summary : after denying you were pregnant , despite the very obvious signs , you finally took a test. don’t panic , but.. congrats!
warnings : fluff , slight smut , pregnancy , happy ben , lmk if i missed any
Over the course of around a month and a half, your mornings had been spent hurled over the rim of the toilet and puking up what you had eaten the day prior, sometimes when you hadn’t even eaten. You brushed it off at first, claiming that it must’ve just been something you ate at a restaurant Ben took you to or something, after all, it was a restaurant you two hadn’t tried before.
Then came the swelling after the second month. You didn’t even it until you were in missionary one night and Ben had pressed down on your stomach to feel the outline of his cock, only for his brows to furrow as he felt your stomach a little rounder than usual. Don’t get him wrong, he loves the extra fat, apparently it gives him more to hold onto when fucking you stupid, but he knew that the firmness on your stomach wasn’t there before.
It was like his eyes lit up and entire demeanor switched all of a sudden. In the back of his mind had always been the thought of getting you pregnant, giving you a mini-him (or you) that caused mayhem as they ran around the living room. So, when he felt your stomach and remembered the puking every morning, that idea of breeding you immediately shot forward and became the only thing his mind focused on.
"Alright, how long were you gonna hide this from me, huh? Thought I wouldn’t find out?" His gruff voice abruptly cut through the moans and sound of the headboard smacking against the wall, hips slowing until they came to a painfully slow and steady pace.
It was like a bomb went off with how quick you went quiet, your eyes snapping open and focusing on his own that were still sparkling. Your back flattened against the sheets from its arched position, your fingers uncurling from their tight grip on the pillows. "What are you talking about?"
Ben rolled his eyes and leaned down so his forehead rested against your own, breath tangling with yours when he spoke again. "The pregnancy, doll. When were you gonna tell me?" His lips curled into a smirk when he saw your surprised face, one hand reaching up to wrap your thigh around his hip. "Don’t act all shocked now, you knew and weren’t gonna tell me."
".. Ben, I’m not fucking pregnant."
"Honey, I think I know when a lady’s pregnant. You know many I’ve knocked up—"
"I don’t wanna hear about that when you’re still balls deep inside of me."
Ben chuckled at the sharpness in your tone, knowing how you felt whenever he brought up anything sexual from his past, whether it was just a girl flashing him or him getting women pregnant. Obviously, he made them get rid of it. A kid would’ve gotten in the way of his career, and he didn’t want America’s Greatest Supe to slow down just because he got greedy (👀👀).
After the little pregnancy talk, and your quick defense to shut up him up, you both quickly forgot about it and went back to fucking like rabid rabbits, the pace quickly speeding up aswell as the decibels of your moans and his grunts. Well, you forgot about it, Ben didn’t. After that night it was practically glued to his brain, even if you had shut the idea down immediately.
Despite his past of knocking up women and making them get an abortion, that idea didn’t even cross his mind when it came to you, for some odd reason. It wasn’t really an odd reason, to be honest, you two were together and had been for almost a year. The past girls were all just flings or one night stands.
Instead, when he thought of it with you, he found himself unable to think of anything but keeping it. Maybe it was the fact he was actually in love with you, or maybe it was the fact that he had lived 107 years (40+ incapacitated) and hadn’t once known what it was like to be a father. Most of the reason he hadn’t yet been a father was because he was afraid he’d become like his own, something he couldn’t bear to do with you.
But, if you were actually pregnant, he silently vowed to himself to be there. He’d always be there for you and his child, show up to every parent teacher conference at school, watch them graduate and head off to college. He wanted to be the father he wished he had and give his kid the childhood he only dreamt of.
Not even a week later, you got a test, mainly due to Ben’s persistent nagging for you to take one just for precaution. You knew how giddy he was for you to realise he was right all along and you were actually pregnant with his kid, but you had your whole faith in the fact you were just bloated from eating alot lately.
That was another thing: the cravings. It could be midnight and you’d still be on the couch stuffing your face with snacks or full course meals, other times you’d be fast asleep in bed, snoring away without a care in the world.
Ben didn’t mind the cravings, even if he was the one who had to drive to the stores and back just because you wanted a specific kind of snack at 10 am. In fact, he found it amusing and endearing, something he told you on many occasions. He’d said you looked like a squirrel with it’s cheeks full of nuts one time, and you gave him the most adorable side eye he’d ever seen, even if you throw a tv remote right at his head.
When you finally decided to do the test, he was sitting on the edge of the bed while you were in the bathroom doing whatever for the past 10 minutes. You’d gotten multiple sticks just to make sure you weren’t pregnant, something you were absolutely adamant on, and you’d had to piss in a cup so there’d be enough for each stick.
His knee was bouncing uncontrollably, elbows resting across his knees as he impatiently waited for you to be done. He’d been impatient ever since you got home from the store, his mind swivelling and the need to prove you wrong stronger than ever.
"Cmon, doll, can’t be hard to piss on a few sticks. Took you quicker that one time when I had you bent—"
Before he could finish, the door to the bathroom swung open and you stood there in all your glory. He would’ve rolled his eyes and made an ‘about damn time’ joke, but it would’ve fell flat as soon as he noticed your teary wide eyes and his own locked onto the three sticks in your hand.
The cross on two and the "positive" on the other stared back at him like he won the lottery, and it some cases, he did, but the lottery was the life everyone dreamt off as a kid. And now, he was gonna have his own kid that would have that fantasy in a few years.
"Holy shit.." The words left his lips before he could stop them, his features now matching your own shocked ones, slowly standing up from the bed to make his way over to you. Once he was towering over you, accidentally due to how tall he was, he gently took the sticks from your hand, ignoring the disgusted look you gave him when he grabbed the ends with piss on, examining the tests in extreme detail.
He wasn’t angry or upset, oh, fuck no. He would genuinely think something was wrong with him if he wasn’t happy with the news. The grin that spread across his face reminded you of the cheshire cat, and you had to bite your lip to stop your own grin when you saw the childlike giddiness in his eyes, the same eyes that made others almost wet themselves in both arousal and fear.
But, when those stupid words left his lips next, you rolled your eyes and fought the urge to smack him upside the head.
"We’re having triplets??"
"No, you fucking idiot. Just one. Well.. I don’t know! We haven’t had the ultrasound yet, so."
Ben’s grin faltered as he blinked a few times before just letting out a quiet ‘oh’, only for a few moments though, as that grin was immediately back on his face. Before you had the time to react, you were swept off of your feet and had to wrap your legs around his waist to stay up, a squeal leaving your lips until it was cut off when his lips crashed against yours.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, his mouth swallowing your giggle as his hands squeezed your ass, only pulling away to get air a few moments later, the positive tests laying abandoned on the floor. You rested your forehead against his, lightly panting, eyes gazing deep into his.
The love in his eyes almost made you collapse right then and there as he stared back at you, a soft smile curled in the edges of his lips, your hands now playing with the hair that dangled down the back of his neck. "We’re gonna be parents, baby. I’m gonna be a dad."
You mirrored his smile and nodded in response to his words, confirming what he already knew from that day, the day that you had firmly denied being pregnant and have ever since. Now, your words were thrown back at you as you looked down at the sticks laying on the floor, your foreseeable future right there in just two crosses and a single word.
"Yeah, we are. You’re gonna be the best damn dad they could ever have."
a/n ;
cranked this out in an hour or two with too long of a break inbetween this is my favourite so far , and im thinking about doing a pt2 with the pregnancy and maybe the birth? lmk tho bcs i dont know yet !
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: heavy angst, no comfort | word count: 2.3k
warnings: reader is dead (death not described), nightmares, mild suicidal thoughts (no action taken), grief and hard feelings, sam feels oh so alone, a lot of talks about death/being dead/dying
notes: i would apologize but i'm not sorry :] i made raspberry muffins wihle i was writing this so you can think of those as your little apology gift !!
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What is left behind when you die?
Something physical, maybe. A favourite book, with a bookmark on the last page you read, and the corner dogeared in your excitement to explain it to someone. A pen uncapped on the desk, ink drying on the nib because nobody has the heart to touch it. A half-eaten sandwich in the back seat of a car, wrapped in diner wrapping paper checkered red and white, lettuce wilted and falling out the side.
Something metaphorical, possibly. The last echoes of your final words dissipating into the summer air like a whisper, catching harsh on the heart of the ones who hold you as you go. The rustle in the grass at the moment you take your last breath, a spirit on a final walk on earth, touching the stalks one last time and feeling them shiver against your skin. A pebble kicked to the side from your boot as you fell, rolling away and coming to a halt with the shadowed side up. The final cry of your name left aching on the tongue of its speaker, voice cracking in the middle and trembling at the end.
Maybe you don't leave anything behind, because maybe there's nothing left to leave. Maybe your only possessions get burned with you, scattering their ashes into the sky and following you up to whatever heaven lays above you in wait. Maybe, when you live out of motel rooms and the backseat of a black Impala, there's nothing for you to leave behind, because there's nowhere to leave it. Maybe the only thing you leave behind is the letters of your name on a carved piece of wood left under a tree behind Bobby's house, because there's no body to bury, and a cross feels too inviting for the haunted.
Sam knows what you left behind. He can see it in the shadows of every path he walks, from the bedroom you shared to the window of the kitchen, down to the tree in the yard and in between the dappled leaves. He hears it with every gust of wind and every breath that sounds like your name on lips that aren't his; so sorry for your loss, they tell him. It's not really loss if there's nothing left to find, is there? How can it be loss if there's no way of finding you again? What could he possibly see left on earth that reminds him of you in ways that don't lodge under his ribs and burn at this heart and make him wish he wasn't such a coward with his finger on the trigger?
Sam sees everything you left behind in aching clarity, the kind that stings behind his eyes and makes him wish he were blind. At least that way he wouldn't have to see it all. Something about the way the ache burrows into his skin and squeezes around his heart and makes him sob into his pillow in the middle of the night tells him it wouldn't be useful. He sees it all whether he wants to or not, whether he tries to or not, and he sees it in all the places he never expected to.
The first month, he slept in a different room than usual. He slept alone, in a bed meant for one person, because that was easier than sleeping alone in a bed he used to share with you. Because the expanses of it were too huge, and it killed him to reach out for you in his sleep and come up with nothing but chilled night air drifting in from the window. The sheets have been washed, and something cracks inside him when he realizes they no longer smell like you or carry your warmth. It's been replaced by a chilling cold that smells like laundry detergent and spring rain. He had to sit in front of the washing machine with his hands on his head for a while after that.
It hit him when he was making coffee one morning. Usually, you'd come ask him to make you something to drink, appearing beside him with an arm around his waist and your head on his shoulder, whispering sleepy requests for breakfast into the skin of his neck. He turned, half expecting you to appear at his side with a lopsided grin and poke him, but nothing happened. Sinking to his knees, he stayed frozen while the coffee dripped over the edge of the mug and then stayed again long after it cooled on the countertop. By the time he finally got to his feet, his eyes were red rimmed and sore, face blotched with pink across his cheeks, tear tracks crawling through the lines on his face and vanishing into his hair.
It hit for a second time later that week, when he went into town with Dean to get more beer for Bobby's fridge. Standing in the aisle, he found himself mentally calculating how many, if any at all, you were likely to drink. And he found himself instinctively reaching for a second pack, before Dean appeared at his side and gently guided his hand with the extra drinks back to the shelf. It took all his strength not to break down in the aisle, and he managed to wait until he was tucked comfortably into the car before letting any tears fall.
Now, he's empty. Dull, washed-out, aching for something no longer there. A piece of him he didn't know he was missing until he felt it leave. The piece of him you took when you kissed him for the first time, the piece that you tucked into your chest amongst your ribs and promised to keep safe as long as you're alive. You’re not here anymore, and you still haven’t given that piece back. He wanders through the house like a ghost, passing through walls and sinking into floors and hiding in shadows because being in the light is too harsh on his sore eyes. He drifts from room to room, tracing his sullen fingers over every book and object you touched, pressing cracked lips to the pictures of you dotted around the house, cradling the one in his wallet to his chest like it hurts him to let it go.
Tonight, he lies in bed and dreams. He dreams a lot of things, because Sam has always had an active imagination. He dreams a life where you're alive, in bed beside him, your chest rising and falling soft with every breath you take that ghosts across the bare skin of his chest. He dreams you wake him up with light kisses that tickle his face, curling his mouth into a smile that he wears as he kisses you in return. He dreams you come running in from outside with a ladybug on your thumb and a grin on your face as you tell him its name, dragging him with you as you set it free into the grass again.
Sam dreams happy things, and he wakes up distraught. He wakes up with a sob in his throat that claws its way up, pushing itself out of his mouth like a bullet and sinking into his heart with finality. He sobs your name over and over, lips shaking and chin wobbling on every syllable, like if he says it enough times, you'll appear at his bedside and kiss his forehead soft and tender. He curls himself inward, chest heaving and breath stuttering, making himself small as his tears wet his face, his shirt, his pillow. The salty taste of them reaches his tongue and he laps it up, desperate for any reminder that he can feel something besides sadness. But the water tastes like sorrow, and his head is going under, and there's nothing left for him to do but pray he can swim to shore.
He falls back asleep a few hours later, ribs aching and eyes sore when they're open, face no doubt puffy and ugly. His hand shakes as he wipes away a stray tear he doesn’t remember falling, tucking his hand under your pillow that he hugs close to his chest, burying his face in it. He twitches in his sleep, misery coursing through him like electricity, desperately trying to put him out of his pain like one might put down a sick dog. He needs you here, because he thinks he’s started to forget your laugh and the colour of your eyes, and the panic that grips him is so strong he finally passes out.
Sam dreams awful things this time. He dreams of your body surrounded by blood, skin slashed and muscle torn, the bones in your body broken from the impact. He dreams of your ghostly expression as you slip away, your weak voice whispering I love you to his battered and teary soul, fingers tracing trails of red down his stubbled cheek as you drop your hand to your chest and never raise it again. And then he dreams of himself laying down beside you, the floor slick with your blood, and he dreams about slipping away with you.
And Sam wakes up smiling.
He wakes up with the feather traces of a grin on his face, dimple popping awful in the moonlight of the bedroom, pearly sheets wrapped around his legs like a creature caught in a hunting trap, target on his head right between the eyes. He hauls himself up and stretches, yawning something soft and brushing the sleep from his eyes. Jacket over his shirt, jeans over his boxers, shoes left untied and the laces tucked into the boot. He's careful not to trip down the stairs, body still getting used to being awake and moving.
He can hear Dean and Bobby still asleep in their separate rooms. He can hear tree branches whistling in the wind outside, the lonely cry of an owl puncturing the night's fragility. Owls for wisdom, he remembers. A sign, maybe, to carry on. Or a sign to stop, to turn back and head to bed. A sign to adapt and change because it's the wise thing to do. Or a sign to finish it through and end up with you, because it's wise to be with a lover forever. He's undecided on the significance, but he tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans anyway, the safety flicked off. No bullet, because that feels too close to tempting fate. As ready as he is to see you again, he's not quite ready to die.
