.ᐟ.ᐟ ATTENTION re9!leon, fem!reader, p in v, mirror sex, quickie, age gap marriage, edging, breeding, overstimulation, multiple orgasms (reader), squirting
older husband LEON knew you both were going to miss your reservation if you asked him to take on the task of dressing you for the night. he always knows that once he gets your bra on, that’d be the only thing you’d be wearing.
and he’s always correct.
he swears he feels bad, having you bent over the dresser, mop of brown and gray covering the oceanic blue peering over your shoulder. he dresses your neck in warm kisses, feeling the scruff of his beard on your soft flesh. a heavy hand glues you to his chest by the jaw, his other hand steers his finger tips over your sensitive bud. his body feels like it’s buzzing as you tighten around his aching cock. in his defense, at least he got you around him at the best moment of the night; right before he slipped your panties on.
you two were supposed to grab dinner. it is date night after all. you’ve been cooped up in your bedroom, doing your make up for the past hour before you had the genius idea of having him dress you for the evening. you thought it would have been intimate and thoughtful, but you realized you’re just not the woman to garner an innocent response from him.
no. shamelessly, you’re the young, hot toddy that caught his eye with your quick wit and bratty attitude. even with two alarms already ringing, he disregards them, letting his phone go silent on its own.
your hands are hanging on to the meaty arm that holds your face hostage for dear life, breaks in your whines from the hit of his hips pounding into yours. “fuck–! we’re gon–na be la–te. le–on...” you can feel him push into your tummy, body trying to stay standing. punctuality be damned when you’re mrs. kennedy. he knew if he had one glance of you undressed, he would have to fight himself to get out of the door. but he can’t say he always hates losing to himself.
your dress lays flat on the bed, heels waiting for you at the closet. such a pretty outfit to try to slip into now that you’re already so messy. you even convinced him to match tonight. you almost did! that counts for something… right? he’s never felt you leak past his zipper, and with the work he’s putting in right now, he can feel you drip past his upper thigh. it intoxicates him; there’s no way he’s leaving the house tonight.
he feels restricted in his attire, but pushes through. his pants are tight on his thighs and he wants to rip every button on his shirt. he’s watching you in the mirror, noticing how low your head hangs and how you try not to ruin your makeup by biting the inside of your cheek rather than your bottom lip. there’s a chuckle that escapes him, tilting your head to kiss him. as his kiss envelopes your lips, his hips slow to a halt. his body immediately misses the friction, shaft twitching inside of you causing him to grunt into your lips. his plan was to tease you, make you miss him kissing your cervix. however, your pitiful, weak kiss made his armor fall, hips bucking from the fragileness in your lips.
"what the fuck are you doin' to me, girl?" he asks along your cheek, age weaved in his question.
he tries to keep his composure, but you let him sit in his lust, backing your hips against him in your own little rhythm that makes him pull his lips from yours. it’s hard for him to focus as you pull groans from him, quivering inside of you as you cast a spell on him with your stare. his jaw hangs open ever so slightly, feeling your lips beg for him. he wants to function like a normal man and kiss you back, but you ride him so well, he swears he’s malfunctioning. he does lap your lips into a sloppy kiss eventually, breaking it before he even seals it.
“you keep moving on me like that we’re not leaving,” leon warns. his chest rises and falls against your back, meshing with each effortless roll of his body that sends him deeper into you.
there’s something you say that sends electricity down leon's spine. smirking, your hips slow down, squeezing around him. “old man can’t handle quickies anymore, huh?” you whisper against his lips. “too old to fuck me?”
he swears you light him up right there, feeling the flames engulf him. the grip of his arm around your neck tightens from the tease. leon disapproves, shaking his head. leaning in and placing a gentle kiss to your now messy lips, he quickly snaps his hips into yours once again. “being between me and the dresser is not the best time to be a smartass, sugar.” he relishes in your whine, though it’s replaced by amusement once you speak again.
“if you didn’t want a smartass, you wouldn't have married someone twenty years younger than you, isn't that right?”
leon couldn't deny that, but it still could’ve been something you said after you were dressed. instead, the consequence has you doubling over as his fingers work into your clit faster, fluttering around his weeping shaft. he hears your cries, slow thrusts quickening. he leaves your body to fall limp over the dresser, toes curling as his arms leave your neck to slip his hand on his back for support. “i hear you joking, but i don't hear you laughing.”
he stares at you through the mirror, hair messy, makeup ruined and he swears he can feel the urge to fill you up growing. you wriggle so much against him as you fight an incoming orgasm, trying to keep it in so you can cum with your husband. you try with everything in you; breathing, digging your nails in the palms of your hands, but if anything, those techniques pushed you closer to the edge.
“oh fuck— i’m gonna cum,” you start, hand hovering over leon’s that works in between your though before he stops.
the growl that leaves you sends leon into a frenzy. he can’t let you have your cake and eat it too, especially after that little quip you made. “what do you think?” he grumbles, leaning in to take in the scent of your hair. “should this old man make you cum?”
you nod your head quickly, your free hand reaching behind you and cupping the back of his neck. “y-es. yes please,” you caress his nape, fingernails digging into his flesh. he sits with the option in his hand, circling his fingers back on your clit, pushing your hips deeper into the dresser. there’s a hum of gratification from your whimper, feeling the tip of his tongue drag down your neck, soon taking a gentle bite at your skin.
feeling you lose balance in his hold, the older man helps keep you up, picking up on your eyes rolling through the mirror. “you cum, we stay home. got it?”
“g–ot it,” you slur, head resting on his chest, fingers curling over his working hand.
“hands off,” he demands, ripping his hand away from you again. your gasp doesn’t move him, the tip of his nose running up your cheek prior to biting your ear lobe. “my pussy, ya hear me?” he growls. “you don’t get to tell me how to touch you right now." as he bullies you into obedience, he can feel his body cracking under pressure. a familiar buzz runs over his body, tingling in his fingertips, wrecking his pattern. he almost forgets to continue his movement with his fingers, but he follows through.
he underestimates how close you actually are, whines being pulled from you like he can’t survive without them. with each stroke he spreads you open, you feel the buildup in your stomach, body twitching under his intensity. your cunt kisses around him the more you hear his breath shake, grumbling swears under his breath like he can’t take it. and maybe he can’t.
how could he when he feels you attempt to empty him clean? tight around him, begging for him with those cute little moans. the helpless one is him. your moans erupt for him, feeling your climax wave over you, grabbing onto any part of him that you can. leon of course lets you. but not because he wants to, but because he can’t tease you anymore now that he’s spilling into you, mentally begging for mercy. he doesn't mean to fill you up so much, but he can feel the pushback around him that he almost slips out. his head falls back, fingers attacking your swollen little clit. on the rare chance you two come at the same time, you both treat it like it’s the olympics. but sometimes, leon likes to go for gold. with his head coming back up, he sees you writhe under his hold, whining without properly begging for him to stop.
so he doesn’t. in fact, he keeps on working your body. “leon– fuck– leon please.” his hips have slowed down by now but the second he actually pulls out of you, his ring and middle finger take you over. it’s all about you now. you try to speak by saying something, anything. you can't even look your husband’s way without having to spill all over his hands. leon lives for it. he pops a tired smile on his lips as he watches you shudder under his fingers, attacking that spongy part inside of you, curling his fingers. he stays firm while you fight against him, placing his arm back over your neck so you can hold onto him.
you look at your husband through the mirror, watching his muscles flex, quiver in his lip and the way his lips are parted feels like he’s mocking you. his fingers push everything he released back into you, leaning in and kissing your temple. “what do you think? i still got it?” his digits fight with your slick walls contracting around him, but he doesn't let up.
before you can answer, you don’t fight the wave that leaves you, spilling down your legs. you don’t whine or swear, but release broken sobs, too stimulated to function. your body vibrates in his arms, losing balance feeling him keep you up against his chest.
your husband is hasty with slipping his fingers out of you, spinning your dizzy body around to see your fucked out expression. he wants to check in, but the low eyed glare you're giving him tells him all he needs to know. he smiles, “hey, you alright?” he asks, chuckling while you nod.
“yes–” you whisper, not worrying if the man hears you or not.
“i’m sorry,” leon starts, cupping your cheek and pressing a soft kiss on your puffy, smudged lips. “i’m sorry we missed dinner.”
you don’t want to hear it. the man is amused as a finger lifts up to his lips, watching you shake your head. “reschedule it,” falling into his arms, you’re satisfied with the quick nod he gives you.
“yes ma’am,” he grins, picking up his favorite lady to set you on the bed.
Warnings: Jealousy, arguments, sexual acts, swearing, voyeurism (in a way), alcohol, dirty talk(?), angst, smut
Synopsis: She knows demons. He knows denial. After years of pining, one jealous bar fight and one motel confession are all it takes for Dean and you to stop pretending.
smut and mild angst
Credits: @lobster-graphics @cursed-carmine Thank I <3!!!
Enjoy!
The first time Dean laid eyes on you, you were bound to a chair in a dank basement, a hex bag at your feet, and a pissed-off demon circling you.
You weren't screaming.
You were bargaining.
“Your contract with my father is void,” you'd said, your voice shaky but clear, blood trickling from your nose. “Clause seven, subsection B. Any attempt to transfer the debt to a blood relative without explicit, witnessed consent nullifies the entire agreement. You got played. Now fuck off.”
Sam had kicked in the door. Dean had fired the rock-salt rounds. But in that split second before all hell broke loose, Dean had locked eyes with you.
Wide, intelligent eyes, blazing with defiance and a terrifying amount of knowledge.
He saw the fear, sure, but underneath it was a steel core that didn’t match the room of a scared victim.
After the smoke cleared and the demon was banished, you'd untied your own binds, stood on wobbling legs, and offered a hand. “Hi", you told the two men your name, "My dad’s an asshole. I’m guessing you’re the Winchesters. Thanks for the assist, but I had it.”
Dean, wiping demon blood off his jaw, had just stared. “You had it?”
“Salt line was weakening near the north wall. I was about three minutes from kicking it out myself and making a run for it.”
You'd shrugged, then winced, touching your ribs. “Your timing was impeccable, though. Dramatic.”
That was two years ago.
You'd been with them ever since. Their little research duo soon became a trio.
Your mind was a library of obscure lore, your instincts sharp, and you could hold your own in a fight.
But for Dean, it was more. It was the way you'd argue theology with Sam over coffee, the way you'd hum classic rock off-key while doing tasks, the way you'd catch him looking and offer a small, secret smile that did things to his gut.
He thought he was obvious. He thought he was painfully, transparently into you.
But months of sideways glances and bottled-up tension had convinced him you saw him as just another brother, another hunter.
The frustration had been building, a low-grade fever under his skin.
It had also been months since he’d been with anyone, and every casual touch from you felt like a brand.
He’d catch the scent of your shampoo and have to walk away. He was wound tighter than a spring.
Which is why tonight, at this shitty roadside bar celebrating another salt-and-burn job well done, he was a walking target.
“Another round?” Sam asked, sliding back into the scarred wooden booth.
“Keep ‘em coming,” Dean grunted, downing the rest of his beer. His eyes tracked yours across the room.
You were at the dartboard with some townie, laughing at something he said.
The guy’s eager eyes burning holes into your tits. Dean’s knuckles went white around his bottle.
“You’re staring,” Sam murmured, not looking up from his glass.
“I’m not.”
“You are. It’s pathetic. Just talk to her.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Dean lied, his voice a low rumble. He tore his gaze away, focusing on the sticky table.
She doesn’t see you like that. She’s smart, she’s got her shit together. She doesn’t need your mess. Your problems.
A presence slid into the booth beside him.
Perfume, cheap and cloying. A woman with red hair and a too-tight tank top leaned into his space. “Buy a girl a drink?”
Usually Dean would jump at an opportunity such as this one, but times have changed.
Dean gave her a cursory glance. “Budget’s tight.”
“I’m not expensive.” Her fingers walked up his thigh.
And with that Same had left Dean to fend for himself. Asshole.
Across the room, your laugh rang out again. Dean felt something snap.
A bad idea, born of jealousy and pure, unadulterated frustration, took root.
Fine. If she's having fun, I can have fun.
He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s your poison?”
He spent twenty minutes in a fog of disinterest. The woman—Mary, or Amy, maybe—talked. He nodded. He drank.
He watched you over her shoulder.
Saw you finish your game and head towards Sam, your smile fading as you caught sight of Dean and his new friend.
Your steps hitched for a second before you smoothly slid back into the booth, engaging Sam in a discussion about Celtic burial rites.
The lady's hand was on his chest now, playing with the collar of his shirt. “Wanna get some air? It’s loud in here.”
Dean was about to brush her off, the charade already ashes in his mouth, when she moved. Fast.
She grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him forward, and mashed her lips against his.
It was wet, aggressive, all tongue and teeth.
He stiffened, his hands coming up to push her back, but she clung, one hand fisting in his hair.
He got a mouthful of cherry gloss and the sharp tang of vodka.
He shoved, finally breaking the kiss, his shirt twisted and pulled from his jeans.
“The hell?” he growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Don’t play hard to get, handsome,” she slurred, her eyes glazed.
“I’m not playing.” The words were ice. He stood up, adjusting his ruffled shirt, feeling gross.
He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. He just stalked back to your guys' booth.
“We’re leaving,” he announced, his voice rough.
Sam blinked. “Now? I was just—”
“Now.” Dean’s tone brooked no arguement.
Your eyes flicked to his lips, which he knew were probably smeared with lipstick, then to his dishevelled shirt.
A shutter fell over your expression, leaving it blank. You slid out of the booth without a word.
The drive back to the motel was suffocating.
Dean drove, his grip on Baby's poor steering wheel hard enough to ache.
Sam, in the passenger seat, shot him concerned looks.
You sat in the back, a silent ghost.
You didn’t speak.
You just stared out the window at the passing darkness, your arms crossed tight over your chest.
“Yesterday's case was pretty straightforward, huh?” Sam tried, the words hanging in the thick air.
“Yep,” Dean bit out.
Silence.
“You find anything else in those parish records?” Sam tried again, turning in his seat towards you.
“No.” your voice was flat, distant. “It was all there.”
Dean watched you in the rearview. Your jaw was clenched.
Your eyes were bright, but not with tears. With something harder.
Something that made his stomach clench.
He pulled into the motel lot, the tires crunching on gravel.
Sam walked inside - the smell of stale smoke and pine cleaner invading the cheap motel - and headed for his room. “I’m hitting the sack. Night.”
“Night, Sam,” you murmured, slipping out and heading straight for your room.
Dean stood by the door, watching you go. He couldn’t let this fester. “Hey.” he called out to you.
You didn’t stop.
“Sweetheart, wait.”
You pushed your door open and disappeared inside, leaving it open a crack. An invitation, or a challenge.
He followed, closing the door softly behind him. The room was like all other motel rooms: two beds, faded floral spreads.
You stood with your back to him, by the small side table, your shoulders rigid.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m tired.”
“Bullshit. You haven’t said two words since the bar. What’s wrong?”
You whirled around, and the mask cracked.
Hurt and anger flashed in your eyes. “Nothing, Dean. Just drop it, okay? Go to bed.”
He took a step closer. “Not until you tell me why you’re pissed at me.”
“I’m not pissed at you!” The lie was transparent, your voice rising. “Why would I be pissed? You had a nice little make-out session, got your shirt all rumpled. Good for you. Must be a relief after going so long without sex.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
So that was it. The jealousy he’d been feeling? It was a two-way street.
And you thought he’d just… indulged.
The realization was a sucker punch, followed by a wild, desperate surge of hope.
“That’s what you think happened?” His voice dropped, low and intense.
“I have eyes, Dean. I saw her. I saw you come back looking… satisfied.”
“Satisfied?” He let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. “She jumped me. I pushed her off. That’s it.”
You stared at him, skepticism warring with a fragile hope. “You expect me to believe that? You’ve been crawling the walls for weeks, because you couldn't get some. Months. You looked like you were about to climb out of your own skin at the bar. And some willing woman throws herself at you and you just… pushed her off?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The one-word question hung between you two, charged and dangerous.
Because it wasn’t you. The truth was right there, on the tip of his tongue, burning to get out.
But the fear was older, deeper.
The fear of wrecking what you two had. He stayed silent, his jaw working.
Your face fell, the hope crumbling.
“Right. Of course. Don’t worry about it, Dean. It’s none of my business. I’m just… I’m being stupid. Just go.”
You turned your back on him again, a clear dismissal.
Something in him broke. The careful dam he’d built over two years shattered.
“Because it wasn’t you.”
The words were so quiet you might not have heard them. You went perfectly still.
He took another step, closing the distance until he could feel the heat from your body.
“That’s why. She wasn’t you. I didn’t want her. I don’t want anyone else.” His voice was raw, stripped bare. “I haven’t wanted anyone else since the day we found you in that basement telling a demon to fuck off.”
You slowly turned around.
Your eyes were wide, searching his face. “Dean…”
“You think I haven’t noticed you?” he continued, the words pouring out now, a torrent he couldn’t stop.
“You think I don’t see the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating? Or how you get this little line right here,” he brushed his thumb between your eyebrows, “when you’re arguing with Sam about some ancient god? You think I don’t lie awake in the next room listening to you move around, wondering if you’re thinking about me? I’ve been going crazy, sweetheart. Fucking crazy. Trying to get rid of it, trying to ignore it. But I can’t. I look at you and I just… I want. So yeah, I’m frustrated."
Your breath caught.
The anger was gone, replaced by something vulnerable and hungry. “You… you never said anything. You never even…”
“I was scared,” he admitted, the confession tearing from his throat.
“I thought you saw me as another Sam. A brother. Not… this.”
A tear escaped, tracing a path down your cheek.
“I thought the same thing. All this time. I thought I was just… convenient. Another hunter to watch your back.”
“You’re not just anything,” he whispered, his hand coming up to cup your face, his thumb wiping the tears away.
That did it. The last of your resistance melted.
A sob mixed with a laugh escaped your lips. “God, we’re idiots.”
“The biggest,” he agreed, his own vision blurring.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t like the frantic, sloppy kiss in the bar.
It started soft, a tentative brush of his lips against yours, a question.
You answered with a sigh, your mouth opening under his.
The taste of you was everything—beer and strawberry gum, unique and perfect.
He licked into your mouth, slow and deep, and you met him stroke for stroke.
Your hands came up, fisting in the material of his shirt, pulling him closer until your bodies aligned from chest to thigh.
The kiss deepened, turning hungry, desperate.
Two years of pent-up longing ignited.
He walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed.
You two fell onto it in a tangle of limbs, never breaking the kiss.
