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© thestrangerinurbed ꒱ 2026.

dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: dean accidentally finds your vibrator and decides an official witness interview is the perfect time to test your self-control. good luck pretending to be a professional federal agent.

content warnings: ( 18+ ) mdni. sexual content. vibrator play. public stimulation/overstimulation. mild risk of getting caught. teasing & denial. established relationship. dean being a cocky bastard. no use of yn. pet names.

word count: 3.1k

Dean was practically tearing the small motel room apart, flipping over stained couch cushions, checking under the cracked coffee table, and grumbling under his breath.

"Babe, do you know where Baby's keys are? I can't find them anywhere!" he shouted toward the bathroom, his voice cutting through the sound of the rushing water.

"Check my bag! The black duffel near the closet!" you yelled back, completely forgetting what else was tucked away in the bottom compartment under your spare jeans and blouses.

Minutes later, when you finally stepped out of the bathroom with your skin glistening and your wet hair dripping onto your shoulders, you found Dean lounging across the mattress, propped up on one elbow.

"So, did you find them?" you asked, wiping a stray drop of water from your collarbone.

The words practically choked in your throat. Dean wasn't holding his car keys. Instead, dangling between his thumb and forefinger, was the tiny, unmistakably pink bullet vibrator. He was twirling it by its little cord, a massive, wicked grin spreading across his face.

"Found the keys," Dean chuckled, his green eyes flashing with pure mischief. "But I also found a little bonus. I figured you for a classic black or maybe a fierce red, but pink? Really, sweetheart?"

"Give that back." Your face instantly caught fire, a wave of intense defensiveness taking over. "Why are you digging through my bag anyway? That's a total invasion of privacy, Winchester!"

Dean didn't even look guilty. Instead, he let out a low, rough chuckle and twirled the device by its cord. "If you want it back so badly, you're gonna have to come over here and take it from me." he winked.

That did the trick. You lunged forward, literally climbing into his lap to snatch it back. You were entirely aware—and yet completely disregarding—the fact that you were only wearing a damp towel. Dean, anticipating your move, easily used his size and strength to cage you against his chest, locking one massive arm around your waist while holding the toy high out of your reach.

"Whoa, easy there, tiger," Dean teased, his chest vibrating against your bare front as you squirmed. "I was just looking for the keys, I swear. Didn't know you were hoarding contraband."

Your brief, breathless tussle ended the moment his grip shifted, his free hand cupping the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your damp hair to pull you down into a deep, dizzying kiss. The sheer warmth of his lips instantly melted away all your frantic protests, leaving you sighing into his mouth as your hands came to rest on his broad shoulders.

When he finally pulled back, his breath hitting your lips in short puffs, his smirk had softened into something a little more complex. He looked down at the pink device in his hand, then back up at you, a tiny line forming between his brows.

"What do you even need this for anyway?" Dean asked. His tone was light, but there was a distinct, vulnerable flicker in his eyes that completely gave away his bruised ego. "Am I really slacking off that badly lately? Because I thought last night was pretty damn good."

"What? No, Dean," you softened immediately, your heart melting at how ridiculously insecure he could get over the strangest things. Reaching up, you framed his face with both hands, forcing him to look right into your eyes. "Baby, no. You know it's not like that at all. You're incredible, okay?"

To prove it, you leaned down and kissed him again—sweet, lingering, and reassuring. Dean instantly melted into it, his arm tightening around your waist like a vise.

As you parted, he murmured, still a bit stubborn, "Then why do you have it?"

"It was from before we started dating, you know," you mumbled, your cheeks burning hotter by the second. "It was just... for those long solo hunts when you and Sam were halfway across the country."

Dean’s grin turned insufferably smug as he processed the timeline. "So… you've been thinking about me while using this?"

You swatted his shoulder playfully, hiding your burning face in the crook of his neck. "Oh, shut up."

"No, no, I am flattered. Extremely," he laughed, his deep voice rumbling against your collarbone. His hand slowly began to wander, his large, calloused palm sliding beneath the damp edge of your towel, tracing the sensitive curve of your hip and moving down toward your thigh. He brought his lips back to yours, whispering a downright scandalous proposition against your mouth. "Although… since we're a team now, I think I should test the machinery myself. Make sure it's up to standard."

You rolled your eyes, thinking he was just talking dirty to rile you up. "Haha, very funny."

But when his gaze remained locked on yours, intense, dark, and unwavering, reality set in. He wasn't joking.

"Absolutely not," you said firmly, trying to slide off his lap.

"Absolutely yes."

"Dean, no."

"Why not?" he pouted, his hand gently squeezing your hip to keep you anchored.

"Because we have a serious case to solve tomorrow," you countered, trying to sound convincing as possible. "You'll get distracted."

"Oh, c'mon, sweetheart," Dean purred, his thumb caressing your skin beneath the fabric. "Where's your sense of adventure? We can just keep it on low. A little background music just between us two."

Defying his charm, you gave a firm push against his chest and successfully slid out of his lap, tightly clutching the top of your towel.

"Where are you going now? The fun was just starting," he groaned, throwing himself backward onto the pillows with an exaggeratedly miserable face.

"I'm gonna get dressed, and you're gonna forget you ever saw that thing," you threw over your shoulder, walking toward your duffel.

Even as you pulled your clothes from the bag, Dean tried his luck one more time, propping himself up and giving you his best puppy-dog eyes. "Pretty please? Just a trial run?"

You turned around, shutting him down with one final, utterly definitive, "I said no, Dean."

The next morning, you were sitting in a booth inside a local, dimly lit diner with squeaky vinyl seats, posing as Federal Agents. You and Dean were crammed tightly side-by-side on one side of the table, while Sam and the elderly woman who owned the diner sat directly across from you. A man had been found brutally murdered in the alleyway next door, and you were supposed to be conducting a solemn, professional interview for a hunt.

Then, you felt it. A low, sudden, agonizingly sharp buzz right between your thighs.

Your head snapped toward Dean so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. He didn't even blink. His face was a flawless mask of professional, federal gravity as he stared at Mrs. Gable, but his right hand was buried deep inside his suit jacket pocket. You glared at him, your eyes screaming a desperate, furious not now, but you had no idea how twisted his plan actually was.

"So, Mrs. Gable," you began, swallowing hard and trying to keep your voice steady as you forced yourself to lean forward. "Did you notice any unusual activity outside the back alley around—"

Dean's thumb moved inside his pocket.

"—NIGHTTIME?!" you suddenly shouted, the question bursting out of you in a strained, high-pitched gasp as your hips involuntarily twitched against the sticky vinyl.

Mrs. Gable jumped back in her seat, clutching her pearl necklace. Sam's eyebrows shot straight up to his hairline, his green eyes instantly focusing on you in complete confusion. He didn't say anything, but his face practically screamed, what the hell is wrong with you?

Dean didn't miss a single beat. He leaned forward smoothly, flashing a sympathetic, overwhelmingly charming smile at the elderly woman. "Please forgive my partner, ma'am. She has always been… highly passionate about dead bodies. Hardcore criminologist, you know."