Sam opens the latch on the door and let's himself out, breeze ruffling his hair and ghosting across the back of his neck like the kisses you leave there in the night. His boots crunch leaves and dead grass, the occasional pebble getting kicked to the side of the path, shadowed side up. Grass rustling at his knees, the blades tickling his palms as he bends to touch them, feeling their smoothness under his calloused fingertips. A breath of wind under his jacket, cold over his heart and warm when it leaves.
These are the things you've left behind.
A broken Sam Winchester. A mourning earth in cold soil and blistering winds. Turned over rocks that remember the tread of your boot. Grass that yearns for your touch. Earth in memorial, standing guard at your grave. Protective. Nurturing. Motherly. It watches your graveside and keeps it clean for Sam when he finally arrives. It curls up around his knees when he kneels and breaks down, and it skitters his gun away from his hand when he drops it because he's shaking too much to do anything with it. It grows the flower he picks to lay at the wooden slab, petals drooping because his sorrow is too heavy.
Sam lays down in the dirt beside you, head lined up with your grave marker and one hand curling in the soft stems of grass over your ashes. His fingers twitch over where your heart should be, curling and unfurling as if he can feel your heartbeat through the dirt and rocks. He takes a shuddering breath, exhaling it out into the humid air like a promise, a vow to return to you someday, somehow. He hates to think of you alone up there, not understanding what happened and so, so frightened. He hates that he can’t hold you, can’t comfort you, can’t press soft kisses to your temple and rub your back and tuck you into his arms like he used to.
His chest rises once.
"Wait for me."
The first words he's spoken since your death. His voice comes out all scratched and torn and wrong, harsh on the edges made sharp by tears.
His chest falls once.
A pause. A stutter.
His chest rises again, because of course it will. He's cursed, after all. Cursed to live while you were cursed to die.
So, what is left behind when you die?
Memories. A mourning earth. A shattered man.
And strangely enough, love.
Sam remembers you because he loves you. He mourns you because he loves you. He's broken because he loves you. You leave behind love because it's all he knew how to do with you. He'll come join you some day because he loves you then, too. And he will bring you his love cradled in his cupped palms like an angel bringing holy water, and he will shower you in it, and he will tell you that you taught him love and left him with it for him to nurture. And he will tell you he loves you. And he hopes you will tell him you love him too.
Ok so. I may have been sitting with this for too long
Dean…
You know he's fucking got extra sperm… that man is built like a fucking god.. I just can't shake the feeling that if he was hell-bent in getting you pregnant (both consenting ofc) then he would. And he would pump so much into you..
requests open!!
pairing : dean winchester x reader
summary : dean has the craving to impregnate you , even if he tires you out round after round.
warnings : mdni , 18+ , est. relationship , pregnancy/breeding kink , p in v , smut , dirty talk , mommy kink (?? u decide).
615 words
ily for this , wish he was the breedable one sometimes 🫦
in the shared space that was dean’s bedroom, it felt even smaller and more cramped than usual due to the strong arms that were planted on each side of your head, caging you in. your legs were wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his lower back as his hips pistoned into your own, your hair getting tangled between his fingers with each deep thrust.
you two had been at it for an hour or so, ever since he got back from a hunt with sam. he came straight to the bedroom where he knew you were and bent you over the edge of the bed, ripping your pants down alongside your damp panties. as of lately, every night ended with you being fucked stupid and stuffed full of his seed that dripped out of your tired entrance. but obviously, he shoved it back inside of you, never letting a single drop go to waste.
he’d been hellbent on having sex raw, even going as far as to throw away all condoms he kept in his bedside drawer, and insisted on not pulling out. besides the few times you gave him a blowjob and he’d paint your face white, his cum was shooting deep inside of you and making home. sometimes he’d even shove a plug in the tight hole of your cunt just so nothing was spilling.
"fuck, sweetheart.. gonna pump you full ‘til your round with my kid." he spoke during grunts, the headboard still creaking despite the pillow behind it to stop it from slamming against the wall, his body leaning over yours to hit a deeper angle. his hands slid down from beside your head to grab your calves, lifting your legs so they were slung over his shoulders, the tip of his cock assaulting your cervix as his hips quickened the pace somehow.
your moans were drowned out by his lips suddenly crashing against yours, tongues swirling and teeth clattering against eachothers. "so tight, all for me." his mouth left yours only to drag down your chest, tongue flicking at your perk nipples before he wrapped his lips around one, his hand kneading the other one to give his favorite girls the attention they deserved. "can’t wait for these to get swole, dripping with milk." his hips stuttered at the delicious sob you let out at his words, your hands clutching the sheets.
"you’d like that, huh? you’d like me to make you a mommy?" his pace began slipping and becoming sloppy as he felt his balls tighten and that feeling flutter in his stomach. "gonna cum, baby, gonna fill you to the brim." when your walls tightened around his cock and you reached your own climax, legs twitching around his neck and back arching off the bed, he gave a final deep thrust before emptying his load inside of you, his mouth detaching from your breast as his head tilted back.
it took a few moments until the ropes stopped and his cock began softening inside of you, his forehead resting on your collarbone with heavy pants coming from his lips. but, of course, since he had his mind set on giving you his baby, two rounds was obviously not enough (you’d already had a round prior), and his hips slowly started up again and he was hardening inside of you.
"did so good for me, sweetheart. i know you’re tired, but please. one more, i promise."
he definitely broke his promise that night, as it took a few more hours until sam could finally take off his headphones and not be met with the sounds of his favorite people planning to make him an uncle.
do you think Ben would deepen your insecurities? or would be just.. neutral about it.. like he doesn’t give a fuck?
what i mean is if he would make you feel even worse.. no matter what you’d be insecure about, he’d just indulge in it, intentionally or not.. for example if you were insecure about your body, he would make some off-putting remarks or jokes; and he wouldn’t even understand what he’d cause by that.. making you feel even worse.. OR he wouldn’t do anything.. he’d just take it as it is.. idk
(i’m sorry about this nonsense, i’m being really sensitive and i feel like shit and all i can do is think about Soldier Boy ugh.. i’m sorry for blabbering🩵)
hm.. putting on the thinking cap for this one !!
going off of season three!soldier boy for this one (season five? what? never heard of it!), but i think it'd be a mixed bag. i mean, he's a fucking asshole. he's definitely the type of guy to take your insecurities, or whatever is worrying you (shit like that), and turn it against you; not firing it directly back at you, but more.. subdued. like, little drops here or there, such as "huh, thought you wanted to lose weight before wearin'.. that," and "maybe you should be lookin' into all that surgical shit that broads get these days; would do you some fuckin' wonders." things that he knows aren't going to cause you to collapse inwardly (not yet, anyway), but just enough to chip away at you overtime. and, once he's done with you for good, you're never going to be the same person you once were. </3
however. i think if it got to the point that it knew it was causing you serious distress and making you feel 100x worse, then, maybe he'd stop. but he'd totally be the ype to do the whole "don't know what you're talkin, 'bout, doll. i'd never say that about my girl," and just manipulate and gaslight you to all-hell over it. anything to make you forget what he said/did, and even then, as long as he's right in his own head, then that's all that matters. you might hold a bit of anxiety and insecurity over it (maybe some resentment), but you're still gonna stick around and take all his bullshit.. sadly.
SUMMARY: When Homelander hears Ashley yelling at you, and catches you crying in the bathroom after, he gets attached and possessive of you. With lots of manipulating, he tries turning you into his perfect girl.
MDNI (18+!) dead dove do not eat | c.w: Manipulation, brainwashing, angst, homelander being icky
W.C: almost 4k (this is a long one | NOT PROOFREAD)
Literally hate Homelander but had to write about him...
Rain hammered against the glass walls of Vought Tower hard enough to blur the city lights below into streaks of gold and white, and by the time you stepped out of the elevator onto the thirty-seventh floor, your nerves already felt shredded thin.
It was nearly ten at night.
Most of the office lights were off except for the long strip above your department, flickering faintly over empty desks and abandoned coffee cups, and your heels clicked too loudly against the polished floor as you hurried toward your office clutching the stack of files against your chest.
You shouldn’t have forgotten the quarterly reports.
Ashley had called you twenty minutes ago screaming so hard through the phone that you’d had to hold it away from your ear.
-“If those numbers aren’t on my desk by tomorrow morning, I swear to God—” Then the line had gone dead. So now you were here. Alone. Again.
You pushed into your office with a sigh, dropping your bag beside the desk before bending to search through the disaster of paperwork scattered across the surface.
The storm outside rattled faintly through the windows.
Your phone buzzed. Maya. You answered immediately, relieved for the distraction.
“Hey.”
“You’re still there?” your friend asked. “It’s ten at night.”
“I forgot the reports.” “Again? Jesus. That place is killing you.” You laughed weakly, rubbing at your eyes. “Tell me about it.” You could hear traffic on her end, muffled music in the background.
Normal life.
Outside life. For a second, you envied her so badly it hurt.
“You still coming tomorrow?” she asked. “Brunch. Eleven. Don’t cancel this time.”
“I won’t.”
“You said that last week.”
“That was different.”
“You always say that.” You opened your mouth to answer—
—and froze.
There was someone standing outside your office.
Tall. Broad shoulders, still as a statue behind the glass wall. Your stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.
The hallway lights reflected faintly off the blue of his suit.
Homelander. You stopped breathing.
Maya was still talking through the phone. “…and if your boss says anything, tell her to go fu—” You hung up instantly.
His eyes followed the movement. Even through the glass, you could feel it. That unbearable pressure of his attention.
Then he smiled. Slowly. And pushed open the office door.
“Hi.”
Your throat tightened immediately. “H-Homelander.” He stepped inside casually, glancing around your office like he belonged there. Maybe he did.
Everyone in the building belonged to him in some horrible way. “You’re here late,” he said.
You forced yourself to straighten. “Just finishing reports.”
“For Ashley?” You nodded. A flicker crossed his face. Barely there. Displeasure.
“She works you too hard.” The way he said it made your skin prickle. Not sympathetic. Possessive. Before you could answer, he glanced toward your phone still sitting on the desk.
“Who were you talking to?” “My friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
Too fast. You hated how fast you answered. His smile widened slightly.
“Good.”
The room suddenly felt very small. You tried to laugh politely, but it came out thin and nervous. “Did you need something?” Homelander walked slowly around your desk instead of answering immediately, fingers brushing over the edge of the wood surface.
Calm. Relaxed.
Like a predator already certain the prey wouldn’t run. “I noticed you’ve seemed stressed lately.” Your pulse started climbing. “I’m okay.”
“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.” He stopped beside you. Too close. You caught the clean, expensive smell of his suit, something sharp beneath it like static in the air before lightning strikes. “You look tired,” he continued quietly. “You skip lunch half the time. Your shoulders tense every time your phone rings. And every morning you come into this building already anxious.”
Your mouth went dry.
Because those were things no one should know. Things no one could know unless they’d been watching. Homelander tilted his head slightly when you didn’t answer.
“I pay attention to you.”
Something cold slid down your spine. The storm cracked outside, thunder rumbling through the glass.
You took a careful step backward.
“I should really finish these reports—”
“Ashley screamed at you today.”
You froze.
His expression didn’t change.
“She made you cry in the bathroom afterward.” Your heart started pounding so hard you could hear it.
How did he—
“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and the softness in his voice scared you more than anger would have.
You swallowed hard. “It’s fine.”
“No,” Homelander murmured. “It isn’t.”
The office lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside the windows, lightning flashed silver across the city skyline. Then Homelander reached up and touched your face.
Gentle. Careful.
His thumb brushed just beneath your eye like he was handling something fragile. You should have moved away.
You knew you should. But shock rooted you in place. His voice dropped lower.
“People are very cruel to you.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because he was right. Because nobody had ever said it out loud before. Everyone always acted like you were overreacting.
Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too weak for the industry.
And now the most terrifying man on earth was looking at you with something dangerously close to tenderness.
“I can take care of it,” he said softly.
Alarm shot through you immediately. “No.” His eyes sharpened slightly.
“No?”
“You don’t have to… do anything.”
Silence. Then that smile returned. Pleasant and artificial.
“You’re scared of me.” Your stomach twisted. Because denying it felt impossible.
Homelander watched your expression carefully, and for one horrible moment you saw something wounded flicker underneath his calm facade.
Not guilt, neither shame. Loneliness.
“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said quietly. The words should have comforted you. Instead they made your pulse spike harder. Because you suddenly understood that he wanted you to believe him.
Wanted it badly. You stepped away from his hand carefully. “I should get back to work.”
For a second, the room went still. Completely still. Then Homelander smiled again and stepped back.
“Of course.”
Relief flooded you so fast your knees almost weakened. He moved toward the door.
Stopped. Without turning around, he asked:
“Why do you flinch every time someone raises their voice at you?”
Your breath caught and he glanced over his shoulder. Those bright blue eyes pinned you in place effortlessly.
“I hear things,” he said softly. And then he walked out.
—
Three days later, Ashley disappeared. Nobody explained it. One minute she was storming through meetings throwing binders and screaming at assistants, and the next her office sat empty with the blinds drawn shut.
People whispered about scandals.
Transfers. Rehab? Nobody knew.
But the new department head smiled at you too much and approved your vacation request without even reading it. And every time you passed security downstairs, people suddenly avoided eye contact.
Like they knew something you didn’t.
By Friday, you couldn’t sleep. Every tiny sound in your apartment made your heart race. You kept remembering Homelander’s hand against your face. That awful gentleness.
The way he’d said “I can take care of it.” You told yourself it was coincidence, because it had to be-...It had to be.
Until Saturday night.
You were standing in your kitchen making tea when your phone buzzed with a text from Maya.
you:
Running late. Some creep followed me off the subway lol
You frowned immediately.
you:
What?
No response. You stared at the screen. One minute. Two. Then your phone rang. You answered instantly. “Maya?”
Static and heavy breathing. Then a man’s voice.
“Cute friend you got.” Ice flooded your veins. “What the fuck—”
The line disconnected.
You grabbed your coat so fast you nearly dropped the phone, panic rising sharp and ugly in your chest as you rushed toward the apartment door—
—and found Homelander standing outside it, making your entire body lock up instantly. He looked immaculate as always. Cape draped perfectly behind him. Hair untouched by the rain. Like he’d stepped out of a commercial instead of into the hallway outside your apartment at eleven-thirty at night.
“Don’t panic,” he said calmly.
You stared at him in horror. “My friend—”
“She’s fine.”
“How do you know that?” He smiled slightly. “I handled it.” your blood ran cold once again.
“What did you do?”
“He scared her.” Homelander shrugged. “So I scared him more.” The hallway suddenly felt suffocatingly narrow.
You backed away instinctively. “Did you kill him?Homelander’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
Not anger.
Confusion. Like the question itself was unfair. “He touched someone important to you."
The word hit hard enough to make your stomach twist. “You can’t just murder people!”
“Why not?” The sincerity in his voice terrified you. Genuine confusion. As if morality simply worked differently for him.
You shook your head, breathing unevenly. “You can’t solve everything like that.” Homelander stepped closer slowly. “You were terrified when you opened that door.”
You said nothing. “And then you saw me,” he continued softly. “And part of you relaxed.” Your chest tightened immediately because he was right. You hated that he was right. He watched realization cross your face and smiled faintly.
There it was again. That look. Like he was learning you piece by piece.
“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he murmured. The rain battered against the apartment windows behind you. Your pulse hammered painfully. Homelander reached up carefully and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with unbearable softness.