His hands were everywhere—in your hair, sliding down your back, gripping your hip.
Yours were under his shirt, mapping the hard planes of his stomach, his back, your nails scraping lightly over his skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, both of you breathing hard.
“Tell me this is okay. Tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” you gasped, your eyes dark with need. “I want you, Dean. I’ve wanted you for so long. Please.”
That one word, please, uttered with such raw need, shattered any last semblance of control.
He claimed your mouth again, his kiss turning possessive, branding.
His hands went to the hem of your shirt and pulled it up and over your head.
You did the same for him, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle.
You both undressed each other in a frantic, clumsy rush, fabric hitting the floor.
And then there was nothing between you.
Skin on skin.
He took a moment, propped on his elbows above you, just to look.
Your breasts were perfect, your nipples peaked and tight.
The curve of your waist, the swell of your hips.
The small patch of hair between your thighs, already glistening.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, the words reverent.
You blushed, reaching for him. “You too. Dean, I need to feel you.”
He lowered himself, his chest brushing against your nipples, and kissed you again.
This time, his hand slid down your stomach, and found your heat.
You were soaked, your cunt swollen and hot.
He stroked you, a slow glide through your slippery flesh, and you arched off the bed with a choked cry.
“Shh, baby,” he whispered against your lips, smiling. “Sam’s next door.”
“I don’t care,” you moaned, but you bit your lip, trying to stifle the sound.
He found your clit, a hard little bud, and circled it with his thumb.
Your hips bucked. “You’re so fucking wet for me,” he groaned, watching your face. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me how much you want it.”
“I want it,” you panted. “I want your cock, Dean. I want you to fuck me. Please.”
He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his dick nudging against you.
He was thick, the veins standing out along his length, the tip already leaking.
He pressed forward, just an inch, stretching you out.
Your eyes rolled back at the feeling of intense pleasure.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice gentle but firm. “I want to see you. I want to watch you take me.”
You held his gaze, your eyes blown black with desire.
He pushed in another inch, then another, the tight, wet heat of you enveloping him, squeezing him perfectly.
He groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. “Christ… you feel… fuck…”
He buried himself to the hilt in one slow, relentless thrust.
You gasped, your mouth falling open in a silent scream, your walls fluttering wildly around his dick.
He stayed there, buried deep, letting you adjust, letting you both feel the incredible, overwhelming fullness.
“Okay?” he whispered, his breath hot on your face.
“More than okay,” you managed. “Move. Please, Dean, move.”
He began to move. Slow, deep pulls almost all the way out, then steady, grinding thrusts back in.
The angle was perfect, the head of his cock dragging over a spot inside you that had you seeing stars.
Every thrust forced a soft, muffled cry from your lips.
He covered your mouth with his hand, to silence you, and to feel your cries vibrate against his palm.
You kissed his hand, your tongue darting out to lick his skin.
The pace quickened.
The sounds grew wetter, louder—the slap of skin, your ragged breaths, the creak of the cheap motel bed springs.
Dean shifted, driving into you harder, deeper.
He could feel his balls tightening, the pressure building at the base of his spine.
“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he grunted, his hips pistoning.
“I wanna feel you come around my cock. Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
The permission, the raw need in his voice, pushed you over the edge.
Your body seized, your back bowing off the bed.
A broken, stifled scream was captured by his hand as your pussy clenched around him in rhythmic, milking pulses.
The feeling was incredible, your walls gripping him like a fist, hot and fluttering.
The intensity of your orgasm tipped him over.
With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself as far as he could go and came.
Hot jets of cum spurted inside you, coating your walls, filling you.
He saw stars, his vision whiting out at the edges, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he pumped into you, over and over, until he was spent.
He collapsed on top of you, careful to keep his weight on his elbows.
You both lay there, joined, hearts hammering against each other’s chests, slick with sweat.
The air smelled of sex.
Slowly, he pulled out. A soft, wet sound followed, and a trickle of his release seeped out onto the bedspread beneath you.
He rolled to the side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest.
You both breathed together in the dark room.
After a long while, he nuzzled your hair. “You were jealous,” he said, his voice a low, amused rumble.
You swatted his chest weakly. “Shut up.”
“You were sooo jealous.” He couldn’t keep the grin out of his voice.
He kissed her temple. “Dont worry about it, sweetheart. It was fucking adorable.”
You buried your face in his neck. "You really had me thinking that you wanted her.”
“I've only ever wanted you,” he said, the teasing tone gone, replaced by absolute sincerity. “Only ever want you.”
You tilted your head up, your eyes soft in the street light filtering through the blinds. “Prove it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Again? So soon? Someone’s greedy.”
“You have no idea how long I’ve been greedy for you,” you whispered, your hand sliding down his stomach.
He caught your wrist, bringing your fingers to his lips for a kiss.
“I think I’m starting to.” He looked at you, a playful, dominant glint in his eyes.
“Let's go. On your stomach.” Dean said as he flipped you over.
Your squeal rang out through the room, before Dean absolutely rocked your world for second time that night.
it's 2001 , sam has one year to tell you he's leaving for college
but will he?
notice ⤷ delicious angsty smut !!, angstyyy as promised, pining, john winchester haunting the narrative, sam and reader are eighteen and childhood besties for added trauma, ft. dean (ofc), forced proximity kinda, tension, emotional, yknow the goodstuff, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !
⋆˚࿔♱ sam winchester x fem!reader
♱ summer
♱ fall
♱ winter
♱ spring
from the author ⤷ guysssss i'm finally back !! and what better way than to return with an angsty multi part ethel cain inspired fic (basically my blog in a nutshell?) i'm so excited to hopefully get back into writing shorter drabbles and the occasional one shot, but tysm for all the support and love it means the world <333
also 1000+ followers ?!?! my little heart is going wild ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 i hope you enjoy :)
tags ♱ @filthgf , @sacr1ficialang3l , @ohangeleyes , @dontlistentodaisy , @andmeiamherdagger , @sploosh805 , @heartoftragedy , @aseafullofstars , (if you'd like to be added, let me know !)
Synopsis: After having what you believed to be the worst day of your life - you're glad to go home. But what to do if your car breaks down on the side of the road? Don't worry, Leon's to the rescue.
!!Fluffy!!
Pt 1, 2
Credit to @dollywons for the banners <3
The afternoon sun was a stubborn, oppressive glare, pressing through the windshield of your little pink hatchback.
It had been one of those days.
Your coworkers had decided to be extra annoying today, resulting in an intense headache that you now had to deal with.
Your supervisor had made a passive-aggressive comment about your “bright attire” not being “corporate appropriate” - despite it being very much corporate appropriate attire.
The vending machine had eaten your dollar for a bag of crisps and given nothing back.
By 5:30 PM, you were driving home with a tension headache, your bubbly optimism worn thin to a frayed edge.
You were almost there. You could see the familiar line of maple trees marking the entrance to your street.
You just had to turn left…
The car shuddered.
A loud, metallic clunk vibrated through the floorboards.
The engine coughed, sputtered, and died. The dashboard lights flickered, then went dark.
The hatchback rolled forward a few feet on inertia before stopping completely, straddling the shoulder and the edge of the quiet residential road.
You stared at the silent steering wheel. The final straw.
The absolute, ridiculous, universe-screaming-at-you final straw.
A hot, helpless pressure built behind your eyes. You didn’t fight it.
You just leaned your forehead against the steering wheel and let the tears come.
They weren’t pretty, delicate tears.
They were frustrated, messy sobs that shook your shoulders and made you gasp for air.
You cried for five solid minutes, your coworkers, the stupid comment, the stolen cash, and now this—your beloved car, broken and useless on the side of the road.
When the wave passed, you wiped your cheeks with your palms, smearing your mascara. You took a shaky breath and reached for your phone. Your fingers hovered over the contacts.
Parents? Too far. A coworker? Too embarrassing. The mechanic? Too expensive.
Your thumb found Leon’s name. You tapped it.
He answered on the second ring. “Hello?”His voice, that low, steady rumble, was an immediate anchor.
“Leon?” you said, your voice sounding watery.“My car… it broke down. I’m just on the edge of our street. It just… died.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, the concern immediate and genuine.
“I’m… I’m fine. Just stranded. And I had a really bad day.” you tried to sound cheerful, but it was a pathetic attempt.
“Stay there. Keep the the doors locked. I’m coming.”
Ten minutes later, his Porsche pulled up behind your hatchback. He got out, and your heart did a funny little flip.
He was in a simple gray t-shirt and worn jeans, but he looked capable. He approached your window, and you unlocked the door.
He saw your face—the red eyes, the smeared makeup. His expression softened, a flicker of something gentle in his normally hard eyes.
“Hey,” he said, crouching slightly to look at you. “Bad day, huh?”
“The worst,” you admitted, a fresh tear escaping.“Come on,” he said, opening the door. “Get in my car. I’ll take you home.”
He drove you the short distance to his house, parked in his driveway, and turned to you. “Keys?”
You handed him your car keys, confused.
“I’m gonna go get it,” he said. “Push it back here if I can. If not, I’ll figure it out.”“You don’t have to…” you started.
“I don’t want you wasting money on a mechanic when I’m right here,” he said, his tone practical. “I’m bored and retired. I tinker. Might be simple.”
You watched him walk back down the street, a strange warmth spreading through your chest.
It wasn’t just his help; it was the lack of fuss, the unassuming competence.
An hour later, your pink hatchback was parked neatly beside his Porsche in his driveway. Leon entered the house, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Was it simple?” you asked, now sitting on his sofa, having washed your face.
“Dead alternator,” he said. “I’ll get a new one tomorrow and swap it out. You can drive it by Friday.”
“You’re amazing,” you breathed.“It’s just a part.” Leon chuckled and looked at you, still sitting there. “You hungry?”
“A little.”
“Stay. I’ll make you dinner.”
Your eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know you cooked.”
Leon offered a rare, half-smile. “Again, bored and retired,” he repeated, the joke back. “I learnt, but I can't guarantee it'll be good.”
He moved to his kitchen—a space as clean and functional as the rest of his house.
You watched him from the sofa. He wasn’t a graceful cook; he was a bit messy. He pulled out a pan, some vegetables, a package of chicken.
He chopped with quick, precise movements. He didn’t chatter. He just worked.
The smells that began to fill the house were comforting: garlic, herbs, the sizzle of meat.
You felt your bad day slowly unraveling, replaced by a deep, quiet contentment.
You ogled his broad back, the way his muscles moved under his t-shirt as he stirred. This was a different side of him.
This was Leon, the man who fixed cars and made dinner because it was practical, and because he cared.
When the food was ready, he served it on two plates—a simple chicken stir-fry with rice.
“This is really good,” you said, meaning it.
“It’s food,” he said, but he seemed pleased.
You talked about nothing important. The weather. A movie you'd recently seen. A book he was reading.
The conversation was light, easy. The charged tension that usually existed between you was absent, replaced by a simple, warm companionship.
When you finished, you helped him clean up. As you dried the dishes, you looked at him. “Thank you, Leon. For everything today. You… you really saved me.”
He stopped wiping the counter and looked at you. His gaze held your for a long moment. “You don’t need saving,” he said quietly. “But I’m glad I was here.”
The words, so simple, struck you deeply. You felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion—not lust, but something richer, deeper.It was affection. It was trust. It was the beginnings of something you hadn’t dared to name.
You finished drying the dishes, put it away, and knew you had to leave before you said something foolish, before you let this fragile, beautiful moment crack under the weight of your feelings.
“I should go home,” you said softly.
Leon nodded. “Okay.”
You walked to the front door. He followed. You turned to face him on the threshold. “See you tomorrow?” you asked.
“Ill be looking forward to it,” he said, a gentle smile on his face. “I’ll get that alternator.”
You smiled, a real, unfiltered smile. “Okay.” you reached out, impulsively, and squeezed his hand.
“Goodnight, Leon.”
“Goodnight.”
You walked across the lawn to your own house, your heart feeling full and light.
As you closed your front door, you leaned against it, a slow, realization dawned.
You were slowly falling in love with him.
It wasn’t just about the sex, or the dates, or the thrill.
It was about the man who fixed your car and made you stir-fry without expecting anything in return. You wouldn’t tell him. Not yet.
The relationship was too new, too precious to risk.
Back in his house, Leon stood at his kitchen sink, staring at the dishes you'd dried.
He felt a strange, unfamiliar peace. The frustration of your broken car, the satisfaction of fixing it, the quiet shared meal—it had felt normal.
It had felt like a life. A life with you in it. He knew, with a grim, certain clarity, that he was falling for you too. For your brightness, your resilience, your uncomplicated joy.
He wouldn’t tell you. Not right now.
His feelings were a tangled mess of past scars and present hope, and he didn’t have the words.
But he felt them, heavy and real in his chest.
The End
Thanks for reading and don't forget to reblog, if you can, it really helps <3
• synopsis: After a few weeks of sneaking around with you - his hot, young neighbour - Leon decides that he wants something more serious with you and takes you on a date.
Pt 1 here
There's no smut in this one, but it is a bit spicy and suggestive, but there will possibly be in the next one
• A/n: Hello <3 As requested pt 2 has arrived!! I plan on making this a series so stick around for more...
Enjoy!
Leon had decided that he wanted more than just to claim you on a whim.He wanted to know you outside the sex, to walk beside you in the daylight, not just consume you in the shadowed quiet of your bedroom.
The thought made his palms sweat—a sensation he hadn’t felt since facing down literal monsters.So that's how he ended up waiting at your door on a Friday evening, dressed in a button-down and jeans.
He knocked. You opened it, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.You stood there in the most beautiful dress he'd ever seen. Although he was pretty sure it was more you than the dress.
He’d seen you in sundresses, in skirts, in tiny shorts and cropped tops. But this was different. This was a proper dress.
It was a pale rose colour, the fabric a smooth silk that draped elegantly over your curves.The dress had a fitted bodice that hugged your torso, with a delicate, scalloped lace trim along the neckline. The skirt fell to just above your knees, flowing gently. It was devastating. The silk clung to your breasts, hinting at their shape without revealing. The color made your hair glow, and your eyes seemed brighter.
You wore simple pearl earrings and a pair of strappy heels.“Hi,” you said, your smile warm but a little shy.“Hi,” Leon managed, his voice tight. “You look… incredible.”
“Thank you,” you said, stepping out. You closed the door and took his offered hand. Your fingers were soft, but your grip was firm. “I’m so excited.”
He led you to his car—a custom Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT . As he drove, the silence wasn’t awkward, but it was charged.He could feel the heat radiating from you in the passenger seat. He could smell your perfume, but it wasn't the regular one - it was something sweeter but had a hint a of something fruity.
The restaurant was a place he’d heard about but never visited: a quiet, intimate spot with soft lighting and live piano music.You two were soon seated at a corner table, a candle flickering between you.
Your eyes sparkled as you looked around. “This is so fancy,” you whispered, leaning forward.The movement caused the silk of your dress to shift, and Leon’s gaze dropped instinctively to the swell of your chest.
Keep it in your pants Leon. This is supposed to be a romantic date.
He returned his gaze back to your face, with a smile. “You deserve fancy,” he said, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. "You deserve everything good."
You smiled, reaching for the glass of water. “Thank you Leon, that's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me," Your words warmed Leon's chest, as he carefully took your hand in his. "I’ve never been taken out like this before.” you confessed with a snort.
As you waited, the conversation flowed more easily than Leon expected. You talked about your office job, your love for baking, your dream of maybe opening a little bakery someday.
He listened, nodding, asking questions, paid special attention. He didn’t talk about his past though—the nightmares, the scars, the weight he carried. He talked about the house, the garden he was thinking of starting, the quiet he was learning to appreciate.
“It’s nice,” you said softly, your eyes on him. “Seeing you like this. Just… Leon. Not the guy who claims me every other night or the guy who mows his lawn angrily.”
He chuckled, a rough sound, blush dusting his cheeks. “I mow it efficiently.”
“You glare at the grass,” you countered, grinning.The food arrived, and you ate. Every time you laughed, leaned forward, or gestured, the silk of your dress moved, catching the candlelight, drawing his eye.
The tension wasn’t the frantic, desperate need from before. It was a slow, simmering pull. A promise.
After dinner, you shared a dessert—a chocolate torte. You took a bite, closing your eyes in pleasure. “Oh, that’s so good,” you murmured. A tiny bit of chocolate lingered on your lower lip.
Leon watched your tongue swipe it away, but failing to get rid of all the sweet substance.
Before anyone one of you could do anything about it, Leon moves his thumb towards your mouth and cleans the rest of the chocolate off your face.
The gesture had you kicking your feet and blushing like a little schoolgirl.When the meal was finished, he paid, and you walked out into the cool evening air. The parking lot was quiet. He stopped beside his car, turning to you.“Thank you, Leon” you said, looking up at him. “That was really, really wonderful.”Leon nodded.
He wanted to say something smooth, something charming. But his mind was blank, filled only with the image of you in that dress, the memory of you beneath him, the future possibility of peeling that silk from your skin. He felt a rare, unsettling pang of nerves.
“I really don’t want to mess this up,” he said, the words coming out raw and honest.
Your expression softened. You stepped closer, your hand resting on his forearm. The touch was gentle, but it sent a current through him. “You’re not messing anything up,” you said. “You’re just… you. And I like you.” You paused, your eyes searching his. “A lot.”
He swallowed. “I like you, too, sweetheart. A lot.” He looked down at your hand on his arm, then back to your face. “More than I should, maybe.”“Why shouldn’t you?” you asked, your voice low.“Because I’m…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the pavement. “I’m not a simple man. My life hasn’t been simple.”
“I don’t want simple,” you said. You moved your hand up to his shoulder, your touch firmer. “I want real. And you feel real to me.”
You leaned in, your voice a whisper near his ear. “You feel like the only thing that’s ever made me feel truly alive.”
Leon’s breath caught. He looked at you, at the sincerity in your eyes, at the faint blush on your cheeks from the wine.
The coil in his stomach tightened, becoming a sharp, urgent need.
He didn’t kiss you. He just cupped your face with one hand, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Let’s go home,” he said, his voice thick.
You nodded, your eyes holding his. “Your home or mine?”
He thought for a second. “Mine,” he decided. “Tonight.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across your lips. “Okay.”
You drove back in silence, but the air in the car was thick with anticipation. When he parked in his driveway, he led you inside.
Leon's house was dark, only illuminated by moonlight, tidy, devoid of color, but littered with personal items that screamed Leon.
He turned on a single lamp in the living room.
You stood in the center of the room, the pink silk of your dress a shocking burst of vibrancy against his muted grays and browns. You looked around, then at him. “It’s very… you,” you said.