You shot Dean a look that should have incinerated him and his bloodline on the spot. Clenching your jaw so hard your teeth ached, your legs clamped together so tightly they were practically trembling, you squeezed out a strained smile. "Excuse me, yes. I just… I really want justice for the victim. Terribly sorry for the outburst, Mrs. Gable. Please continue."

For the rest of it, you stayed dead silent, terrified of what embarrassing sound might escape your lips if you opened your mouth. Mrs. Gable kept talking about some strange noises and other unexplainable things, but you didn't hear a word. Your eyes kept darting helplessly to Dean's jacket pocket.

Under the table, completely out of Mrs. Gable and Sam's line of sight, you reached over and dug your fingernails right into the upper part of Dean's thigh, dangerously close to his lap. You squeezed his flesh with a vicious, white-knuckled grip, twisting the fabric of his suit pants.

Dean's jaw clenched for a fraction of a second, his knuckles also whitening on the tabletop as he took the pain, but he refused to back down. While Mrs. Gable turned her head to answer a question from Sam, you aggressively and silently mouthed the words, I'm gonna fucking kill you, right at Dean. He just offered a barely perceptible, victorious twitch of his lips and tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table—coordinating with the pulses now wrecking your sanity.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Gable." Sam finally said, sliding his notepad into his breast pocket and sliding out of the booth. Dean stood up immediately after him, smoothing down his jacket with an insufferable air of satisfaction.

You, however, remained frozen on your seat. Your mind was racing, and the heavy vibrations were continuing to hum ruthlessly against your core. You had no idea how you were going to stand up without your knees buckling.

Sam looked down at you, genuinely trying to figure out your bizarre, stiff behavior. "Are you coming?"

Dean looked at your flushed, sweating face and gave you a look that made you want to punch him. "Yeah, Agent. Let's go. You look a little... stuck."

Summoning every single ounce of willpower you possessed, you gripped the edge of the table and forced yourself to your feet. Your knees wobbled instantly, a quiet gasp catching in your throat. Fearing you'd collapse right there, you bypassed Dean entirely, shooting him one last murderous glare, and threw your arm tightly through Sam's, leaning heavily against his side.

Sam blinked, utterly startled by the sudden, intense physical dependency, but he let you lean on him as the three of you nodded to Mrs. Gable and walked out of the diner.

As the glass door of the restaurant swung shut behind you, cutting off the warmth of the diner, Sam slightly bent his tall frame down, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, his brow furrowing with genuine concern.

"Yes! Perfect!" you shot back, the answer bursting out of you way too quickly, your voice hitting a weird, slightly breathless pitch. You frantically nodded your head, forcing a tense, incredibly tight smile that looked more like a grimace, trying so hard to not look back at Dean—who you were sure was watching you with the most annoying smirk on his face.

"Right... okay," Sam mumbled, slow and skeptical, though he still kept essentially anchoring your entire weight as the three of you walked toward the gleaming black Impala.

But when you got within a few feet of the car, Dean, walking just a step or two behind you, casually pressed the button again, flipping it to a chaotic, pulsing setting.

Your body betrayed you instantly. Your fingers tightening into Sam's arm with a sudden, crushing grip as your entire body locked up from a violent shiver. You froze dead in your tracks, your back arching slightly as you fought the overwhelming wave of friction. "Oh my god," you gasped out, your voice completely cracking as you arched your back slightly.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks, turning around with deep, genuine concern etched across his face. "Hey, seriously, what is it? You're definitely not okay."

"I think... I think it's just my stomach—maybe the diner coffee—"

Before you could finish the clumsy lie, Dean cranked the remote to its absolute, unforgiving maximum.

"—DEAN!" you wailed.

The name tore from your throat, but it wasn't an angry shout; it was a breathless, helpless, completely undone whine that vibrated with pure, raw pleasure. Your knees instantly buckled, completely giving out beneath you.

"Whoa! Hey!" Sam quickly caught you securely by the waist before your knees could slam into the pavement.

Completely overwhelmed, your hand flew to Sam's shoulder, gripping his suit jacket violently. Your fingers dug deep into the fabric, clutching him like a lifeline as you buried your face against his chest, panting heavily with your eyes tightly shut.

Dean stepped up beside you both, completely shameless, hands casually tucked into his pockets. He looked down at your trembling form with a slow, wicked grin.

"Damn, sweetheart," Dean chuckled smoothly, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "A little dramatic, don't you think? If you wanted a hug from Sammy, you could have just asked."

Hearing his voice so close, and feeling the relentless hum still torturing you, you let out another pathetic, shaky whine, squeezing Sam's shoulder even harder.

Sam looked down at your flushed face, heard the distinctly un-sick sound you had just made, and then looked up at Dean's insufferable, smug, victorious face. Sam's eyes drifted down to Dean's right hand, which was still subtly twitching inside his jacket pocket.

A look of horrific, sudden realization slowly dawned on Sam's face. His jaw literally dropped as he pieced it all together—the shouting in the diner, the under-the-table warfare, your complete inability to walk, and the fact that you had just screamed Dean's name in a voice that belonged strictly behind closed doors.

Sam closed his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose as a massive wave of pure, unadulterated exhaustion and disgust washed over him.

"You know what?" Sam muttered, his voice dropping into a flat, utterly defeated tone as he let go of you, taking a massive step back as if you were radioactive. "I really, really don't wanna know. Keep me out of it. Keep me a hundred miles away from whatever sick, twisted federal offense you two are committing."

Sam turned on his heel, practically sprinting the last two feet to the passenger side of the Impala. He yanked the door open, slammed it shut behind him, and immediately stared straight ahead out the windshield, refusing to look at either of you.

The moment the car door slammed, the agonizing vibration inside you suddenly died down to a complete, blissful stop.

You slumped against the side of the Impala, drawing in deep, ragged breaths as your racing heart slowly tried to find its rhythm again. Your hair was a bit messy, your chest was heaving, and your thighs were still tingling from the sudden loss of stimulation.

But the relief didn't last long. The second the fog cleared from your brain, pure anger took its place. You looked at Dean, who was standing there looking like the cat that ate the canary.

You snapped and pushed yourself off the car. Lunging two steps forward and bringing your fist down against his chest hard enough to make a dull thud—but not enough to make him take even a single step back.

"You son of a bitch!" you hissed.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, though the amused twitch of his lips told you he wasn't taking your wrath seriously at all. "Hey—whoa, take it easy—"

"Don't tell me to take it easy, Dean," you huffed, though the lethal edge in your voice was already softening into a breathless, exhausted pout. You leaned back against the warm hood of the Impala, crossing your arms tightly over your chest just to keep yourself steady. Your cheeks were still burning a bright crimson. "You are completely out of your mind. Do you have any idea how close I was to completely losing it in front of Mrs. Gable? And Sam! Did you see his face? How deeply traumatized he looked?"

Dean's smirk softened into something a bit warmer, though the heavy, dark heat in his green eyes didn't fade for a second. He closed the small distance between you, stepping right into your personal space. His large body effectively blocked you from the view of the diner's windows—and, more importantly, from Sam's rearview mirror.

"I'm sure Sammy will get over it," Dean murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously low and rough as he leaned in close, his breath brushing against your ear. He reached out, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrists to pull your crossed arms apart. "Besides, you handled that beautifully, agent. Very professional under pressure."

