murmured, voice all honey and mischief.
He didn’t even try to play it cool.
Two strides and his hands were on your hips, rough and possessive, spinning you so your palms slapped flat against the chipped dresser. He pressed himself flush behind you, hard length grinding shamelessly against your ass while his eyes stayed locked on that fresh ink like it was the eighth wonder of the world.
“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You just… put my name on you? Like that?”
You laughed—soft, breathy, a little wicked.
“Thought you’d like it.”
“Like it?” He yanked your jeans lower, exposing the full design. His thumb traced the edge of a thorn, reverent and filthy at the same time. “I’m gonna lose my damn mind.”
Next thing you knew your knees hit the mattress.
He didn’t bother stripping either of you completely—just shoved your jeans and panties down to mid-thigh, shoved his own open enough, and then he was behind you, one hand braced on your lower back right over the new tattoo like he was claiming it.
He didn’t look away from it once.
Not when he pushed inside you in one long, slow stroke.
Not when your back arched and you moaned his name into the pillow.
Not when his rhythm turned hard and hungry, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin filling the cheap room.
Every thrust rocked that little sigil right in his line of sight—his personal brand on you, filthy and permanent and so goddamn hot he could barely think.
“Gonna stare at this forever,” he growled, voice gravel and sin. “Every time I bend you over. Every time I fuck you from behind. My name right here—fuck—where it belongs.”
You clenched around him on purpose.
He groaned your name like a prayer and a curse, pace faltering for half a second before he drove deeper, chasing the edge with single-minded focus, eyes never leaving the ink that marked you his.
When he came it was with a choked, guttural sound, hips flush to yours, tattoo pressed tight against his pelvis like he could brand himself into it too.
You collapsed forward, breathless and laughing softly into the sheets.
Dean stayed draped over you for a long minute, breathing hard, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“Next time,” he muttered, voice wrecked, “you warn a guy before you pull shit like that.”
we love preacher’s daughter is corrupted by bad boy but what about innocent church boy that’s so fucking sheltered he doesn’t even know why his cock goes all stiff sometimes and just cries u til it goes down, meets drifter girl who’s new in town.
his mom is always bad-mouthing her because she wears miniskirts and skips sunday mass and GASP she drinks??? (never mind that her husband is almost always drunk, of course). but one day he meets her in the woods, and they end up getting along despite all his reserves. they talk about school and town gossip and church. he brings up the bible and she matches every one of his verses with a different one, twisting them in ways he could’ve never thought of. he finds a different kind of god in her, one that she doesn’t even believe in.
they keep hanging out in secret, and his world slowly starts to expand like crazy. he finds himself in the shower every night, thinking about th way her skin glimmered under the sun when she took a dip in the lake and the curve of her cleavage in those tops his mom hates so much. he sprints his wrist the next day in soccer practice, and shamefully finds her in the woods with the stupid cast around his arm.
“what happened to you, jerked off too much?”
jerk off. he was to ashamed to ask her, but a private search in the local library left him with burning cheeks and a throbbing dick.
and when she finally touches him, it’s like he ascended to heaven. she barely paws at his bulge over his church pants before his soiling his underwear, throwing his head back and finally seeing god.
she takes pleasure in breaking him down in pieces, loving the way he comes undone at the softest touches, his mind blown by the silliest things. giving him head makes her feel holy, every whimper coming from his mouth washing over her like nectar and filling her veins with godly ichor.
the way he fondles and kisses her tits like they’re salvation, the dopey look on his face the first time she lets him see her naked, how pussydrunk he gets from eating her out, begging her to let him keep going even after her third orgasm, eyes hazy and puppyish. she is absolutely enamored by his inexperience, but the way he seems to worship her, how every bit of the world she exposes to him makes his eyes go all starry.
and he’s completely under he spell. there’s not a second he doesn’t think of her, during sunday school and SAT practice and soccer games. he talks back to his mother and questions the pastor and gifts her his purity ring—after all, he doesn’t need it anymore. his purity is all hers.
anyway they end up running away from town after the people all try to persecute her for bringing sin into their community. his mom begs her to stay with her but he finally confronts her and jumps in the back of her bike, leaving that godforsaken town behind to find happiness somewhere in the west.
let me go back to hibernation now. i love subby innocent boys that i can corrupt. he definitely cries through his first orgasm as well, and then lets her hold him against her chest for hours as he comes down from the weird feelings, with her kissing his hairline and petting his pretty face until he’s giggling.
Dean discovering you used to be a Playboy bunny!! (Headcanons)
He finds the photo completely by accident. Old shoebox under your bed, the kind of place people hide memories they’re not sure they want to keep. He was looking for that spare ammo clip you swore was “somewhere safe.” Instead he pulls out glossy 8×10s from fifteen years ago and freezes like someone just pulled the pin on a grenade.