He approached you, stopping a few centimetres away. He could see the rapid pulse at the base of your neck. He could smell your perfume, mixed now with the scent of your skin, warm and inviting.“That dress,” he said, his voice a low growl. “It’s killing me.”
Your smile turned playful. “Is it?”
“You know it is.” He reached out, his fingers brushing the lace trim at your neckline. The silk was cool, smooth under his touch. “I want to see what’s underneath.”“I want you to see,” you whispered.
His fingers traced down, over the fitted bodice, feeling the softness of your breast beneath the fabric.
He didn’t grab, didn’t yank. He just explored, his touch slow, deliberate. Your breath hitched. Your eyes closed for a moment.
“Take it off for me, sweetheart.” he commanded, his tone softening into something almost gentle.
Your eyes opened. You nodded. Slowly, you reached for the small, hidden zipper at the side of the dress.
The silk loosened. You shrugged the dress off your shoulders, letting it slide down your body.It pooled on his clean, hardwood floor like a puddle.
You stood before him in only a matching set of lace lingerie: a bra that barely contained your breasts, and panties that hugged the curve of your hips.
Your skin glowed in the lamplight.
Leon stared, his blood heating. “Now the rest.”
Your hands went to the bra clasp, unhooking it, letting the lace fall away. Your breasts sprang free.
Next, you hooked your thumbs into the sides of your panties and slid them down, stepping out of them.
You were naked in his living room, a vision of soft skin and soft curves against his plain, boring world.
Leon’s gaze was hungry, but controlled. He didn’t move to touch you. He just looked. “You’re perfect,” he said, the words serving to make the wet patch in your panties darker.
You stepped forward, closing the distance, placing your hands on his chest, over his button-down shirt. “Now you,” you said.
He let you unbutton his shirt, your fingers working slowly. When it was open, you pushed it off his shoulders.
His scarred, muscular torso was revealed. You traced the familiar scars with your fingertip, your touch feather-light.
“You’re perfect, too,” you murmured.He captured your mouth then, kissing you deeply, his hands coming to your hips, holding you against him.
The kiss was slow, exploratory, a promise of what was to come. When he broke it, he looked into your eyes.“Bedroom,” he said, his voice rough with promise.
The end
Hopefully you guys enjoyed it and don't forget to reblog <3!
Reader moves into Leon's neighborhood, and catches his eye. Leon can't control himself and is lowkey a pervert. Reader is also clueless, at the beginning, but soon catches on and seizes the opportunity. (She's just like me fr)
(This is very horny so brace yourself).
!!MDNI!!
Pt 2
Credit to @dollywons for the dividers
Leon Kennedy had survived horrors that would have broken most men. Bioweapons, global pandemics, endless nights in decrepit European castles and decaying American cities. He’d earned his retirement, his quiet suburban home with its neat lawn and white fence.
The silence was a fucking gift.
Then you moved in.
Your arrival was a colorful explosion next door. He watched from his window as a moving van disgorged furniture wrapped in bubblegum-colored plastic. You were a blur of motion, bouncing between the truck and your front door in a pair of tight, high-waisted shorts and a Von Dutch cropped tank top that strained against your chest.
Your laugh was bright, ringing across the yards like a bell.
Leon kept his distance. He’d mastered restraint. He’d stared down monsters without blinking; he could handle a pretty neighbor. He stayed inside, focused on his coffee, his routines.
But you didn’t respect distance. Two days after you moved in, you appeared at his front door holding a plate covered in a pink cloth. “Hi! I dont know if you noticed but i moved in the other day,” you chirped, your smile wide and genuine. “I made cookies. Thought you might like some.”
You were wearing a pale pink, ribbed-knit crop top that clung to your torso, the fabric thin enough he could see the shadow of your nipples underneath. Your jeans were denim, cut low, hugging the curves of your hips and the swell of your ass. Your skin was smooth, golden-tanned, and you smelled like sugar and vanilla.
“Leon,” he said, his voice gruff. “Thanks.”
“Oh, cool name!” You handed him the plate. Your eyes were warm, sparkling with an unfiltered optimism that felt alien to him. “I hope you like them. They’re sugar cookies!”
He took the plate. “Appreciate it.”
“No problem! See you around!” You bounced back to your house, your ass cheeks shifting under the denim with each step. Leon closed the door, set the cookies down, and exhaled a long, slow breath. He was so fucked.
The next week was a slow-burn torture. You were always outside. Gardening in cropped tops that did nothing to hide the curve of your tits. Watering plants in sundresses that sat just above your ass and thighs.
You waved at him every time you saw him. Your wave was was an entire-body gesture, a wiggle that made your chest bounce.
Leon started collecting his newspaper later, hoping to avoid your morning cheer. It didn’t work. You'd be on your porch, sipping coffee in a pink satin robe that was clearly just a nightgown, the collar loose, offering him a sunny “Good morning!” He’d grunt a response, his eyes glued to the pavement.
Then came the final straw.
Leon stepped onto his front porch, the morning sun warm on his face. He reached for the newspaper in its plastic sleeve. A movement caught his eye over the fence.
You were in your backyard. You'd set up your bright lawn chair. And you were lying on it, on your back.
What you were rocking wasn't a bikini. It was two tiny triangles of hot pink fabric, together by thin strings. The top triangles strained, threatening to spill the breasts they were meant to cover.
Your nipples, hard as diamonds, pressed against the taut material, creating two distinct peaks. The bottoms were even more obscene—a narrow strip of fabric between your legs, the sides cut so high they barely covered the outer curves of your ass.
Your skin was oiled, glistening, every dip and curve highlighted.
Leon’s breath stalled in his throat. His eyes scanned the neighborhood as a distraction.
Old Mr. Henderson was suddenly mowing his lawn, his head tilted toward your yard. The teenage boy down the street was “fixing” his bike on the sidewalk, his gaze fixed over the fence. A woman across the street was pretending to water her flowers, but the hose was aimed at her feet. And an middle aged couple walking their dog, eyes fixed on you in your lawn chair.
They were all watching. Ogling. And you were utterly oblivious. You had a magazine open on your lap, one hand resting on your stomach, the other occasionally brushing hair from your face.
You shifted, turning slightly, and the bikini bottom pulled, revealing a glimpse of the smooth, oiled skin of your inner thigh, nearly to the crease of your ass.
Leon felt a heat rise in his gut, a familiar, coiled tension that had nothing to do with survival instincts this time. He was staring. He couldn’t stop. His eyes traced the swell of your chest, the dip of your navel, the expanse of your thighs. Jesus Christ.
Then you looked up.
Your eyes met his across the distance. You smiled, that bright, unguarded smile. You waved.
Leon froze, his newspaper clutched in a tight fist. He gave a stiff, minimal wave back, forcing his eyes away from your chest. You sat up.
You swung your legs off the chair, the movement making your breasts shift heavily within their tiny confines. You stood, picking up your magazine, and started walking toward the fence that separated their properties.
Leon’s heart hammered against his ribs. Don’t come over. Don’t.
You reached the fence, leaning over it slightly. The top of your bikini gaped a little with the movement, showing a deeper shadow of cleavage. “Hey Leon! Beautiful day, huh?”
“Yeah,” he managed, his voice tight. “I was just catching some sun. You should join me! I have an extra chair.” Your tone was innocent, friendly.
Leon’s gaze dropped. He couldn’t help it. The pink fabric of your top was stretched so tight over your breasts he could see your nipples pressed against it.
His stare was fixed, hungry, perverted. Your smile faltered. Your eyes followed the line of his stare to your own chest.
A slow realization dawned on your expression. Your cheeks flushed. Not with anger, but with a sudden, hot awareness. You looked back at him. His eyes were still locked on your tits.
You didn’t recoil. You didn’t cover up. You just… watched him watch you. Your breath hitched slightly. Then, you bit your lip.
“I… I should go,” you said softly, but your voice wasn’t scared. It was… breathy.
You turned, clutching your magazine to your chest, and walked back toward your house. Leon stood rooted, a cold dread washing over him. You fucking idiot. You scared her off.
But you didn’t go inside. She stopped at your door, turned, and looked back at him. Your gaze was direct, burning. You didn’t speak. You just lifted your hand, curled a finger, and beckoned him. A clear, silent command: Come here.
Leon’s blood went from cold to boiling in a second. He didn’t think. He dropped the newspaper on the porch and moved.
He crossed his yard, opened the gate in the fence, and strode into your backyard. His steps were quick, purposeful. You watched him approach, your eyes wide, lips parted. When he was close, you turned and opened the door, stepping inside.
He followed.
The house smelled like you—sweet, floral, clean. The living room was a riot of coolours: fluffy pillows, a pink velvet sofa, floral curtains. You didn’t stop there. You walked through the living room, down a short hall, and into your bedroom.
Leon followed, his boots quiet on the plush carpet.
Your bedroom was a girl's dream. The walls were a soft blush. The bed was huge, covered in a fluffy white duvet and a dozen pink throw pillows. A chiffon canopy draped from the ceiling. Everything was soft, feminine, young.
You turned to face him, standing beside your bed. You were still in that tiny bikini, glistening with oil. Your chest rose and fell with quick breaths.
“You were staring,” you said, your voice low.
“Yeah,” Leon admitted, his own voice rough.
“Do you… like what you see?” You asked it softly, a challenge wrapped in silk.
Leon’s control snapped. “Fuck yes,” he growled.
He stepped forward, closing the distance in one swift movement. His hands went to your waist, gripping the slick skin of your hips. You gasped, a sharp intake of air. He pulled your against him, his body hard and tense against your soft, oiled warmth.
Your mouths met. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, desperate. Leon kissed you like he was claiming something, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting the sweetness of your mouth. You moaned into him, your hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
The magazine fell from your hand, hitting the carpet with a soft thud. Leon’s hands slid up your sides, over the smooth curve of your ribs, to the strained fabric of your bikini top.
He palmed your breasts through the material, feeling the weight of them, the prominent nipples hardening against his palms. You arched into his touch, a broken moan escaping your throat.
“Ohhh,” you whimpered.
Leon hooked his fingers under the thin strings of your top and pulled. The triangles of fabric gave way, sliding down your chest. Your breasts spilled free, now fully erect. He groaned at the sight, his thumbs brushing over the stiff peaks.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, his voice thick.
Your hands were on his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “Leon… please…”
He kissed you again, swallowing your plea. He backed you toward the bed, your steps clumsy, knocking over a pink vase on a bedside table. It crashed to the floor, ignored. You fell onto the bed together, the fluffy duvet swallowing you.
Leon stripped his shirt off, tossing it aside. Your hands were on his chest, tracing the scars, the muscle. Your eyes were wide, admiring.
“You’re so… hard,” you breathed.
He pushed you back onto the pillows, his hands going to the tiny bikini bottoms. He hooked his fingers in the sides, pulling them down. The fabric slid over your oiled skin, revealing you completely.
Your pussy was bare, neatly trimmed, your lips already glistening with arousal. Leon stared, his cock aching in his pants. “Jesus,” he hissed.
You spread your legs slightly, an invitation. Your eyes were locked on his face, burning with need. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this,” you confessed, your voice shaky. “Since I saw you. I thought about you… fucking me.”
Leon’s filthy mouth kicked in. “You wanted this old man to ruin your pretty little pussy?”
“Yes,” you gasped.
He undid his belt, pushed his pants and boxers down. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, veins running along the shaft, the head a dark, flushed pink. Your eyes widened further, a mix of shock and raw desire.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “It’s… it’s so big.”
Leon knelt between your spread legs, his cock hovering your her glistening slit. He didn’t enter you. Not yet.
He pressed the hot, broad head of his dick against your outer lips, dragging it slowly upward. The slick, wet tip traced the outline of your pussy, smearing his own pre-cum—a clear, sticky pearl—across your swollen folds. The shlick sound of the wet glide was obscene in the quiet room.
You moaned, your hips lifting off the bed. “Ahhh… that feels… hnng…”
“You like that, baby?” Leon growled, rubbing the head up and down your slit, spreading your wetness, making your lips puff up more.
“You like my cock painting your pretty little cunt?”
“Yes, yes I like it… fuck…” your voice was a broken whimper. He increased the pressure, rubbing the firm tip harder against your sensitive flesh. He slapped it lightly against your lips, a soft thwap sound that made you jerk.
“You’re getting so wet for me,” he murmured, watching your juices mix with his pre-cum, creating a shiny, slick mess. “Your pussy’s begging for it.”
He focused the head on her clit, a firm, prominent bead now fully engorged. He pressed the tip against it, rubbing in a slow, circular motion.
Your body convulsed. “EEE! Right there… ohhh fuck…” your hands grabbed at the sheets, twisting them.
“You gonna come just from me teasing your clit?” Leon asked, his voice a dark, commanding rumble. “You gonna scream for me before I even fuck you?”
He kept the pressure, the motion, his cockhead a relentless, wet tool against your most sensitive spot. Your pussy lips began to part, opening like a flower, leaking more thick, transparent juice. Your breath came in sharp, ragged gasps.
“I’m… I’m… ahhhh!” your back arched, breasts heaving. Your clit pulsed under his relentless attention.
Your orgasm hit you suddenly, a sharp, violent cresting. Your whole body tightened, your legs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing, gushing a fresh wave of wetness over his cockhead. You cried out, a high, strained scream that tore from your throat.
“Jesus Christ!"
Leon watched your face, your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth open in ecstasy. He kept rubbing, even as you peaked, making your orgasm extend, prolonging the torture. “That’s one,” he muttered.
“Let’s see how many you can take.”
Your body collapsed back onto the bed, trembling. Your eyes opened, hazy and overwhelmed. “Leon… please… I need you inside…”
“Not yet,” he said, his voice cruel with pleasure. He shifted, dragging his cockhead down from your clit to your opening. He nudged the tip against your entrance, feeling the hot, slick resistance of your tightness. He pushed, just a little, the broad head starting to stretch you opening.
You gasped, your hips lifting again. “Ohhh… you’re… hnng… you’re so big…”
He retreated, pulling his cock back, then slapping the head against your swollen cunt again. Thwap. Thwap. The sound was wet, lewd.
Your pussy was a glistening mess, your lips puffy and parted, your clit throbbing visibly.
“You want it?” he taunted. “You want this thick fucking cock splitting you open?”
He pushed the head back against your entrance, applying more pressure this time. The tip began to sink into you, stretching the tight muscle.
Your breath caught, your eyes wide on his face. “It’s… it’s stretching… ahhh…” you moaned, your hands grabbing his thighs.
Leon leaned forward, his body hovering over yours. He looked down into your eyes, his gaze dominant, unyielding. “You’re gonna take every inch, sweatheart. You’re gonna swallow my whole fucking cock, and you’re gonna scream while you do it.”
He pushed harder.
The head breached, sliding into your hot, wet cunt. The shlick sound was deeper, wetter. You cried out, a sharp “Oh” as your body accepted the first intrusion. Your pussy gripped him instantly, a tight, velvety fist around the crown of his dick.
Leon groaned, the sensation exquisite. “Fuck… you’re tight, baby. So fucking tight.”
He didn’t thrust yet. He held there, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. He watched your face, saw the pain-pleasure mix in your eyes, the desperate need. “More…” you begged, your voice thin. “Give me more…”
Leon obeyed.
He pushed forward, his thick shaft sliding deeper into you, stretching your walls wide. Your pussy made a wet, sucking sound as he invaded you. Your body trembled beneath him, your breasts shaking with each incremental advance.
He kept going, slow, relentless, until his entire length was buried inside you. He was hilt-deep, his balls pressed against your ass, your pussy stretched to its limit around his girth. He could feel your cervix, a firm, rounded barrier at the deepest part of your cunt, nudging against the tip of his cock.
You were panting, your eyes wild. “You’re so deep… oh god… you’re so deep… I feel… hnng… I feel so full…” Leon began to move.
He pulled back, almost entirely out, then drove forward again, a slow, powerful thrust that buried him deep once more.
The slap of his hips against yours was a solid thwack. Your ass cheeks bounced against the bed, your breasts jolted with the impact.
“Ahhh!” you screamed, your long nails digging into his skin. He set a rhythm, slow at first, each thrust a deep, penetrating invasion. His cock slid through your slick cunt, the wet sounds obscenely loud.
Your pussy gripped him tightly each time he pulled back, then stretched wide again as he plunged forward.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his voice strained with his own pleasure. “You feel my cock fucking your brains out?”
“Yes! Yes I feel it… ohhh fuck… it’s so good…” you moaned, your head thrashing on the pillows.
He increased his pace. The thrusts became harder, faster. His hips slapped against yours with more force, making you body jolt on the bed. Your breasts bounced wildly, your nipples stiff and flushed. Your cunt was a wet, stretched mess, juices leaking around his shaft with each withdrawal.
Leon’s filthy talk poured out, a continuous stream of dominance. “Your pussy’s making such a nasty fucking sound, baby. Can you hear it? Like you’re fucking gushing for me.”
You cried, your eyes locked on his. “You’re my pretty little slut now,” he growled, pounding into your poor pussy. “This cunt belongs to me. I’m gonna fuck it until you can’t think, until you’re just a moaning, begging hole for my cock.”
“Yes! Make me your slut… please… fuck me harder… ahhh!”
He obeyed, driving into you with brutal, deep strokes. His aim was precise, each thrust targeting your deepest spot, the head of his cock battering against your cervix with a firm, persistent nudge.
Your reactions escalated. Your moans became hoarse screams, your body convulsing with each impact.
“Right there! Right there!” you shrieked, your hips bucking against him.
Leon focused on that spot, hammering against your cervix with relentless force. The pressure was intense, a deep, internal grinding that made your eyes roll back. Your pussy clenched around him in rhythmic spasms, your orgasm building again.
“You gonna come again?” he demanded, his thrusts never faltering. “You gonna cream on my cock?”
“Yeah baby” your voice shattered into a high, broken wail. Your body locked up, your cunt gripping his shaft like a vice, milking him as your second orgasm ripped through you. Juices flooded around his cock, hot and copious.
Leon kept fucking you.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow. He drove into you through your orgasm, extending your pleasure into overstimulation. You cried out, your sensitivity peaking into a painful ecstasy. “No… ohhh… it’s too much… ahhh!” but your hands clawed at his back, pulling him deeper.
“You can take it,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “You take every fucking thrust. You don’t get a break.”
He fucked you through the aftermath of your climax, his cock plunging into your sensitive, quivering cunt. The wet sounds were even louder now, your pussy soaked and stretched, accepting his relentless invasion.