"I was shouting at an elderly woman, Dean," you whispered, a reluctant, tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite your best efforts to look annoyed. You let him pull you a step closer, your hands coming to rest against his lapels. "And I'm pretty sure I bruised your thigh under that table. Which, by the way, you completely deserved."

"Yeah, you've got a vicious grip, baby. I might have a mark tomorrow," he chuckled, his hands sliding up from your wrists to rest firmly on your waist, anchoring you against him. He leaned down, his breath brushing warm against your flushed cheek. "But it was worth it. You were adorable when you were trying so hard to stay quiet."

"I hate you," you breathed, deflating completely against his chest. The last of your fake anger evaporated as you tilted your head up, your eyes locking onto his.

"No, you don't," Dean smiled, his infamous cocky grin returning to his lips.

He didn't give you a chance to reply, leaning down to press a hard, lingering, possessive kiss against your mouth. It was deep enough to make your knees feel a little wobbly all over again, a soft sigh escaping you into the kiss as your fingers tangled into the fabric of his jacket.

When he finally pulled back, his thumb slowly brushed over your wet lower lip, his gaze dark and full of a very specific promise.

"Now let's get back to the motel," Dean whispered, a wicked grin flashing on his face as he tapped his jacket pocket, where the remote was safely tucked away. "We're done with the training wheels. When we get back, I'm taking total control. For real this time."

Your heart skipped a beat, a sudden, thrilling heat shooting straight down to your core. Before you could even process a snappy comeback, Dean gave your ass a playful squeeze, turned around, and opened the driver's side door, sliding into the car with that insufferable, beautiful smile still plastered on his face.

a/n: bro poor sammy 😭 he's so done.

dean's such an asshole in this one, but i honestly love it and hope you did too. pls feel free to share ur opinions with me 🙏

© thestrangerinurbed ꒱ 2026.

soldier boy x fem!reader

summary: a single mistake at vought as an employee leaves you at the mercy of soldier boy.

content warnings: ( 18+ ) mdni. explicit sexual content. extreme degradation & verbal humiliation. absolute domination & submission. mild dumbification/objectification. consensual non-consent. rough dirty talk. rough oral sex (m receiving). face-fucking/deepthroating. hair-pulling & restraint. face-slapping. spit play. forced spit & cum swallowing. size difference & super-soldier physiology. severe power imbalance & psychological domination. primal fear turned sexual arousal. high-risk exhibitionism. severe risk of public humiliation & being caught by other supes. toxic masculinity & discarding/abandonment. forced gratitude & praise. age gap/generational gap. pet names. no use of yn.

word count: 1.5k

The massive doors of The Seven's conference room clicked shut, the ominous thud echoing through the vast, sterile space like a coffin sealing.

Moments ago, the room had been a wolf den. Homelander had been looming over you, his eyes glowing a violent, incandescent red, ready to slice you in half for the media leak. You had been hyperventilating, tears stinging your eyes, paralyzed by the primal terror that always accompanied a displeased supe.

But then, Soldier Boy had stepped in. He didn't do it out of kindness; he did it out of pure, unadulterated dominance. "Sit your ass down, boy," he had growled, blowing cigar smoke directly into his son's face. "You're throwin' a fucking tantrum over a little leak. Leave us. I'll handle this one myself." Even Homelander, desperate for his father's approval, couldn't withstand that suffocating energy. He had backed down, storming out with the rest of the team.

Now, you were alone with him.

The fear inside you was a living thing, making your knees tremble, but beneath that terror was a sickening, intoxicating heat. You had wanted him since the day he arrived at Vought. You wanted the casual, dirty ways he stared at you in the hallways. You wanted the danger.

Soldier Boy didn't say a word at first. He walked calmly over to the head of the massive conference table, pulling out his heavy leather chair. He sat down, spreading his legs wide, completely unbothered. His tactical suit remained entirely intact—the dark green, bulletproof material, the heavy chest plate, the leather straps. He looked like an untouchable god, completely armored, while you felt entirely stripped bare.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in your chest.

You walked over, your heart hammering against your ribs, stopping right between his spread thighs. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and pleading. "Sir... I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Slap.

The strike wasn't enough to break your jaw, but the sheer force of his heavy hand against your cheek snapped your head to the side. The sting was immediate, blinding, leaving a bright red mark on your skin. A gasp left your lips, your vision swimming with tears.

"Did I tell you to speak, sweetheart?" Ben murmured, his face a mask of cold, ruthless amusement. He reached out, his leather-gloved hand fisting into your hair with brutal force, yanking your head back so hard your spine arched. "Look at you. Shakin' like a fucking leaf. You thought that psycho asshole was gonna melt your pretty little face off, didn't you?"

"Y-yes, Sir," you whimpered, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch him without permission.

"You're lucky you're a pretty thing," he growled, his grip tightening on your scalp, forcing you to look into his cruel, dark eyes. "Because if you weren't so damn easy on the eyes, I would've let him do it. I wouldn't have given a single fuck about you. But I hate seein' a good piece of ass go to waste. So, you can consider this your official punishment."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink into your panicked mind. His gaze slowly dragged down from your tear-filled eyes, lingering on your trembling lips before tracking all the way down your body. A dark, sadistic smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he realized just how much power he held over you.

"On your knees. Now," he ordered roughly, shoving your face down.

Trembling, you dropped to your knees immediately, the cold floor biting into your skin. You remained there, hovering helplessly between his massive thighs, your eyes fixed entirely on his dark and lustful ones.

He leaned back in his chair, his heavy hand moving to your face. His thick fingers clamped hard around your jawline, squeezing until your mouth parted in a silent gasp. Without an ounce of gentleness, he shoved two thick, rough fingers deep into your mouth, stretching your lips apart and swirling them over your tongue. He coated his fingers in your saliva, asserting absolute dominance, making you realize just how small and helpless you were compared to him.

He pulled his wet fingers out, wiping them carelessly on your cheek before tapping his fly with a ruthless, impatient smirk.

"Don't just fucking stare at me like a scared little puppy, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic rumble that made your thoughts scatter. "Let me see how truly sorry you are before I change my mind and let Homelander have his way with you."

You swallowed hard. You knew what this meant. And you were scared to death, but the deep, throbbing heat between your legs made it impossible to know if you actually wanted it to stop.

You lowered your eyes from his face down to his lap. Your hands shook violently as you slowly reached for the zipper of his tactical suit. Pulling it down, your breath caught completely in your throat. Even flaccid, his size was intimidating, but as he hardened in your hands after a few seconds, his length became absolutely monstrous—thick, heavy, and completely unforgiving. The sheer scale of him made your stomach twist with a fresh spike of fear, knowing your mouth was never meant to accommodate something so huge.

But looking back at his eyes and his dark, expectant smirk, you knew you had no choice. You parted your wet lips, trembling, and leaned forward to take him in.

