hhfuck

where I put the trashy stuff. mostly witcher stuff + lady dimitrescu but I sometimes rb dbh. rare instances of venom and BU also happen or whatever I happen to be interested in at the time

[tyaz]

If dangerous predator why ear shape like that

[katmaibearfan]

OMG HI GRAZER

[katmaibearfan]

164 (back) clearly wants to court her SO BAD and she wants nothing to do with him. like bro, take a hint! if u don't ur gonna get urself smacked!!!

[katmaibearfan]

okay, bucky either took the hint or got distracted by food, but either way, 128 seems to have gotten away from him for now. i just love her highlighter ears!!

[katmaibearfan]

not sure who this early morning fisher is -- its hard to tell when the cams are in IR mode -- but they did get a fish!

[katmaibearfan]

another fish -- i think this is 83!

[skoggybear]

me in the kitchen at 3am

[tails-155]

via http://imgur.com/gallery/x5mE5

Original: http://william-snekspeare.tumblr.com/

[nekkofoxisback]

Never will these not be cute.

[nabokovsshadows-deactivated2018]

One of my all time favourite things I’ve seen tumblr

[itstimewehavesomesoliddick]

we shortly interrupt your regular shitposting program with these reptiles

[gafenstien]

@allison1710 Please enjoy these sneks again!

[phoenixwrites]

@givemeunicorns made me think of you

[william-snekspeare]

This is my stuff!! Ah, memories

[finnautica]

Such beautiful eyes, it would be a shame a tadpole crawled inside them.

[sakrafka]

[bearotonin-international]

Debby is questioning why the team is late night bear posting

[jerk-bending]

[catasters]

[yorgen-sh]

[catasters]

[metanarrates]

all women should be more hairy and sweaty and eat more food and laugh more loudly. my stance as a feminist and also my stance as a lesbian pervert

[waitingforthet]

[optimysticals]

I am laughing so hard I scared the cat.

[peachfromcmbyn]

do we think chocolate guy is gay?

[senatortedcruz]

-Grandpa Joe muttering to Charlie in that factory

[our-queer-experience]

ive been repeating this in my head all week. auntie likes wearing the strap…….

[maetersart]

Nautilus Mechanicus

oc / Aida

[melzerich65-deactivated20260502]

[alloftheimagines]

leon s. kennedy | stick to me like caramel

MASTERLIST

words: 4.7k warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. SMUT. DUBCON. SEX POLLEN (both reader and leon infected). ANGST. HURT/COMFORT. synopsis: coming across a strange plant in an old lab greenhouse has dire consequences... for the most part.

You’ve seen a lot of labs in your life, but this one is the strangest yet. Mostly because the usual horrors that come with bioterrorist organisations are nowhere to be found.

Deep underground, the air is stiff and sulfurous, both of your guns poised and ready — but nobody has come to stop you this time. No guards, no military. Not even zombies or creatures designed to destroy. It’s just you, Leon, and the steady, synchronised clicks of your boots on the metal walkway as you head towards what looks to be a greenhouse. 

“You think they were expecting us and took off?” you question, gaze gliding over the slabs of muscle at his back. You’ve worked with Leon for a long time and have never seen him without those hunched shoulders and steely apprehension. He’s a weapon himself, honed from years of fighting in the shadows. 

He stops, blue-grey eyes scanning over the fogged glass panes, where leaves curl towards you like beckoning fingers. There’s nothing out of the ordinary within, lights turned off like maybe the place was, in fact, abandoned. It’s a first: usually, you’d be knee-deep in bloodshed by now. 

“Maybe they wanted to take their green fingers above ground,” he remarks dryly, though his posture doesn’t relax even a little. Like him, you don’t dare lower your guard, just in case.

You find a computer on the desk, screen black. “Power’s out here, too.” 

Like everywhere else in the facility. It can’t be right. Bioweapon engineers don’t just disappear, not without leaving a trail of blood behind them.

Leon sighs and reiterates your findings to Sherry through his ear piece. Keen to be rid of this wasted adrenaline, you shove the door leading to the greenhouse open, standing on the arched, vine-peppered threshold to examine the plants within. Many of the leaves are wilted, colourless. 

“Almost as dead as my houseplants,” you quip. 