His own climax was building, a tight coil in his balls, a heat spreading up his cock. He could feel his control slipping, the pleasure dom intensity giving way to his own raw need.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “I’m gonna pump my fucking cum deep into your cunt, sweetheart. You want that?”
“Yes!” you begged, your eyes glazed. “Cum in me… fill me up… please…”
He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, his cockhead pressing firmly against your cervix. The orgasm erupted from him, a hot, violent rush. “Fuck!” he roared, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into your cunt.
You felt it. The hot, sudden gush deep inside you, filling your channel, painting your walls. You moaned, a long, drawn-out “Ohhhh…” as the sensation washed over you.
Leon didn’t pull out.
He stayed buried, his cock still pulsing inside you, releasing the last of his cum. He collapsed forward slightly, his weight pressing you into the bed, his mouth near your ear. “You feel that?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You feel my cum filling your fucking womb?”
You nodded, breathless. He stayed there, connected, his cock slowly softening inside your soaked, stretched cunt. The intimacy was overwhelming, the skin-to-skin contact, the shared heat, the mixed fluids.
After a moment, he shifted, pulling back slightly. His cock, now slick with your combined wetness, slid partway out. You gasped at the sensation, your pussy clenching around the retreating shaft.
Leon looked down at your face. Your eyes were half-closed, your lips parted, your expression dazed and utterly satisfied.
“That,” you breathed, your voice a soft, awed whisper, “was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
The fire crackled, a familiar, comforting sound in the cool night air. Four weeks. Four weeks of stolen glances becoming long, hungry looks, shared meals becoming preludes to shared breaths, the careful distance between your bedrolls dissolving into a single, tangled nest of blankets and limbs and sweat-slicked skin.
Ser Duncan the Tall had never known a happiness so complete it felt like a physical ache in his chest. He watched you across the fire, youe face gilded in the firelight as you finished the last of your stew, and felt a wave of such profound tenderness it nearly stole his breath.
You two had fucked in meadows at high noon, your soft cries swallowed by the sounds of nature. You both had rutted against a mossy tree in the rain, Dunk's cloak wrapped around you as a shield against the world.
he had taken you on your knees by a moonlit stream, the sight of your arched back and the slick, rhythmic slap of his hips against your ass driving him to a frenzy.
Every time, every single fucking time, his only thought was you. Your pleasure was a song he was desperate to learn by heart, a country he wanted to map with his hands and mouth and cock.
He’d lose himself in the taste of you, the feel of you clenching around his fingers, the way your body went taut and trembling under his before shattering.
Only when you were a boneless mess beneath him, your mind blissfully blank, would he allow himself to seek his own release, and even then, his climax was tied to the aftershocks he could still feel pulsing through you.
“That was good,” You said, setting yoir bowl aside and stretching your arms over her head. The movement pulled your tunic tight across your breasts, and Dunk’s mouth went dry.
He could see the faint outline of your nipples, peaked from the evening chill or from his gaze, he didn’t know.
“Aye,” he rumbled, his voice thick. “It was.” He wasn’t talking about the stew.
You smiled at him, that slow, knowing smile that always made his heart stutter. For a month, the routine after supper had been the same: you would sit by the fire, sometimes talking, sometimes in comfortable silence, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you.
He’d nuzzle your hair, tell you about his day, listen to your stories. It was a quiet intimacy he cherished just as much as the raw, hungry ones.
But tonight, you stood up. You brushed off your skirt, gave him one last, inscrutable look, and without a word, walked to the tent and ducked inside.
Dunk blinked, the spoon halfway to his mouth. He set it down slowly. That’s odd. Maybe you were tired.
Maybe you had a headache. He waited, expecting you to call for him, or to come back out for a forgotten waterskin. The silence from the tent stretched.
A faint thread of worry wormed its way through his contentment. He finished his own stew methodically, cleaned the bowls and pot in the bucket of stream water kept by the fire, and banked the coals.
He checked on Thunder and Mist, running his hands over their flanks, murmuring soft words. The horses were content, secure. Everything was as it should be. Except you were in the tent alone.
Finally, unable to bear the separation any longer, he wiped his hands on his breeches and approached the tent. The flap was loosely tied. “Derling?” he called softly, his voice a low rumble in the dark.
“Come in, Dunk.”
He pushed the flap aside and ducked in, his massive frame filling the small space. The single tallow candle cast a warm, wavering light.
You were kneeling in the center of the bedrolls, which were pushed together into one wide, inviting pallet. You were still dressed, but your hair was down, a cascade over your shoulders. Your expression was serene, purposeful.
“Is everything alright?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
“Everything’s perfect,” you said, your voice smooth as honey. “Come here.”
He took a step forward, still confused. “Did I… did I do something wrong?”
You laughed, a soft, delicious sound. “No, you great oaf. You’ve done everything right. For four weeks. Too right.” You patted the bedroll in front of you. “Sit.”
He obeyed, lowering himself to his knees facing you, the old canvas creaking under his weight. He was so much larger, even kneeling, that he towered over you. The top of her head only came to his chin. “Derling, what’s this about?”
You reached out and placed your small hands on his broad chest. “It’s about you, Duncan.” You pushed, gently but firmly.
He was so surprised he let you. He toppled backward, landing on his backside with a soft whump, his long legs sprawled out before him. He braced himself on his elbows, staring up at you, his eyes wide. “Wha—?”
“Shhh,” you whispered, crawling forward on your knees until you were straddling his thighs. The weight of you was nothing, a delightful pressure. You loomed over him now, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “My turn.”
“Your turn for what?” His heart was beginning to pound, a slow, heavy drumbeat of anticipation.
“To put you first,” you said simply. Her hands went to the laces of his breeches. “For once, you big, selfless fool, you’re going to lie back and let me worship you. I’m going to suck your cock, Dunk. And you’re going to let me.”
A jolt of pure, white-hot arousal shot through him, so intense it was almost painful. His cock, already half-hard from your mere presence, surged to full, aching life, straining against the confining linen. “Derling, no, you don’t have to—” he began, the chivalrous reflex as ingrained as breathing.
Your fingers stilled. You looked at him, your gaze softening. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. I’ve wanted to for weeks. I dream about it. About the taste of you, the weight of you on my tongue.” You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear. “Let me, please. Let me make you feel atleast half as good as you make me feel.”
The raw want in you voice undid him. His protests died in his throat, replaced by a groan of surrender. He sank back fully onto the bedroll, his head hitting the bundled-up cloaks. “Gods be good,” he breathed.
“That’s the idea,” you murmured, your fingers making quick, efficient work of his laces. You tugged his breeches and smallclothes down over his hips, just enough to free him.
The cool air of the tent hit his heated flesh, and he shuddered. And then he was exposed, fully erect, jutting up from the thatch of ginger hair at his groin. He was, as in all things, immense.
His cock was long and thick, the shaft a pale column of flesh traced with prominent blue veins that pulsed with his heartbeat. The head was a flushed, dark pink, already beading with a clear drop of moisture at the slit. His balls, heavy and drawn up tight, nestled in coarse hair.
You let out a soft, appreciative sigh. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” you whispered, and the reverence in your tone made his eyes sting. No one had ever called any part of him beautiful.
You wrapped your small hand around the base, your fingers not even meeting. The contrast was obscene, and so erotic he saw stars at the edges of his vision. Your touch was cool, tentative at first, just stroking the velvety skin.
“Love…” It was a plea, a prayer.
She leaned down, and for a moment, he thought she would kiss the tip. Instead, she looked up at him, holding his gaze, her green eyes dark with intent. Then she opened her mouth, and her hot, wet tongue darted out to lick up the droplet of pre-cum from his slit.
Dunk’s whole body jerked. A ragged, broken sound tore from his throat. The sensation was like a lightning strike—sharp, shocking, impossibly good. The salt-bitter taste of him seemed to please her, because she hummed, a low vibration that traveled straight up his cock to his spine.
You started sweetly, just as he always did with you. You peppered soft, closed-mouth kisses along the length of his shaft, from base to tip, your lips impossibly soft.
Your exploration was curious, worshipful. You took one of his heavy balls into your hand, rolling the weight of it gently in your palm, and he cried out, his hips lifting off the bedroll involuntarily.
“Easy,” you soothed, your other hand coming to rest on his hipbone, pinning him with barely any force. The trust in that gesture, his willingness to be held down by you, sent another wave of dizzying heat through him.
Then your mouth was on him again, and this time, you took the head inside. Just the crown, sucking gently. Your cheeks hollowed, and the wet, tight heat was so profound Dunk’s vision swam.
His hands fisted in the bedroll, the coarse fabric tearing under his grip. “Fuck,” he gasped. “Oh, fuck, Derling.”
You released him with a soft pop and smiled up at him, your lips glistening. “You like that?”
“I… I can’t…” He was already incoherent. He’d never felt anything like this. The whores in Flea Bottom had been rough, transactional. This was… this was you. Your love, your desire, focused entirely on his pleasure. It was overwhelming.
"Good,” you said, and took him deeper.
You found a rhythm, slow and sensual. You'd sink down, taking more and more of his length into the wet cavern of your mouth, your tongue swirling around the underside of his shaft.
You'd pull back to just the head, sucking hard, your fingers working the base in a twisting motion. Then you'd plunge down again, your nose brushing the coarse hair at his root.
You were learning him, finding what made him twitch and gasp. A particular flick of your tongue on a prominent vein made his legs kick out.
A deep, throaty hum as you took him all the way to the back of your throat had him seeing stars.
Dunk was lost. He was a creature of pure sensation. His head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, then flying open to watch the impossible, beautiful sight of your head bobbing in his lap.
His toes curled inside his boots. A constant, low whimper was coming from him, a sound of utter helpless ecstasy. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, not to guide you, but to feel the strands, to anchor himself to this reality.
"Gods, your mouth… so good… so fucking good,” he babbled, the words slurred. His hips began to move in tiny, aborted thrusts, meeting your descent.
You allowed it, even encouraged it, moaning around his cock as he pushed a little deeper into your throat.
The vibration was his undoing.
The pressure built, a coiling, molten heat in his groin, spreading up through his belly. It was too fast, too intense.
He’d been so focused on you for so long, his own control was paper-thin. “Love, I’m… I’m gonna…” he warned, his voice strangled.
You didn’t pull off. Instead, you looked up at him, your eyes gleaming with challenge, and took him even deeper, your throat working around him. That was it. The coil snapped.
Dunk’s orgasm ripped through him with the force of a summer storm. A raw, guttural shout was torn from his lungs as his back arched clear off the bedroll.
His cock pulsed violently in your mouth, and the first jet of his release hit the back of your throat.
It was not a small amount. The first month of your coupling, the sheer volume of his cum had shocked you both—a manifestation of the hyperspermia that ran his line - It came in thick, heavy ropes, spurt after spurt after spurt.
Your eyes widened slightly at the onslaught, but you held him fast, your throat working as you took his essence down.
Some escaped, pearling at the corners of your lips, dripping down to coat his shaft and balls in glistening white.
The sight of his spend on you, of your consuming him so completely, wrenched another, deeper pulse from him. He thought it would never end.
His body convulsed with the force of it, his mind dissolving into a white, blank static of pleasure. He was dimly aware of his own choked sobs, the helpless, broken sounds of a man being utterly ruined by bliss.
Finally, the torrent subsided to a trickle, then stopped. His body went limp, boneless, sinking into the bedroll like a stone.
His cock, still mostly hard and slick with spit and cum, slipped from your lips with a wet sound. He was gasping, his chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow. He felt hollowed out.
He blinked blearily up at the tent ceiling, his mind a blissful, empty void.
He felt you move, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He heard your soft, satisfied sigh. He expected you to curl up beside him now, to let him hold you.
The hedge knight’s reward, in his mind, was done. He had been, as you requested, put first.
Then he felt your, warm hand wrap around him again.
His eyes flew open. He looked down his body. You were still straddling his thighs, but you had arched your back presenting your ass to him in a perfect, tempting curve as you leaned forward to take him back into your mouth.
The view was devastating. The round, firm globes of your ass, barely covered by your skirt which had ridden up… it was a lewd, beautiful invitation his fogged brain could barely process.
“Wha…?” he slurred, his voice raspy. “Sweetling… no, love… I’m done… you don’t have to…”
You ignored him. Your mouth, softer now, more languid, enveloped his sensitive crown.
A sharp, electric jolt of overstimulation shot through him, making his whole body twitch. “Ah! Gods… stop…” he pleaded, but it was a weak, thready sound.
His hand came up to push at your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.
Where did you get the strength? his hazy mind wondered. He could lift you with one hand.
Yet here you were, holding him down with your will and your wicked, wonderful mouth, and he was powerless.
He realized, with a distant shock, that it was him who was weak. Weak from the brain-melting blowjob, weak from the cataclysmic orgasm you'd just wrung from him.
His legendary strength was gone, melted away by your devotion.
You began to suck in earnest again, and the sensation was completely different. It was sharper, more intense, riding the line between pleasure and painful overstimulation.
His spent cock, still half-hard and impossibly sensitive, was responding against all logic.
A new, low heat began to kindle in his gut, slow and insidious.
“Love, please…” he whimpered, his hand now clutching your hair, not to pull you off, but to hold on. His hips began to move again, tiny, desperate circles. “I can’t… it’s too much…”
You released him with a slick sound. Your lips were swollen, shiny with spit and his cum. “You can,” you said, your voice husky. “And you will. For me.”
You turned back and took him deep, your throat opening to swallow him whole. And Dunk… Dunk broke.
The tears came first, hot and silent, tracking through the grime on his temples.
Then the sounds—broken, ragged whimpers that climbed into high, breathy cries.
He couldn’t stay still. His body was a live wire, twitching and shuddering under your ministrations. His legs kicked, his back bowed.
He was babbling, a stream of consciousness filled with your name and curses and pleas to the Seven. “Oh gods… Love… fuck… oh, oh, oh… so good… it’s too good… stop, please… don’t stop, don’t ever stop…”
You were relentless. You used your tongue like a weapon of pure delight, licking and sucking and humming.
You took his heavy balls back into your mouth, one at a time, sucking gently, and he shrieked, a sound he didn’t know he could make.
You returned to his cock, which was now fully, painfully hard again, throbbing and purple-tipped, and you sucked him like you were starving for him.
The second buildup was slower, but somehow more profound. It wasn’t a storm this time; it was a tide, rising from the depths of his soul, pulling every ounce of his being toward a single, shining point of release.
He was sobbing openly now, tears and sweat mingling on his face. He was completely at your mercy, a giant brought low by a woman’s mouth, and it was the most exquisite thing he had ever known.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” he choked out, his voice wrecked.
You quickened your pace, your head bobbing faster, your hand fisting his shaft in time with your mouth.
You looked up at him, your eyes holding his, and he was lost in your gaze.
The second orgasm took him without violence. It unfolded him. It unspooled him from the inside out.
A long, low, continuous moan tore from his throat as his body seized, not in violent jerks, but in a deep, full-body tremble that seemed to go on forever.
His cock erupted, and this time, there was no force behind it, just a seemingly endless, hot flood.
It spilled from him in a steady, copious stream, filling your mouth, overflowing down your chin, soaking his own belly and groin in a warm, sticky lake.
His mind didn’t go blank. It shattered.
Thought ceased.
Identity ceased.
There was only the warm, wet suction of your mouth, the smell of sex and sweat in the tent, the feeling of his essence leaving his body in a seemingly infinite ribbon of surrender.
When awareness finally, slowly, seeped back in, he was a ruin. He lay utterly still his breath coming in shallow, ragged pants.
He felt hollow, weightless.
He could not move a muscle. His cock, finally softening, lay spent and glistening on his belly, a pathetic, well-used thing in a puddle of his own spend.
He felt you release him, felt you crawl up his body. Your face appeared above his, blurry.
You were smiling, a radiant, triumphant, slightly awed smile. Your lips were a mess. You wiped at your chin with your fingers.
“Dunk?” you whispered. “You okay?”
The words reached him from a great distance. They were just sounds. It took a long moment for his brain to process them, to remember how language worked.
He blinked slowly, his eyes struggling to focus on you.
“I…” he began, his voice a dry, cracked whisper. He swallowed. “I… am...” They was the only words he had.
You giggled then, a soft, happy sound you tried to stifle by biting your swollen lip, but you failed miserably. The giggles escaped, light and joyous.
The sound anchored him. He managed to lift a leaden hand, his fingers brushing your cheek, smearing a stray drop of his cum.
“That was the idea,” you said, leaning down to press a soft, salty kiss to his lips. He could taste himself on you, and it was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced.
He lay there for another minute, letting the fragments of his mind slowly drift back together. A deep, profound lethargy was seeping into his bones, a pleasant, heavy weight.
But a stubborn, ingrained part of him stirred. The part that needed to give. The part that defined itself by her pleasure.
With a Herculean effort, he tried to shift, to roll you beneath him. “Your… your turn…” he mumbled, the words thick and slurred. “Let me… let me taste you… need to make you…”
You placed a hand on his chest, holding him down with laughable ease. “No.”
“But… you…”
“The night was about you, Dunk. Only you. I’m fine. More than fine.” You settled beside him, curling into his side, your head on his shoulder. Your hand splayed over his pounding heart.
“Not… fair…” he argued, but the fight was draining out of him with every beat of his heart. His eyelids were so heavy.
The warmth of your body, the solid feel of you against him, the deep, satiated hum in every nerve… it was pulling him down into a velvety darkness. “Have to… please you…”
“You did,” you whispered, kissing his shoulder. “Watching you come apart like that… hearing those sounds… that was for me. That was my pleasure.”
He wanted to protest more, but a thick, drowsy fog was enveloping his brain. His arguments dissolved into incoherent mutters. “…tonight… tomorrow… I’ll… make it up… gonna eat your perfect… pussy… for hours… make you… scream…”
His words trailed off into a soft, deep sigh. His breathing evened out, growing slow and rhythmic. The hand that had been stroking your hair stilled, falling heavily to the bedroll.
In the candlelight, you watched the giant knight, your giant knight, succumb to an exhausted, sated sleep, a faint, blissful smile still on his handsome face.
The air in the tavern was thick with smoke, spilled ale, and the raucous laughter of men who’d forgotten their names. You leaned your elbows on the sticky table, watching the way the firelight played across the massive breadth of Ser Duncan the Tall’s shoulders as he shifted uncomfortably on a bench that seemed two sizes too small for him.
He was telling some long-winded story about a tourney melee, his big hands moving through the air to demonstrate a parry, and all you could think about was how those same hands had, just that afternoon, gently brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek after he showed you a basic sword grip. Your stomach had done a funny little flip then, and it was doing it again now, warmed by the wine.