The moment your lips wrapped around the swollen head of his cock, Ben showed absolutely no mercy. This wasn't a gentle encounter; it was a punishment designed entirely for his own pleasure. He gripped your hair like a leash, his knuckles white, and began to shove his hips forward, forcing his massive size down your throat. You choked, your hands instinctively reaching out for support. Your fingers desperately gripped his thick, muscular calves, holding onto his suit for dear life as he used your mouth with a heavy, relentless rhythm.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Every thrust was a brutal reminder of his strength. Tears streamed down your burning cheeks, ruining your makeup along with whatever dignity you had left in the very room where Vought's elite decided the fate of the world.

"Yeah, take it, you greedy little slut," Ben taunted, his voice dripping with shameless degradation. He delivered another sharp, humiliating slap to your unmarred cheek, making you whimper around his length. "Look at you, gagging on a real man's cock right where the whole team sat five minutes ago. You did this on purpose, didn't you? You fucked up that file just so I'd trap you in here and put you in your place."

He pulled out abruptly, making you gasp for air. Your chest heaved, saliva dripping from your chin, your vision blurred as you desperately tried to catch your breath.

Before you could inhale a full lungful of air, Ben fisted your hair again, yanking your face up. "Open up," he commanded darkly.

As you opened your mouth to gasp, he leaned over and spat directly into your mouth, the thick saliva landing right on your tongue.

"Swallow it," he growled, staring down at your ruined, messy face with a sadistic, satisfied smirk. "You're nothing but a pretty little dumpster for me today, and you're gonna take every single fucking thing I give you."

Driven entirely by fear and an overwhelming, pathetic need to please him, you swallowed, whimpering against his hand.

But there was no reprieve. Before you could even wipe your chin, his fingers tightened in your hair once more, mercilessly shoving his cock back down your throat. The rough, punishing rhythm resumed immediately, just as harsh and unyielding as before. You were entirely undone, trapped between his heavy legs, holding onto his calves as he ruthlessly claimed your mouth for long, agonizing minutes.

When he finally reached his limit long minutes after, Ben didn't pull out. He shoved himself deep, holding your head pinned securely against his lap as he came, filling your mouth completely with his heavy, warm release. You choked under the sudden volume, your eyes wide with tears as he forced you to take every last drop.

"Swallow it all, sweetheart. Every single bit," he commanded, his thumb rubbing roughly against your cheek, where he had slapped. "Don't let a drop spill."

With a desperate, aching gulp, you forced it down, your throat burning.

Ben stared down at you, a dark, amused smile playing on his lips. He didn't let go of your hair just yet. "Now, what do you say to a man who just saved your useless little life?"

"T-thank you, Sir," you sobbed softly, completely broken and humiliated at his feet. "Thank you..."

"Good girl. See? You can learn to be obedient when you actually try," he chuckled, finally letting go of your hair. He casually tucked himself back into his suit, zipping it up and straightening his gear without offering you a second glance.

He stood up, towering over you as you collapsed slightly on the floor, weak, messy, and entirely ruined. "You took your punishment like you deserved. Now crawl back to your little office and try not to fuck up again."

And with that—without a word of comfort or a hand to help you up—Soldier Boy simply turned on his heel. He opened the heavy conference room doors, stepping out into the hallway and leaving you abandoned on the cold floor.

a/n: i honestly don't think i'm normal after writing this 🥀 the nastiest shit i've ever written and it's literally my third post.

pls feel free to tell me if u enjoyed it, it'd give me a little peace of mind that i'm not a complete freak. requests are always open!

© thestrangerinurbed ꒱ 2026.

dean winchester x fem!reader

summary: fresh out of hell, dean is fighting to keep his armor intact for sam's sake. but tonight, with sam away to guard a witness, dean is left alone with the only person who truly sees through his mask; you.

content warnings: ( 18+ ) mdni. canon-typical violence & trauma mentions. ptsd. depictions of intense nightmares, emotional exhaustion, breakdown, and silent panic/crying. vulnerability & emotional distress. heavy hurt/comfort themes. established relationship. explicit sexual content. unprotected p in v. fingering. sensory/intimacy themes. heavy focus on body warmth, prolonged eye contact, and crying during/before intimacy. this is more weighted toward emotional hurt/comfort; the explicit content is brief. no use of yn. pet names.

word count: 3.2k

The heavy, suffocating scent of cheap whiskey and old diner grease clung to the walls of the motel room. Outside, the neon vacancy sign flickered, casting rhythmic, sickly green shadows across the cracked linoleum floor.

You slipped quietly through the door, the cool night air of the breezeway still clinging to your skin. You had stepped out for less than ten minutes—just long enough to take a whispered, reassuring phone call from Sam, who was holding down the fort on a protective detail cross-town. You had purposefully stepped outside so the low rumble of your voice wouldn't disturb Dean.

Dean needed sleep. He needed it more than anyone on God's green earth, even though he would never admit it. Ever since he'd come back—ever since the dirt had been scraped from his fingernails and the phantom smoke of Hell had settled into his lungs—he had been a ghost haunting his own body. He was trying so hard to be Dean again for Sam. The brash, unbreakable older brother.

But you knew better.

The moment you closed the motel door behind you, the click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. Your eyes immediately darted to the bed.

Dean was awake.

He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his broad shoulders hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees. He was drenched in sweat, his gray t-shirt clinging damply to his back, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. The sheets were tangled violently around his legs, a testament to the war he'd just been fighting in his sleep.

"Dean?" you whispered, your heart squeezing painfully in your chest.

At the sound of your voice, he flinched, his entire body tensing up. He didn't look at you. Instead, he quickly wiped a rough hand across his face, scrubbing away the cold sweat, trying frantically to piece his armor back together in a matter of seconds.

"I'm good," he muttered, his voice incredibly rough, scraped raw from a silent scream he’d likely choked down. He cleared his throat, trying to force his usual casual cadence, but it fell completely flat. "Just... checked the perimeter in my head."

He still wouldn't look at you. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticked.

You didn't say a word. You didn't point out that he was shaking. You just crossed the room, the floorboards groaning softly under your weight, and sat down on the mattress right beside him. You got as close as you could, feeling the radiating, feverish heat coming off his skin.

"Dean, look at me," you murmured softly.

"I'm fine, sweetheart. Seriously. Go back to sleep," he lied, his voice cracking slightly on the pet name. He made a move to stand up, to pace, to escape, to do anything but exist in this moment of vulnerability.

You didn't let him. Before he could pull away, you reached up and caught his face in both of your hands.

Your palms were cool against his burning cheeks. Your thumbs gently rested just below his cheekbones, forcing him to stay still. You didn't force his head up violently; it was a soft, unyielding cradle.

The moment your skin touched his, a sharp, ragged breath hitched in Dean's throat. The armor didn't just crack—it shattered. The absolute, terrifying weight of forty years in the pit, combined with the agonizing exhaustion of pretending he was okay, came crashing down on him all at once.

His oustretched, tense shoulders instantly slumped. He didn't look into your eyes—he couldn't bear to, too ashamed of the weakness he thought he was showing—but he stopped trying to pull away. Instead, his eyes closed tight, a heavy sheen of tears instantly catching on his beautiful eyelashes. His chin trembled against your palms. He looked so incredibly young, and so profoundly broken, that it felt like a physical blow to your chest.

"I've got you," you whispered, your voice thick with an emotion you didn't try to hide. "I've got you, Dean."