“I take care of the things that hurt you,” he whispered.
And standing there in the dim apartment hallway with fear tangled so tightly with relief you couldn’t separate them anymore— you realized that was exactly how he wanted it.
The first thing you noticed was that the building had become quieter around you. Not all at once. Not enough to alarm you immediately.
Just slowly, subtly, over the course of a few weeks after Ashley disappeared. Conversations stopped when you walked into break rooms. Coworkers who used to dump work on your desk now smiled too quickly and told you not to worry about deadlines.
People moved out of your way in the hall.
Even the security guards downstairs straightened when they saw your ID badge, suddenly polite in a stiff, nervous sort of way that made unease crawl beneath your skin every single time.
At first, you tried convincing yourself it was coincidence.
Then one morning, you overheard two assistants whispering near the elevators.
“—I’m telling you, he watches her.”
“Shut up, are you insane?”
“I saw him leave her floor last week—”
The elevator doors opened before you could hear more. The moment they noticed you standing there, both women went pale. One of them physically stepped back.
Like you were dangerous too.
By the time you reached your office, your hands were shaking hard enough that you spilled coffee across your desk. You stared at the spreading stain blankly. Your heart wouldn’t slow down. Because deep down, beneath all the rationalizing and denial, you already knew.
Homelander. Everything kept leading back to him. The promotions. The sudden kindness. The fear in everyone else. You pressed trembling fingers against your forehead. This was insane- You needed distance, and space- and something normal.
Which was why, by six-thirty that evening, you were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant downtown across from Maya, trying desperately to force yourself back into reality.
The restaurant smelled like garlic and wine and fresh bread, warm light glowing softly from little candles on every table, and outside the rain drizzled steadily against the windows while traffic blurred red and gold across the wet streets.
It felt normal. And safe. Thank god. Maya was halfway through complaining about her boss when she stopped abruptly and frowned at you over the rim of her wine glass.
“Okay, seriously. What’s wrong with you?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”
“Sorry.”
“You look exhausted.” You stared down at your untouched pasta. The knot in your chest had been there for days now. Tight. Constant. Every time your phone buzzed. Every time someone looked at you strangely at work. Every time you imagined blue eyes watching from somewhere above the city.
Maya leaned forward slightly, concern softening her face.
“Is this about Vought?” You hesitated. Too long, thats what makes it obvious. Her expression shifted immediately. “Oh my God. It is.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
You laughed weakly, but it came out strained. Maya lowered her voice. “Did something happen?” You opened your mouth. Then stopped.
Because how could you even explain it?
I think the most powerful man in the world has become obsessed with me.
It sounded delusional. Worse—it sounded impossible. And yet every instinct in your body had been screaming danger for weeks. “I just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I need to quit.”
Maya blinked. “Then quit.” “It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?” Because he would notice. The realization slid into your mind so naturally it made you feel sick.
Homelander would notice, because he noticed everything. The thought alone made your pulse jump. Maya stared at you carefully now, really looking. Then her expression changed. Not fear. Recognition. “You’re scared.”
You looked away immediately. Outside, headlights smeared across the rain-streaked windows. “I’m just stressed.”
“No.” Maya’s voice softened. “You look terrified.” Something sharp tightened painfully in your throat. Because she was right. You were terrified. Terrified in that exhausting, constant way where your body never fully relaxed anymore, where every shadow felt watched and every silence stretched too long.
And somehow the worst part wasn’t even fear of what Homelander might do to you. It was fear of what would happen if he suddenly stopped paying attention altogether. That realization horrified you enough that your stomach twisted. Maya reached across the table and touched your hand gently.
“Hey. Talk to me.”
Warmth spread suddenly behind your eyes. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone normal to touch you. Someone human.
Your voice came out small. “I think something’s wrong with me.” Maya frowned immediately. “What?”
“I keep…” You laughed shakily. “I keep thinking about him.” The words tasted poisonous. Maya went still.
“Who?” You already regretted saying it, but exhaustion cracked something open inside you.
“Homelander.”
Silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy kind. Maya stared at you for a second like she genuinely thought she’d misheard. Then
“…Homelander?” You nodded once, humiliated instantly.
“He keeps showing up and talking to me and I know it’s weird and I know I should report it or something but every time he looks at me I feel like I can’t think properly anymore—”
You stopped abruptly, breathing unevenly. Maya’s face had gone pale.
“You need to stay away from him.”
“I know.”
“Y/n, I mean it.”
“I KNOW.”
Several people glanced over, making you lower your voice immediatly, and Maya leaned closer across the table.
“Listen to me very carefully. Men like that— men with power like that— they don’t get attached normally.”
Your stomach dropped once again, because attached was exactly the word you'd been searching for- Not 'interested' nor 'flirting'.- attached. Like something tightening around your ribs day by day. Maya squeezed your hand harder.
“This is how it starts.”
Fear curled sharply through you, traveling from your toes to your chest.
“How what starts?”
But Maya never answered- because suddenly the restaurant went silent. Instantly.
With conversations getting cut off and forks being set down, the air itself seems to tighten, and your blood turned to ice before you even looked up. Maya’s grip on your hand loosened slowly. Around you, people stared toward the front windows. Toward the figure descending from the sky outside the restaurant in a blur of red, white, and blue.
Your heart stopped.
No.
No no no—
The entire restaurant watched as Homelander landed lightly on the sidewalk beyond the glass, cape settling behind him in perfect waves despite the rain- People immediately started reaching for phones. Someone whispered- “Holy shit…”
Maya looked at you. Really looked at you. And the horror that crossed her face made your stomach lurch. Because she understood instantly.
Homelander smiled the moment he saw you through the window. Not at the restaurant, but at you. That terrifyingly soft expression spread across his face like he’d finally found what he’d been looking for.
Then he walked inside. The atmosphere changed the second he entered. The restaurant owner rushed forward nervously. People stared. Nobody breathed properly. But Homelander ignored all of them. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, fully focused.
“Maya,” you whispered urgently, panic clawing up your throat, “don’t say anything.”
Too late.
Homelander reached your table smoothly, smiling down at you like this was some perfectly ordinary surprise visit.
“There you are.” Your pulse hammered violently. “How did you know I was here?” He tilted his head slightly.
“You told someone at work you were getting dinner downtown." Jesus fuck, had he been listening then too?
Maya slowly pulled her hand away from yours under the table. Homelander noticed immediately. Of course he did.His gaze flickered briefly toward her before returning to you.
“You left work early,” he said softly. “I was worried.” Worried. The word wrapped around your lungs like silk. You could feel the entire restaurant staring. Maya sat rigidly beside you now, fear written plainly across her face.
"i have to use the bathroom." She excuses herself quietly. Traitor, leaving you with him. Homelander noticed that too. And smiled. Not in a polite way, just Patient. Like he understood something she didn’t yet.
“You seem tense,” he murmured to you. No shit, your voice barely worked. “I’m fine.”
“No,” he said gently. “You’re frightened.” The way he said it made heat creep shamefully into your chest. Like he was the only person observant enough to notice. Like fear itself had become intimacy between you.
Homelander crouched slightly beside your chair then, bringing himself closer to eye level, and the entire restaurant seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his attention.
“You know I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, and your throat tightened.
Because part of you believed him completely. That was the worst thing. Not the fear. Not even the obsession. It was the unbearable safety you felt whenever he appeared. Like no matter how terrifying he was, nothing else in the world could possibly touch you while his eyes were on you.
Homelander saw something change in your expression then. He saw it happen. His smile softened with slow, terrifying satisfaction.
“There she is,” he whispered.
And you realized with sudden horror that he was watching you become dependent on him in real time.
Just waiting.
By the time Maya returned to the table, your head already felt strange, Like the entire evening had slipped sideways into something unreal while you weren’t paying attention.
Homelander had moved back slightly by then, posture relaxed again, one arm hooked lazily over the back of your chair as if he’d always belonged there, as if seeing the most powerful man in the world sitting in a tiny downtown restaurant beside an ordinary Vought employee was somehow normal.
But nothing felt normal anymore. Not the way people stared at you now. Not the way your pulse reacted every time his attention settled fully onto you. Not the awful, humiliating relief spreading slowly through your body whenever he spoke in that low, gentle voice.
Maya sat down carefully, eyes flicking between the two of you. You could tell she’d been crying in the bathroom. Shes always been an emotional person. Her mascara looked slightly smudged beneath the dim restaurant lighting. Guilt twisted sharply in your chest. Because she looked scared.
Not for herself, but for you.
Homelander smiled at her pleasantly. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” she answered too quickly. You noticed she didn’t look at him anymore when she spoke. Only at you, like she was trying to communicate something silently.
Run. Leave. Wake up.
But then Homelander’s hand settled lightly against the small of your back beneath the table and every thought scattered instantly. The touch wasn’t forceful, and that was the problem. His fingertips barely rested there at all through the fabric of your dress, warm and steady and impossibly careful, yet the moment he touched you, your body reacted before your mind could.
The tension in your shoulders loosened, your breathing slowed and Homelander felt it happen. You knew he did because his thumb stroked once, slow and approving.
A tiny movement. Still your stomach flipped violently. Maya saw your expression change.
Horror flashed across her face immediately, if thats even possible at her current expression anymore. You looked away from her first because you hated yourself for that.
Dinner ended not long after.
Nobody argued when Homelander quietly insisted on taking you home.
How could they?
Outside, the rain had gotten heavier, pouring silver beneath the city lights while crowds gathered along the sidewalk behind barricades and security trying desperately to catch a glimpse of him. Phones flashed constantly. People shouted his name. But Homelander barely acknowledged any of it.
His focus stayed on you as you stepped outside beside him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the cold night air. The second the rain touched you, Homelander frowned.
Then his cape settled around your shoulders, making you feel warmer immediately. It smelled like him.
“You’ll freeze,” he murmured.
The crowd noise seemed distant suddenly. Muted. Like the entire world had narrowed down to the warmth wrapped around you and the terrifying softness in his eyes.
You should have refused.
Instead your fingers clutched the edge of the cape tighter around yourself automatically.
And Homelander smiled. God, that smile. Not public, an' not performative. Atleast he makes you think that.
Maya stepped closer quickly before you could move.
“Text me when you get home,” she said firmly. Too firmly. Like she was trying to remind you of something. You nodded immediately. “I will."
Homelander looked between the two of you, quietly observing, or rather analyzing. Then he asked softly-
“Do you always worry this much about her?” Maya stiffened.
“She’s my best friend.”
At that, something unreadable crossed Homelander’s face, its gone almost instantly. But you felt his hand press slightly more firmly against your back. Possessive.
Maya noticed too, And you could see fear rise behind her eyes again. Then Homelander smiled warmly at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”
The words should have sounded reassuring.
Instead, they landed like a threat.
Maya heard it too. You saw it in her eyes.
But before either of you could say anything else, Homelander’s arm wrapped around your waist. The movement was smooth and natural enough to almost seem casual. Except the second he pulled you against his side, your entire body locked up from the sheer overwhelming awareness of him.
Strong.
Not human.
His hand rested securely against your hip while the rain poured harder around you, the city glowing gold and red beneath blurred stormlight.
“You ready?” he asked softly near your ear. Your throat tightened. What is he talking about?
“For what?” His smile deepened slightly, and then the ground disappeared. A startled sound tore from your chest as the world dropped violently beneath you, wind rushing past in freezing waves while the city exploded into dizzying lights below. Your fingers grabbed his suit instantly. Instinct.
Homelander laughed quietly at the reaction, one arm tightening around you effortlessly as he carried you high above Manhattan. “Easy,” he murmured. The sound of his voice vibrated through his chest beneath your hands. You couldn’t breathe properly.
Not from fear alone, no-...just, from him. From the overwhelming closeness of him.
Rain whipped through the air around you while clouds swallowed the city lights below in silver haze, and you buried your face against his shoulder automatically as another gust of wind hit.
Immediately, Homelander’s expression softened.
“There you go,” he whispered, too soft for a disgusting Manipulator. Like he liked seeing you cling to him. Like he wanted it. The realization made heat twist low in your stomach despite the terror.
You hated- no, despised- how safe he felt.
Hated how his arms around you made the rest of the world disappear completely.
The penthouse came into view slowly through the rain.
Massive windows glowing gold high above the city.
Isolated & untouchable. Your stomach flipped hard at the sight. Because suddenly, horribly, it didn’t feel like he was taking you home. It felt like he was taking you somewhere that belonged to him.
Somewhere above everyone else. Into his Nest.
Homelander landed smoothly on the balcony, barely jostling you despite the force that cracked faintly beneath his boots.
But he didn’t let go immediately afterward.
His arms stayed around you.
Keeping you close against him while rainwater slid down the sharp line of his jaw and the city glittered endlessly beneath the storm behind him.
For a second, neither of you spoke, not being able to.
You became painfully aware of your hands still gripping the front of his suit.
Of how close your bodies were.
Of the way he was looking at you.
Not hungry. -actually, hungry. Really fuckin' hungry. Your pulse stuttered unevenly.
“I should go home,” you whispered.
Homelander’s eyes searched your face quietly.
Then very gently, he brushed wet hair back from your cheek.
“You don’t want to be alone tonight.”
The words wrapped around your exhausted mind so softly that for one horrible second, you almost nodded.
Because after weeks of fear and confusion and pressure and loneliness—
the thought of leaving him suddenly hurt. He saw the exact instant your expression weakened, and something dark and deeply satisfied flickered behind his eyes.
Not victory, just ownership. His thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone.
“Come inside,” he said quietly, knowing just what tone to use. Not a command- worse. An invitation he already knew you wanted to accept.
Lightning flashed across the sky behind him, illuminating the enormous penthouse windows glowing gold in the dark like something beautiful and dangerous waiting with its mouth open.
And after a long, trembling hesitation—
you followed him inside.
He did it. You're his perfect girl now.
Okay, thus is so bad its literally embarassing. 💀💀 Where even is the plot fml
DOM!dean winchester who holds a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans when you two have sex in the bed beside sam, muttering a "shh, sweetheart. you don’t wanna wake poor sammy up now, d’you?" in your ear before nipping at your neck. when you nod and look at him with those teary eyes, he’ll smirk and kiss your forehead softly, a stark contrast to his thrusts that were destroying your cunt. "good girl." if sam does awake when your in a compromising position, your face will flush and you’ll give him an apologetic smile, while dean would just smirk and tease that "you missed all the fun, brother."
DOM!dean winchester who had to be touching you at all times, whether it was a hand on your waist, on your thigh, his foot grazing yours under the table, or literally just his pinky intertwined with yours when walking the streets. sometimes it was possessive, like he was letting everyone know you already had a partner, but other times it was different. you think those times were him just making sure you were there and still by his side, that you weren’t gonna leave him alone. you always let him, allowed him to take the comfort he craved in any way.
DOM!dean winchester who never lets you pay for your own drinks, food, or anything else you desired, despite you insisting time and time again that you earned your own money and could pay for it yourself. did he listen? absolutely not. he’d always act like he was deaf when you’d tell him, looking around absentmindedly before cutting you off by talking about something completely off topic. you shake your head and let him yap away, occasionally chiming in, unable to fight the smile creeping it’s way onto your face.