“And then,” Dunk boomed, his voice a pleasant rumble that cut through the din, “the knight in the green surcoat, he comes at me from the left, see, and I had to—”
“You had to use that tree-trunk you call an arm to swat him away like a fly,” You finished, grinning. You took another long swallow from your horn.
The wine was sour, but it was doing its job. “I remember. I was there. You got splinters from his lance and I had to dig it out after.”
Dunk’s face, already flushed from the ale, went a shade darker. He looked down at his large, calloused hands. “Aye. You did. Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome,” you said, your voice dropping, becoming more intimate than the noise around them warranted. You leaned forward, the neckline of your simple dress gaping just a little.
You saw his eyes flicker down, then snap back to your face, a panic in his wide blue eyes. Gods, he’s beautiful, you thought, not for the first time. “You know, Ser Duncan, for a man so large, you have remarkably gentle hands.”
He choked on his ale. A fit of coughing seized him, and he pounded a fist against his chest. “My lady, please,” he managed, his voice strained. “You shouldn’t…”
“I shouldn’t what?” you pressed, emboldened by the alcohol and months of pent-up, aching want. “Shouldn’t notice? Shouldn’t say it? Everyone from here to Lannisport notices your hands, Dunk. And the rest of you.”
You let your gaze travel slowly, brazenly, from the thick cords of his neck, down the solid expanse of his chest barely contained by his tunic, to the powerful thighs straining against his breeches. When your eyes met his again, he looked utterly stricken, like a stag caught in a hunter’s torchlight.
“I… I need some air,” he stammered, lurching to his feet so fast the bench screeched against the stone floor. “It’s… close in here.”
He fled, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling beams as he ducked toward the door. You watched him go, a mix of triumph and despair swirling in your wine-addled brain.
Too much. You pushed too far, you fool. You sighed, slumping back in the bench, and drained the rest of your horn. The room tilted pleasantly.
A shadow fell across the table. “All alone, derling?” a voice slurred.
You looked up. A knight, or a man dressed as one, with a drooping mustache and eyes that glinted with a confidence Dunk’s lacked, stood over you. He smelled of sweat and onions. “Not for long, it seems,” you said dryly, your words slightly tangled.
“A pretty thing like you shouldn’t drink alone. Allow me to purchase you another.” He didn’t wait for an answer, signaling a serving wench. “I am Ser Lyn. And you are?”
“Leaving,” You said, trying to stand. The room wobbled. You gripped the table. “My… my companion will be back shortly.”
“This giant I saw you with? He looked like he’d had his fill.” Ser Lyn leaned in, his breath hot on her ear. “I, however, am just getting started. Move over, let me sit beside you. Tell me of your travels.”
He placed a proprietary hand on your arm. You tried to pull away, but your limbs felt heavy, disconnected. “Unhand me, ser.”
“Now, now, no need for that tone. We’re just being friendly.”
The cool night air washed over Dunk’s burning face. He braced his hands on his knees, taking deep, gulping breaths that did nothing to calm the frantic pounding of his heart.
He could still see the way the firelight had caught in your hair, the teasing curve of your smile, the shadowed hint of cleavage.
He was a knight, sworn to chivalry, and all he could think about was how soft your skin had felt that afternoon when your fingers had brushed his while bandaging a scratch.
How your scent—like herbs and sunshine—lingered on his shirt after you'd washed it. How your laughter made something deep in his chest tighten.
He was a fool. A great, lumbering fool. You were clever and beautiful and could have any man you wanted. You were just being kind. Drunk and kind.
He had to remember that. He straightened, squaring his shoulders against the night. He would go back in, be polite, and see you safely to their camp. That was his duty.
Pushing the tavern door open, the wall of sound hit him again. His eyes scanned the crowded room and found you immediately. A man, some puffed-up knightling, had his hand on your arm.
You were trying to pull away, your face a mask of annoyed discomfort. Something hot and sharp, entirely unfamiliar, lanced through Dunk. It burned away the last of his drunken hesitation.
He crossed the room in three long strides. He didn’t shout. He didn’t draw his sword. He simply placed his own hand, which dwarfed Ser Lyn’s, on the man’s shoulder and squeezed. Not enough to break bone, but enough to make the man yelp and spin around.
“The lady said unhand her,” Dunk said, his voice low but carrying a weight that silenced the immediate vicinity.
Ser Lyn’s bravado faltered, his eyes widening as he had to crane his neck to look up at Dunk. “I was just—”
“You were just leaving,” Dunk finished. He didn’t move his hand.
The man swallowed, glanced at your relieved face, and wisely decided a retreat was the better part of valor. He muttered something and melted back into the crowd.
You swayed on your feet, looking up at Dunk with huge, wine-dark eyes. “My hero,” you said, a slow, dazzling smile spreading across your face.
Dunk’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Come on,” he grunted, taking her elbow—gently, so gently—and steering you toward the door. “We’re going.”
The cool night was a shock after the tavern’s heat. You stumbled, and Dunk’s arm instinctively went around your waist to steady you.
You were dwarfed against him, your head barely reaching the middle of his chest. You fit in the curve of his arm as if you'd been made for it. The thought sent another jolt through him.
“You were jealous,” you sang softly, leaning into his solid warmth.
“I was not,” he protested, too quickly. “I was protecting your honor. It’s a knight’s duty.”
You laughed, a light, bubbling sound. My honor is just fine, Ser Duncan. It was my person that was being annoyed.” You tilted your head back to look at him as you walked slowly down the moonlit path toward the edge of town where you'd made camp. “Admit it. You didn’t like him touching me.”
Dunk was silent, the truth stuck in his throat. The confession was a physical pressure behind his breastbone.
“It’s alright,” you whispered, your hand coming up to splay over his heart. He could feel the heat of it through his tunic. “I didn’t like it either. I only like it when you touch me.”
He stopped walking. They were under a large oak tree, dappled in moonlight. “My lady,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re drunk.”
“I am,” you agreed cheerfully. “But I’m not blind. And I’m not lying.” You pushed yourself up on your tiptoes, your body pressing flush against his. He could feel every soft curve. “I like you, Duncan. So much it hurts sometimes.”
His breath caught. All the months of stolen glances, of accidental brushes, of longing looks across campfires crashed over him. He stood frozen, a giant rendered immobile by a few whispered words.
Seeing his hesitation, you pouted. “Please?”
You leaned up further, your lips brushing the rough stubble of his cheek. It was the barest touch, but it seared him like a brand.
You trailed those soft, insistent kisses from his cheekbone, along the line of his jaw, moving with drunken determination toward his mouth. He was holding his a bowstring.
Your lips found the corner of his mouth. He shuddered.
Then you found his lips fully.
It was clumsy. You overbalanced, and he had to tighten his hold on you to keep them both upright. Their noses bumped. You tasted of sour wine and something uniquely, inherently You.
It was a chaste, closed-mouth press of lips, but it shattered him. It was everything he hadn’t allowed himself to dream of. His head swam, the world narrowing to the feel of your mouth on his, the slight weight of your in his arms.
And then you went utterly limp.
He broke the kiss in alarm, looking down. Your eyes were closed, your breathing deep and even. You'd passed out, a soft smile on your lips.
A strangled sound, half-laugh, half-groan, escaped him. Carefully, he adjusted his hold, then bent and hoisted you up in his arms, one massive arm under her knees and your head against his chest.
You murmured something unintelligible but didn’t wake. He carried you the rest of the way to the camp, your body swaying gently with his steps, his mind a riot of confusion and aching, unspent desire.
*
Sunlight, sharp and accusing, stabbed through the gaps in the canvas tent. You groaned, a throbbing drumbeat taking up residence behind your eyes. Your mouth felt like a Dornish
sandstorm had blown through it.
You shifted, and the rough-spun fabric against your skin felt… wrong. Coarse. You blinked your eyes open, staring at the faded red material of the tent wall.
Memory returned in sickening, disjointed flashes. The tavern. The wine. Dunk’s flushed, handsome face. Teasing him. The other knight. Dunk’s intervention, his face like a thundercloud. The kiss.
You bolted upright, then clutched your head as the world spun. You were wearing a shirt. A huge, billowing shirt that smelled unmistakably of Dunk—leather, and clean sweat. It swamped you, the hem hitting your mid-thigh. You was naked underneath.
Oh, gods.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, hopeful rhythm. Had the two of you…? You couldn’t remember anything after the kiss. You looked around the small tent. His bedroll was empty, his gear neatly stacked by the entrance. No Dunk.
A hot wave of embarrassment warred with a curl of disappointment. You crawled to the tent flap, pushed it open, and squinted into the morning light.
He was there, sitting on a fallen log a few paces away, staring into the small, smoldering remains of your cookfire. His back was to you, the muscles in his broad back tense even through his tunic. He looked like a man awaiting a sentencing.
You took a steadying breath and walked over, the dew-wet grass cool on your bare feet. You sat down on the log beside him, leaving a careful foot of space between you two. The silence was thick, broken only by the chirping of birds.
“Good morning,” you said, your voice raspy.
He flinched, as if startled by a loud noise. He didn’t look at you. “Morning. How’s your head?”
“It feels like a dwarf is mining for gold inside my skull.” You paused, twisting the oversized fabric of his shirt in your hands. “Dunk… why am I wearing your shirt?”
Now he looked at you, his brown eyes full of a pained honesty. “You… you got sick. Last night. On your own dress. I had to… I had to get you out of it. To clean you up.” His neck and ears were turning that familiar, endearing shade of crimson. “I swear, my Lady, I didn’t look. Not really. I just… I had a clean shirt. It was the decent thing to do.”
The embarrassment flooded back, hot and mortifying. “Oh, Seven hells,” you whispered, burying your face in your hands. “I’m so sorry. That’s… that’s disgusting.”
“Don’t be,” he said quickly, his big hand hovering near your shoulder before he pulled it back, clenching it into a fist on his knee. “Don’t be sorry. It’s alright. Are you… are you feeling better otherwise?”
You peeked at him through your fingers. He looked so worried, so genuinely concerned for your well-being amidst the awkwardness. The disappointment from earlier sharpened into a clear, painful point. “I don’t remember much,” you admitted softly. “I remember the tavern. I remember you being jealous.”
“I wasn’t—” he began automatically, then stopped. He sighed, a heavy, weary sound. “Aye. I was. I didn’t like his hands on you.”
The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and huge.
“I remember the tavern,” you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. “I remember telling you I liked you. I remember kissing you.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Dunk… did we… after? Did anything else happen?”
His eyes widened in pure, unfeigned shock. “No! No, my Lady, I would never… you were unconscious! I carried you back. I cleaned you up and put you to bed. In your own bedroll. I slept outside.” He said it with such earnest, knightly fervor that you almost laughed, if you weren’t so busy wanting to cry.
“Oh,” you said, the single syllable dripping with a dejection you couldn’t hide.
He heard it. He studied your face, the hope dawning in his own eyes warring with disbelief. “My Lady… what you said last night. About liking me. You were drunk. You didn’t mean it.”
“I was drunk,” you agreed, turning fully to face him on the log. The morning sun lit your face, and you made no effort to hide what you were feeling. “But I wasn’t lying. I like you, Dunk. I have for months. Every time you call my mare ‘good girl,’ I wish it was me. Every time you let me tend your wounds, I just want to… to touch more of you. I watch you move, and I can’t breathe sometimes.” The words were pouring out now, a dam breaking after a long winter. “I kissed you because I’ve wanted to for so long my teeth ached with it. And then I went and ruined it by passing out like a silly maiden.”
He was staring at you, his mouth slightly open, all the color drained from his face only to flood back in a deep, rosy wave. He looked utterly wrecked. “You… you mean it? Truly?”
“Truly,” you breathed.
He moved then. It wasn’t a graceful movement; it was a sudden, decisive lunge. One of his hands came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. His other arm wrapped around your back, pulling you off the log and against the solid wall of his chest. He was trembling.
“My Lady,” he murmured, your name a prayer on his lips.
This kiss was nothing like the last.
There was no clumsiness, no hesitation. It was a hungry, desperate meeting of mouths. He took your lips with a possession that made you whimper into his mouth, your hands flying up to clutch at the front of his tunic.
His lips were firm, insistent, and when his tongue swept along the seam of your lips, you opened for him without a thought.
The taste of him, of mint leaf and man, exploded across your senses. His tongue delved into your mouth, tangling with yours in a deep, wet slide that sent a bolt of pure lightning straight to your core.
You moaned, the sound swallowed by him, and felt an immediate, answering groan vibrate from his chest into yours.
His hand left your face, sliding down your neck, over the slope of your shoulder, coming to rest on the curve of your waist where his shirt hung on you.
His fingers flexed, pressing into your flesh through the fabric. The sheer size of his hand, spanning nearly the whole width of your torso, made you feel utterly claimed.
The size difference, a constant source of secret thrill for you, was now a central, overwhelming fact. He could envelop you completely.
You broke the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his. “Dunk,” you panted.
“Is this alright?” he asked, his voice a ragged scrape. His eyes searched yours, dark with desire but still holding that core of unwavering concern. “Tell me to stop and I stop. I swear it.”
“Don’t you dare stop,” you commanded, pulling his head back down to yours.
This kiss was slower, deeper, more explorative. He licked into your mouth, savoring you, his big hands beginning to roam.
One slid down to your thigh, his fingers brushing the bare skin where his shirt ended. The touch was electric.
He squeezed, his hand so large it nearly encircled your thigh completely. The other hand moved up your back, under the loose fabric of the shirt, finding the bare skin of your spine.
His palm was rough with callouses, a thrilling contrast to the gentle way he traced your vertebrae.
You were melting, liquid heat pooling between your legs. You could feel yourself getting wet, a slow, aching seep of arousal that soaked your inner thighs.
You rocked her hips instinctively, seeking friction against the hard muscle of his leg.
He tore his mouth from yours with a sharp intake of breath. “My Lady… gods, you feel…”
“I need you,” you whispered against his neck, nipping at the corded tendon there. “Please, Dunk. Now.”
That was all it took. He stood in one fluid, powerful motion, lifting you with him as if you weighed nothing.
Your arms and legs looped around his body. He ducked into the tent, the dim interior smelling of grass and them.
He knelt, laying you down on thr bedroll with a reverence that belied the feverish hunger in his eyes.
He loomed over you, kneeling between your legs, his frame blocking out the light from the tent flap. He was a giant, a beautiful, breathing mountain of a man, and he was all yours.
His eyes drank you in—the way his shirt was rucked up around your hips, the way your nipples tented the linen, the way your hair framed your face, mimicking a halo.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. He leaned down, bracing himself on one arm, and captured your lips in another searing kiss. His free hand went to the hem of the shirt. “May I?”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Everything. Take it all.”
He didn’t rip it. He gathered the fabric in his fist and drew it up, over your soft stomach, your breasts, your arms, and finally over your head, tossing it aside.
The cool air of the tent washed over your naked skin, but it did nothing to quench the fire he’d stoked. You lay bare before him, and his gaze was a physical caress.
Fuck,” he whispered, the crude word sounding like poetry in his deep, reverent voice. “Look at you.”
His eyes traced the slopes of your breasts, the tight peaks of your nipples already hardened into tight buds.
They traveled down the plane of your stomach, the curve of your hips, and finally settled on the thatch of dark curls at the apex of your thighs.
You were already glistening, your folds swollen and parted, revealing the slick, pink flesh within.
“You’re so wet,” he observed, his voice hushed with wonder. He reached out a single, trembling finger and traced the outer line of your labia, from the top of your slit down to your perineum.
The touch was feather-light, but it made you jerk, a sharp cry escaping your lips.
Your juices coated his finger, and he brought it to his mouth, his eyes locked on yours as he sucked it clean. “You taste like heaven.”
The sight of him tasting you, the raw hunger on his face, pushed your arousal to a fever pitch. Your pussy clenched around nothing, aching to be filled. “Dunk, please. Touch me.”
He needed no further invitation. He lowered his head between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs wider apart. His breath, warm and damp, ghosted over your soaked folds, and you whimpered.
He didn’t start with his tongue. He started with a kiss. A soft, closed-mouth press of his lips right against your swollen outer lips.
You cried out, your back arching off the bedroll. He did it again, then again, nuzzling you, kissing your pussy with the same tender passion he’d kissed your mouth.
It was unbearably intimate, more so than anything you'd ever experienced.
Then his tongue found you.
It was a broad, hot stroke from the very bottom of your slit, up through your drenched channel, and ending with a firm, circling pressure on your clit.
“Oh, GODS!” you screamed, your hands flying to tangle in his messy red hair.
He ate you like a man starving. He licked into you, his tongue plunging deep, fucking you with it, lapping up the copious wetness that flowed from you.
He focused on your clit, sucking the sensitive nub into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, applying just the right amount of pressure.
The sounds were obscene—wet, sloppy, sucking noises, your own ragged moans, his low, appreciative groans that vibrated through your entire body.
“That’s it, my Lady,” he mumbled against your flesh, his words muffled. “Taste so fucking good. So sweet and wet for me.”
The pleasure built in slow, relentless waves. It wasn’t a sprint; it was a gradual, exquisite climb. He was a dedicated, attentive lover, learning your body with every lick and suck.
He slid two thick fingers inside you, curling them upward, and your eyes nearly rolled back in your head as he pressed against a spongy, ridged area deep within.
“There!” you sobbed. “Right there, Dunk, please!” He fucked you with his fingers, slow and deep, while his mouth never left your clit.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming. Your legs began to tremble violently, threatening to clamp shut around his head from the sheer intensity.
He felt it. Without breaking his rhythm, he brought his free hand up and placed his massive forearm across your lower abdomen, just above your pubic bone.
The weight and strength of it was incredible, an immovable anchor that pinned you gently but firmly to the ground. His free hand, came to rest on your inner thigh, his fingers splayed wide.
With minimal effort, he held your legs spread wide open, utterly exposed and vulnerable to his devouring mouth. The display of his sheer physical power, used so carefully to facilitate your pleasure, sent a fresh gush of wetness coating his fingers and chin.
“Come for me, my Lady,” he growled, his voice guttural. “Let me feel you come on my tongue. I want to drink every drop.”
It was the permission, the filthy, loving command, that pushed you over the edge. The orgasm didn’t smash into you; it unfolded from your core, a blooming flower of pure, white-hot ecstasy.
Your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers, a series of powerful, involuntary contractions that milked at them.
A hot rush of fluid spilled from you, soaking his hand and his chin. You saw stars, your vision whiting out, a long, broken scream tearing from your throat as you shook apart beneath him.