Moving slowly, you shifted back against the squeaking mattress, pulling your legs up and leaning your back securely against the wooden headboard. You didn't break contact. As you settled, you gently guided him with you.

Dean let you do it. The man who fought monsters, the man who carried the weight of the world on his back, surrendered completely. He let himself slide sideways, his heavy frame collapsing against you, burying his face directly into the crook of your neck and his forehead pressed into your chest.

You wrapped your arms around him instantly, pulling him against you as tightly as you could, trying with your own body to hold the broken pieces of him together. One of your hands tangled into the short, damp hairs at the back of his neck, your fingers gently massaging his scalp, while your other arm locked around his waist, anchoring him to the present. To reality. To safety.

A choked, gut-wrenching sound escaped his throat—a muffled, wet sob that he tried to bury into your skin. His large hands came up, gripping the fabric of your shirt so tightly his knuckles turned white, holding onto you like a drowning man clutching a liferaft in the middle of a storm.

"Shh, it's okay. You're here. You're safe," you murmured into his hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of his head. You felt the dampness of his tears soaking through your shirt, warming your skin, and you just held him tighter. "I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere. Just breathe."

Dean trembled violently in your arms, his chest shaking against yours as he took in ragged, desperate gulps of air, finally letting the misery wash over him because he knew that you were strong enough to hold him through it—only you.

The violent trembling in Dean's chest gradually began to subside, slowing down to a heavy, exhausted shudder. He remained tucked against you, his face still buried in your neck, his breathing shallow but deep. The raw, gut-wrenching grief was shifting, leaving behind a quiet, heavy stillness in the room—a space where the air felt thick with everything he couldn't put into words.

Slowly, you shifted your weight just enough to press your back firmer against the headboard, your hand never stopping its soothing rhythm through his hair.

"Dean," you breathed against his temple, your voice a soft, velvet caress in the dark. "Look at me, sweetheart."

He let out a shaky, vulnerable sigh, his grip on your shirt loosening just a fraction as he slowly lifted his head. When his green eyes finally met yours, it nearly broke your heart all over again. They were red-rimmed, glassy, and filled with a raw, stripping honesty he never allowed anyone else to see. He looked utterly undone.

You didn't give him the chance to feel ashamed.

Leaning forward, you tilted your head and gently pressed your lips to his forehead, holding the kiss there for a long, quiet second. Dean's eyelashes fluttered shut, a soft puff of air escaping his lips. From his forehead, you slid your lips down, pressing a tender kiss to the bridge of his nose, and then to his burning cheek.

When you leaned in to kiss the damp track of a tear still lingering on his cheekbone, a low, ragged sound caught in his throat. You kissed the other side, tasting the salt on your lips, mapping the rugged lines of his face with the softest touch you could muster. You kissed his jawline, the corner of his eye, and the space right between his eyebrows where he always frowned.

With every single touch of your lips, you were whispering a silent promise: I love you. You're here. You're whole. You're safe.

Dean's hands shifted from gripping your shirt to resting flat against your ribcage, his large palms warm through the fabric. Your lips brushed against the corner of his mouth, teasing the edge of his lips, and a desperate, needy shudder ran through his entire frame.

"Please," he whispered, the word so quiet, so raw, it was barely a breath against your skin. He didn't say what he was begging for, but you knew. He needed to feel alive. He needed to drown out the echoes of the dark with the overwhelming warmth of your body.

"I've got you, baby," you murmured against his lips, and then, you finally closed the distance.

The kiss wasn't frantic or rushed; it was deep, heavy, and filled with a devastating tenderness. Dean groaned, his hands sliding up your sides to cup the back of your neck, his thumbs pressing into your jawline as he pulled you closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. His tongue slid against yours with a slow, deliberate heat, tasting like salt and the faint bitterness of whiskey, but mostly just tasting like him.

It was a slow-burning fire. He kissed you as if he were memorizing the exact texture of your lips, his movements heavy and thick with an ache that went straight to his bones.

He slowly shifted his weight, moving over you until he was hovering between your thighs. The heavy, comforting weight of his body pressed you down into the mattress, anchoring you beneath him. He didn't break the kiss, his lips sliding from yours to trace a burning path down your jaw, his stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin before he buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. His breath hot and ragged against your collarbone.

"You're so good to me," he mumbled into your skin, his voice thick, his hands trembling slightly as they slid down to find the hem of your shirt. "Too good."

"I love you," you whispered, archiving your fingers back into his hair, pulling him down to meet your lips once more as his hands slipped under your shirt, his warm palms making direct contact with your bare skin.

"I love you, too." he whispered back. And he really did. With everything he had.

Slowly, reverently, he reached out to undo the button of your jeans. His fingers brushed against your bare stomach, and a soft, needy shudder ran through his entire frame. There was no rush. Every touch was an unspoken plea, a quiet prayer to drown out the screams that still echoed in his mind. He stripped you of your clothes with a desperate kind of gentleness, his eyes never leaving yours for more than a second, ensuring you were right there with him.

"I need you," he breathed, the admission raw and heavy between you.

"I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere," you whispered back, helping him slide the shirt over your head and tossing it blindly to the floor.

When it was your turn to undress him, you pulled the damp fabric of his t-shirt over his head, returning to his lips the very second it was gone, before trailing your kisses down to his broad shoulders. Your fingers traced the heavy, jagged scar etched into his left bicep—reminder of what he had survived. You leaned down to press a warm, lingering kiss directly into the mark of his pain, before slowly guiding your lips inward across his chest, kissing every inch of bare skin. Dean let out a long, ragged exhale, his head tilting back against the pillow as your hands slipped his pants down his muscular legs.

Now completely bare against each other, the heat between you was overwhelming. Dean slid back over you, the heavy, comforting weight of his body pressing you down into the mattress. The feeling of his bare skin against yours made him groan, a deep, vibrations-in-his-chest sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He was desperate to sink into you, to escape the darkness chasing him, but he was also so vulnerable, so terrifyingly afraid of hurting you or rushing you. He needed this to be right. He needed to feel every single second.

"Sweetheart..." he breathed against your lips, his voice incredibly rough and uneven.

His large, calloused hand slid slowly down your stomach, trailing a path of fire before dipping between your thighs. You trembled when his rough fingers brushed against your inner thigh. Dean didn't rush. He used his knees to gently nudge your legs further apart, creating space for himself, before settling his hand right against your center.

You were already completely soft and aching for him, slick with a heavy, sweet heat born from the sheer emotion and tenderness of the moment. The moment his fingers made contact with your wetness, a shaky, breathless gasp escaped your lips. Dean let out a low, ragged groan at the feel of it, his fingers slowly working to spread your own slick warmth all over you, coating your sensitive skin.

His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, a look of pure, aching relief washing over his face, as if he were touching something sacred, something clean enough to wash away the dirt of Hell. Two of his fingers slid slowly inside you, testing your readiness, finding you completely drenched and tight. He stroked you from the inside out, his thumb rhythmically pressing against your clit, sending a devastating wave of pleasure straight to your core.

You arched your hips up against his hand, your fingers tangling into his short hair as a soft whimpering sound left your throat. The wet, slick sound of his fingers sliding in and out of you filled the quiet space of the room, a deeply intimate rhythm that made Dean's breath hitch.