The first sound out of his mouth is this low, stunned “Holy… shit.”
Not angry. Not judging. Just pure, dumbstruck awe. He sits back on his heels holding the picture like it’s evidence in a case he suddenly really wants to solve. Jaw slack. Pupils blown. The works.
“Sweetheart… you— …this is you? Like—this is actually you?”
He flips to the next one. Then the next. Then the little behind-the-scenes Polaroid of you laughing in the satin ears with another Bunny fixing your tail. He looks like a man who just got told the lottery ticket he’s been using as a bookmark for eight years is actually worth millions
When you finally walk in and catch him surrounded by the evidence he doesn’t even pretend to hide it.
Just lifts one of the shots — the classic black-and-white one where you’re looking over your shoulder, bow perfect, cuffs gleaming — and goes:
“Babygirl I need to see it all. Not just pictures. I need the live-action director’s cut. Right now. Ears. Tail. Cuffs. The whole damn uniform. I’m begging."
He doesn’t even try to play it cool.
“Okay. Okay. Hold up. You gotta—babe. You gotta give me the full timeline. Year. City. Which mansion party. Were there celebrities? Was Hef there? Did you—did you ever do the jet? Tell me you did the jet.”
He’s already half pacing, half grinning like a kid on Christmas morning who just found out Santa’s real and also runs a strip club
You tease him that the costume doesn’t even fit anymore.
He’s already halfway to the door: “Then we’re going shopping. Victoria’s Secret, Frederick’s, that creepy costume warehouse in Topeka—whatever. I’ll find satin in your size. I will FedEx those ears overnight if I have to.”
Later that night he’s still buzzing.
Sprawled on the motel bed in just jeans, one arm behind his head, the other lazily tracing circles on your hip while he stares at the ceiling like he’s seeing god.
“I’ve fought demons. I’ve died. I’ve been to hell. And somehow the hottest thing I’ve ever seen is still you in rabbit ears holding a champagne glass like you own the whole damn planet.”
He rolls over, props himself on an elbow, voice dropping low and filthy:
“You kept that tail, right? Tell me you kept the tail.”
The next morning Sam walks in without knocking (classic Winchester move).
Sees the photos spread across the table like a crime scene board, sees Dean shirtless making coffee with the goofiest smug grin in history, sees you wearing Dean’s flannel and actual satin bunny ears you definitely did not own yesterday.
Sam just… sighs. Long. Suffering.
“I’m gonna need a new therapist. And possibly new eyeballs.”
Dean doesn’t even look sorry. Just winks at you over the rim of his mug and stage-whispers:
“Worth it.”
He absolutely keeps one of the photos. Tucked inside his wallet behind the fake IDs. Sam will never know. But every time Dean opens it to pay for gas, he gets that same dumb, lovesick smirk.
🗒️ 𓈒 . “stop it,” you mumble, shoving munch! dean’s face away from your thighs. recently, you could never get any research done — at least not with dean around.
sitting comfortably on his bed in the bunker, you had hoped to get a little information about a case, but that soon failed the second dean walked in. he was on the bed, tucked between your thighs as he often liked to lay there, but this time? his fingers teased at your clothed pussy under your t shirt. just light little touches at first, tracing the outline of your puffy folds, rubbing tiny circles on your clit. but then he moved his mouth to your thighs, sucking loudly on the skin and inching closer to your core. it was obviously distracting.
“sweetheart,” he groans. “just let me. wanna taste you.” he pleads, already in the process of stretching your panties to the side. “d-dean, i’m trying to do research.” you complain, hoping he wouldn’t make a remark on how wet you were just from a few touches. but of course he notices.
“right, n’ that’s why this pretty pussy’s all soaked for me.” a nasty smirk curls onto his lips, using his other hand to spread your pussy lips wide to look at you. “fuck..” he grunts under his breath, watching the way your cunt tightened around nothing.
another complaint died on your tongue the second his licks a long, flat stripe up your center, drawing a pretty moan from you. “taste so sweet, baby.” his lips suction around your clit, tongue swirling with skill around the pulsating bud. “ohmygod—” the pen slips from your hand, newspaper following as he pushes your thighs further apart and devours you. he always does, moaning into it like he needs it more than you.
he leaves sloppy kisses to you pussy before dipping down and plunging his warm tongue inside your hole. his hot breath fans over the expanse of you, making you twitch. “h-haah.. dean..” you fingers curl into his hair, keeping him there. he laughs lapping up your arousal messily. “keep researchin’, darlin’. thought you had stuff to do?” he grins, not wasting any more time before spitting a glob of saliva onto your clit before watching it drip down to your hole. “god, i love this pretty ass cunt.” he praises, sucking juices out of your tight, fluttering hole.
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