He rode it out with you, his tongue gentling to soft laps, drinking your release, his fingers still inside you, feeling every pulse and throb.
When the last tremor subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers and kissed your inner thigh, then your stomach, working his way up your body.
He loomed over you again, his face glistening with your juices, his blue eyes dark and blown wide with desire. He was painfully hard, the thick outline of his cock straining against the laces of his breeches.
It looked enormous, a daunting bulge that made your mouth water and your freshly-sated pussy clench with renewed interest.
"My Lady,” he said, his voice raw. “Can I…? Do you want to…?”
“Yes,” you breathed, reaching for the laces of his breeches. Your fingers fumbled, clumsy in your post-orgasmic haze. “Please, I need to feel you. I need you inside me.”
He helped you, making quick work of the ties and pushing his breeches and smallclothes down over his hips. His cock sprang free, and your breath caught in a sharp gasp.
Gods be good.
You'd imagined it, fantasized about it in the dark of night, but the reality was... staggering. The thicknesses a thick as your wrist, with a prominent, weeping head the color of a deep rose.
The shaft was long and heavy, veined, and curved slightly upward. His balls were large and full, drawn up tight against his body. He was, in every sense of the word, massive
He saw the awe on your face. “I… I know it’s a lot,” he said, a flicker of self-consciousness crossing his features. “We can go slow. We don’t have to—”
I want it,” you interrupted, your voice firm despite the flutter in your belly. You wrapped your hand around the base. Your fingers didn’t even come close to touching.
The heat of him, the silken-steel feel of his skin, made you dizzy. “I want all of it. I’ve dreamed of this, Dunk. Of how you’d stretch me open.”
A low, pained sound escaped him. He leaned down, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
He positioned himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging against your slick, swollen entrance.
You were soaked, your own release and his saliva providing a slick coat, but the sheer size of him was intimidating.
“Breathe, my Lady,” he murmured against her lips, his own breathing ragged. “Just breathe for me.”
He pushed forward, just an inch.
You gasped, your eyes flying wide. The stretch was immediate, intense, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs.
He was so wide, already stretching you open in a way you'd never felt. You struggled to draw a breath, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his biceps.
“Okay?” he asked, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Y-yes,” you managed. “More. Please.”
He sank another inch, then another, with agonizing slowness. Each fraction of penetration was a revelation. You could feel every ridge of him, the way your inner walls had to part and accommodate his girth.
The burning sensation began to fade, replaced by a deep, profound feeling of fullness that bordered on pain but tipped gloriously into pleasure. He was so deep, so impossibly deep inside her.
When he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours, you both froze. He was buried to the hilt, and you could feel the heavy weight of his balls pressed against you.
You felt stuffed, impaled, utterly claimed. You looked up at him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched.
"My Lady,” he whimpered, the sound so vulnerable it broke her heart. “You feel… you’re so tight. So hot and wet. I can’t… I’m not going to last.”
“Then don’t,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back. “Fuck me, Dunk. Just fuck me.”
He began to move.
It was a slow, deep roll of his hips at first, a gentle withdrawal until just the head remained, then a smooth, steady push back to the hilt.
The friction was exquisite, the drag of his thick shaft against your sensitive, clenching walls making you see stars all over again. The wet, squelching sounds of your arousal filled the tent.
He shifted, gathering you into his arms. He pulled you up so you were half-sitting in his lap, his arms like iron bands around you.
One hand splayed over your back, the other came up to cup your breast, his thumb rubbing circles over your nipple.
He was cuddle-fucking you, holding you close, making love to you with his entire body.
"Is this alright?” he whispered into you ear, his breath hot. “Can you take me like this?”
“Yes,” you moaned, your head lolling forward against his chest. “It’s perfect. You’re so deep.”
He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming more purposeful, driving up into you with powerful, piston-like strokes.
Each one jolted through you, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.
The angle was perfect, his thick cockhead battering that same magical spot his fingers had found.
"You’re taking me so well,” he panted in your ear, his voice a broken, whining thing that was the sexiest sound you'd ever heard.
“My Lady. My perfect, beautiful girl. Your pussy is fucking heaven. So tight around my cock. Squeezing me so good.”
His dirty talk, so at odds with his normally chivalrous speech, drove you wild. You reached a hand around Dunk, tangling it in his hair, pulling his face down to your neck.
He obliged, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there, his whimpers and groans vibrating against your throat.
The tent was filled with the sounds of fucking: skin slapping against skin, your mingled panting, the wet, rhythmic sounds of his thick cock plunging into your drenched channel, the mutual, desperate cries. The air grew thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
You could feel your second orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.
The relentless stimulation of your G-spot, the friction on your clit, the overwhelming sense of being filled and possessed by this giant, gentle man—it was too much, and not enough.
"Dunk, I’m going to come again,” you warned, your voice a high, thin thread.
“Come for me,” he urged, his thrusts growing faster, harder, losing their smooth rhythm as his own control frayed. “Let go. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
His hand slid from your breast down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in tight, fast circles, and that was all it took.
Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, consuming wave that tore a ragged scream from your lungs.
Your pussy clamped down on his cock in a series of fierce, milking spasms, drenching him in another flood of your release. The sensations were so intense they blurred into pain, a glorious, overwhelming overload.
Feeling you convulse around him was his undoing. With a guttural roar that was half-sob, Dunk buried himself to the hilt and came.
It wasn’t just an orgasm. It was an eruption.
Hot, thick ropes of cum shot into you, pulse after pulse after pulse. You could feel it, a scalding flood filling you, spurting against your deepest walls.
It went on and on, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you with a force that felt endless.
The volume was shocking, a profuse, copious geyser that made you already-full belly feel even heavier, a warm, liquid weight spreading through your core.
He whimpered through it, his big body shuddering violently against you, his face buried in your neck, his arms holding you so tight you could barely breathe.
Finally, with a last, few weak spurts, he stilled, utterly spent. You both slumped together, a tangled, sweaty, sticky mess.
He was still inside you, his cock softening but still impressively large, keeping his seed trapped within you. The feeling of being so thoroughly filled, of his cum coating your walls, was profoundly intimate.
For a long time, the only sounds were ragged, slowing breaths. He nuzzled your neck, pressing soft, apologetic kisses to the marks he’d left. “My Lady,” he murmured, his voice wrecked. “That was… I’ve never felt that good…”
“I know,” you whispered, turning your head to find his lips. The kiss was soft, languid, a gentle contrast to the frantic passion of moments before. “Me either.”
He shifted carefully, rolling the both of you onto your sides without pulling out of you. He kept you cradled in his arms, your back to his front, his softening cock still nestled deep inside you.
His hand rested on your lower belly, over the place he’d just filled. You were both slick with sweat, your skin was sticky with his release that had begun to seep out around the edges of where you were joined, and you'd never felt more content.
"Are you… was it…?” he started, the worry creeping back into his voice.
You squeezed the arm he had wrapped around you. “It was perfect, Dunk. You were perfect.”
He let out a long, shaky breath, his body relaxing fully against yours. He scattered kisses all over your shoulder up to your cheeks.
You smiled, your eyes drifting closed. The warmth of him, the solid, safe weight of him at your back.
This series is a celebration in honor of me hitting 6,000 followers on tumblr! This is a military!rafe series since he’s a very frequent requested au of mine ୨୧
CONTENT WARNING (for the whole series): age gap, power imbalance, authority kink, manipulation, possessive behavior, jealousy, virginity loss, fingering, oral (f & m), unprotected sex, inappropriate relationship with superior’s daughter, light corruption kink / innocence kink, degradation/praise mix (e.g. “good girl” / “dumb little thing”), mild public tension, possible voyeuristic elements, rafe being a cocky menace and enjoying it, (eventual) feelings, jealousy, obsession, reader is 19-20 | rafe is 23-24 | everything is legal but morally unwell
You were supposed to be safe at the base this summer — tucked under your father’s watchful eye, far from boys and trouble and anything you weren’t ready for.
But Rafe Cameron?
He’s everything you’ve never had: older, sharper, meaner. He’s one of your father’s soldiers — slick mouth, sweat-slick skin, dog tags clinking when he leans a little too close. and from the second he sees you, it’s already over.
Summary: As the result of a bet, you must prove to your friend that not only have you experienced the magic of Robert Plant once before, but that he will definitely remember you four years later. Right?
Warnings: NSFW, minors DNA
Word count: 9.6k (got a bit carried away)
Tag list: @brownskinsugarplum76 @firethatgrewsolow @chromations @whothefuckisanja @ourshadowstallerthanoursoul @callmethehunter @strsmn @m-faithfull (if you'd like to be added, just let me know!)
1975
I huffed, brushing down my skirt after fighting my way through the hoards of fans that so desperately wanted to get backstage. There were displeased looks from surrounding girls, but it was their bloody faults for leaving a gap next to them!
"What are you looking at?"
"Don't know, but it's got a right face on it," my best friend, Ally, grimaced back at the scantly-clad ginger and her friends beside us.
"'Ey," I nudged Ally, sending her a look of disapproval.
"What, she's being a c--"
"Chill out, you're the reason we're back here anyways."
"Oh, yeah, because you wouldn't have wanted to come back here."
"Why do you say that?"
"To try and meet them, since you have never met them before." Ally smirked at me, making me roll my eyes.
"You're not budging, are you?" I asked her with a sigh.
I could see her lunging for the chance to make some kind of snarky remark, but chaos ensued further when the door in front of us cracked open, revealing a tall and large man with a noteworthy beard.
"Right, can't let all you birds in, as much as we all want you to," the man huffed, scanning his eyes over the huddle.
Squinting my eyes, I tried to place my finger on who this guy was, as he was staggeringly familiar. You'd think after four years, I'd recognise such a man immediately, but it took an embarrassingly lengthy amount of time for it to click.
G! Oh shit, it's Peter Grant--Y/N, you fucking idiot...
Peter, barely giving us a once over, let as many of us through as he could. Ally's hand grabbing onto mine, we sidled past Peter, finally entering the grounds of my mission. With a sigh, I glanced at Ally and rolled my eyes. I can't believe she's talked me into this...
...Earlier that day...
I stood behind Ally in front of the mirror, bobby pin between my teeth as I intricately braided the top layer of her blonde hair, ensuring there wasn't a lock out of place.
"I'm so excited!" she squealed. Her excitement made me grin, a similar feeling rippling through me.
"I just feel lucky that I get to see them again," I said through the bobby pin.
"I'm so jealous that you've already seen them live."
Smirking to myself, I took the pin from my mouth and secured the underside of her layer to the rest of her hair, followed by a thin hairband to secure the end of the braid. "All done."
Ally turned to her side, getting a good look at my handiwork and clapped giddily. She turned and gave me a tight hug, rocking me side to side. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
I giggled, patting her on the back before letting her go. I needed to fix my hair. Nothing too special, just a blow-out look that made my hair fluffier and larger. I liked the way it framed my face and sat along my shoulders; I loved the way it hung down my back.
Then again, so did he.
It wasn't that I was nervous to be seeing Zeppelin again in concert, it was purely the fact that memories from the night I saw them for the first time played out very vividly in my mind the whole week leading up to this day.
I did a once-over in the mirror of our hotel room, catching glimpses of Ally shuffling around on the bed, trying to force her feet into the pair of platforms she'd innocently swiped from one of our housemates.
"I still don't know why you don't just wear your own."
She looked at me as though I was speaking cling-on. "Are you insane? I've worn those so many times, as if I'd go to a Led Zeppelin show in shoes I've worn close to a hundred times before."
"If you say so, Al..." I shook my head in amusement. Once I concluded that I was happy with the outfit I had chosen, I decided that now was as good a time as any to tell Ally what I'd been waiting to tell her since we bought the tickets for the gig.
"So... I think there's something I should probably let you know before we head out," I started, spinning on my heel to look at her.
"Go for it," she struggled, falling onto her back with one leg in the air as she pulled on the heel of the platforms.
Amused by her blissful ignorance to the bombshell I was about to drop, I leaned back against the wall. "You know how I've seen them live before?"
"Yup!"
"Did I ever mention that I, uh... met them?"
Her leg dropped, the chunky heel thudding on the ground. "You did what?!"
I grinned, keeping my nonchalant position against the wall. "You heard."
"I'm not sure I did."
"You did," I laughed with a nod of my head.
"But... how?" she breathed out with wide eyes and an open mouth.
I shrugged. "I just found my way backstage with some girls I'd met that night. They're actually lovely lads."
Ally narrowed her eyes a bit, sitting up on the bed. It was like she was analysing my demeanour.
"What?" I asked.
"You're bullshitting me."
"I promise you, I'm really not," I shook my head. "That's not even the most unbelievable part about it."
"Fuck's sake, Y/N, tell me already!"
"You clearly don't believe that I met them, I highly doubt you'll believe the other part."
"Please! Tell me, I promise I won't jump to any conclusion," she pleaded through puppy-eyes.
"Fine!" I feigned defeat, as though I didn't want to tell her the sordid details. "I may or may not... have had... an... encounter..." I contemplated my choice of words. "...With Robert Plant."
"Yeah, right," she immediately fired back.
"See, I told you you wouldn't believe me!"
"You're telling me that you, Y/N, shagged Robert fucking Plant?"
"Well, I did!"
"Lies."
"Just 'cause you're jealous."
"I would be jealous if it were true," she sang, standing up and giving herself a final look in the mirror. "Well," she sighed, turning to face me with her hands on her hips. "There is one way you can prove it to me..."
"I'll be honest, I'm not overly bothered about you believing me or not, because I know it did happen," I said matter-of-factly, heading over to where I kept my bag and taking out the necessary things I needed for the night, sticking them in the deep pockets of my velvety brown blazer-jacket. "Besides," I turned, "he liked my hair. And my tattoo."
"Your shitty tattoo that you did yourself when you were sixteen?" Ally asked in subtle shock.
"Yeah, he said it..." I stopped myself, smirking. "No, you don't believe me, what does it matter?"
"So much for you not caring about me believing you or not..." She sighed dramatically. "Well, if you're comfortable with me shagging Harry--"
"Since when are you shagging my brother, Al?"
"Since you decided that it's not important to prove to me that you shagged the sexiest man on Planet Earth. Apart from your brother, that is..."
"Ew, gross, okay," I groaned. "How am I supposed to prove it?"
With a mischievous smile, she stepped closer to me. "Easy. We get ourselves backstage."
I shook my head, running my hand through my hair.
"Unless you don't think he'd remember you..."
Her smugness was irritating me now. It really shouldn't have mattered if she didn't believe me. But the more she was insistent that it didn't happen, the more and more I wanted to prove to her that it did. Just for the petty reason of being right.
"He'd remember me." I narrowed my eyes, but completely knew that I was being ridiculous. The chances of someone like Robert Plant remembering little old me were second to none.
"Yeah, okay," she disregarded. "I'm not considering it until you prove it to me. And if you can't prove it, and he can't remember a single thing about it... I get to have my encounter with your brother."
I groaned again, sitting back on the bed. "Fine. Fucking whatever. But I'm telling you... it did happen, and... h-he will remember."
"You don't sound too sure, Y/N, but we shall see..."
....Now....
Ally was having the absolute time of her life backstage; two roadies had already offered her a drink, which she obviously accepted, and she'd already gelled with multiple people.
I, however, felt uneasy about this whole bet.
How desperate to prove my friend wrong was I to insist that Robert fucking Plant would remember a night with a random girl from four whole years ago?! I spent a majority of the first half of the night mentally slapping myself and trying to figure out a way to get myself out of this situation.
But it proved to be too late as those four well-known rockstars entered the room to an abundance of cheers and applause for yet another electrifying performance.
First came Bonzo. I always remembered him as this big teddy bear, and he maintained that disposition. His hand was quickly occupied by a bottle of San Miguel. Some things never change.
Then came Jonesy. He was nothing but gentle from what I remembered of my brief time with the band. If I understood correctly, it seemed that he steered away somewhat from the sordid escapades derived from post-show adrenaline.
Jimmy had grown his hair out a little more, something I immediately noticed throughout the night. His eyes were laser-focused on the two girls waiting by the door for him, one of which were instantly taken under his wing. She was clearly his for the night. Probably the other one, too, now that I think about it...
I swallowed hard and glanced over at Ally, who was both in awe and anticipation. I can imagine she tackled with two mentalities. The first one being that she was seeing her favourite band up close, and the second itching to be right regarding Robert and I.
Larger than life, he strode in last, blouse open, yet tied across the bare expanse of his stomach. The jeans... God, those jeans. From where I had cowered in the corner, I had a prime view of the full picture. The pure perfection of one Robert Plant.
Heart hammering against my chest, I wished for the moment to pass quickly, knowing that come sundown the next day, my dear brother would be in bed with Ally.
I made no attempt to make myself seen. If he saw me, congratulations to him, but I wasn't going to intentionally put myself in the crossfires of embarrassment. Not that easily.
Ally was far too smug beside me, her mouth angled upwards in a smirk. I looked at her and rolled my eyes.
"Shut up," I mumbled, resorting to biting at my nails to relieve the growing anxiety.
"The moment we've been waiting for..." Ally started dramatically through a sigh. "...You shall be proven wrong, and I shall be between the sheets with H--"
I nudged her with some force, cutting off her provocation. She's so right, though...
My breath completely stilled in my throat when the enigmatic God of a vocalist scanned the room casually. And just like that, his eyes met mine. The moment was far too long for my liking.
Eventually, his eyes continued their surveillance around the room.
Nothing.
Not even the miracle of a second glance.
I cringed internally, lowering my gaze to the floor. Ally cackled beside me, before patting my back. "Damn, Y/N. Seems like he can't remember little old you..."
"Seems so," I mumbled, running my hand through my hair and shaking my head. Obviously, Y/N. You knew that would be the case.
All I could think back to was the moment Robert looked at me for the first time and didn't just pass me by.
1971
Ugh, you don't belong here.
I stood awkwardly amidst the small group of well-groomed girls that took me under their wing for the night. They were nice enough, and didn't look down on me like a lot of the other females in the audience did.
The hallway was eerily vacant as the final rings of the show erupted in precedence to the roaring yells of adoration. Vicky, who must have been about twenty-two, claimed it was best to get ahead of anyone else that may have wanted to come backstage.
I felt small and irrelevant with these girls. They were tall, beautiful, made-up, decked out, experienced... Everything that I was not. And when we heard an approaching cluster of footsteps, I quickly remembered that.
What are you doing, Y/N? This isn't your place.
My hands fist up into balls, hoping that my decision to extract myself from the situation would go unnoticed.
To my relief, it did. By them, at least.