"You're so wet for me, baby," he muttered, his voice entirely wrecked as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin. "So warm... Fuck, I need to lose myself in you. Please."

You could feel how completely ready he was too, his heavy length pulsing against your thigh, demanding the release only you could give him. The friction of your bodies, the sweat, and the heavy lubrication of your desire had made everything completely ready for him.

With a quick nod of your head, Dean slowly withdrew his fingers. his hand glistened with your shared slickness as his free hand immediately moved to lock his fingers with yours, pinning your hand to the pillow beside your head. He hovered right at your entrance, his pre-cum slipping against your wetness, creating a seamless, agonizingly hot friction before the storm.

He opened his eyes, staring down at you with a gaze so fiercely loving and desperate it made your throat tight.

He didn't just rush into you. He hovered at your entrance, his breathing hitching as he felt your warmth. He pressed his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours, keeping the intimacy so close it was almost suffocating.

"Right here," you whispered, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist, grounding him to the earth.

And with that, he gave one slow, heavy, devastating push, sinking into you.

You waited a few seconds before finally opening your eyes, meeting his intense, blown-out gaze. He slipped a hand beneath your hips, tilting you up slightly, while his other hand that was still tangled with yours tightened firmly.

A choked, breathless sound escaped Dean's lips, his eyes shutting tight for a brief second before he forced them open again to look at you. The sheer intensity of the connection was overwhelming. He didn't move right away; he just stayed buried inside you, letting the tight, burning warmth of your body consume him, swallowing up the cold, empty void that had been plaguing him since his return.

When he finally began to move, it was with a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm. Every thrust was deliberate, a heavy, friction-filled slide of skin against skin that made you both gasp for air. It wasn't fast, and it wasn't wild—it was a deep, consuming melt.

"You're so beautiful," Dean panted, his hips rolling into yours with a devastating, heavy pressure. He leaned down, pressing his lips to your jaw, his breath scorching hot. "And so real."

"I am," you cried out softly, your hands gripping his broad, sweating back, your fingernails digging slightly into his shoulders to anchor him. "Feel me, Dean."

He picked up the pace only slightly, his movements remaining thick and heavy, each stroke designed to maximize the friction, to make him feel everything. He was drowning in you, losing himself in the tight, wet heat of your body, using the pleasure to completely silence the deafening noise in his head. In this room, in this bed, there was no Hell, no demons, and no burdens. There was only you.

You rocked your hips up to meet him, matching his agonizingly beautiful rhythm. Every time your bodies clashed, a soft, broken whimper left your lips, and Dean would catch it with his mouth, drinking in your sounds like a man dying of thirst. He kept his eyes locked on yours through the darkness, needing to see the pleasure on your face, needing the absolute certainty that he was holding you and that you were holding him back.

The tension in the room began to coil tighter, the air thick with the scent of sex and the sound of heavy, breathless gasps. Dean's movements became a little more desperate, his thrusts hitting a deeper, sweeter spot that made your toes curl and your vision blur.

"Dean—" you gasped, your fingers tightening convulsively in his short hair.

"I know, baby. I know," he groaned, his voice completely wrecked. He slicked his hand down your sweat-sheened side, gripping your hip to guide you, driving into you with a final, slow, shattering depth.

The climax hit you first, a wave of intense, full-body heat that made your walls ripple tightly around him. Watching your face fracture with pleasure was the final thread for Dean. He let out a low, guttural cry, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he delivered a few more heavy, deeply embedded thrusts, filling you completely as his own release tore through him.

He didn't pull away when it was over. He stayed deeply inside you, his heavy chest heaving against yours, his heart hammering violently against your ribs. Slow, trembling breaths fanned against your neck as the aftershocks rippled through both of you. The voices in his head were finally gone, replaced entirely by the quiet, comforting reality of your heartbeat.

Slowly, reluctantly, Dean shifted to lie beside you, but he didn't let you go for even a second. He pulled your bare body flush against his chest, wrapping his heavy arm around your waist and pulling the tangled sheets up over both of you to shield you from the cool air.

You rested your head on his shoulder, your fingers tracing the frantic beat of his heart until it finally slowed to a steady, calm rhythm. He pressed his lips into your hair, inhaling deeply, his knuckles locking tightly with yours under the blankets.

"Thank you," he mumbled into your hair, his voice thick with sleep and an unspoken devotion.

You tightened your hold on him, your bodies still warm against each other as you slowly whispered, "It's alright. You can go back to sleep now."

a/n: this was born purely from the deep desire down in my heart to hold dean tightly in my arms, cover his face in kisses, and wipe away every single one of his tears. ughh he's just my babygirl i love him sm.

and let's just ignore the fact that i cried while writing ts.

© thestrangerinurbed ꒱ 2026

soldier boy x fem!reader

summary: during the chaos of herogasm, you are forced to distract a triggered soldier boy and hold him off until homelander arrives.

content warnings: ( 18+ ) mdni. explicit sexual content. no use of yn. ptsd mention. dubious consent (seduction for a mission/ulterior motive). unprotected p in v. rough sex. dirty talk. overstimulation. orgasm denial/edging. oral sex (both receiving). praise/degradation kink. pet names. size difference & super-soldier physiology. age gap/generational gap. property damage (tearing of clothing).

word count: 3.4k

The air in the Vermont mansion was thick with the scent of cheap champagne, expensive lube, and the copper tang of blood. Outside the heavy oak door of the bedroom, the chaos of Herogasm was reaching a fever pitch, but inside, the silence was much more dangerous.

Soldier Boy was standing by the window, his back to you. His frame was massive, shoulders blocking out the moonlight. But it was the hum that terrified you. A low, rhythmic thrumming was vibrating through the floorboards, emanating directly from his chest. His fist was clenched so hard the wood of his shield creaked under the pressure.

"Hey," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your training. "You need to breathe. Butcher and the others… they're still clearing the floor. You can't let it go yet."

He turned slowly. His eyes weren't just blue anymore; they were glowing with a volatile, golden radiation. The PTSD was hitting him like a freight train.

"I don't take orders from you, sweetheart," he growled, his voice a gravelly rasp. "And I sure as hell don't 'breathe' my way out of a fight."

You felt the need to check your comms after hearing that.

"Y'need to get him under control, luv," Butcher's voice crackled in your ear like you expected. "He blows now, and we lose our shot at Homelander. Cunt's not 'ere yet."

Soldier Boy's interest was still not on you. So you turned your back to him and quickly whispered, "I'm sorry but how the hell am I supposed to 'get him under control'?"

"Just find a way to distract him, will ya?" he said it like it was the easiest fucking thing to do.

Well, figures you don't have any other choice than to try to distract him for a while—who knows for how long—So, you nodded your head even though Butcher couldn't see it. You were sure that he already knew that you would find a way, like you always did.

You looked at the man in front of you. He looked like a god on the verge of a tantrum. Normal tactics wouldn't work. You had to give that pent-up energy somewhere else to go. You had to ground him.

For God's sake—yeah, you definitely didn't want the boys to hear the next words that were about to come out of your mouth. So, you sighed and decided it would be the best to turn your comms off.

