Tainy|Untitled Fan of Chris Evans| not rich and famous|

[littledisasters]

POINT BLANK | CH. 2

Series masterlist AO3 Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x CIA!Reader Summary: You’ve spent your career being the hand that sweeps the world's atrocities under the rug. You’re cynical, you’re tired, and you’re definitely too old for Leon Kennedy’s brand of heroics. There are rules to this job: Don’t get attached. Don’t hesitate. Don’t trust anyone. You break all three somewhere between a dive bar, a hospital room, and Leon Kennedy looking at you like you’re something worth saving. Content: 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, eventual smut, second person POV, no use of Y/N, age gap (older reader), coworkers to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, awkward Leon, almost kisses, romantic tension, sexual tension, survivor's guilt, eventual smut, avoidant attachment, past trauma, patching each other up, Comment or DM to join the taglist

The ringing in your ears has finally subsided into a dull, rhythmic throb by the time the sweep is finished. The compound is officially secure, or at least as secure as a frozen concrete tomb full of pulverized flesh and shattered glass can ever be.

 The tech boys are inside, hunched over monitors and stripping servers of the remaining encrypted data—remnants of a highly sophisticated Plagas strain that branches out far beyond this single Eastern European cell, weaving deep into a much larger, uglier syndicate network.

As the frantic adrenaline of the firefight slowly drains from your system, it leaves behind a hollow, icy exhaustion that settles straight into your joints. You need to get out of the suffocating smell of scorched copper and old biological decay.

You push open a heavy, rusted fire door at the back of the facility, stepping out into the brutal clarity of the freezing night. The wind has dropped to a bitter, stagnant chill, and overhead, the dark clouds have parted just enough to let a sliver of pale, unforgiving moonlight wash over the snow-dusted gravel.

You spot him almost immediately.

Leon is sitting on an overturned wooden supply crate near a stack of decommissioned fuel drums. He hasn't bothered to put his jacket back on; he’s just in his dark tactical shirt, his broad shoulders hunched forward as he aggressively breaks down his custom handgun. 

He is working with a fierce, almost frantic speed, a rag clutched in his hand as he scrubs the slide with an intensity that looks less like standard equipment maintenance and more like an attempt to erase something invisible from the metal.

You slow your stride, your boots crunching softly on the frozen gravel to give him fair warning. 

You’ve seen that exact look on too many soldiers to count. It’s the rigid, hyper-focused posture of a man desperately trying to outrun the crash that happens when the survival high wears off.

You stop a few feet away, leaning your hip against one of the cold fuel drums and looking down at him. "You're going to scrub the finish right off that thing, Kennedy," you say softly, your voice a low, gravelly scratch in the dead silence of the courtyard.

Leon doesn't look up, his fingers moving with practiced, mechanical precision as he snaps the barrel back into the frame. "Just making sure the mechanism is clear," he mutters, his tone a little too tight, a little too practiced. "Don't want any misfires on the next run."

You don't say anything at first. You just reach into your inner jacket pocket, your fingers bypassing the stolen cigarettes for a moment to pull out a small, heavy silver flask—filled with a surprisingly decent bourbon you'd smuggled out of a safehouse in Bogota. You step closer, invading his personal space just enough to break the icy boundary of his focus, and hold the flask out in front of his face.

"Here," you say plainly, breaking right through your usual wall of sharp sarcasm. "Drink. You look like shit, and frankly, I don't feel like dragging your pretty corpse back onto the cargo plane because you forgot how to breathe."

Leon's hands freeze on the grip of his gun. He stares at the silver flask for a long, quiet second, before he finally lets out a short, hollow laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. 

He tilts his head up, offering you a weak, entirely defensive smirk as he attempts to deflect with that stubborn, boyish charm of his.

"Hey, I always look good," he quips, his voice lifting just enough to mimic his usual confidence. He reaches up with a gloved hand, running his fingers through his swept blond bangs to adjust them. "The hair is structurally engineered to survive biological outbreaks."

It’s a terrible joke, completely cheesy and defensive, but you don't call him out on it. Your eyes slide down to his hands as he sets the handgun back on his lap. Beneath the thick fabric of his tactical gloves, his fingers are trembling. 

It’s a very slight, rhythmic vibration—a subtle, betraying nod to the hidden memories that are currently rattling around inside his chest like a loose screw. 

He tries to clasp his hands together to hide it, but you’ve been in the dark too long to miss a tell like that.

Jesus, kid, you think, a wave of genuine, heavy empathy softening the cynical edges of your mind. You really are just an unfortunate bastard who survived a nightmare, playing dress-up in a government suit.

Instead of pushing him, instead of demanding he talk about whatever ghosts just whispered in his ear inside that laboratory, you simply unscrew the cap of the flask yourself. You take a sharp, burning swig, letting the amber liquid sear the back of your throat, and then sit down on the frost-covered gravel right next to his wooden crate, your shoulder lightly brushing against his knee.

You offer the flask back to him, your movements slow and entirely unthreatening.

Leon watches you, his blue eyes searching your face behind the dark frame of his thoughts. He seems completely thrown off by the sudden absence of your biting tongue. 