Leon wedges himself in front of you, a protective arm providing a barrier between you and the overgrown path. “Careful. We have no idea what these assholes were growing before they jumped ship.”

Ten years ago, when you first joined the DSO, you might have allowed such a show of protection. Now, you don’t need it, and shove past him with a sidelong glower. He might be your superior, but you don't need a knight in shining armour. “I’m not your rookie anymore, Kennedy.”

He grits his teeth. “And how you love to remind me.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” you snap. It isn’t that you dislike him, really. He’s just got an exhausting chip on his shoulder, and he walks around with a haughty sense of responsibility, like it’s his job to keep the entire world safe. You wish he’d go easier on himself — and stop treating you like you’re incompetent when he trained you himself to be an exceptional agent. Perhaps you’re sensitive, because you’ve faced gender bias your entire life. Misogynists who laugh at the idea of you working as a federal agent. Senior officers who would sooner put you on coffee duty than acknowledge your skills. 

Maybe Leon isn’t like that, but sometimes, you aren’t so sure he trusts anybody to do the job other than himself, man or woman. 

You only take a few more steps into the greenhouse before the change in the air gives you pause. A heady sweetness wraps around you here, and you think you’re going crazy when you see flecks of red floating like dust motes in the air, so tiny they might be missed by anyone not paying attention. You tip your chin, finding the source: a pink, lotus-like flower pulsing overhead, hanging by a vine that seems to have curled itself across every ceiling corner. It would be pretty if it wasn’t the only living thing in here, its petals swollen and puffy around a long stigma that seems to surveil your every move. 

“The hell is that?” Leon’s question rumbles low in his throat. 

“The last survivor?” It’s strange: the more you admire it, the stronger the urge to touch it becomes. You can’t from down here, but it doesn’t stop you from rising to your tiptoes—

The flower sighs out another gust of those strange spores, the pollen falling onto your skin with a sting, like a shower dialled too high. 

“Shit,” Leon mutters. You turn to find his dirty blonde hair dusted with the same red flakes.

In an instant, he’s yanking you out of the greenhouse, bolting the door shut behind you. “Sherry, we might have a problem. A flower just… spat at us.”

You snort at the absurdity of it. You’ve seen bioweapons in all their forms, but never have they begun with a few pretty petals. Still, you shake the pollen from your hair, using your water to clean yourself off before allowing Leon to do the same while he hums in response to whatever Sherry is telling him. 

“She has no reason to believe it’s dangerous,” is his final verdict. “Still, better safe than sorry. We’ll take  a few samples, and Sherry’s finding a place for us to quarantine until we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Great. I just hope you don’t have hay fever,” you taunt, peering through the glass to get a final look at the welcoming flower. Though you’re not in the least afraid, a steady thrum begins inside you, matching the glowing pulse of the flower’s pink light. As you walk away, a painful clench twists your stomach.

Probably just hunger, you convince yourself — but even your inner voice wavers when an itch claws through your skin minutes later. 

By the time a stoic set of DSO agents have taken your samples and escorted you to a safe house for the night, you’re burning up. So is he, clammy and rosy-cheeked as he paces the lacklustre living room-slash-kitchen-slash-bedroom. You sit shakily on the couch, watching your fingers curl into your palms with an eerie sense of detachment. Your limbs don’t quite feel like your own, all sensations pushed aside to make room for the incessant fire in your belly. You feel like somebody has locked a furnace inside you, sweat beading in your hairline and sickness rearranging your organs. 

“So, how long until we know if we’re gonna die?” you question weakly. 

“We’re not going to die,” Leon asserts, scraping his hair back. It’s still damp from the shower, like yours, and even that feels like a coiled snake at the nape of your neck, leaving you shifting on the couch. “Viruses don’t tend to spread via pollination.”

“You don’t know that. There may be a whole swarm of zombie bees out there.”

You’re used to him huffing at you, used to sort-of-friendly taunts that sometimes hold a bite, but this exasperation billows through the room with disarming intensity. He’s pissed off.

He stops, rolling his neck as his eyes squeeze shut. In pain, too, just like you. You shift on the couch, unable to find a comfortable position, only for your breath to catch when your core rubs against the upholstery. That friction sends a bolt of something both pleasurable and agonising through you, right down to your toes.

“Fuck,” you hiss. 