"You're right," you said, slowly but surely stepping into his space, heart hammering against your ribs. "You don't take orders. You've been complaining about how soft this century is, haven't you?" You reached out, your fingers grazing the cold tactical gear over his chest. "I was just wondering if… if you could show me exactly how they did it in the '40s?"

The humming stopped instantly. Soldier Boy's eyes narrowed, the golden glow flickering but staying dim. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face—the look of a predator who just found a much more interesting prey.

"Is that right?" He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. He smelled like tobacco, old leather, and pure power. "You think you can handle a man like me? Or are you just tryin' to be a hero, little girl?"

"I'm not trying to be a hero," you breathed, sliding your hands up to his neck, feeling the immense heat radiating from his skin. "I'm just trying to be yours. I can't get it out of my mind… Since the first moment I saw you alive with my own eyes."

Well, that wasn't completely a lie. He was an asshole, for sure. But he was an extremely good-looking asshole. And the thought of how it would feel to have him inside you—as just a normal human—might have crossed your mind once or twice.

In a blurred movement, his hand went to your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to claim—and slammed you back against the wall.

"You dirty little girl," he rumbled, leaning down so his lips brushed against your ear. His breath was hot. "And here I was thinkin' you kept givin' me all those glares because you fuckin' hated all Supes. But you were just eye-fucking me with dirty images flashin' in your mind, weren't you?"

He didn't wait for an answer—for any other thing. His mouth crashed onto yours, tasting of bourbon and suppressed rage. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a conquest. He bit your lower lip until you gasped, using the opening to deepen the kiss, his tongue marking his territory with a ruthless hunger.

His free hand moved to your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with bruising force as he hoisted you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard line of him pressing against you.

"That's it," he muttered against your skin as he moved his lips to the junction of your neck and shoulder. "Cling to me. I want to feel how much you're shaking."

He threw you onto the massive bed after a few minutes of kissing and biting you there, not bothering with any grace. And before you could even catch your breath, he was over you, his heavy weight pinning you into the mattress. He began stripping his gear with efficient, practiced movements, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I'm gonna teach you a lesson about playin' with fire," he said, his voice dropping an octave, pure silk and gravel. "By the time I'm done with you, you won't be able to stand, let alone worry about Butcher or any of that stuff you're always worryin' about."

As he moved between your thighs, his large, calloused hands guided yours above your head, pinning your wrists against the headboard with a single hand.

"What? Scared?" he rumbled, that crooked smirk back on his face as he dropped the last of his clothes, standing before you only in his black boxers.

You shook your head, with your eyes roaming over between his now bare chest and his face.

"Didn't quite catch that, darling?" he said teasingly.

"No," you replied, trying to sound confident. "I'm not scared."

The smirk on his face sharpened, turning into something predatory and primal. He liked the defiance, even if it was wrapped in a trembling voice. He leaned down, his chest brushing against your breasts, the heat coming off him feeling like a literal furnace.

"Good," he growled, the vibration of his voice rattling your bones. "Because I don't like it when they break too easy."

His free hand didn't go for your buttons or zippers. He wasn't in the mood for the patience of this 'soft' century. He gripped the fabric of your shirt and yanked, the sound of tearing material filling the room as he exposed you to the cool air and his scorching gaze, making you gasp in shock. He didn't wait before unclasping your bra and throwing it on the floor carelessly, alongside with your ruined shirt.

You didn't even have time to protest when his hands reached the waistband of your pants. He stripped them down with a violent efficiency, leaving you in nothing but your lace underwear.

He paused then, his eyes dark and heavy as they traveled over your body. "Will you look at that," he muttered, his thumb tracing the line of your hip, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. "I've been in a cage for decades, sweetheart. Y'have no idea how much trouble you're in right now."

His hand slid lower, hooking into the delicate fabric of your panties. With a single, brutal tug, the lace gave way, the sound of it snapping loud in the quiet room. He tossed the scrap of fabric aside like it was nothing, leaving you completely exposed under his shadow.

"Jesus—" you opened your mouth this time. "Can you stop tearing up my clothes?"

He almost laughed. "Well, there's nothin' left to tear up now." You wanted to roll your eyes, wanted to be annoyed by him—but you couldn't even do that.

"You wanted the '40s?" he whispered, his hand sliding between your thighs, forcing them wider. "Back in my day, we didn't waste time asking for permission when a girl was lookin' at us the way you look at me."

Before you could even draw a breath to respond, he disappeared beneath the hem of your vision. He gripped your thighs with hands that could crush steel, pinning your legs back until you were completely open to him.

When his tongue first made contact, you let out a sharp, broken cry, your hips bucking off the mattress. He was ruthless. He didn't ease into it; he used his tongue with the same aggressive authority he used his shield. He swiped across your center with long, firm strokes, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin, adding a delicious, stinging friction to the heat.

"You like that, don't you, little hero?" He muttered against your slick skin, his voice muffled but dripping with amusement. And then—he decided to add a finger, and it wasn't long before the second one came along.

He was brutal but efficient. His tongue wasn't gentle; it was firm and rhythmic, lapping and sucking at you with predatory hunger. His fingers, those same hands that had crushed skulls, were now dipping into your heat, sliding deep inside you, testing how wet you were, stretching you, while his mouth continued its merciless assault on your clit.

You were shaking, your mind dissolving into white heat. You couldn't think about the mission, about Homelander, about anything but the massive man between your legs and the pleasure he was wringing out of you. You clamped your thighs around his shoulders, your breath coming in short, needy pants.

"Yeah, scream for me," he rumbled against your wetness, the sound muffled but vibrating through your entire nervous system. "Let the whole damn house hear you. Let Butcher know exactly what's keeping you so busy."

He reached up, grabbing your wrists again, pinning them back so you couldn't do anything but endure the pleasure. He sucked at you with a rhythmic, bruising hunger, his fingers digging into your glutes to hold you steady.

"You're so fucking wet," he growled, pulling back for a fraction of a second to look up at you, his face glistening, his eyes hooded and dark. "Did you get this way just thinkin' about me? Thinkin' about how a real man would handle you?"

He didn't wait for an answer, diving back in, his pace quickening. He was relentless, driving you toward the edge with a focused intensity that made the golden glow in his chest flicker again—not with rage this time, but with a raw, sexual heat. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your head tossing back against the pillows as the first waves of the climax began to roll through you.

"That's it, doll," he growled, pulling back just enough to look up at you, his beard wet with your juices. His expression was primal, utterly dominant. "Come for me. Come like the dirty little girl you are."

He resumed his pace, faster now. His tongue was relentless, his fingers buried inside you. You couldn't hold on. Your head fell back, a loud, broken cry escaping you as your body clenched, riding the waves of an orgasm so intense you felt your consciousness flicker. He didn't stop, even when you were coming, his tongue continuing to lap at you until the last shudders faded.

You were dazed, your body humming with aftershocks, but you knew what you had to do next. You didn't wait any longer before scrambling onto your knees, looking at him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your mouths together again. Slowly lowering him back against the pillows with the company of open-mouthed kisses. He was already semi-hard, thick and intimidating.