DOM!dean winchester who will twist your hair into a ponytail and tug it back when he’s balls deep inside of your inner walls, taking you from behind, his free hand raising and landing a hard smack on your ass every few minutes. he loved the way you’d whine at his palm striking your cheek, panting like a bitch in heat while he drove into you, your hands digging into his shirt that your face was buried in. he liked to have his clothing shoved in your nose whenever you had sex, so that when whenever you moaned and took a deep breath for air, all you could smell was him. all of your senses were him.
DOM!dean winchester who has you on your knees beneath the table if your out having dinner at a restaurant, which usually only happened on anniversaries or special occasions, his cock buried in the warmth of your mouth, tip hitting deep in your throat. he may try to keep his noises down, but he can’t help the groans that left his lips when you’d whimper around his length, your hand fondling his balls. his hand is tangled in your hair and pushing your head down until your nose was against his trimmed hairs, a low curse coming from him when he spills his load down your throat and you swallow it all.
DOM!dean winchester who dishes out the best aftercare once he’s done rearranging your insides so they’re molded in the shape of his cock. he’ll grab a towel that he kept bedside for nights like these and wipe the mess from between your legs, throwing it in the hamper along with the bedsheets. once the sheets are changed and the bed is now clean, he’ll lay down and bring you into his arms, resting your head on his chest. his fingers draw lazy patterns on your sides as he whispers praises in your ear, kissing the top of your head: "did so good f’me, sweetheart", "love you so much", "my good girl, aren’t you?"
hard odds to beat (when you're on all fours!) pt. i | dean winchester/reader
summary; you're not sure how your hook-ups with your dad's best friend, dean, started. nor, how they will end. but as your lovesick fantasises start to rot and tear in your mind, the end seems closer in sight that you'd liked it to be. 4.5k words.
content; smut + angst. vaginal sex. older!dean/younger!reader (idk later seasons!dean + young reader, but obvs LEGAL). innocence + corruption/praise kink. perv!dean. unrequited feelings. dad's best friend!dean. use of petnames ("sweetheart"/"kid"). mild fauxcest. slight manipulation. open ending.
any notes? dbf!dean is getting to me.. oooh the voices in my head ooooh.. anyway. angsty smut here we are. and title from 'crush' by ethel cain. also, this is part one of two. got way too into this au, lol.
you’re not really sure how it all began. or, worse yet, how it will all end.
but you’re sure that, whatever this is, it might as well be the death of you.
“you always gotta be such a fuckin’ tease, sweetheart?” he groans against your jaw, his stubble scratching you. you’re about to give him some snarky reply, but his hand on your wet cunt suddenly disappears, and you whimper. “if you won’t play nice, i won’t either.”
..and the death of you being none other than one dean winchester. a man who talked his way into your father’s life, and then sweet-talked his way into yours. oh, and your bed. and underwear. and literally anything and everything of you that he can get his hands on.
so, it had been a surprise to come home from college, a fresh graduate, to find some random man living in your house. well, it may not be your house, but it also isn’t his. and his strange, coming-and-going persona was just off-putting (but not for long– of course), and you did all in your power to ignore him.
again, not for long– of course.
a military man, or so your father said, but it hadn’t taken you long to realise what dean really was; a hunter. and even though you know of no one who’s served, you know that they don’t turn up at your front door in the early hours of the morning, “sweetheart,” dripping from a bloody mouth, and an even bloodier body.
and it’d all begun that night. you haven’t known peace since.
“want me to fuck you, is that want you want? want me to get rid of that ache between your thighs ‘cause you can’t? c’mon, tell me, kid.” dean encourages you, hand now back between your thighs. his fingers rub slow, agonising circles on your clit– meanwhile, your unresponsive, sans for a few moans here and there, some pawing at his bicep. “not gonna do anythin’ ‘til you use your big girl words..”
if anyone else spoke to you this way, you’d probably throw up. most definitely. but not with dean– never with dean. his words batter around in your brain like rocks that cut into the soft earth, carving out a path for his depraved intentions for you. and you drink it all up, never minding how the sweeter they get, the more bitter they taste.
poison can only kill those who notice it.
“please..” you plea. however, you never finish the ask– mainly because dean’s now pressing two fingers into your wet cunt, collecting your arousal as he works them in and out– for what should you ask for? him to get down on one knee, ask you to marry him? see if he wants to all the things you want to do, but haven’t had the chance to? what do you want? “please–”
there’s a lot that won’t come of this– when it inevitably ends. he was your dad’s friend first; your secret lover next. and you’d much rather it be you that also has him last, in any way you can.
but you can’t ask for anything. not anything you really want. so, you focus on getting your brains fucked out. it’ll do for now.
“i just need you,” you admit, albeit pathetically, with your voice all quiet and soft and needy. your cunt clenches around him as he pushes in a third finger. “i need you to fuck me.”
“yeah, ‘s that what you want?” his voice drops to a volume that almost matches yours, his tone mimicking your vulnerability. “want me to fuck you, fill your pretty cunt with cum ‘til you can’t hold anymore? y’want me to have you on all fours, ignorin’ all your whimperin’ and cryin’?” and then, like it’s an afterthought, he asks, “want me to make you all happy inside ‘cause no other guy can?”
each question is like pestilence to you; infecting and corrupting, getting stuck in every fold of your brain until you swear that it’s chanting dean dean dean over and over at you. everything is simply about him. you wouldn’t have it any other way.
you nod eagerly. to all of his questions.
and then, all you can do right now is press your sticky thighs together, absentmindedly grind on your bedsheets now and again, as he takes his sweet, agonising time to get undressed. whatever. it gives you a (bleak) moment to think– if your brain can still do that, at this point.
he hadn’t come to you as he usually does. bloody, usually in search of a quick “fix”– which, instead of getting stitched-up or having some injury or another attended to, it’s him, balls-deep in your cunt– and eager enough to sleep in your bed like its his own. like your husband and wife.
no, tonight, he’d arrived long before that. long before the early hours of morning light; it was a family barbeque, with the invitation extended to him as well because his brother was with “the wife” (this much you know to be true; dean showed you photos, once, when you got confident enough to ask about him, and not the ‘dean’ that your dad thinks is real). he’d overstayed his welcome, your mom claiming in her worried tone that he was too drunk to drive back, and that’d it be much safer is he stayed in the guest room. neither of you had complaints. after that, all it took was for your parents to head to bed, and you waiting in yours. waiting, for the man borne of gunpowder and other dastardly things, to stalk into your room and savage you.
the rest is history.
then, as if he can tell that you’re far away in some mundane memory, dean’s hands are dragging you by the hips closer to him, your body trapped under his. he’s so warm– so.. real– and you swear you’re getting dizzy off of him, drinking in his presence like you’re a dog parched.
you’ve never needed anything, or anyone, more. you merely whine and whimper, buck your hips into dean’s as he slowly pulls your panties down your body with a single finger. your cunt clenches around nothing as cool air hits your sweat-slicked body. dean seems to revel in this, smirking wickedly as you blindly grab at his hand, meanwhile you grow more antsy because he keeps pulling away when you grow more desperate.
“this isn’t fair,” you pout. he merely laughs at your behaviour, mimicking your pleading face. it’s embarrassing, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to be a big girl. “dean, you’re being so mean to me–”
“yeah? i’m the mean one? like you weren’t out there today, sweetheart, beggin’ with me those wet eyes and makin’ me so fuckin’ hard that i just wanted to punish you right there and then.” his tone matches his words. unforgiving and relentless. a consequence for your behaviour; a repercussion for your teasing. “all in front of your old man as well. not as innocent as you fuckin’ make yourself, are you? guess i’m gonna have to fuck some sense into you..”
you almost cum right then and there. almost. seriously– the way dean talks to you, reduces to you to nothing more than something for him to fuck and fill, ruins you more than it should. the thought of him taking out all his anger on you– this unspoken, pent-up rage that he could put to better use, but decides that you are the one who should suffer from it– practically soaks the sheets under you, to the point where your already-warm cheeks grow hotter.
but it also makes you remember how easy it is for him to leave you.
before you can have that devastating toll of reality come crashing down on you, dean’s fingers are back inside of you, stretching you out so he can bury his fat cock into you. you’re whimpering once more in an instant. begging for him to thrust himself into you; babbling for him to put a baby into you. anything and everything that will get him to love you. and maybe to make him stay.
“i’ll be good for you,” you hastily tell him; you know that he’ll understand it as you being good enough for him to fuck, and not that it’s your (last) pathetic plea to keep him as yours. forever. even though dean doesn’t belong to you. “i’ll be so good for you– just– can you–”
you end up cutting yourself off, and it’s only because dean’s pulling his fingers from your cunt, grabbing your jaw with his clean hand and forcing you to meet his eyes. and, sure, you’ve stared into his eyes many times before, but tonight, it’s different. not different in that good way, either– the kind that makes you all giddy inside because all it’ll take is you making some seemingly innocent comment (one loaded with innuendos, that your parents miraculously don’t pick up on) for him to be pounding into you hours later.
tonight, they’re darker. it’d be easy to blame it on the dimness of the room, but your curtains are wide open– the moonlight bathes him in bright light, and you can see everything as he towers over you. they’re unsettling, and unkind, and they’re just so.. angry. it doesn’t feel like dean. the one you know.
the one you’ve created.
silently, eagerly, you take his fingers into your mouth. the same fingers that were in your cunt just mere minutes ago; you’re good at ignoring this little tidbit, and even more so good at taking his fingers like the good girl you are. you keep waiting for him to say it– letting him shove them so far down your throat that your eyes water and you gag slightly– but he never does. never gives you the praise you crave. like you might die, if you don’t get those two syllables that remind you how important you are.
“yeah, just like that,” dean hums, his blunt nails scraping the back of your throat. this makes you gag once more, choking on not only saliva, but your own arousal. your vision blurs a little as a you try to keep your eyes on him– maybe bat your lashes now and again whilst you clean him up– but it gets to a point where that dreaded pit in your stomach blooms into something that threatens to swallow you whole like a black hole, and you have to stare at his jaw instead. “y’good at listenin’ to me, aren’t you? always wantin’ to do the best f’me..”
you garble something incoherent, then start gasping for air– he’s finally pulled his fingers from your mouth, all wet and slick, and then casually drags them across your heaving chest to dry them off.
and before you can adjust to being able to breathe properly again, he’s pushing your legs apart even more. positioning his fat cock at your cunt; one hand holding it, and the other on your waist, like he’s ready to hold you down in case you try to writhe away (because, well, that did happen once– the first time he fucked you). you have to grip the sheets to stop yourself from bucking your hips forward, forcing your hole to take all of him before you’ve adjusted. because you can’t stop yourself; you need that mind-numbing sensation of dean fucking you raw before you lose it for good.
but you can’t deny the searing ache you get as the tip pushes into you, making your back arch off of the sweaty sheets and into his body. biting your bottom lip to stop your protest that claws up your throat and waits on your tongue when he shoves you back down onto the bed in response. “not yet, kid.” he keeps only the tip in you. “gotta be nice and still f’me ‘cause we can’t have you gettin’ hurt, can we?”
you nod dumbly. “no.”
“hey– ‘no’ what?”
“no–” and when you hesitate, he shoves more of his cock into you. your cunt willingly tightens around him, making him groan. “dad.”
“there we fuckin’ go.”
and with that, he buries himself to the hilt inside of you. the suddenness of it is enough to make you cry out loudly, your hands flying from the sheets to his bare shoulders. your face burns from shame of how loud you’re being– and yet, he just laughs softly, tutting at your inability to not alert everyone in the house of what’s going on.
he’s now got one hand on your waist and the other on the pillow next to your head– every now and then, as you painfully attempt to adjust to him– his thumb trapping loose strands of your hair under it as he waits. but no matter how close he is to you, it’s never enough. he could cut you open, carve out your insides and live in you, and yet, it still wouldn’t be enough.
it’s never fucking enough.
you shift backwards a little, like a dog that’s been kicked, but you don’t go far– not with how tight dean’s hand holds you in place. “where you tryin’ to run off to, huh? thought you needed dad to take care of your problem,” he mutters as he pokes and prods at your swollen clit. “guessin’ she needs some extra attention from me; been neglectin’ her f’too long..” his voice is all tight and restrained. you can tell that he’s resisting hard to fight the itch that must be scratched; to satiate that carnal desire that keeps him feeding on your sensuality. and yet, all you can do avert your gaze from him.
he doesn’t seem to pick up on your sudden remorse. well– maybe he does, but dean winchester is not synonymous with “feelings”.
instead, he immediately gets to rutting into your cunt, breathing hard against your mouth with each pump. the taste of blood and war-torn violence hasn’t been lost on you– even if this isn’t the typical manner in why he fucks you like a starevd animal. and within seconds you’re basically crying from the overwhelming adrenaline of a stuffed hole and the sickening urge for him to be close.. in more ways than one.
“finally got you to pipe down, didn’t i?” he asks, each word enunciated by a thrust into you. he pulls away from your mouth and presses his forehead to your collarbone. you can feel his sweat pass from him to you, tainting you with the anger that blooms throughout his body. “got– fuck– more ways than one of shuttin’ you up. maybe we should try ‘em out?”
if violence can be passed via osmosis, you might just be the first victim.
you’re whining (even with dean’s hand now over your mouth) and thrashing, basically deaf to any and all words that fall from his mouth and bury deep into your brain. they find their way into the grey matter, corrupt something docile and baby pink, morph into an ugly grey; dead and meaningless. all the while, he still slam into each time he pulls back. the air around you becomes permeating with the animalistic scent of sex and bodily fluids, the squelching noises of your drooling cunt making it worse tenfold.
the sound of skin against skin sings as dean’s pelvis meets your ass, along with his hand on the pillow now tugs harshly on your hair. and all he has to do to, in order for you to sing his praises, is bury his cock deep inside of you, tease and taunt you like he’s trying to dumb you down and make you forget about any sense of humanity you once had. and it works.
“fuckin’ wanted this all along, didn’t you? just– just couldn’t ask me f’it, though, could you?” it’s always the rhetoricals that get you; make your brain all fuzzy, and make him laugh at you because you must be so fucking stupid to him. always. and then, like he remembers that he needs to reward you for being such a good girl for him, “god– never fuckin’ leavin’ you again, sweetheart. never gonna find anyone else like you, am i?”
you can feel the sheets beneath you grow sticker with each thrust, his cock basically being sucked into you with little to no resistant– thanks to how wet you are– as tears freefall down your face and your babbling gets reduced to nothing worthy of substance. your hands tighten around one another, slipping here and there from how sweaty they are, as you keep dean as close to you as you possibly can.