Taking a few steps back, I initiated a turn, aiming to make a swift exit and retreat home. Perhaps in the comfort of my bed, I could indulge in fantasies of what might have been.
"Woah, easy there, love."
Startled, I collided with a broad chest, and in mere moments, I found myself locking eyes with the man who had elicited screams from thousands of girls just minutes ago.
Speak, Y/N! Don't be an idiot!
"S-Sorry," I stuttered dryly, lowering my head to walk past him. But he stopped me, reaching out to gently touch my shoulder.
"Are you alright?" I looked back at him, and tried my hardest to avoid his eyes. If I looked into his eyes, I'd melt. "You look shaken up."
My eyes darted to the floor, willing myself not to succumb to the beauty ahead of me. I nodded. "I'm fine. Just..." Muscle memory sabotaged my intentions, and I found myself finally looking back up at the blue pools of passion. And I couldn't look away. "I... was just... leaving."
"Already?" He tilted his head to the side as a charming smile took his features, embellished by the endearing tussle of facial hair I had swooned over all night. "Night's just started, darlin'."
His voice...
"Y-yeah, I know," I laughed pathetically, wanting nothing more than for the floor to swallow me whole. "You won't..." I glanced down the hallway at the girls I had left, their attentions fully on Jimmy by this point. "...won't be missing anything with me gone."
"Oh, I doubt that. The more the merrier."
I didn't answer him, I just pulled my gaze away from down the hallway and looked back at him with an unconvinced expression.
"Okay, well how about we start again normally?"
I scrunched my eyebrows up. "Wh--"
"Hello, my dear, I hope I don't seem too brash, but I can't help but notice how lovely and alluring your hair appears to be. I'm Robert, the silly prat that's just been jumping around on stage for the last two hours," he gallantly introduced himself with an exaggerated bow and an amused smirk.
My mouth hung open a bit, stumped at his energy. Not at all what I was expecting, but his subtle humour gave me a small sense of security, and I caught myself restraining a smile.
"I know who you are..." I said shyly.
"Yet, still, I haven't had the pleasure of knowing you who are," he pointed out, reaching out to cautiously take my hand in his.
Robert Plant is holding my hand. Robert. Plant. Is holding... My hand.
"Y/N," I managed to squeak out.
Robert grinned, squeezing my hand. "Names out of the way, may I ask why you don't think you'd be welcome?" Smoothly, he began to guide me in the direction of the dressing room where everyone else had convoluted. I barely even noticed, I was so caught up in his mere presence.
"Like I said... Don't think I'd be much fun." I shrugged. Robert's brows furrowed, an unconvinced expression on his face. "This is my first concert," I admitted through a nervous laugh.
"Ah," he chuckled, nodding his head. "I understand now."
By now, we'd stopped just next to the dressing room door. Robert turned to me, inadvertently trapping me between the cool breeze block wall and his heated, tanned body.
"Well, sweet Y/N with the pretty hair," he leaned down, lowering his voice to one laced with reassurance and the slightest hint of something else. "If you'd allow me, I'd very much like to be the one to... put an end to your post-show celibacy."
I swallowed hard, eyes wide as I stared up at his. He certainly has a way with words. So much potential to mean something entirely different. Without another word, I nodded, feeling my palms clam up at the realisation that I had agreed to something I only ever mustered up in my wildest dreams.
1975
Baffled by my own annoyance at Robert's complete lack of recollection, I grappled with the realization that my frustration stemmed from Ally being right and me being wrong. In that moment, I was an inconspicuous figure, a nobody.
Seeking refuge on a plush sofa, I settled into a comfortable spot, keenly aware that the majority in the room would soon migrate to an after-party in the hotel where the band was staying.
My gaze involuntarily returned to Robert, positioned at the opposite end of the room. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, and he was encircled by an eager flock of girls. Observing them, a wry thought crossed my mind – someone among them was in for an unforgettable night.
I couldn't pinpoint why his obliviousness bothered me so much. Was it wounded pride or misplaced expectations? Regardless, the scene before me unfolded like a vivid tableau, and I found myself grappling with a mix of emotions amid the impending revelry.
"What's with the long face? We're literally backstage at a Zeppelin show!"
I looked at Ally, unphased by her giddiness.
"Are you upset that you couldn't get away with your little fantasy?" She pouted. I could tell she had no real intention to upset me, and it didn't. It did, however, make me want to backhand her. In a friendly way, of course.
When I didn't answer, simply looking back over at Robert, Ally sighed heavily and shuffled closer to me. "Listen, just because it's not happened before, doesn't mean it can't happen tonight."
"Oh, sure," I rolled my eyes. "I'd have to get in li--"
Too engrossed in conversation, I was completely caught off-guard when I felt the chill of some liquid splashing onto my bare legs. I flinched backwards and looked up to see a very apologetic John Bonham.
"Oh, bloody hell, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, his voice booming over the chatter. He immediately looked around for something to help, settling on a nearby napkin. "Here, let me..."
I waved him off, laughing nervously. "No worries, it's just beer. I'll survive."
As he attempted to mop up the spill, our eyes briefly locked, and he grinned sheepishly. "Guess I'm not as nimble as I thought. Mini skirts and beer don't mix, do they?"
Still as lovely as I remember.
I chuckled, appreciating his good-natured attempt to diffuse the situation. "Lesson learned, I suppose." As I stood up to mop up the rest of the spilled beer myself, I knew it was fruitless, and I sighed lightly. I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of familiar blue eyes from across the room as I turned to pass Ally my own bottle. Wishful thinking.
"There's a restroom to the right down the hallway, love, I'm so sorry."
"You're okay, honestly. It was gonna happen at some point, might as well be by the best drummer known to man," I joked, giving Bonzo a genuine smile. "Be back in a sec," I said to Ally before taking off for said restroom.
1971
"Shh," Robert's lips moved against my jaw as I whimpered. "I've got you, darlin'."
My hips involuntarily ground upwards against the heel of his palm, searching for any semblance of friction. Robert's throaty chuckle tickled my ear with his beard.
"Have to go slow, sweetheart," he whispered. "Don't want to hurt you."
"Y-You won't..." I weakly whispered back.
Robert lifted his head to peer down at me, an unconvinced look splashed across his perfect features. "Oh, Y/N. Sweet, sweet Y/N," he breathed.
My hands clasped around the back of his neck, wanting nothing more than him flush against me. His eyes glued to mine, looking into the depths of my soul as he maneuvered his fingers below, tracing the outline of my underwear. "You need to be soaked, Y/N. If you want to take all of me..."
All I could do was nod in response, allowing his lips to cover mine in a searing kiss, his fingers very delicately navigating my untouched centre.
As soon as the pads of his fingers swiped gently over my folds, my hips ground upwards instinctively. I felt like I could unfold, just by his soft grazes.
With a lush swirl of his tongue around mine, he hummed into my mouth. Breaking the kiss with a subtle smacking sound, he gazed down at me with hooded eyes.
I could only imagine how desperate and needy I seemed below him; wide-eyed, flushed, barely touched.
"Am I correct in the assumption that you haven't done this before, Y/N?"
My throat closed up and I swallowed. Shit, I really didn't want you to figure that one out...
I stumbled in my response, diverting my eyes to the side, but unable to escape his ethereal clutches in the form of his fingers. He was still making slow strokes along my weeping folds. Even as he spoke to me with that voice.
"Hm, it's nothin' to be ashamed of, honey." His words came as an encouraging murmur, almost with a sing-song cadence. He put a stop to the movements of his hand, resting it on my abdomen. His head dipped down to pepper small, light kisses along my chin, along my jaw, and then down my neck. "I'll take such good care of you, darlin'..." he whispered. My skin tingled in response to his hot breath against it.
Robert nipped lazily at my neck before dragging his lips back up to mine with a chaste peck. "That's if you want, Y/N. Just say the words, and I'll take you there."
How can I say no?! You could have had me in the fucking hallway!
All it took was a feeble nod and a weakened "please" for Robert to spring into action. His gentle hands took their time in undressing me, and his eyes conveyed a novel's worth of intrigue, admiration, and pure lust.
A carnal desire; I to entrust, him to liberate.
1975
You know, you could just leave right now, and nobody would even notice. Maybe Ally. Shit, Ally. Why did you get me into this situation? Pfft, no, Y/N, it was you, you idiot. But still... you could make a run for it. Crawl into bed. Forget any of this even happened. Hopefully wake up and realise this is just a horrifying dream.... fuck.
The mental argument I was having with the reflection of the bathroom mirror went on, and I couldn't rationalise with myself. I should have left, but I didn't want to. I couldn't bring myself to. Something in the back of my mind told me that it was worth staying.
So, I huffed out, hoping to expel as much of the stress as possible, and did a once over in the reflection.
At least you can't see the beer anymore...
Leaving the restroom, I vowed to make the most of what the evening had to offer, and if that involved being completely ignored by Robert fucking Plant, then so be i--
"Woah, easy there, love."
Turning the corner, I walked straight into that broad chest I'd been ogling at for a majority of the night. With wide eyes, I craned my neck to look up at him.
Shit.
"Not the typical 'hello', but whatever suits you best," Robert chuckled.
"Oh, great, I said that out loud," I cringed inwardly.
There was a horrible moment of silence, of him just looking at me, studying me. It was hard not to revert back to that shy, scared 17-year-old that ran into him in an eerily similar way.
"D'ya enjoy the show?" he asked, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. God, those arms. I remembered how easily he hoisted my legs up with them. How they completely engulfed me when he held me for the night.
I found myself unable to speak. So I opted for a nod and a hum of approval. I was met with the signature side smirk, his dimple deeper than I remembered. Then again, he did have that beard back then. It felt great when he settled his head betw--
"Sorry 'bout Bonzo," he cut off my inner thoughts, "He's a clumsy sod when he's drunk."
I stifled a small chuckle, keeping my eyes anywhere but on his. That's how he captured me last time. Not that he fucking remembers... "Yeah, I know," I answered quietly with a nod.
My attempts at avoiding his gaze were cut short. His fingers rested under my chin, gently tilting my head up so I had no choice but to look at his face.
"I may be tall, but not tall enough that you can't look at me, love."
Jesus, the way he said that...
Swallowing, I pulled my head back. "Yeah, I know."
"You don't say much, do you?" he though aloud with a slight tilt of his head. Proving his point, I neglected to answer. "Were you planning to hang around tonight? We're going to head back to the hotel soon. Could have some fun, maybe loosen you up a bit, darlin'."
"I don't need loosening up. And my name is Y/N."
"Ah, my Little Wayward Girl speaks." He grinned.
"Yeah, well, it's a bit different when you wait outside of the ladies' restroom for someo--wait, what?" My eyes widened once again as I snapped my head back up to look him head on.
Robert's hand smoothed over the side of my head, stopping to cup my cheek as he dipped down to hover over me. Inches away.
"I'll see you in a bit, yeah?" he whispered.
Before he strode back down the hallway, leaving me dumbfounded and relieved all at once, he stole the lightest kiss from the tip of my nose.
1971
Robert's curls were soft and lush against the bare skin of my stomach as he laid facing the ceiling. He watched as the reflections of the sun danced in patterns above him, suggesting the break of dawn.
His arm was hooked around my bent leg, and my fingertips brushed over the mass of hair on his chest. My eyes were shut as I tried to capture the exact feeling of this moment, hoping to solidify the warmth of his presence in my memories forever.
Soon, my fingers were playing with his tussled beard, feeling the contours of his perfect jaw that were hidden under the natural mass.
"Tired?"
I forced my eyes to open. He was gazing up at me. The zeal in his eyes drew a shy smile from me, and for what felt like the hundredth time that night, my cheeks flushed.
"Yeah..." I answered in a hushed whisper, almost hoarse from the extent of which my voice had been exercised throughout the night. "I think you wore me out," I added with a silent giggle.
Robert responded with an amused hum, his hand idly tracing patterns along my thigh. "As long as you enjoyed it, darlin'... Though, I think it goes without saying."
I smirked at him. "How'd you figure that one out, then?"
He pulled himself up and turned over so that he was now hovering over me. Using his forearms to support himself, he pressed his clammy forehead to mine. "Those, sounds, darlin'... such a beautiful symphony." He lowered his head down, lips grazing the shell of my ear. "Music to my ears," he whispered. My teeth clamped down on my lips to subdue the idiotic grin that threatened to appear.
"What else?" I dared to ask.
Bringing his lips back up to mine, he melded us together in a searing kiss. His tongue teased my lower lip, but withheld the satisfaction of it going any further.
"Aside from the whimpers, the panting, and the dirty, dirty moans that fell from your pretty little mouth?" He licked his lips, eyes trailing down, his lips following suit. "The way your skin glistened..." He mumbled down my throat. "The goosebumps that you still have, by the way," he chuckled. Then, his journey travelled west and east. "The way your nipples became so taut, so early on." A light kiss to each of them. He continued south, dragging his soft lips and his rugged beard down my stomach until his chest was lined up with my used core. Broken into for the first time by this God of a man. "Then there's the perfect drip of your honey... Never tasted one so sweet, darlin'," he purred, daring to rest the palm of his hand over my mound. "You clenched around me so earnestly. You were so good."
Finally, he tilted his head back up at me. "Does that answer your question, love?"
I was breathless. It was like he was making love to me all over again, only lyrically. Like he did in his music. But for me, and me alone.
I wordlessly nodded, my lips parting in a shaky exhale.
"Good." Robert's playful smile returned, and he turned his head to pepper loving kisses on my thigh. He paid specific attention to the self-modification I made on my thigh. Then, he took a minute to ogle at it. "I like this."
I raised my eyebrow, an amused smirk on my lips. "Oh, the tattoo?" I laughed airily. "It's silly. Don't even know why I did it..."
"It's sweet. A little smiley face, the tongue sticking out." He looked up at me. "Innocent, yet... unruly and defiant. You're like my Little Wayward Girl..."
1975
Ally cackled, right in my face, as I gave her a quick rundown of what just occurred in the hallway.
"Yeah, okay, Y/N," she snorted with a shake of her head.
"I'm telling you the truth, Al!"
"I'm not judging you for lying about it, it's okay. You don't have to keep up with it."
"I'm not lying," I almost whined, running my hand through my hair. I near desperately scanned the room. Where the fuck did he go? It would be really helpful if he showed up and relieved me of this torture! I huffed, crossing my arms in frustration. What if I'm imagining things and what happened in the hallway was all in my head? Fuck, now I think I'm going crazy, thank you, Ally.
"Ally, you know me," I steadily began, "If it didn't happen, and you caught me out in a lie, I'd have given it up by now."
She squinted her eyes at me. "Yeah, but it's not every day you get to make something up about Robert fucking P--oh my god." Her eyes widened, looking behind me. Her hand reached out to grab at my wrist. And before I could turn my head to scope out what cut her off, I felt a steady touch on my lower back and a looming presence beside me.
"I don't believe I've had a chance to speak to you two yet," his distinct, velvety voice rang in my ears as a muffled shock, mixing with the rest of the noise in the room.
"N-No, you haven't," Ally croaked. She was starstruck. Who could blame her?
"I apologise for that. Y'see, there're always so many people waiting for us after shows, it's hard to get around everybody." I could tell without looking at him that he was speaking through his characteristically crooked smile.
"Just being here is crazy enough, I wouldn't even be mad if you didn't notice us," Ally said through a nervous and clumsy laugh. I couldn't withhold my stifled chuckle at her tone, very atypical for her. It was satisfying to watch her cool demeanour crumble with every word.
I could see Robert's head turn in my direction, and I instinctively looked back, my heart banging against my rib cage.
"Well, I've definitely noticed you, now." Even though it was in response to Ally, he was looking directly at me. The hand on my back bared a little more pressure. It was fleeting when he gave me another one of those smirks, before looking back at Ally. "So, how do you know my Y/N?"
My Y/N.
Ally blinked a few times, her eyes darting to me. I gave her a smile, silently screaming "I TOLD YOU," as I so wanted to out loud. I just froze in the moment, letting it unfold as beautifully as it seemed to be.
"U-uh, she's my friend--I'm sorry, you know her?" Ally's voice rose in pitch as he pointed at me.
"Know, knew, whichever suits you best," Robert shrugged. "Uh, when was it, love?" he asked me, once again looking at me.
Finally regaining an ounce of my confidence, I smirked ever so slightly as I answered him. "'71, I think."
"That's it," Robert grinned and nodded. Ally's mouth hung open a little, unable to form a coherent sentence.
"Y-you were telling the truth!" she whisper-shouted at me.
"Uhh, yeah," I told her matter-of-factly.
"Fuck!" Ally slapped her hand on her forehead, most likely cursing the fact that she would not, in fact, be in bed with my brother this time tomorrow.
Robert's brows wrinkled in confusion, and he glanced at me. "Wha--"
"Don't ask," I answered before he could finish his question. "It doesn't matter anymore, does it, Ally?" I raised an eyebrow at her, an unrestrained smirk on my own lips now.
"No," she said through a clenched jaw.
"Okay, then," Robert exhaled, taking his hand away from my back to move his hair from his face. "Well, we're heading back to the hotel now," he said to Ally. "You're welcome to come along. However, I will be stealing Y/N for the evening." He looked down at me. "If that's alright with you, love."
Just like that, he had me again.
1971
I was grateful that they had a day off. It meant Robert and I could sleep well into the afternoon before they had to fly out the next day.
Robert seemed to adopt a somewhat domestic demeanour, though I suspected that was just how he was when he wasn't in the throes of making love--be that on stage, or off.
In essence, he dedicated the remaining time I spent with him to after-care. He truly looked after me after making my first time the most memorable, magical, and otherworldly. I couldn't help but let my mind wander, as he disappeared into the bathroom at 3pm, how lucky his wife must have been if he treated the women he didn't even know like this.
Lucky, ha. Her husband is off sleeping with countless women on the road. Luck doesn't seem like the most appropriate word to use in this situation, but anyone who came within a half-mile radius of Robert is naturally deemed lucky.
Lost in my thoughts, tangled up in the bedsheets, Robert blocked my vacant gaze at the ceiling by extending his hand out to me. He'd run us a bath.
He'd taken me there, twice more, in that hotel bathtub. Once with his fingers, once with his cock--and both times accompanied by the melodic moans, grunts, and murmurs of his platinum voice.
By 5pm, he was ordering more tea with lemon and honey to the room. He taught me about the importance of honey when it came to protecting the vocal chords, prompting a detour of innuendo and even more charm.
Out on the balcony, overlooking the city, we both took in the cool breeze. The much-needed fresh air. We laughed over the wind's assault on both of our hair, igniting a playful back and forth over whose hair looked the best all dishevelled and out of place.