You leaned over him without a word, feeling small against his bulk. You wrapped your hand around his length, his skin hot and smooth. You lowered your head, your tongue running up his shaft, testing the waters. A low rumble of approval came from his chest.

You took him into your mouth without wasting any more time. He was thick, and you struggled to take him all in, your jaw aching as you worked. But he wasn't a man of patient; one of his hands came down and wrapped around your hair, his grip firm as he guided your movements. He thrust his hips slightly, forcing you deeper, testing your limits.

"Yeah, you like that," he dirty-talked, his voice choked. "Take it, all of it. Good little slut."

You worked him, sucking and lapping, using the lubrication he'd provided to pleasure him. His rumbles of approval turned into choked groans. But then, he pulled your head back, looking down at you with a mix of hunger and possessiveness.

In one swift, powerful motion, he flipped you, throwing you onto your back. He crawled over you again, his weight immense, his eyes locking onto yours with terrifying intensity. He gripped your thighs, spreading you so wide you thought your hips might snap, and settled between them.

He didn't have a condom. He didn't ask. Soldier Boy didn't need to ask for permission. He lined himself up against your wet entrance, his tip probing.

"I'm gonna fill you so full you won't remember your own name," he growled, his voice a promise of complete domination.

He didn't ease into you. He thrust, hard and fast, burying his entire length inside you in a single, brutal motion. A sharp gasp and a loud curse tore from you, but he didn't slow down. Instead, he started moving; his movements rough and powerful, each thrust hitting you with the force of a battering ram.

He was huge, stretching you completely, filling you so deeply you felt him hit your cervix. But it was the heat that was the most intense—the radiation was humming just beneath his skin, making every inch of him feel electric, dangerous, and incredibly pleasurable.

"You're so tight," he hissed against your ear, his breath hot and fast. "Too damn bad that I'm gonna ruin you for anyone else, doll."

His hands were all over you—digging into your hips, pinning your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing your nipples as he pounded into you. He was relentless, his pace maddening. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into his back, matching his raw energy with a desperation you didn't know you possessed.

"Soldier Boy," you gasped, your voice broken.

"Say my name," he growled, biting your neck, marking you. "Say it."

"Ben," you choked out, your body tightening again. "Ben, please."

He didn't slow down. The humming in his chest was getting louder, a low rumble of power that vibrated through your entire body. He was close, and so were you.

"Please what?" he rasped, his voice ragged. "Use your words, sweetheart."

"Please... don't stop, Ben. Harder," you sobbed out, any shred of your remaining composure completely shattering under his weight.

Hearing his real name on your lips combined with that desperate plea did something to him. The crooked, arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated dominance. The golden hum in his chest flared, a sudden surge of heat radiating through his skin that made your vision blur with pleasure.

"You asked for it, doll," he growled, his voice dropping into a gravelly register that vibrated right through your skull.

He didn't just pick up the pace; he turned—even more—brutal. He reached down and grabbed your knees, forcing them all the way up toward your shoulders, pinning you into a position that left you completely, helplessly open to him.

Then, he began to drive into you with terrifying power. Every single thrust was a calculated assault, his heavy hips slamming against yours with a loud, fleshy rhythm that echoed over the distant sounds of the chaos outside.

"Look at you," he rasped, leaning down so his sweating chest dragged against your sensitive nipples. "Takin' all of it. Built just right for a real man."

You couldn't even form words anymore. Your hands clutched wildly at his back, nails digging into his skin as you rode the line between agony and absolute ecstasy. He was stretching you to your absolute limits, hitting your cervix with a relentless, bruising force that made your entire lower abdomen clench in desperate waves.

"Ben—oh God, I-I'm gonna—"

"Not yet," he ordered, his fingers digging into your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his eyes. "You hear me, doll?"

When you didn't—couldn't—answer, his free hand came down to your clit without mercy, making you cry out in both pain and pleasure.

"Answer me," he demanded.

"Yes—yes! I hear you! Please…" you cried out, your voice breaking as his thumb applied a ruthless, grinding pressure to your swollen clit.

The dual assault of his thick length punishing you from the inside and his calloused fingers overstimulating you on the outside was pure torture, a devastating blend of pleasure that had your mind completely short-circuiting.

"Good girl," he growled, a dark, satisfied grin cutting through the intense focus on his face.

He didn't ease up on his fingers, using his thumb to circle and pinch your hyper-sensitive core while his hips resumed their heavy, battering rhythm.

"Look at me," he commanded, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough to keep your tear-filled eyes locked onto his gaze. "Look at who you belong to right now."

Your nails dug deeper into the heavy muscle of his shoulders, your back arching off the mattress as you tried to either push him deeper or pull away from the unbearable friction—you didn't even know which anymore. You were entirely at his mercy, weeping softly from the sheer intensity of it.

"Ben, please," you begged, your hips bucking instinctively against his. "I-I'm coming—"

"Yeah, you are," he rasped, his breathing turning completely ragged, his chest heaving against yours. "Let me see it."

With a sudden, violent shift in momentum, he let go of your jaw and hooked his arms under your knees, pulling them all the way back to your chest to open you up even wider. He drove into you with everything he had, his heavy frame slamming against you with a raw, primal force that completely stole the air from your lungs.

His thumb gave one final, sharp and heavy slap against your clit, and that was the breaking point. Your vision went completely white as your body gave out, exploding into a violent, clenching climax that squeezed him like a vice.

"Fuck, yeah, that's it!" Ben roared, his own control shattering at the tight, pulsating grip of your walls.

He didn't slow down for your orgasm; he used it. He pounded through the contractions, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow as his muscles locked up. With a deep, guttural growl that vibrated from his chest straight into yours, he buried himself to the absolute root and came, unloading a thick, burning heat deep inside you. His hips shuddered against yours in powerful, desperate spasms as he filled you completely.

For a long minute, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized gasping your breathings. Ben collapsed on top of you, his massive frame crushing you into the mattress, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he let out a long, exhausted sigh that smelled faintly of bourbon. Your thighs were trembling, covered in a mixture of sweat and the heavy heat he had left inside you.

"Holy fuck," you finally breathed out.

"Yeah," Soldier Boy said with a low chuckle.

The crushing weight of his massive frame slowly lifted as he rolled off you, the mattress groaning under his shift in movement. He settled onto his back beside you, one heavy, scarred arm slung carelessly behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. His chest was still heaving, covered in a slick sheen of sweat.

A slow, arrogant smirk crawled back onto his face as he looked down at you, his green eyes full of pure, smug satisfaction.

"For a girl who says she hates Supes, you sure as hell didn't have any problem wrappin' your legs around one," he rumbled, his voice a gravelly, post-coital purr that vibrated warmly against your bare shoulder.

You opened your mouth to snap back, but you had to close it back when you couldn't find anything to say.

He chuckled darkly, a low sound that came from deep within his chest. "I wonder what Butcher would say if he knew his favorite little soldier was in here getting ruined by the biggest Supe of 'em all."

a/n: first time publishing on tumblr, kinda nervous ngl. hope it was good enough, you can always share it with me if you enjoyed it!!

i also want to say that i have a hate-love relationship with soldier boy (i think they ruined his character in s5). but it's jensen ackles so i simply couldn't resist the urge to write this.

ok bye for now xxx