“What? What’s wrong?” His voice warps into something deeper and more honeyed than you’ve ever heard before, plucking through you like taut strings. You lean back on the couch just to feel the chafe against your cargoes again, biting your lip and curling your fingers into the cushions.

“Nothing,” you whisper distractedly. Really, you mean everything. Your heart is pounding, skin burning, and to top it all off, you can feel your panties soaking through with an arousal you can’t explain, made worse by every minute movement — both yours and his. 

Even as he resumes pacing across the room, you feel him brushing your skin back and forth, back and forth, and your nipples stand to attention. You’ve always enjoyed looking at him and his chiseled features, but you’re professional enough to pretend he doesn’t affect you. Whatever was in that pollen has weakened your resolve, and it’s like watching reality peel itself open, leaving the world hazy but for him, the one thing still in focus. His cheekbones look sharper, nose straighter, lips plumper. His blue eyes pierce right through you, and fuck, fuck, the way his waist moves as he walks makes you want to touch yourself. 

“Can you stop that?” you ask, because your hand is on your thigh, inches away from providing yourself with relief. There’s nowhere short of the bathroom you can go to fix this problem, and you know he’d listen with that razor-sharp concern. He’s already taken your temperature twice, though both your shirts are drenched with obvious fever. You’re past science, past examinations, symptoms written all over you. 

Except that throb between your legs. That, you’re trying desperately to hide.

He ignores you, still pacing. When he gets closer, casting a breeze that teases your raw skin once more, you snap: “Leon! You’re not going to walk this one off!”

His jaw sets with a visible quiver. He retreats to the sink with a curse, peering out through the envelope-sized window. Your focus traces the slope of his spine, the broad width of his shoulders, the narrow cinch of his waist. 

His ass, not as prominent as the rest of him, but thick enough you want to sink your teeth into it all the same. 

“You need to sit down,” you demand, angling away from him so you won’t keep ogling. Your fingers are trembling, and you’re scared to stand up lest all that arousal has already dampened the couch. God, if he saw it, he’d never take you seriously again. 

“No, I don’t.”

His posture sinks lower, head bowed, breaths heavy. You wonder if he feels it too, but then think that would be ridiculous. The fever is just making you horny, body likely trying to distract you with thoughts you’d been repressing for so long. 

Only it hurts — to look at him, and to look away from him; to feel him inches away, and to have him all the way across the room.

You dig the back of your skull into the top cushions in a desperate attempt to chase the thoughts away. Your throat is dry, a sugary yet bitter taste on your tongue. The pain doesn’t stop, but with one less sense to worry about, you can let yourself drift into the fog encasing your body for just a while, sleep crawling towards you. 

With it, dreams of him. 

His name is a thick coating on your tongue when you wake. You don’t know how long it’s been, a shrill ringing in your ears and the light too bright for your stinging eyes. 

And him, hovering over you, brows pinched with a worry you’ve never seen on him, not even when your lives were at stake. 

A mangled whine forces itself out of your throat, all of you seeped in uncomfortable wetness. You don’t know where the sweat ends and your arousal begins. Your tongue sweeps over your teeth — and it hurts. Everything hurts. 

A cup is tipped to your lips, but the cold glass isn’t what you want, and you shove it away as a shiver wracks through you. “How long… was I…?”

“Couple hours.” He refuses to surrender, forcing the water into your mouth. It slides down your throat, and all you can think is how much you wish it was his seed, like it had been in the dream. Thick and creamy and just this side of salty. He’d had his fingers fisted in your hair, eyes shut in ecstasy, and—

“Oh, god. Was I… Did I…?” Your hand is between your legs, you realise. You’d been touching yourself. In front of your superior. 

“It’s okay.”

“No, no—”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” he repeats, nudging you back when you try to rise off the couch. “I’m… I’m having the same symptoms. You’re okay, yeah?”

His throat bobs on a grimace, the only chink in his armour even now. He’s so much stronger than you. Maybe he had a right to that superiority complex after all. 

“What… What do you mean?” It’s a silly question, you find when he steps away, because the evidence is written in the thick outline of his cock, nestled against the seam of his tactical pants. 

“Sherry said…” He swallows again; this time, it looks painful. “Sherry said the pollen isn’t a virus, but it is…” He pinches the bridge of his nose, turning away from you. “Fuck. This is…”

“Spit it out, Kennedy."