“never– never!” you reply, shaking your head eagerly as you agree to.. whatever dean asked. you didn’t pick up on it– not when he’s balls-deep in your drooling hole, his body hanging over you like he wants to keep you trapped there for life. your abdomen tightens and seizes in that way it does when you’re close to orgasm, and you bury your face in your chest as it comes closer and closer.
one of his hands crawls up your spine, fingers brushing the skin– and ends up harshly yanking on your hair, pulling your head back. “hey, hey– ‘m not havin’ my girl shy away from me,” he spits at you, ignoring how apologies bleed from your mouth like they’re nothing. “you’ve been wantin’ me all night, haven’t you? and i don’t plan on lettin’ you go that easily, kid.”
it almost scares you how easily he can say these things to you. not worry about the repercussions, like how his words fester in your brain. how you manage to fool yourself into meaning any of it. how you stay stuck under him– his thumb, his touch, his everything– trailing after him like a lost puppy and craving his attention. and all the while, as you ruminate on a life that will never happen, he still fucks himself into your gaping cunt, pushing himself deeper and deeper.
your throat clenches in rhythm with your hole. your heartbeat pulses in time with your clit. your body is so suddenly attentive to every little thing that it physically hurts. all you can focus on is no longer the sex, but that aching void of want; that feral desire to be wanted threatening to consume you whole.
it’s enough to snap you out of the delusional nightmare you walk in.
the way you breathe out dean’s name, in that aching and restless way of yours, borders on something a lot like panic. it probably is panic, and for a second or so, he doesn’t pick up on it; bottoms out in you with each thrust, his fat cock scraping your walls every time he pushes in or pulls back. you’ve stopped making your pathetic noises entirely, as your emotional state takes centre stage, and all you want is out.
“dean–” you start, but find a small wince slipping out. “dean, please–”
“what, not good enough f’you?” it’s clear that he thinks you’re simply begging for more, to which he gives you; his mouth on your throat and as he sinks his teeth in, his hand on your waist digging into your flesh and opening up a cut he gave you a couple of weeks back. you can feel the blood begin to ooze out as you try and fight against his pumping, which starts to lose rhythm. “c’mon, y’know i gotta do the best for my girl–”
“please, stop–”
and, thankfully, this gets across to him.
he stops moving inside of you almost at once, pulling his face away from your throat. through blurred vision, his concerned eyes sear into you, trying to work out why you’re suddenly acting like this. but you can’t bring yourself to look at him; just stare at his throat. it’s easier like this.
“hey, hey, hey,” dean reassures you, hand letting go of your hair and now stroking your face. you’re not sure where the one he was scratching you with just a minute has gone, but you can still feel the blood. the heavy, iron scent that permeates the air. you want to choke. “what’s goin’ on, sweetheart? c’mon, y’know you have to talk to me about these things.”
“i can’t do it,” is all you give him.
there’s a beat.
he frowns lightly, and even in the low light, he’s never looked prettier. it makes you sick to think about how much you love him. “what d’you mean? what– what does that mean?”
“i can’t do it– this. it’s just– fuck–” you press your hand to your mouth a second, waiting for your brain to organise its thoughts and get them out in a correct, big girl manner. you’re not going to make a fool of yourself now. “you say all this shit to me, about how i’m the best and you’ll never leave me, but you never mean any of it, do you? just come and fuck me when you please, because nobody else will? is that what it is?”
it’s mean of you, and you know it. you’ve always been someone sweet, someone who can soften sharpened edges; like dean’s. and this is anything but.
he’d never made you any promises– not real ones, anyway. so what this is, is you letting you invented fantasies and perverted dreams of him get the better of you. that you’re so desperate for something with him– this man, a hunter, who’d rather be with you in glimpses and fleeting moments; times when he only needs you because he needs you– that you’re willing to turn everything around that he’s ever said, and aim it back at him like a nuclear weapon.
and, after a beat, he snaps.
“what did you think this was?” there’s no anger to it, nor pessimism or irritation. if anything, it’s passive. like you’ve been the one in control this entire time. he pulls his dick from you entirely, and you grimace slightly at the feeling of warm cum seeping out. “‘cause, kid– from where i’m standin’, this was just a simple fuck here and there. nothin’ else.”
nothing else.
it’s been apparent from the start that this relationship would be a problem– if lonesome feelings grew, twisted and turned, and buried themselves into the dirt deeper. feelings that should’ve been a thing, and yet, they are.
and it was stupid of you to be hanging around a man twenty or so years your senior; a man who fights and kills for a living, with no promise he’ll return home alive. a man who doesn’t deserve– want or need, more like– an angel like you.
“so, why would you tell me all those things? why?” your voice strained as you attempt to ignore the ache in your throat. you’re not going to cry. no. those tears, ones that prick at the corners of your eyes and threaten to make an appearance in your vulnerable, stupid state. but you won’t allow them to fall; you will save these for the private affair in which you mourn the loss of dean’s warmth. and dean in general. “why would you tell me how much you love me when you fuck me, just to not have it mean anything? why would you do that to me, dean?”
he’s more controlled with his feelings than you are. then again, did he ever have any feelings towards you at all? “why would you think that, sweetheart? i– look, the last thing that i wanna do is play around with your feelings, and i thought i was pretty fuckin’ clear from the start what this was.”
you merely stare at him, wondering where this “clear from the start,” bullshit he sprouts is. wonder why he suddenly backtracks all the compliments, the sly innuendos, the praise– oh, the fucking praise– that you spent night after night replaying in your head, rutting into your sheets because you needed him so badly. only for it all to be a lie.
hell, he could’ve created an nda for you, written out a contract that told you that you must never, never, let your heart get so involved. and yet, your own silly fantasies would still get the better of you.
“kid, this was never goin’ to be somethin’ serious. you’re a good girl an’ all, but..”
and you know the truth. the problem lies with you, and dean, and everything else about this arrangement. because you know how it ends; either you drink the poison and accept that you’re nothing more to him than a “simple fuck,” or you keep letting him smash your heart to bits and pieces.
nothing meant anything, ever.
“then get the fuck out of here,” you demand. and when dean doesn’t move, just stares down at you with those exhausted eyes and a solemnly pleading expression, you snap, “go! now! get the fuck out of here!”
your voice cracks, much like your heart, as you lash out at the man that you thought you could love forever. it was silly, delusional, to think like that.
dean slowly backs away from you, and off of the bed. it’s not that usual slowness– the one he weaponises against you before he ruts into your dripping cunt and buries his cum there. rather, it’s like he’s hesitant to leave you, in case you act impulsively in his absence. because your delusional fantasies have all crashed down on you, burying you alive, and leaving you is going to hurt him as much as it hurts you.
it’s like he’s scared.
“if that’s what you really want, kid.. then, fine.” he’s dressing now, not paying you any attention. just focuses on himself, gathering his underwear and sticky jeans– your arousal is staining the crotch area, and something you can’t satisfy anymore aches deep within you– and you wrap your arms around your legs, hugging your knees.
the silence ensnares you in its teeth, holding you there as you’re forced to watch dean leave your room as silently as he entered. like he was never there. and you’re only spat out by the silence when you’re well and truly alone. thrusted into the cold, wet sheets of a memory already long forgotten.
as soon as he’s gone, you curl in on yourself, body wracked with sobs. you feel stupid– not only for believing in something could come of a silly, puppy-love affair, but also letting him go. ruining something so beautiful. because you had wanted something more. something concrete and everlasting; that defined the love you had for a man twenty years older than you and a penchant for promising you his death before his love.
so. you don’t remember how this began, but now? now, you know how it ends.
with your heart ripped from your fucking chest by one dean winchester.
Older Professor!Sam who tutors one of his students at her house and is so mean about it because he knows better about everything, including what her body wants (yes I’m thinking about soulless Sam). He’s older and bigger and is such a munch that he’ll eat his seed from between your legs without asking
sam winchester who starts off by taunting you for being so stupid about not knowing anything?? and then resorting to more.. harsher punishments for your stupidity?
it's unnerving for you– sam, with those puppy eyes and soft expression, and yet all his words pouring like pestilence into your ear as you find yourself absentmindedly nodding to everything he asks of you. you haven't seen him in a while– busy with work, or something along those lines– and somehow, he seems smarter, prettier, bigger, than when you saw him last. and when you find his body towering over yours, his large hands finding the band of your panties and dipping in, you know you're in trouble..
"just going to help you learn a few things, that's all," is what he claims, as he roughs rubs rough circles on your clit, stopping when you get an answer wrong. simply tutting and shaking his head when you beg for him to keep going; that you can get it right. "oh, i'm sorry– didn't realise you were the one in charge here. you want me to leave, so you can sort yourself out?"
you're not going to say "no" to that.
"yeah, going to do what i asked of you?" and he's so mean; burying his cock as deep as he possibly can in you, cooing at your when you get all flustered and upset about how hard he's rutting into you. you feel so dumb and frustrated at being unable to answer any of the questions asks you, but immediately start to soften when he gives you an ultimatum. "because if you can, be a good girl for me and all, maybe i'll reward you, yeah? maybe sort out that other problem you've got between your thighs?"
I need a soldier boy x reader girl where she works for playboy bunny and he was given a free trial of magazines and exclusive photos of her making him wanna meet her and decided to knock her up. Please
Ngl I’m going through a wheel system and see which requests I send out ≽^• ˕ •^≼
so I kinda went in a dark direction and got carried away in general lmao sorry hope thats okay and you enjoy anyways! xoxoxo
cw: Smut 18+. DEAD DOVE dark!soldier boy. non-con/dub-con. age gap. breeding kink. p in v sex. creampie. hair pulling. degradation. sexism. he makes you wear the ears. not proofread🫁
When Soldier Boy is freed from the chamber, he seeks out the luxuries he adored before. His collection of Playboy magazines immediately came to mind.
Except now this shit is so fucking expensive compared to before. He reluctantly buys the most exclusive membership possible. It's not fair he can't jerk off to the beauties with big smiles and pretty pink pussies for free, like a goddamn American Hero should. He should go and find wherever their limp dick CEO stays and wring his neck until the company is just offered to him. He'd make Hugh Hefner look like a choir boy.
He doesn't really like online porn, and not because technology isn't his strong suit yet. That shit is tasteless, a real man flips through a catalogue instead of "scrolling" or whatever. It's more dignified. At least to him anyways.
He's got the magazine in one hand and his cock in the other. It's long and thick, with a pretty rosy tip and a vein running along the base. The untrimmed mess of hair is already sticky with his cum after the first batch of pages. Then he reaches the glorious prize in the middle, you, the centerfold.
He carefully unfurls the page and feels the wind knocked out of him when he can make out your body. You're completely bare lounging back on a plush purple loveseat. You hold a lit cigarette between your lips and a lighter in your right hand. A seductive gaze in your eyes as you look right at the suckers with their dicks in their hands at home.
Ben cums the fastest with you. He imagines stuffing his cock past those perfectly lined lips of yours, and it reminds him of what else came with the magazine; exclusive photos of this issues centerfold. He wastes no time searching for the extra 5 photos ; they all feature you in various positions with different body parts being the main focus. An ice cream cone drips down your tits, or you're bent over the hood of a police car ass on full display, hands locked behind your back with cuffs. He falls deeper in love with with each photo, and he becomes hell-bent on how to reach you.
Within a few minuets he finds your full name and address. Besides modeling in this years shoot, you seem like you live a normal life here in the city. He finds that you and a few other Playmates will be attending some sleazy rich guy penthouse party tonight. Imagining you in that ridiculous outfit parading around the room serving drinks like some show pony makes him sick to his stomach. You're so beautiful, so sweet looking. Someone like you should be welcoming him home every night with dinner and a handy. Someone like you should be bred to have his super-babies. You'd do whatever he says because you love it, because you respect the honor of being with the Soldier Boy.
Strolling into the luxurious home was too easy, I mean he assumed there'd be a guest list and there was, but he gets what he wants and that's not his fault. He's immediately greeted by the blonde from pages 6-10, shocked from his presence. She goes on about how she wasn't expecting him and she's sooo glad because this party wouldn't be as fun without him. He does his normal sweet talking before asking where you are. She frowns before pointing you out in the crowd ; you're chatting up bald creep, a beaming smile across your face.
He gives a quick thank you to The Blonde before sauntering in your direction. You turn towards the bar when you notice his tall frame in your peripheral. He cuts in front of you and you gasp. "Soldier Boy?" you ask in disbelief "What the hell-"
He cuts you off quickly "Please, call me Ben- God you don't know how long I've been looking for you sweetheart." he confidently states as he holds his hand our for you to shake. Your brows raise at that, but you take his hand anyways. "A big fan I presume?" you cheekily question. He chuckles as he brings your hand to his lips for a soft kiss, "I'm your biggest fan honey."
Now you're pressed against the door of a random bedroom with his lips attacking yours and his hands glued to your hips. It only took a few more compliments before you became a blushing mess and lead him away from the crowd. So so easy, he thought. Any girl who poses naked must have this inherent slutty side that makes their brains just shut off for some dick.
"God you're fuckin perfect y'know that?" he chuckles into your neck. The sensation sends a chill throughout your body. "I must be dreaming hearing you say that" you smile. You're pulled back to reality when you hear the clink of his belt unbuckling.
Things got too carried away. You straighten up and slightly push him off you. "Hey um- I gotta get back to work" you nervously laugh. "But we can always finish this another time."
You turn to leave when he reaches for your shoulder. "You're gonna leave me here all by myself?" he pouts. You politely smile while your gut twists in dread. His voice is sweet but his eyes are cold, and his grip on you has only tightened. "Look this was really fun but I don't fuck fans." you laugh. "If I did I'd be too busy to do anything else". You tear your shoulder from his grasp and make your way towards the door again.
With heavy steps he reaches the door before you, blocking it with his tall body. "Sweetheart I paid good money to see that pussy of yours" he states plainly. "And you know what I thought of when I had my dick in my hand?" You stay frozen in place, trying to comprehend the situation you got yourself into. You quietly shake your head no.
"I thought to myself, why a beautiful girl like you would even be doing something like that in the first place? Back in my day you'd be married with a kid in that belly of yours." He points to your stomach that's far past being filled with butterflies. Those have shriveled up and turned to dust. Something else floats around, biting and stabbing at your insides.
"Well it's been a long time since you've graced us all with your presence, things have changed" you attempt to sound unafraid and in command, but your voice breaks. "I don't need a husband or a baby I'm super happy on my own now if you would just let me go-"
You're cut off by your hair being yanked back, forced to stare up at him. The grip he has on your scalp makes you yell in pain.
"Are you fucking deaf or just plain stupid?" he roars in your face. "You're lucky enough to get an opportunity like this and you're gonna waste it? huh?". The pain from your head and the anger in his voice trigger tears to well in your eyes. In any other circumstance you'd be overjoyed to sleep with Soldier Boy. It's like a fantasy you'd fall asleep to back in high school ; he's the knight and you're the locked away princess. This must be sick joke from the universe. Still, you try to ignore the blooming warmth between your thighs at his rough touch.
"I'll scream and you'll get locked up, you fucking psycho!" you sob as you attempt to escape his grasp.
"You do that I break this thick fuckin skull."
You drop your head to cry, the tears now streaming down your face without abandon. You look up at him pleadingly. "Okay well, w-what do you want?" you stutter as you try to wipe your cheeks.
He release your hair and steps away to finish undressing. "Well right now I want you to take that cute ass of yours and strip, but keep those ears on." You immediately obey, afraid his threat can be used against any act of defiance you try. He lays on the bed with his hands crossed behind his back, utterly relaxed, happy even.
"Now come here and bounce on my cock like a cute little bunny."
With wobbly legs you make your way towards him, fixing the crookedness of your bunny ears. You straddle his lap and his hand grabs your face smushing your cheeks together. "Be a big girl and put it in yourself".