Desperate to prove his point of mine looking "enigmatic and resplendent," this led to a series of photos taken on the balcony with the camera Robert had brought along on tour.
"You really do like my tattoo, don't you?" I giggled when he asked me to pull back the robe and maneuver my body so the inked smiley face was on show.
"I told you I liked it, love," he said as he focused on snapping a few shots. "You should, too," he grunted as he stood up, stretching up. "Anything that makes you different, you should love it."
Eventually, he took me as his guest for dinner with his band mates, along with one of Jimmy's girls, and the two men who I quickly got to know as Peter Grant and Richard Cole. My attention was solely on Robert, though, and his on me. Offering me cigarettes, drinks, introducing me to different foods I'd never tried before.
And before he gave me another night of mind-blowing, leg-shaking orgasms, we sat out on the balcony, listening to records, and talking about what music struck him in the heart the way Zeppelin did with me.
He even sang to me. Rough lyrics and melodies, originals that hadn't yet been released to the world. I was honoured. I couldn't believe I was in the right place at the right time. Little old me.
But there I was, sat on a balcony in Robert Plant's hotel room, as he hummed the first or second draft of what the world would come to know as Stairway to Heaven.
1975
I would have been an idiot to turn down another offer from Robert Plant. To deny him of that limousine ride to his hotel, where the others piled in after us. Ally had attached herself to Bonzo, falling into deep, drunken conversations. And in my own tipsy--not drunken--haze, I looked up at Robert and chuckled when the car started moving.
His arm was draped over my shoulders, burning holes into my jacket with the mere graze of his fingertips, up and down my arm.
"So, you gonna tell me how you figured out it was me?" I said up at him. "And why you waited to follow me to the restroom to let me know of that fact?" I tilted my head further back, with me being so close to him.
The audacity he had, in front of all these people, to slide his other hand up my leg, stopping just as his fingers disappeared under the hem of my skirt.
"Honey, a skirt that short leaves very little to the imagination, and can expose your most unique qualities..." he trailed off, glancing down at his hand as he carefully teased my skirt a few centimeters further up, enough to unveil the stamp of innocence that had led him to dub me his Little Wayward Girl.
"And, of course... yer one of the only lasses I've had the pleasure of meeting to have this particular unique quality," he jested with a smirk, before gently squeezing the flesh of my thigh.
He leaned into me, lips parted inches from mine. "Just need to get reacquainted with another treasure hidden away up there, don't I?" He didn't let me answer, he just captured my lips in a searing kiss.
That kiss took us all the way up to Robert's hotel room, where he had me pinned against the back of the door with his lips hot on my neck.
"And you're sure Ally will be alright with--" I cut myself off with a gasp as I felt Robert's teeth steadily bite down under my ear.
"I already told you, love, she's perfectly safe with Bonzo," he said lowly. He kissed where he'd bitten, and dropped his voice to a provocative whisper. "Now, no more about anyone else tonight, Y/N..." Pulling back, he cupped his hand over my cheek, looking into my eyes. "Just us, darlin'... You..." His free hand trailed down my chest, fingers delicately teasing away the covering of my jacket. "And me."
I let him push my jacket off my shoulders, barely feeling it pool around our feet. I couldn't take my eyes off of his, and I fell deeper and deeper into his allure--exactly how I wanted it to be.
"No more distractions," I whispered back with a slow nod.
"No more distractions," Robert smirked, tilting his head to the side. He took a step back and held his hand out. "Come, my dear."
His hands were gentle, but a fiery presence on my skin as he took his time to remove every stitch of clothing from my body. In that moment, I felt like the most sublime creature on Earth. Every inch of my body was doted on, appreciated, cherished...
Robert was still clothed when he took my face in his hands, delicately placing the lightest kiss to my lips. Then down to my chin, my throat, as far as his tall frame could reach without having to bend at the knees. His fingers threaded through my hair, causing my eyes to flutter shut and my thighs to instinctively clench at the thought of him applying pressure to my roots.
"Set the pace, love," he muttered.
"I'm not 17 anymore, Robert..." I reminded him, my eyes flickering down to his lips. "I can handle whatever pace you wish to set," I told him with a confident exhale. My fingers worked on removing his blouse, all whilst distracting him with the want in my eyes.
And I watched as his darkened with something akin to epicurean, sovereign desire.
With an unfaltering stare, his hands gripped my wrists in the process of me pushing his shirt from his shoulders. Bringing my hands up to his lips, he kissed them, almost like a Godspeed to his gallant complexion. Then he let me go, ushering me backwards with maintained eye contact until I had no choice but to sit back on the plush bed.
I took in the delightful view of Robert shrugging off his blouse. My stomach clenched when the veins in his hands flexed whilst unbuckling the stylish belt he had secured around his hips. It wasn’t hard to tell that those jeans were starting to become an issue. The two of us shared a small, knowing smile as he caught me eyeing the obvious bulge.
“You do it on purpose,” I stated, leaning back on my hands.
He had a permanent smirk on his face as he peeled off his jeans and underwear. The heat between my legs fluttered already once his large cock came into view, springing up, proud and prominent. “What do I do on purpose, love?”
He knew exactly what I meant.
“Don’t play innocent, Percy, it doesn’t suit your God status.” I slipped my lip between my teeth, using the well known nickname for the first time.
“God status, eh?” He grinned, stalking towards the bed and hovering over me, steadying himself of his hands. “My, my, where as my Little Wayward Girl gone?”
I glanced down at his lips, shivering internally at how close he was to me. The tension was palpable. Thick enough to saw in half.
“If I remember correctly,” I started in a whisper, gazing up at his eyes. “A Golden God took the time to school me. And he stole away with that Little Wayward Girl before sunrise.”
“And who exactly assumed my Little Wayward Girl’s throne, my dear?” He whispered back, trailing kisses along my jaw. When he got to my neck, nipping and sucking marks into the sensitive skin, my hands instinctively came up to hold onto his biceps. “A Goddess, perhaps?” He breathed hotly into my ear.
The natural sandalwood musk of his body drugged me. I was high on his presence, rendered unable to answer with anything other than a shaky breath.
Robert’s hand moved up to hold the side of my neck, tilting my head in his direction. His eyes were clouded and hooded. Hungry with desire.
“Why don’t you show me what that Golden God taught you, baby?”
He didn’t have to ask me twice. In what seemed like a momentary flash, he’d returned to a standing position with me perched on the edge of the bed: face to face with his cock.
Tentatively holding onto the base, I gave the tip of his cock a kitten lick. Testing the waters. I glanced up at Robert, seeing he had one of his huge hands rested on his hip. Like he did onstage. Fuck.
I kept my eyes on him as I wrapped my lips around him, steadily taking his length into my mouth. Cheeks hollowed, I sucked gently, a spark shooting through my core when his lips parted with a sigh.
“That’s it, darlin’. Mmm…” he grunted, shutting his eyes and hanging his head back once I set a satisfactory pace.
I let my saliva coat him, I swirled my tongue around his hot tip, I did anything I could, and more, to work this leviathan into a state of ecstasy. I wanted to see his chest shimmering in his sweat, the rogue blonde curls plaster to his forehead, and the taut muscles under his abdomen tense with an unbearable urge to take control.
He looked down at me, almost taken aback by my boldness when I started to pay attention to his tight, full balls. Flattening my tongue, applying pressure with the tip of it in the right places, even teasing him with the odd suction.
“So perfect… Fuuuck…” he moaned, and his free hand held onto my head. “Damn it, I schooled you well, babe…” Before he lost it completely and cut the night short, he pulled me up to my feet, barely having room between him and the bed. He crashed his lips into mine, tonguing my awaiting lips and grabbing onto my hips with mammoth hands.
My own hands flew up to bury them into his mane of hair, meeting his frantic kiss with a matching ferocity. He leaned down slightly to wrap his arms tightly around my thighs and hoist me up for a brief moment before ultimately dropping me down beneath him on the bed. The kiss was forcefully broken, and I needed more.
Robert kneeled in between my legs, keeping me completely at his mercy. Caressing my face, he studied me intently. As though he was thinking about all the things he wanted to do to me. His thumb tugged at my lip, and I earnestly took it into my mouth, grazing my teeth over it.
“My girl…” He traced the pads of his fingers down my chin, down my throat, down between my breasts. He stopped to cup them, thumbs teasing over the taut nipples that were electrified from his simple touch. “…you…” His fingers ventured lower, tickling down my sides. “…are…” Up my legs, under my thighs, over my tattoo, to my abdomen. Finally, he reached my centre, adorned with a small mass of soft curls. “A Goddess.”
One hand pressing lightly against my lower stomach, he used his other thumb to venture over my folds. Two little swipes, barely there, drew a gasp from my lips. He acknowledged this for a fleeting second, and smirked to himself when he brought his thumb up to his mouth to wet it. His appetiser.
His eyes were fixed on the sight below him as he placed his hand flat over my mound, pushing against it to open me up ever so slightly—enough to allow the pad of his thumb access to the bundle of nerves that had been throbbing with need for the past hour. He made continuous movements over it with his thumb, taking pleasure from my reaction.
“Sensitive baby…” he hummed, keeping up with his actions. He watched my form twitch lightly, hips automatically rolling upwards, and my mouth fall open.
There was no doubt that he could have made me cum like this. Just by rapidly swiping his thumb back and forth over my clit. He knew it, too. And for a moment I thought that was his goal. But he worked me up to such a high, to where it was impossible to miss the swelling his ministrations enforced and the progressive rise and fall of my chest.
Then he pulled away.
“Robert…” I whimpered, rolling my hips upwards again.
“You were so close, darlin’… so beautifully enthralled…” he practically moaned in response to my whimpers. He grasped onto my thighs, slowly pushing them forward towards my chest so I opened up entirely. “Do you want to cum, Y/N?” I nodded wantonly. “Tell me… let me hear it…” he coaxed, smoothly lowering himself to my thigh, where he pressed the lightest kiss. So, so close to my aching heat.
“I… Please… I want to cum, Robert…” I sighed, toes curling at the anticipation he had built. “Please… m-make me cum, baby, I need it.”
“I know, my sweet… I know…” he mumbled, kissing lower down. Just a little more… “You need it so bad, honey…” His face hovered over my weeping heat, having the sheer audacity to blow very lightly against it. “Speakin’ of honey… does my lady taste just as sweet as I remember…” He drawled, more of a vocalisation of his inner thoughts than a direct question.
“Robert! Please…” I whined.
He dived in, completely catching me off guard. Face buried as far as it could go, lips latching to my swollen clit, suckling, slurping, and flicking his tongue. He slobbered over it like a starving mongrel. His hair covered my thighs, curls bouncing with the movements of his head as he feasted on my nectar.
“Fuck!” I cried out, my hands shooting downwards to grasp onto his hair, tugging at the roots. He responded with a growl, the vibrations adding to the growing sensations between my legs.
He was feral. To him, this was his last meal.
“Oh…God… Robert, yes! Fuck, don’t stop!” I panted, once again allowing my hips to grind upwards in tandem with his tongue. He skipped further teasing by plunging two of his long fingers into me, curling them upwards and building a strong rhythm to match the way his tongue ravaged my pearl. “Y-yes… I’m… fuck…” I incoherently moaned.
Instead of verbally encouraging me, he simply moaned loudly against me, briefly nodding his head, letting me know it was okay to cum for him. He let out a sharp exhale, putting his all into his assault.
Instinctively pushing his head down, I felt my climax hit. Hard. I arched off of the bed and my head was thrown back into the fluffy pillows. I let out an almost animalistic groan, my breath halting in the process as I rode out the intensity of my orgasm.
Robert gave me the courtesy of letting me rest for a few moments, kissing my core in the process of the comedown. With glistening lips, he watched the aftershock contractions, admiring his work. Then he finally crawled back up to me, grabbing my face and meeting my lips with his, coated in my essence. The kiss was sloppy, and we had very little care for the mixture of fluids that covered both of our faces in the process.
“Robert…” my voice was muffled by his kisses. “Need…need you inside…”
“Already on it, darlin’,” he gasped, pulling himself up onto his knees. He eagerly guided his cock to my awaiting entrance, lubing himself up in the juices he’d conjured. He looked me in the eye as he steadily pushed forward, the thick girth of his manhood stretching me by the second.
My body tingled with the reminder of the burn and sting that accompanied a night with the Golden God. It was delicious.
Robert watched my face, looking for any indication of hesitation on my end. But my body welcomed his, and he easily settled to the hilt within me.
“‘S’that feel okay, baby?” he asked with a hurried whisper.
“Uh-huh…” I clamped down on my lip as I nodded.
“Yeah?” He got as close to me as he could whilst still on his knees. Once again, my legs were being pushed up towards my chest, allowing his cock to press against the most sensitive part of my body.
Robert didn’t waste time. He was unbridled. Primal. Insatiable. His thrusts were quick to set an intense pace, eliciting those lewd slapping sounds each time we collided.
“So good… baby…” he moaned, clenching his jaw and breathing heavily from his nose as he continued to fuck me into the mattress. My own moans and whimpers of ecstasy spurred him on, rolling his hips in a circular motion and maintaining pressure on my sweet spot.
“Oh fuck! Yeah, right there, baby…” I keened, having no choice but to fist at the pillow beside my head.
“Yeah? That the spot, darlin’?” He purred, before bringing one of my legs over so that both of them were pressed together. He rested them both on one of his shoulders, one arm holding onto them, whilst his other hand reached out to grab at my breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers as his thrusts intensified. “Ohhhh… fuuck, you’re so perfect around my cock, sweetheart.”
The positioning of my legs caused every contraction and flutter to be felt with ferocity by Robert. Nobody had ever taken me like this. But then again, nobody is quite like Robert.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, the unexpected rise of another release crawling up through my body. It wasn’t a progressive swell. The warning signs of another orgasm crashed into me, taking me by surprise, which only served to make the experience even more intoxicating.
Robert still had the ability, through his animalistic venture, to flash me that signature smirk as he caught onto my sudden response. He shook his hair from his face as he continued to pound into me. “You there again, darlin’?”
“Y-yeah… oh fuck, yeah, I am…” I whimpered, my chest rising and falling. This was going to be an intense one. And he knew it. So, he moved my leg back to rest atop his other shoulder and leaned down completely over me, folding me in such a visceral manner, though one of my legs fell slightly in the midst of him now slamming in and out of me.
“Come on, Y/N…” he hummed down at me, focusing on my second release before his first. “Show me how hard you can cum, little girl… I know you have it in you… I can feel it…” he breathed out hotly against my lips. His piercing blue eyes were glued to mine, and we maintained intense eye contact.
I huffed and panted in his face, digging my nails into the shoulder my leg had fallen from. It was coming. So close.
“Ah… R…Robert!” I gasped.
“That’s right, honey… you’re almost there… let go… make a mess of me…” He was so lost in the moment that he didn’t care that his thrusts were causing the headboard to start slamming against the wall.
His landscaped pelvis was grinding against my clit, and I could feel his tight balls slapping against me with every movement.
Then it happened.
“Fuck, I’m… I’m c—“ I cut myself off with a shriek, and the loudest cry of pleasure I’d ever mustered up. I came so hard around Robert’s cock, and my nectar wept and wept, soaking the sheets, and soaking both Robert and I. My body jerked and my ears rang, and I heard Robert offer up a breathless chuckle.
“My good girl… fuck! Shit, get ready, baby…” he warned, clasping onto my legs as he chased his high. “Fuck!” He let out the loudest guttural growl, his thrusts transitioning from inconsistent to completely stilled. He steadily and sharply pumped his load into me, filling me up with every inch of his love.
I felt so owned. Claimed. Possessed. Potent with the power and energy of this otherworldly human above me.
Robert writhed in the aftershocks of his release, and he soon let my legs fall back down onto the bed, followed by his own collapse onto my chest. He nuzzled me as we both fought to catch our breathes. I found comfort in the lewd sensations that came with him pulling out of me. I was dripping—soaked.
Robert eventually lifted his head up to look at me and he gave me a long, gentle kiss, accompanied with a sigh. “Sublime…” he whispered hoarsely. “We… definitely need to…get in that…bath, though…” he panted steadily.
I laughed weakly with a feeble nod of my head, “I… absolutely agree…” We had made an absolute mess of the bed, but it was entirely worth it.
“Sorry you only came…twice,” he playfully apologised, shifting to the side so only half of his weight was on me. “Ah well…” he sighed, sweeping some of my damp hair from my face. “Just have to give you…about five next time.”
I raised my eyebrows and turned my head to look at him with hazy eyes. “There’s a next time?”
“Oh, my sweet Little Wayward Girl,” he smirked, “There’s always a next time.”
Hello, My name is Mosab, and I live in Gaza with my family. Life here has become harder than I ever imagined, and I’m writing this with hope in my heart that you might hear our story.
The ongoing war has devastated my family. We’ve lost 25 family members—each one a beloved part of our lives, taken too soon. I miss them deeply—their laughter, their presence, their love. Every day is a reminder of this unimaginable loss.
We are now facing daily challenges to survive—things that most people take for granted, like food, clean water, and a safe place to sleep. The harsh realities of life here have replaced our dreams with the constant fight for survival.
Our Current Situation:
💔 Lost Stability: The war has left us without work or a stable source of income.
📚 Dreams on Hold: Like so many here, my family’s dreams have been replaced by the need to simply survive.
😢 Unimaginable Loss: Losing 25 loved ones has left a void that can never be filled.
How You Can Help:
I’m sharing our story with the hope that someone out there might care. Even $10 can make a big difference for us, and if you’re unable to donate, just reblogging this post can help spread the word.
Your kindness, no matter how small, is something we’ll never forget.
What This Means to Us:
Your support is not about changing our entire situation—it’s about giving us a little relief, a little hope, and a way to keep going. We are not asking for much, and we understand if you can’t donate. Sharing our story is just as valuable to us as a donation.
Thank you for reading this far. It means the world to us to know that someone is listening. Your kindness gives us strength and helps us believe in a better tomorrow.
With all our gratitude,
Mosab and Family ❤️
My name is Mosab Elderawi, and I am a survivor of the war in Gaza. Life as I knew it has been completely destroyed. I have lost my home, my
please remember that a ceasefire has not been reached yet and that israel's attacks have actually recently ramped up. people are also still being starved. combat this by donating to gaza soup kitchen
Curtis Armstrong is such a cutie pie but he’s always playing some sort of nasty, detestable little freak. I stand alone, no one in Hollywood sees my fucking vision
This is a counterbalanced pose where the weight is rested on one leg and the hips and shoulders are tilted in opposite directions. It emphasizes the curves of the body.