“The substance is some kind of aphrodisiac.”

“Like… oysters?”

He snorts. “Not quite. It was designed to force breeding. They must have been using it on whatever lived in that lab before we got there.”

Your head spins, the words not making sense. Breeding is all that echoes, over and over again, more images from your dream coming back to you. Leon balls-deep inside you, pounding rough and hard until your stomach was bulging as he whispered praise in your ears. You, stretched and full and screaming.

Your hollow stomach clenches again, cushion bunching in your tense fingers. “When will it go away?” He rubs a hand over his jaw, and the sound of the bristle has you whimpering again. “Leon.”

He grits his teeth, pressing his palms into the wall. When it isn’t enough, he slams them again twice. Thrice. 

You wish you were caged in by those rippling biceps and veiny forearms. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I should have known better than to let you step foot in that greenhouse.”

“Just answer the question.”

His shoulders slump in defeat, the first proof that this might be unfixable. Unsurvivable. “It doesn’t go away. Not unless we make it.”

Make it. “You mean, together?”

He nods, glancing at you over his shoulder. His eyes are more silver than blue, lips twisted bitterly. “Sherry is looking into an antidote, but it could take weeks. We can’t survive that long, not with a fever like this. We’ll keep getting sicker.”

“We can’t just… do it ourselves?”

“I tried already. In the bathroom. Couldn’t.”

Fuck. Your eyes drag back to his cock, imagining his fist wrapped around it. Like the flower, like your insides, it seems to pulse to a silent rhythm. 

“This is significantly worse than hay fever,” you decide. 

“And your smart fucking mouth isn’t helping,” he retorts. 

You should be disgusted by his tone, but it only uproots your desire in greedy hands. Your voice is low when you ask, “How many people at the DSO know about this?”

“Why the hell does that matter?”

“I didn’t work hard for ten damn years to lose all my credibility, all my dignity, because of some weird sex pollen that makes me want to fuck my boss!”

“Not exactly ideal for me either, sweetheart.” The word drips like caramel laced with arsenic, sweet and poisonous in equal measure. 

“It’s not the same and you know it.” You throw yourself off the couch, finding your knees quick to buckle. Leon grabs your waist to keep you from falling, heavy palms scorching your skin like a branded poker. It takes everything in you not to fall into him, find the release you so desperately crave, and resisting it sends more agony through every corner of you. Muscles, organs, bones, blood. A million atoms exploding inside you. You can’t imagine enduring this another hour, let alone weeks. 

His fingers tremble as they rise to your jaw, pupils blown like eclipsed twin moons. His breath holds the same sickly sourness as yours, tugging you in, making you moan, and your walls clench around nothing. You heave out a grunt of pain around all that emptiness, which isn’t empty at all, but all serrated edges and needling shadows. 

“Nobody but Sherry knows what’s happening to us,” he admits. “Nobody will, okay? I’ll make sure of it.”

“This can’t be real.” You massage your sticky temples, pulling away from him. Without really knowing what you’re doing, you go to the sink, stick your head under the cold water as though it might douse your flames. It doesn’t, the trickle only reminding you of how blistered your skin feels. Your thighs clench, ass in the air. 

At your back, Leon curses again. “You can’t… stand like that.”

“Fuck off.”

He says your name on something akin to a whimper, and you whip around to see his hand hovering just shy of his erection. Like you, he’s trying so hard not to give in. 

But it doesn’t sound like there’s another option. 

“What are we going to do?” you question.

He shakes his head. “I need another shower.”

“Leon—”

The door slams between you, and your eyes smart with sudden tears — of frustration, hopelessness, need. You spend the next five minutes trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt, but your clothes scrape your skin and your hair sticks to your neck and you are so, so empty. 

And then his groans drift over the sound of the running water. From your new spot on a rug on the floor, you squirm, stomach swelling with something so tender it steals your breath. Every time you think the pain can’t get worse, it does, cresting to a new level until it’s all you can think about. 

“Fuck,” Leon’s grunting. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your hands tiptoe beneath the waistband of your trousers of their own volition, circling your clit as tears meld with your sweat into the carpet. You can hear the agony in every throaty sound he makes, and it hurts you just as much. 

And then he starts saying your name. It’s barely audible, or would be if the world around you hadn’t risen to an unknowable crescendo in every possible way. 