Your mascara-stained face burns in shame as you reach for his cock and line it up with your embarrassingly wet pussy. He tuts mockingly at your arousal. "All that whinin and fightin' me for what? You fuckin love this" he emphasizes with a harsh slap to your tits. You ignore his taunting and began to slide down on his cock but the stretch of him is too much ; he's too big and too deep.
"It hurts, I- I cant". you plead. He looks at you with annoyance. "You can and you will, doll" he grabs your hips and slams you down on his cock. The intrusion makes you scream as more tears begin to fall down your face. You stay still for a second and with shaky breaths begin to slide all the way up and down.
It takes a few tries but soon enough you're bouncing with ease, the slick from your cunt making loud squelching noises that make you hate yourself. Ben groans in pleasure, eyes fixated on the way your tiny pussy swallows up his cock. "God this pussy is better than I imagined, can't wait to take you home with me."
You accidently let a moan slip at his words. Your bounces slow down and begin to falter. "I knew you'd want it baby" he coos as his hands travel down to grip your ass. "Gonna take you home and stuff this sweet cunt full of my cum all night." He takes control now and begins to violently thrust upwards.
Your pained moans turn into drawn out ones of euphoria. You tried so hard not to let the burning feeling of pleasure take over, but you just can't help it.
"F-fuck yes, breed me, please" you hiccup.
He groans at that. "Gonna make me a daddy? yeah?" His thrusts grow more frantic as he uses you like a limp fuck doll. You nod violently, too fucked out and dumb to think straight. "yes m'gonna give you a baby- oh my god." Your body starts to writhe in his grasp from your approaching orgasm. You felt like your body was betraying your mind. but now it feels wrong to deny yourself this pleasure. It makes you sick.
"All it took was some dick to make you wise up huh? gonna be my wife now?" he taunts, his tip hitting that sweet spot in your cunt. "Of course you are, you were made to do whatever the fuck I wanted."
His words make you cum hard ; you fall onto his chest and grip his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh. Your pussy convulses around his cock as you let out a cry. He keeps fucking you through it, the intensity becoming too painful.
"Ow, please- stop", you slur. He snickers at your request. "Sure doll, soon as I'm done." He flips you over and hikes your ass into the air, slamming you onto his dick again. You scream into the sheets at his brutality ; you can feel his cock deep inside your stomach, it's painful and humiliating.
You turn into a drooling, whining, cock-drunk mess beneath him. He pounds into mercilessly and soon his thrusts become sloppy as he chases his own high.
"Tell me you want daddy to breed you, fuck- say it baby" he grumbles. When you stutter on your words he slaps your ass violently. "Fucking say it you whore.
"Please, p-please breed me, fill me up- wanna be a mommy, gonna make you s-so happy daddy!" you mindlessly ramble. He yells a booming "fuck!" as he spills into you. You feel your inside become warm with his seed overflowing deep into your womb.
He yanks your bunny ears off and throws them on the floor before collapsing next to you. You let yourself fall onto the bed, the post orgasm haze that was numbing the pain is now gone. You slowly sit up and feel the ache inside. There's silence.
"Get your things honey. We gotta make sure it takes. Want you pregnant by tomorrow night."
Warnings: nsfw, no outbreak au, age gap, older reader (early 30s), sw
part 5
Summary: Your next shift at the club can't come fast enough. Did Leon keep his mouth shut?
word count: 2.8k
Masterlist
You took a deep breath, bracing yourself, both feet planted firmly onto the ground. You were a soldier. You could do this. You had done it many times before. This one wasn’t any different.
Why you had ended up in this situation in the first place? Against better judgement no less? Excellent question, you were going to bring that up with upper management next time you had a chance.
You let go and winced, hearing the trickle in the ceramic bowl.
“Are you okay in there?” Crystal asked through the door of the bathroom stall.
You drew in a sharp breath. Razorblades, liquid fire passing through your urethra. “No, I haven’t gotten any antibiotics yet.”
Crystal sighed. “Does it hurt enough to make you stop hooking up with a twenty-one year old?”
“I’m not hooking up with him, I hooked up with him once,” you hissed, pulling your underwear back up.
Crystal chuckled. “Once? I thought you did the dirty like a hundred times because of his god given stamina?”
You stepped out of the stall. “Not that many.”
“Enough times to give you a UTI from hell.” Crystal followed you to the sink and you washed your hands. “I know you’re texting him.”
“I’m not texting him,” you lied, a small blush creeping into your cheeks.
“Your phone is buzzing more than my vibrator,” Crystal huffed.
“That’s my mom.”
Crystal raised an eyebrow at you in the mirror. “You don’t talk to your mom.”
You opened your mouth, trying to make up a better lie.
Crystal shook her head. “Well whatever you do, pee after sex, girl. I’m begging you.”
She didn’t have to tell you that. You weren’t going to make peeing razorblades a habit. Just like you weren’t going to make sleeping with the rookie a habit.
Even though Leon was very sweet. He texted you in the morning before he went to work. A message you usually opened around noon, when you woke up for the day. On your days off, at night, you talked to each other on the phone until you fell asleep.
Well, for the past two days you had. It wasn’t like this was a long term thing. Or was ever going to be. You had to figure out a way to let him down gently eventually, but for now, might as well enjoy it, right? You felt a little like you had gotten your early twenties self back through him. Like you were in the queue for tickets to a Nirvana concert and you were living in Seattle.
But you lived in Raccoon City and you weren’t in your early twenties anymore. In fact, you were quite a long ways from your early twenties.
You adjusted the straps on your stripper attire. Today you were wearing a particularly risky little number. All straps and naked skin in between. Perfect for a Friday to make most of your income for the week.
Your first dance certainly had been a success. You had gotten a lot of tips. You also spotted Brian out there somewhere, looking at you from behind the curtain of dollar bills as they rained down on you.
Now that the razorblades were done you were ready to seek him out and get your first private dance secured. The earlier you gave him one, the likelier he was to come back for seconds later. Successful stripping was all strategy and timing. Skill was important, sure. But understanding the hustle got you paid more than the average girl.
“Hey, hot stuff,” Brian greeted you as you approached him.
“I’ve been looking for you.” you purred.
His eyebrows shot up and he got the hundred dollar bill out of his pocket so fast, you didn’t even have time to blink.
You bit back a smile and took it from him. “So generous,” you whispered into his ear, a strategic hand placed on his hard chest. Brian liked the idea of being the one guy that afforded your lifestyle. That didn’t even come close but you wouldn’t tell him that. Fantasy was everything. Creating it was one part of your core skill set.
The other part of your core skillset was being more flexible than any of them had ever seen outside the club. It made their imagination run wild.
“You know, I need to ask you something,” Brian murmured, as you shook your ass close enough to his face that he could take a bite out of it if he weren't restricted by club rules.
“Go ahead,” you said, your head somewhere close to your calves.
“Did you lie to me about your side business because I’m a cop or because you don’t trust me as a person?”
You wrinkled your forehead, coming back up and sitting on his lap. “I don’t follow.”
“The clients you see ‘off the books’ so to speak. Did you not offer it to me because you think being the sergeant I would report you or is it because it’s personal?”
You chuckled. Not the prostitution talk again. This was so boring. “What clients do I see ‘off the books’?”
“The rookie for one.”
Your movements stuttered for a second, but not that Brian would notice. He was clearly preoccupied with one of your nipples slipping out between the straps.
“What rookie?” You shrugged softly, palming your tits, as you rolled your hips over his half-hard cock.
“Lola, come on. As if a woman like you would have sex with a dork like that for free,” he pressed, clearly distracted by your body.
“See, so I obviously didn’t sleep with him, Brian baby.” You held onto his shoulders and put a little more effort into it to end this conversation.
“That’s not what he says,” he murmured and your face fell. You turned away from Brian so he wouldn’t notice. What the fuck. So he did talk? Like Crystal predicted.
No, he wasn’t like that. That was so unlike him. That was locker room talk in the RPD. Someone’s imagination was a little too vivid.
You scoffed, pursing your lips. “And you believe him but not me? Disappointing.” You playfully ran a finger along the collar of his shirt. He was still in uniform. “Besides, the rookie is Helena’s regular. Maybe he’s confusing me with her.”
“You were wearing his jacket when I saw you at the hardware store. Not Helena.” You stumbled in your movements again, a little more noticeable this time. “He’s parading around the office like he owns you, I hate it.” Brian looked at you with puppy eyes, which was a ridiculous sight to see on a middle aged police sergeant.
“Does he really?” you whispered and Brian squeezed his eyes shut.
“So it’s true then? Why don’t you trust me, Lola? I’ve known you for years.”
You shook your head, trying to defuse the situation. Brian clearly was having a lot more of an emotional investment in this than he should have.
“Brian, if I had a side business, you’d be the first to know about it,” you said, smiling at him, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Brian liked to feel special, maybe you could hook him with that.
“Really?” He asked, leaning in a little too close for comfort.
The timer going off saved you.
“Your time’s up, baby,” you crooned, climbing off him, clasping your shaky hands behind your back. This had been very uncomfortable. On so many levels.
Brian got up off the couch, reaching into his pants, adjusting his boner for comfort while your heart was nearly beating out of your chest. What did he mean the rookie was parading around the RPD like he owned you? There was no way you misread him like that.
You winked at Brian. “I’ll see you later. Okay, baby?”
Brian blew you a kiss and you felt a little sick. On top of that you felt the need to pee again, knowing full well barely anything would come out. The UTI was a constant reminder of your stupidity. Of course all the rookie wanted was fuck the stripper. This wasn’t about you.
You leaned against your locker, breathing out, remembering how you had told Crystal that the power imbalance between you and Leon with him being a cop wouldn’t be flipped just because you were playing with him for one night. You had played with him for two now.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You opened your locker and grabbed your make up to touch up. Your phone buzzed. A new text.
Have a great shift.
From Leon. Of course.
Another one.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
Another.
Does Guinevere like strawberries?
You smiled.
She does. So do I, you typed back, biting back a grin and putting your phone back into your bag. He wasn’t like that. A guy that checked in to see if your guinea pig liked strawberries? No way was he talking. Brian probably just put two and two together about the jacket.
After touching up your make up, you went back out on the hunt, but not without stopping by the bar.
“Do you have Cranberry juice?” you asked Crystal.
“We have cosmopolitans?” Crystal yelled over the music.
You pressed your lips together. “You know what, sure. Give me a cosmo.”
“That’s terrible for a UTI,” Crystal warned but you smiled at her.
“I know.” You needed something a little stronger to shake off the encounter you just had with Brian. A little something to take the edge off.
“Why are you looking at rats on company time?”
Lieutenant Branagh’s words rang in his ears long after his shift at the RPD was over. He had explained to him that they weren’t rats and that in fact, guinea pigs were the one rodent species with the single most refined verbal communication system. They were so community oriented that it was actually illegal to keep them by themselves in some countries.
“Really?” Branagh had asked. “That is fascinating. As is the report I asked you to complete about two hours ago.”
Leon had jumped and frantically searched for the correct stack of papers, much to Brian’s amusement, who snickered at him from across the room.
He was absolutely cooked. He didn’t care if he was your favourite toy. After feeling the snug, warm fit of your pussy around his cock, he was absolutely done for. He would be on his knees, begging for more if he had to. He had never met anyone like you.
Walking through the door of the apartment, the unmistakable smell of weed hit him square in the face.
“Hey, hermano. Qué pasa?” his roommate greeted him.
Leon coughed. “Would you not open a window? There’s no oxygen in here.”
“That’s kinda the appeal,” Luis said, taking another hit from his bong.
Leon raised an eyebrow at him, slipping off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket. “What? Hotboxing our entire apartment?”
Luis grinned. “Yes.”
Leon cracked open a window regardless.
“Do you wanna go out tonight?” Luis leaned over the backrest of the cream coloured couch. “The girls from the Alpha Kappa Delta sorority are throwing a party.”
Leon lifted a slice of pizza from the carton on the kitchen counter, figuring out if it was fresh or not. “What does that even mean? Do you know what that means?”
“It means they’re really hot,” Luis countered. “And I need a wingman.”
Leon stared at him. “You need to write your dissertation and not hang out with undergrad sorority girls whose papers you’re grading.”
Luis clicked his tongue. “You’re such a cop sometimes, you know.”
Leon rolled his eyes and shook his head, throwing the slice of pizza onto a plate and plopping down on the couch next to Luis.
“I did laundry today,” he said.
Leon chuckled. “Congratulations?”
A cheeky grin split Luis’ face straight in half. “But of course because you left your clothes in the dryer, I had to take them out to use it. And when I did, I found this.”
Luis held up a delicate lace thong, measuring exactly two square inches of surface area in line with regulations for all strip clubs in the country. Leon flinched and frantically snatched it from his grasp.
“I assume it’s not you wearing that.” His gaze dropped down to Leon’s crotch. “Unless I severely misjudged your character when we met on craigslist.”
A blush crept into Leon’s cheeks, your underwear still clutched in his fist.
“I mean, not that it would be a problem if you did. You yanquis are way too uptight.” He tapped his hand on the backrest of the couch, waiting for Leon to spill the beans. “On top of that, I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t come home the other night. Like at all. I was worried sick. Tried to stay up. You can’t do that to me, Leon. I was so tired in class all day. I could hardly concentrate. That’s how worried I was.”
Leon sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Okay, I met someone. She’s really nice.”
Luis chuckled. “Nice girls don’t wear underwear like that. Trust me, I know.”
Leon’s brows knitted together. “You know what, that's kinda offensive actually. And yes they do.”
Luis prepared his bong for another hit. “Alright, how did you meet her?”
Leon opened his mouth, trying to come up with something that wasn’t ‘during a lap dance that my superior paid for’. “At the club.”
Luis shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut in amusement. “You don’t go to the club.”
“Well, that one time I went, I met her.” Leon shrugged, thinking this conversation was over.
“So what’s she like?” Luis kept asking.
“She’s…” Leon paused, trying to come up with words that adequately described you. “Really kind. I don’t think she thinks she is. She puts on this whole façade, but she fosters guinea pigs. You know, the rodents? And when they’re sick, she has this little inhaler that she puts in front of them so their airways clear up?”
Luis looked at Leon, deadpan.
“And she’s so talented, my god,” Leon went on, waxing fucking lyrical about you.
“I bet she is,” Luis said, smirking
“That’s not what I mean,” Leon scrambled. “I mean, yes the sex was amazing. I think my soul left my body for a second but I mean her dancing. When she gets up on the pole, it’s like the world stops and everybody is under her spell.”
Luis coughed. “The pole?”
Leon grimaced, avoiding his gaze.
“Are you fucking a stripper? Holy shit.” He broke into a whole coughing fit. “Leon, that is, wow, that is quite something. Wait, she’s not charging you extra, is she? For, you know?”
Leon chewed on his lower lip. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Luis held up his hands in defense. “Hey, again with the uptight yanqui. Oldest trade in the world. There’s no shame in it. Just want to make sure you’re not reading more into this than it actually is.”
“She’s not charging me,” Leon hissed.
Luis nodded, taking another hit from his bong. “Can I meet her?” he asked nasally through the smoke.
“We’re not quite in the ‘let’s get to know people in each other’s lives’ stage,” Leon said, getting up to get another slice of pizza.