“Leon, please,” you whisper in response, going harder, faster — but your fingers slip with how wet you are, and you can’t satisfy the gaping hole inside you. A sob of despair pierces through the room, and it takes you a moment to realise it belongs to you.

Almost in unison, you hear his fist slam the shower door and know he feels it, too. 

You want to go to him. Help him, end this torment for both of you. But even now, panic ricochets through you at the thought. If people found out, and they would, you’d forever be the agent who fucked her way to the top. You’d be an object to them. They wouldn’t see your hard work, just the fact you opened your legs for your superior. 

You’re lying like that, hand limp between your thighs, minutes later, when Leon staggers out of the bathroom with water dripping over him. He’s made the effort to put his clothes back on, which means he’s still trying to resist, just like you. Only, the shaky breaths the two of you let out as he observes you on the carpet are frail, brittle. 

“It hurts so bad,” you confess. 

“I know.”

“What if it doesn’t stop?”

“I could ask Sherry to… I don’t know, get you something. A toy.”

A vehement snort falls from you, until you realise he isn’t joking. In fact, he’s looking at you with more care than should be allowed in a moment like this. Like he’d sit there, ignoring his own needs to tend to yours. 

Your resolve wavers. You want him. Enough not to care what people would say. Enough that no toy would be enough. 

“Why haven’t you tried to fuck me yet?”

“Don’t,” he warns. 

“Just answer me. Why?”

“Because you deserve a hell of a lot better than that. Because you’ve made it clear you don’t want it, and I will never, ever force you, even if it fucking kills us both. Because you’re my responsibility, and I will find a way to take care of this that doesn’t involve hurting you even more than you already are.”

You drag your glassy eyes to the ceiling. “None of those reasons included the fact that you don’t want to.”

Nothing, just the shuffle of his boots as he returns to the sink. 

“Leon.”

He tugs at his hair. You understand now why he wanted you to change position before, his own ass punctuated by his stance. From below, you can appreciate his thighs, his calves, a man built from a strength nobody should ever need to survive in this world — but he did, and fuck, you found that sexy long before this affliction took hold.

“Do you want to?” you prod. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I wanted to,” you blurt. “Before. I mean, I would never have acted on it…”

“You’re delirious.”

“Fuck you, Kennedy. I’m being honest,” you snap. 

His gulp is audible. Slowly, he turns, taking unsteady steps towards you. Even the rustle of the carpet against the rubber soles of his boots has you biting the inside of your cheek until you taste blood. 

He kneels beside you, swipes the matted hair from your eyes. You shudder, his touch leaving embers in its wake. More tears, dampening your cheeks, running into the carpet. 

“Of course I wanted to,” he says. “Even if you are a stubborn-as-hell pain in my ass.”

Your scoff is mirthless, hips bucking as your core clenches again. “Then do it. Please. I want you to make this go away.”

“I can’t. Not like this.”

“Please.” Your voice quivers and cracks. “Please, just fuck me. We both want it. Need it. I need it.” You place his hand on your breast, rippling with every laborious breath. Your nipples harden, pleading with his uncertain fingers. “Leon—”

He squeezes, causing a shrill gasp as your back arches. It’s like a lightning bolt, and it sears away the pain for just a moment. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fucking sure. Get inside me. Now. Please.”

A growl rolls from him, and then he’s pulling down his pants and yours, so desperate to obey that they’re left at the hinges of your knees, restricting your movements, but not enough for either of you to care. All you can focus on is how badly your pussy weeps for him, how much you need to be full. 

You claw through his hair, down his back, anywhere you can reach as he spreads your folds and stretches you out with his fingers. He didn’t need to. You’re ready. Have been for hours. 

“You’re drenched,” he croons, breathless and nudging his cock against your thigh. It’s hot and satiny, already leaking with the same frenzied arousal. Still he finds time to gather your slick, watching it drip down to his knuckles with devastating fascination before sucking it away with puckered lips and fluttering lids. 

“Now,” you beg. You can’t be teased, can’t even be touched, not until his cock is inside you. 

“You’re so ready for me. So warm and wet and gorgeous,” he’s saying as he lines himself up. “She's so pretty. I couldn’t stop imagining how pretty she’d look, crying for me like this.”

You dig your fingernails into his back, urging him down, and then the world stills as finally your walls have something to mould themselves around. He’s slow, watching your expression even as his own strains with equal parts relief and pain. “Tell me if I hurt you. You have to tell me—”

“You won’t. You can’t.” The only thing that hurts is being empty, and you’re not now. When another sob racks you, it sends your hips jolting, and his breath catches.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Gonna take care of you now. Gonna make it go away.”

You bury your face into his neck as he inches deeper, the two of you a tangled, slippery mess of rasps and desperation. 

“Worried I’m gonna come too soon,” he admits.

“You won't. Play with my clit and I'll get there,” you beg. 

He does, and your toes curl in long-awaited ecstasy. He inhales your moans like they’re oxygen in a suffocating space, sliding back to plunge into you again. He goes deeper this time, grip burrowing into your ass cheeks until you’re certain you’ll have bruises for weeks. Good. With your hazy fever, you’re afraid you might forget otherwise, and all the pain was worth it for the bliss you feel now. You’re made of liquid flames, less human and more animal, baring your teeth in silent command for more, more, more. 

Leon tilts your hips as he increases his pace, one arm wedged between you so he can maintain his rhythm on your clit. Goosebumps rise on your skin, your legs wrapping tightly around him until you’re moving as one languid, primal creature, all claws and teeth as your pussy devours his cock. 

“This good? Think you can come like this?” he’s asking. 

You’re too fucked out to reply, mouth agape, eyes closed, intoxicated by the smell of sweat and slick and hormones enveloping the two of you.

“Baby, need you to talk to me. Tell me you’re okay.”

“'M okay. So good,” you whisper. “Don’t stop. Go harder.”

He pistons into you then, bottoming out with every thrust until he’s passing over your G-spot and splitting you all the way open. You grab anything you can find with sharp nails and sharper teeth: hair, flesh, lips. It’s the first time in hours that agony has lightened to a gentle gnawing and you never want this to stop. You’re dripping all over the carpet, his balls slapping against you and pussy walls squelching, and his fingers are slipping through your folds with so much glorious ease, so much care, even now. 

“I need to be on top,” you say, and he lets you roll him onto his back so you can writhe all over his cock, hitting corners he couldn‘t reach before. 

Leon lifts your straddled hips before slamming them back down, over and over, and you’re scared you won’t be able to hold yourself upright for much longer. 

“You’re so perfect. Want to live in this warm cunt for the rest of my life.”

“Want you to fill me up,” you reply. “Come inside me. Want to feel you come inside me.”

“So close, sweetheart.” You can tell it’s true, vein throbbing in his flushed neck and features growing taut. He purses his lips, lets out another primitive growl as he uses his free hand to squeeze your tits. “What were you dreaming about before, hm?”

“You. I was — fuck." You almost fall off, and he’s there, righting you, supporting you, keeping you steady. “Your cock was in my mouth. Fingers in my hair. Tasted so good.”

“I was imagining this,” he admits. “Watching my stubborn little sweetheart fuck my cock until she can barely stay upright.” A grunt, and then his cock is swelling, spilling, your walls clenching around him as he chases every spark. His seed pools between you with your own arousal, coating your folds so that every chafe over his pelvis has you quivering. And there, with his fingers going harder on your clit, you find your own release swathes you like spring sunlight, a glowing, breathing thing wrapping you in its arms. 

“That’s right. Fuck it out,” he’s muttering, almost incoherent as he aids your every rut. 

It seems to last forever, this hot, heavenly electricity, you convulsing with frenzied abandon, him watching until, minutes later, you slump against his chest with him still locked between your legs. 

There’s nothing to say for a long time. You wait, tentatively, for the symptoms, the agony, to return, but it doesn’t. There’s just him and his heartbeat and a new exhaustion that leaves you boneless. 

“You okay?” Leon rasps finally.

You can only hum, breath riffling through the hairs on his chest. 

He twists his fingers through your hair, leaving your scalp tingling. “Doesn’t hurt anymore?”

“No. You?”

“No.” A kiss is placed on your head, so tender it knocks the breath from you. “We should clean up, sweetheart. We made a hell of a mess.”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t go.” You’re scared that when he slides out of you, the pain will come back. 

So he doesn’t, wrapping his arms around you and listening to your breaths even out. “Not going anywhere," is the last thing you hear before you fall asleep.