"I see." Luis nodded, clicked his fingers and whipped around. "Can you ask her if she's available for dances outside of the club?"
Leon grimaced. “What? No, what am I? Her pimp?”
“I'm just thinking, if we showed up to a college party with a bunch of strippers, all the girls would flock to us. Come on, you have to take advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity.”
Leon sighed. “I have no desire to impress college girls, Luis. And I don't want this to be a once in a lifetime opportunity actually," he murmured, a lot quieter.
Luis held his right hand up to his heart. “Should I prepare my best man speech now or can that wait until next week? I have a paper due.”
Leon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who the hell let you into grad school, Luis? I'm being so serious.”
Luis flashed him a pearly white smile. “Dr. Luis.”
"You don't have your PhD yet. You're not even close." Leon huffed.
"And you don't have your stripper girlfriend yet. You're not even close."
As much as Leon hated to admit it, Luis was right for once in his life.
Synopsis: After returning to Raccoon City nearly 30 years after its destruction, Leon comes to the rubble of your workplace. Within it, he finds the walking remnants of you, his lover from 28 years ago.
Ship(s): Rookie!Leon & Requiem!Leon x girlfriend! medical student! reader (slight canon divergence, Leon was not late on his first day because of a breakup)
Theme(s): Angst, hurt with NO comfort, story told through several flashbacks, people do dumb things in grief, inspired by "The Love You Left Behind" by Michael Schulte and "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane (blue denotes lyrics to the songs)
Content Warning(s): character death, some violence and potentially intense description of Leon putting down zombies, swearing, one mention of wanting to throw up, long because I'm insane, an unkissed brick, Leon cries again does that count?
Raccoon City didn’t look any smaller than it did 30 years ago. In fact, memory had a bad habit of making everything bigger- the Raccoon City in his mind had wider roads, skyscrapers reaching for the heavens. Now, though, everything had changed. Roads were littered with the rubble of those towering skyscrapers, decrepit and caved in like the roads that had once carried ordinary citizens to and from work, school, other activities of daily life.
The first Raccoon City in his mind had been one of neon and noise- life milling about as it did, a bustling city that he had once upon a time taken an oath to protect. Leon had joined the academy to see the lives of ordinary citizens safe, to ensure that the children in Raccoon City would be able to live lives without fear, without going through what he had in his own youth. But he had never gotten to see that version of the city in his dreams. Instead, his first day- once intended to be an initiation into the city’s police force- was one that would come to haunt his dreams for the foreseeable future. He no longer awoke from his slumber each night drenched in cold sweats, the visions of the B.O.W.s plaguing his dreams until he could no longer rest- those nights were fewer and more far between- but he could never quite erase it entirely from his memory. Quiet reminders of that night always lingered in the back of his mind, feeding the reminders that he couldn’t save anyone- not even himself.
September 30th, 1998. The end of Leon Kennedy’s beginning. Thirty years ago, he had run from this city with blood on his hands and a promise at his back, an understanding that he would never again see the Raccoon City he had been so adamant to protect. Now, it seemed, that promise had come back to collect.
Rubble crunched beneath his feet with every step he took, each footfall kicking up a cloud of dust and ash that burned his nose, filling his every sense with the fallout. As much as he reminded himself to focus on his mission, he couldn’t help but allow his mind to wander the slightest bit as he took in his surroundings. The gun shop in which he had met Mr. Kendo…and his daughter. An Italian restaurant he had once promised his partner that he would take them when they reunited in Raccoon CIty.
His heart ached, and he stopped in his tracks.
His partner.
He had met you when he was in the academy. Still a green, bright-eyed rookie who was all but enthralled by his upcoming assignment as soon as he graduated. You, at the same time, were set to arrive not long before he did, having finally been accepted into a medical school of your dreams and beginning your first clinicals at Raccoon City General.
“It’ll be perfect!” you had joyously exclaimed as you all but threw yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a hug as soon as you opened that acceptance letter. “I get to go to Raccoon City too! We won’t have to worry about long distance.” You were beaming that day, the elation of being matched into a program you loved and the dissipating worry of potentially having to navigate a long-distance relationship or worse, going your separate ways, had you glowing. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, absentmindedly nodding along to whatever it was that you had said. His hands had settled around your waist, lifting you off the ground in a hug, face buried in your neck as he inhaled the familiar scent of your perfume, the scent faint yet consuming all of his senses. The scent of home. “Yeah,” he had rasped, holding you tighter. “Yeah, we won’t. I knew you’d get in. If anyone could, it would be my brilliant, brilliant girl.”
He would get to build a home with you. It would be difficult, sure, navigating your respective lives in a new place. Medical school was difficult and sure to occupy a large portion of your time, not to mention your energy. He imagined the first years of your new beginning together would be slow, low-energy dates. Cuddling on the couch, watching the same trash movies you always talked him into watching whenever you were together. Falling asleep tangled in each others’ embrace, your head on his chest and dozing off to the gentle beating of his heart and your soft breathing in a cozy symphony.
He hadn’t thought about you in a while, he realized. At least, not consciously. He would never stop thinking about you, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. Even if his thoughts were not focused on you, as they often were not allowed to be due to the demands of his line of work, he realized that you were often in the back of his mind even in the little ways. Remembering your favorite flower whenever he’d seen one. Humming along to your favorite song as if it were second nature to him.
“Leon!” Your voice danced across his memory, and he turned his shoulders to follow the ghost of you in his mind, the same path you’d always traced through his apartment kitchen. “Come on, dance with me!” It was barely a request, already decided by the young woman in his space that he would be joining you whether he wanted to or not.
The sound of your playlist filled the kitchen quietly, a backdrop to the comfortable silence that had filled the space between you up until then as you cooked dinner together. Carbonara, you had insisted, was the perfect beginner meal to make together.
“I walked across an empty land. I knew the pathway like the back of my hand…”
“I don’t think that’s a good ide–!” You grabbed his hand before he could even finish the thought, spinning into his arms with a laugh as your arms came to drape around his shoulders. “Alright, alright, Princess. The ballroom floor is yours. But if I step on your toes, you can’t be mad at me.” He leaned down to press his forehead against yours, inhaling your presence as his hands settled on the dip of your waist.
There isn’t really space to dance. The kitchen is small, all he could afford reliably on what meager savings he’d put together while he was in the academy, but you made it work. You always did. His other hand found yours, intertwining your fingers together before he begins to sway. The rhythm is uneven at first as he found the rhythm to both the song and you.
“I’ll just… have to turn you into a frog, then!”
Leon laughed, blonde hair falling into his face as he shook his head. The singer’s voice has blended into the background by now, little more than background noise to all of his thoughts consumed by you, of this quiet moment within your own little world with him. Outside, the world continues- traffic rolls, time passes by- but here? Here, there is only this moment. Everything narrowed down to the now. The faint music, the feeling of your soft skin under his hand as his thumb brushed against your wrist the best he could manage without letting you go. His love pressed against his chest as he looked down to meet glimmering eyes he had all but fallen in love with the first time he’d seen them.
“There are worse things to be turned into,” he hummed. “But I could handle being a frog if it meant I still got kisses from you, Princess.” He spun you slowly, hand finding the dip of your spine as he brought you into a dip, his lips ghosting over yours faintly. “Just promise not to let me croak, okay, doc?”
You rolled your eyes, half-heartedly attempting to shove him away from you at his dumb joke. His grip did not falter, though, and he held you steady once again as he straightened you out once again, hands pulling you in once again for a proper kiss this time.
"This could be the end of everything, so why don’t we go somewhere only we know?”
His forehead met yours, eyes closed as he savored the moment with you. Slow dancing in the kitchen was almost a date night tradition for the two of you by now. It wasn’t planned, of course, but it was natural. Somewhere over the course of the night, you would find your way into each other’s arms, circling in the few spare feet of your own personal bubble.
He didn’t notice that the song was already over, too enthralled in appreciating the beauty in his arms, the heavy beating of his heart that grew ever stronger as every second passed with you in his embrace.
“Do you remember when you first heard this song? When you told me you didn’t like it?”
He listened to the lyrics for a few moments before a breathy laugh escaped him when recognition finally came to him.
"Maybe I'm hopeless, but I'm only human..."
“I hope that you know that I’d give it all for a moment with you,” Your voice, singing along to the familiar song brought him back to the present. He didn’t answer your question immediately, letting himself fall into a rhythm of dancing with you once again. He guides you across the floor of the kitchen, careful not to crash you into the dining room table as his movements got ever so bolder.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” His head nudged your own softly as he tucked you back into him. “I told you I didn’t get it.” You had carried this conversation on before the two of you were official, when he was still dancing around the desire to ask you to start going steady. Biweekly coffee dates, late night phone calls, flowers every time he saw you, yet no label. Denial was the label his friends had put on it for him- denial that he was actually developing feelings for a girl he knew that he may eventually have to leave behind if their fated courses were to diverge.
You looked up at him, eyes glimmering with warmth and chin resting on his chest. “And now?”
His lips found your forehead, lingering there for a few moments. “Now? Now, I get it.” He got you.
"These cold hands, this burning heart, will always be hollow without you.”
Holding you in his arms for a few more moments, he let himself simply appreciate the space you filled at his side. You’d picked him up after joining the academy, after the separation from his last partner. You’d been friends at first, but Leon’s hopeless heart had done little to stop the feelings that grew ever present more and more by the day. It wasn’t until you’d found yourself staying over at his place during a storm that those feelings came to light between the two of you.
“I love you,” he murmured in the comfortable silence, as if speaking it too loudly would shatter whatever this was. “Thank you…” His head dipped to bury in your neck.
“Le, what are you thanking me for?” The nickname slipped out so easily now. It filled him with warmth. It was short, simple, and barely a change from his name. But it was wholly, undeniably yours.
“For being here. For not leaving my sorry ass.”
Fingers finding his hair, you tugged on the soft blonde locks to get him to pull back and look at you. “Le, you don’t have to thank me for being your girlfriend. Really, it’s–”
“I mean it.” His hands gripped your waist again, bordering on painful. “I know this isn’t exactly the life fitting of a doctor. One bedroom apartment in the busiest part of the city. I can’t provide everything for you yet, not until I finish with the academy, but…I will. I promise.” He sounded almost like he was on the verge of tears. “I’ll get there. I’ll be able to give you everything you want. A ring, one worthy of the person who lit up my life like the brightest star in the sky. A house to raise our family in. Our future will be bright.”
Your hands found his face, your steps slowing until you stopped, just cradling his cheeks in your hands. “Leon Scott Kennedy-” Gods, hearing his name fall from your lips got him weak at the knees. For a brief moment, he imagined giving that name to you, dancing like this in a different scene. The blue sundress you currently wore longer, and white.
Maybe it was too early to pop that question- it definitely was- but your impending move to Raccoon CIty would be one step closer. You’d agreed to move in with him, sharing an apartment in the city that you would both start anew in together. You’d be going first since your clinical rotation started earlier than his assignment began, meeting the movers and ensuring everything was in place before he joined you about three weeks later.
One day. And he couldn’t wait.
He never made it to that apartment to meet with you. The last time he had seen you in person was the morning he said his temporary goodbye, sending you off with a chaste kiss and the promise to tell you all about his last weeks in the academy, about everything you had missed while you were separated. You had been unable to attend his ceremony, having fought tooth and nail to get an excuse from your clinical shift that week to no avail. You were left to hope that you would eventually see photos, sooner or later.
He wondered where you were these days. Every time he thought about you, fighting back the sharp pain that bloomed in his chest each time, he pictured your escape from the city, getting out and starting anew elsewhere. Had you moved on in the last 30 years? Gotten married, started a family with someone else? He’d always imagined that the two of you would have a daughter together, a miniature version of you that he would get to watch grow up into the same type of intelligent, resilient woman that had raised her. Elena. It was the name that came to mind every time he’d had the thoughts. Bright light, to accompany the nickname he had given you, his Golden Girl. You were his sunlight, the bright warmth that greeted him at the beginning of every day, and the light that shone upon him at the beginning of every dark night he spent weathering through night terrors.
Light streamed through the window of his bedroom, bathing the both of you in a warm gentle light as the sun crested the horizon to greet the world and guide it through a new day.
Rolling over onto his stomach, Leon was lured closer by a familiar weight to his left. Reaching out to wrap an arm around your waist, he pulled you to him, his chest finding your back as he buried his face in your neck. “Good morning,” he mumbled, tucking you securely into his grasp with a sense of finality, closing his eyes again with the full intention of going back to sleep holding you. “Not time to get up yet. Go back to sleep.”
He was successful for a short while, letting himself doze off again when your contented sigh made way for the sound of your rhythmic breathing only a few minutes later. He wondered if you were ever truly lucid, or simply half-awake when he’d slid you closer. You only stayed asleep for another half hour before your eyes fluttered open and the cruel state of consciousness fell upon you.
Groaning lightly, you moved to sit up in bed, only to be stilled by Leon’s arms resolutely holding you in place. A soft laugh escaped you and you settled back into his grasp, slowly turning over to face him. He wasn’t quite awake yet, affording you a few minutes to simply observe his sleeping features. He was so peaceful like this, face relaxed with the soft embrace of slumber. His nose twitched every so often as a strand of his hair brushed against his face, and a smile grew upon your features as you reached out to brush it back to protect his peace.
A larger hand caught your own as Leon pressed your palm to his cheek for a moment before turning his head to press his lips against your palm, eyes still closed. He lingered for a few moments before his attention was on you once again, baby blue eyes meeting your own. He settled his head back into the pillow, but not before leaning forward to press his lips to yours, something he had once promised you would always be the first thing he did in the morning. “Morning, gorgeous,” he greeted, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Sleep well?”
You propped yourself up on an elbow beside him, your other hand idly moving to begin tracing patterns on his bare shoulder. “I always do when I’m with you,” you hummed. “You want breakfast, or do you want to stay here a little bit longer? You gotta go in today?”
He shook his head. “Nope, not today. Come here, you.” Reaching out as soon as he sat up to lean against the headboard, he pulled you back to his chest until he had your weight against his shoulder. “No plans for today, either. Do I get a day to do nothing but spend time with my golden girl?” His lips pressed against your shoulder where it peeked from the collar of the t-shirt you had stolen from his dresser to sleep in. “Breakfast can wait.”
Tipping your head upward, you observed your boyfriend, warmth growing in your chest. He really had grown into himself more throughout the course of your relationship, namely with showing affection to you. You had to hold back a laugh at the memory of him turning your favorite plushies around before he would even kiss you for the first time.
“They can’t watch that kind of debauchery!” he had exclaimed then, much to your chagrin, before you pulled him into you, his face flushed pink and breathless in the aftermath.
“What are you thinking about?” His lips caught the corner of your mouth, you having failed to hide the smile during your reminiscence, and an inquisitive hum rumbled through him.
“You.” The answer was simple, honest. “Well, us. Where we were and where we’re headed. Raccoon City is where it’s all really going to begin for us, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah it is.” A comfortable silence fell over the two of you, contemplative, as you thought of the future that was fast approaching for you. You had worked so hard to get here already, many sleepless nights during your undergraduate degree to get the credits you needed to graduate early. Day in and day out, you worked and worked, often wondering if the struggle was worth it and worrying about where you would go if you weren’t accepted to the medical schools you had applied to. Would you have to end things with Leon? Would you be happy knowing you had gotten into a school that wasn’t one of your first picks? Would you get in at all?
‘Of course you’ll get in.’ Leon’s voice echoed in the recesses of your mind, just as it had every time you had begun to express these doubts to him. ‘You’re my golden girl, and you’ve got a good head on those shoulders. And if they don’t accept you, I’ll…I’ll find a reason to arrest them for you.” He hadn’t been serious, of course, but it had cheered you up nonetheless.
In the pause that stretched between the two of you, Leon’s hand had found the charm of the necklace that had dipped under your collar, gently twisting the charm between his fingers. He had made it for you, somehow, during a brief stint with interest in crafting. He had wanted to gift you something to show his appreciation for you as his partner, but nothing he could find was quite good enough to suit the image of what he had in mind.
“I tried to make it perfect.” He had looked away when he presented her with the box over breakfast that morning several weeks ago. “But…”
You’d smiled softly at the gesture, lifting the necklace from the box and examining it.
The pendant was small, a dented disk that was hand-engraved with a crude, uneven design. He’d intended for it to be molded into the shape of the sun, if the person looking at it squinted and tilted their head, created while he sat at the kitchen table, fumbling with tools he barely knew how to use.
“I’d rather it be yours. It’s beautiful. Thank you, Leon.” She undid the clasp with skilled hands. “Will you help me put it on?” Nodding energetically, he had done exactly that, fumbling with the clasp for a few minutes before finally succeeding in his endeavor. Brushing your hair out of the way once more, he’d pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck before stepping back from you.
You’d worn it every day since then.
“Are you nervous?” He finally asked, slowing his fidgeting with the charm.
“A little,” you answered honestly on an exhale, breath light before you let an anxious little chuckle escape from you. “But…I’m excited, too. I mean, we’re starting a new life. Why wouldn’t I be? Besides, we won’t be apart for too long.”
“Hey, three weeks is a lot of time for things to happen.” His hand migrated to rub your arm. “The world could end in three weeks, you never know.”
You playfully pushed him away. “Even if it did, you’ll still come back to me, you loser.”
He laughed, pulling you flush against him once again before finally moving to sit up with the intention of getting out of bed. “I’d always come back to you, golden girl.” He kissed you lightly. “Now, come on. Let’s go get breakfast.”
He didn’t realize that he had gone the wrong way until he looked up at the remains of Raccoon City General Hospital. Perhaps part of him had forgotten his mission objective, letting his mind do more than just wander in passing.
It was a source of pride for Raccoon City. Alongside the R.P.D. headquarters, the city hospital featured some of the most ornate exterior decoration, a testament to the history the facility had grown alongside the rest of the population. The inside technology had always been advanced for the times, cutting-edge and attracting patients from even the farthest corners of the large city.
You had always been enthralled by the technological advancements headed by the hospital under the guidance of Umbrella. You’d been proud of working there, even, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the corporation still had you under its employ, wherever you’d found yourself in the aftermath. Did you know what Umbrella had done to the people you wanted nothing more than to protect?
His head craned upwards to look at the remnants of the large facility. It stood ahead of him in a broken silhouette, upper floors sheared over by the blast that had cleaved the top half from the bottom in seconds, its concrete bones and wire ribs exposed to the elements. Wind moved through the upper portion freely now, carrying once-white bedsheets like flags of surrender where they were partially trapped under rubble and debris. Nearly thirty years and it still hadn’t finished falling, instead standing as a cold reminder of the night that changed his entire world nearly three decades ago.
What remained of the facility’s perimeter signage was rusted over the years, the directional signs having faded until they were illegible and any authority eroded alongside them. His gaze traced the outline of the building once more, his current mind attempting to reconcile the signt before him with the one he carried in his memory. There would have been life inside, then, bright lights and people milling about.
He imagined you looking down at him from one of those upper floor windows as he passed by during one of his patrols, waving at him as you leaned against the glass. He swallowed thickly, unable to stop himself as he approached the front doors of the facility. His gun hand hovered over his holster as he broke the barricade away, breaching the doors with one swift kick to the hinges, giving way with a dry metallic groan.
Dust and ash covered the interior of the hospital in a thick blanket, undisturbed over the past years. The air was stale, heavy, and the lobby was barely recognizable now between the caved-in ceiling and broken tiles scattered about like an abandoned puzzle. His gaze found the clock on the far side of the room, long frozen in time at 2 P.M. “Still punctual,” he mumbled to himself. The time you often found yourself calling him on days you weren’t together, having started your lunch break right around that time. “Hope you aren’t mad at me for being late to this one, sweetheart.” He climbed over the reception desk that had been thrown sideways, metal drawers pulled out and long emptied, and ventured further inside.
He moved slowly, gaze catching on fragments of the life that stood frozen in time.
A wheelchair knocked upon its side.
A child’s shoe, dingy and half-charred.
Metal chairs fused to the floor and to each other from the heat.
Had they gotten out?
Your first unit had been on the third floor, that much he remembered. How could he forget? You’d seldom stopped expressing your excitement over getting to work in one of the pediatric units. You were perfect for that part of the job. He had looked forward to seeing the change you brought about in their world.
The climb to the third floor felt much longer than it should have, as if the very building itself resisted the idea of being revisited, and was attempting to keep him away. By the time he reached the unit, the sky was beginning to darken, the whisperings of sunset impending not far off. Muted light spilled through jagged openings in the half-collapsed walls of the rooms where remnants of normal life still clung stubbornly to the notion of normal existence. The horizon spanned wide and indifferent in the distance, not sparing him any more time to reminisce.
“I was late,” he murmured into the dead-silent air around him as he looked around at what could, and would have been. Colorful paint that once colored every wall was muted, peeling and chipping away from the patterns that had had been painstakingly placed there to keep the young patients from being scared in the cold, clinical white walls of the hospital. “I told you I’d come back to you. I guess I couldn’t keep that promise, huh?”
A gust of wind threaded through the broken structure as he looked outside, singing a mournful song to carry forth to him. He refused to turn and chase its voice. There was no point.
Instead, he found the old paper that he’d kept with him on every mission since then. It was old now, yellowed and worn at the edges, creased from the constant folding over the years. It had been taken after your first official date at your insistence, captured in a moment that had no idea what was coming for them down the road. It had rarely left his side when he was sent out on a mission. Sherry had offered to give him a restored version, rendered again with modern technology and breathing new life into the old, lower-quality photograph. He had always refused, wanting to keep you with him in the same form he remembered you since then.
“I’m still looking. Just in case you’re wondering.” He wouldn’t stop, that he had vowed the second he was out of Raccoon City. There would only ever be you, even if it took him 30 more years to find you.
If you had that much time, he thought wryly, fist tightening at the grim reminder of the growing black splotches up the expanse of his arm and neck.
Silence was the only thing that answered him, and the wind with its ongoing, mourning song. “Yeah. I figured as much.”
Turning from the hospital room, accompanied only with his thoughts, he paused at the doors. Opening his mouth as if he wished to speak, he silenced himself with a shake of his head before continuing on his path.
Making way towards the stairwell once again, deciding it was high time to get back to his mission now that he was in his right mind once more, his footsteps faded into the hollow quiet of the hospital.
He had only gotten halfway down the corridor before something slid across the floor behind him. No, not slid. This was soft, carrying a rhythm to it. Something was dragging. Turning around, retrieving his firearm from the holster at his side, he trained his eyes on the junction of the next hallway. Every one of his instincts stood on high alert, decades of training and fighting pulling him still. Sneaking forward closely, he prepared to turn the corner and face the creature that he’d certainly alerted. This was a hospital. If there was one, there was likely more not far behind it.
The sound came again, this time closer. Turning the corner, he pointed his firearm at the B.O.W. at the far end of the corridor, moving between the shadows. The figure moved unsteadily, lumbering forward toward him and catching itself against the wall with a jerking, unnatural gait.
His world narrowed to a single, unbearable point, blue eyes widening in disbelief as they focused on it. Time and decay had taken their share of the body, that was certain. What remained of its hair hung in uneven strands, greyed with dust and ash with each brittle strand. Light pink scrubs, once purchased with the intention of making the wearer more welcoming to the younger population, were torn and fused to char-darkened skin. One arm hung at an angle that would not be seen on a living, breathing human, the other extended straight out with fingers twitching in small, aimless motions.
But when the setting sun glimmered against a dented, circular pendant, he suddenly felt the contents of his stomach threatening to make a reappearance.
“No…”
Thirty years was a long time to think of different endings, and Leon Kennedy had likely come up with dozens of scenarios in his mind on how he would reunite with you. None of them looked like this. Not a single one had prepared him for this, for the way his legs rooted him into the ground as if they suddenly weighed two tons.
“You… You’re not…” He couldn’t find his words. What could he even say? It couldn’t understand him.
You couldn’t understand him.
“Hey.” Despite his more rational brain and better judgement, he found himself trying anyway. Hope foolishly bloomed in his chest for a fleeting moment, unable to be schooled just yet. He knew this was hopeless, he was hopeless, but part of him still could not bring himself to believe that this was the reality he was living.
Pinch him, wake him up. Bring him back to the reality where he got to wake up with you asleep beside him again. Anything but this.
“You remember me?” The plea escaped his mouth before he could pull it back. “It’s me. Hey, it’s Leon. I-”
It lunged. It was erratic and sudden, stumbling. Hunger and instinct were the only things that controlled what had once been you. There had been no recognition that crossed your features despite his reminder. He knew there wouldn’t be. He tried anyway.
It was wrong. This was all wrong. He shouldn’t be finding you here. You shouldn’t be here. You should be outside of the city limits, happy and healthy with the family you had wanted to build, even if it wasn’t with him.
Knowing what he knew now, he should never have let you follow him into Raccoon City, into the clutches of the organization that had taken so many people from him. Even if it meant that you would have been led away from him, into someone else’s arms, or to an entirely different path in which the two of you became little more than strangers, supporting roles in each other’s stories.
His training snapped him back, the instinct to survive driving him to move aside, swiftly grabbing the wrist extended towards him and twisting until he heard a sickening snap as he only worsened what was broken. You stumbled forward, slamming into a nearby wall with heavy impact and a snarl before rounding back on him.
His heart pounded in both fear and sickening recognition as he stepped back, hands returning his gun to the space in front of him as he observed her from downsight. He should shoot, his mind screamed at him. Shoot, before this went too far.
“No,” he repeated, louder this time. Even he wasn’t sure if it was at his thoughts, or at the situation he had found himself in. “No!”
Your hand reached for his chest again.
Turning his head away so he wouldn’t have to watch himself do it, he fired. The sound was deafening, a sharp sequence of cracks that shattered the fragile silence. The recoil of his firearm, the Requiem that sang only for you, jolted up his arm as he aimed true with one, two, three shots.
The sound of the weight hitting the ground as you crumpled was almost cathartic. His stomach still threatened him, as did the burning behind his eyes that still refused to look at the body on the floor, but in his own dark way, Leon almost felt a semblance of peace for you at knowing that you would no longer have to live as something you would hate.
If you had been lucid enough, and still had an ounce of humanity to you, would you have asked him to do the same? To grant you mercy and take you away from the suffering you would undoubtedly face as you turned?
Would he have been able to do it if you had?
His grip faltered at the thought of you in what had been your last moments. Were you alone? Or had you barricaded yourself in with the children on the unit, holding them close and keeping them calm despite your own rising panic? He hoped it was the latter. You had always been the most gentle presence in his life, and if there was anyone who could keep those kids calm even in the face of impending danger, it would be you. Selfishly, he also hoped it meant you hadn’t been alone at the end. The thought of you, alone and forced to sit idly by as those all-too-familiar black splotches bloomed against your skin tore at the very fabric of his being. He had never wanted you to be alone.
Setting his jaw and remaining there unmoving for a few more beats, his arm slowly lowered, slipping the gun back into his holster securely.
And finally, he looked at you. Rather, what had once been you. The version of you in his mind was alive and well, not laying half-decomposed and forgotten in the walls of the hospital you’d thus devoted your time and life to, cursed to wander these corridors until something granted you the kindness of permanent rest.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt inadequate. “I should’ve been there.” Against his wishes, a traitorous tear slid down his face, leaving tracks in the grime settling on his features. Dust stirred around him as he knelt upon one knee at your side. Wind passed through broken walls again, its wail echoing the one he was warring with himself to contain.
A gloved hand brushed back brittle, ash-kissed hair, remembering what it had felt like twenty-eight years ago beneath his fingers, smooth and familiar when he carded through the locks every time you fell asleep against him.
“You wanted to save lives here.” His voice was rough,breaking halfway through the sentence. “And I couldn’t be there to save yours. I’m so sorry.”
His hands were shaking, and his gaze tore from you to stare at them as if they were not his own. They belonged to someone else, surely, and that would explain how they had done what he’d done.
”But all the love you left behind will always…”
“I didn’t know what else to do.” Against his better wishes, a sob tore through his throat, sudden and violent, as he all but buckled, curling over the remains of you as twenty-eight years of worry, of wondering where you had disappeared to, came to the surface at the cruel truth that you had been here. And that he would never get to live out any of those visions of your reunion, even if they were too far in the future to rekindle anything at their age. “You were– Fuck, you were looking at me, but it wasn’t you. I… I’m so fucking sorry.”
He stayed there with you until the sun threatened to set on him, casting him into a darkness that would only bring new horrors alongside it. Part of him didn’t care, couldn’t bring himself to care now that he had lost you officially, but the rational part of him reminded him that he not only had Grace to rescue, but the part of him that you remembered. You wouldn’t want him to stay here, to give up and die, after all. He had promised to become a man worthy of you, and that was a promise he fully intended to uphold, especially now.
When he could no longer stay by your side, having no more tears left to cry and leaving himself with only trembling shoulders with each heaving sob, Leon wiped his eyes and slowly schooled his emotions once more. Focus.
Rising to his feet, Leon paused only to remove the sun pendant from your neck. His hands trembled still, fumbling with the clasp just as he did 28 years ago when he had first placed it around your neck. It was old, fragile, and practically melted shut. Finally managing to remove it from your eternally still form, he tucked the pendant into one of the pockets of his harness. It was missing a few of the rays he’d painstakingly crafted all those years ago, having been lost to time and the erosion of nature, but it was so heartbreakingly you.
“I’m sorry I was late. A lot happened in three weeks, but…”
He hesitated again when it came time to say goodbye to you, standing a few paces away and looking back to where he’d left you.
“Your loser came back to you,” he said quietly, turning his back on the past once again as he took his firearm from its holster again to fight his way out of the facility. “Goodnight, my Golden Girl.”
"...Remind me of you"
All dividers by the wonderful @/strangergraphics!
Author's Notes: I had tormented a friend of mine with this idea a while ago and decided it was time to commit to the bit. Big thanks to Enso for sitting with me and making me lock in to finish it! Also... big thanks to Petal for being my first victim in beta...I love you pookie I'm sorry for making you cry even though you don't even go here
Likes, comments in tags and thoughts ALWAYS appreciated! I feed off of knowing y'all like what I write And, as ALWAYS, do not feed any of my works through AI systems of any sort. Keep AI out of creative spaces.