Slowly, he reaches out and takes the silver container from your hand. His trembling fingers brush against your skin, and you don't pull away, letting the steady, solid warmth of your hand ground him for a brief second.

He takes a long, desperate swallow of the bourbon, his chest expanding as he lets out a shuddering, ragged breath. He screws the cap back on but doesn't hand it back, holding the heavy metal between his palms as if it’s an anchor.

You lean your head back against the wooden supply crate, staring up at the vast, freezing expanse of the night sky, letting the silence settle over the both of you like a heavy blanket. 

You don't offer any cheap words of comfort. You don't give him some textbook agency speech about how he did a good job inside. Instead, you just offer him your silent, unfiltered presence—a quiet, mutual understanding sitting out here in the dirt.

You let him know, without a single word spoken, that he isn't the only one out here haunted by the things that scream in the dark.

──────•✦•──────

The interior of the C-130 aircraft is a symphony of rattling rivets and the low, guttural thrum of four engines struggling against a brutal crosswind. The air is thick with the smell of stale coffee, hydraulic fluid, and the lingering scent of gunpowder that seems to have woven itself into the very fabric of Leon’s jacket. 

Every time the plane drops into a pocket of dead air, the stomach-churning lurch sends Leon’s shoulder bumping against yours, a contact that makes his pulse spike in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the turbulence. 

He watches you out of the corner of his eye. You are currently using a folded-up tactical manual as a makeshift pillow against the vibrating fuselage, looking entirely too relaxed for someone currently being tossed around in a glorified tin can. 

He clears his throat, the sound nearly lost to the mechanical roar of the cabin, and tries to find a way to bridge the gap that doesn't involve him sounding like a teenager on his first bus ride. 

"You know," he starts, his smooth voice raised just enough to cut through the deafening, constant drone of the engines, "I’ve survived three different viral outbreaks, but I think this pilot is actively trying to kill us. Do you think he got his license from a cereal box, or is he just a big fan of rollercoasters?"

It’s a classic, clumsily delivered Leon Kennedy one-liner, wrapped in that distinct, earnest awkwardness that usually makes younger analysts look at him with starry-eyed sympathy. 

You slow-blink at him over the rim of your collar, your sharp, intelligent eyes gleaming in the dim amber light. You don't slide into an easy conversation, but you play along just enough to keep him guessing, deflecting his clumsy advance with a razor-thin, biting wit. 

"If you're scared, Kennedy, you can always ask the loadmaster for a sick bag and a comforting blanket," you shoot back, your voice a low, gravelly, beautifully sarcastic scratch.

Leon lets out a short, self-deprecating chuckle, his mouth curving into that crooked, slightly awkward smirk. He leans forward just a fraction, his broad shoulders shifting against the canvas strap of his seat, completely helpless against the magnetic pull of your teasing energy. 

"Hey, I'm just looking out for you. I thought maybe you needed a brave, highly decorated federal agent to hold your hand through the bumpy parts."  

You let out a genuine, quiet snort, tilting your chin up to fix him with a devastatingly dry look. "Bless your heart," you drawl playfully, your tone laced with a smooth, intimate warmth that makes his pulse do a sudden, entirely uncoordinated stutter. "But I was flying through tropical typhoons in unmarked helicopters while you were still trying to figure out how to shave. If I want someone to hold my hand, I'll find a guy who doesn't panic when a plane shakes."

"Ouch," Leon mutters, pressing a hand over his chest as if physically wounded, though his brain is absolutely reeling. 

Christ, she’s quick, he thinks, a helpless smile tugging at his lips as he watches the play of the shadows across your chiseled features. I’m a top-tier special agent, and she treats me like a mildly amusing nuisance. 

Before he can respond, you’ve already closed your eyes again, retreating back into your cocoon of self-assurance and leaving him hanging on a cliffside of his own making.

Across the narrow, equipment-strewn aisle, Evan has been watching the exchange with the grim, unblinking focus of a gargoyle. As you drift off into a light doze, the older man leans over the gap, his face illuminated by the flickering instrument lights. 

"I'd stop while you're ahead, Kennedy," Evan says, his voice low and gravelly, stripped of its usual grumpy sarcasm. 

Leon blinks, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. "Just a bit of conversation, Evan. Keeps the blood moving," Leon tries to deflect, but Evan isn't buying it. 

He shakes his head, his eyes moving toward you before settling back on Leon with a heavy, paternal weight. 

"She’s not a game, Leon. And she’s not some rookie who’s going to fall for the leather jacket and the heroics. You play around with her just to see if you can, and she’ll take a piece out of you that you won't get back."

Leon’s brow furrows, his brain stalling. "I'm not playing games," he says, and for once, the words don't feel like a one-liner; they feel heavy. 

Evan sighs, the sound lost to a particularly loud groan from the airframe. "Twenty-five years of this shit doesn't just leave you with a good pension. It leaves you with ghosts that have teeth. She’s seen things that make Raccoon City look like a Sunday brunch, and she’s buried more friends than you’ve had hot dinners. Unless you’re serious—unless you’re ready to carry half that weight—walk away." 

Leon looks back at you, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest against the vibrating wall. He feels a sudden, profound sense of gravity, a realization that your playful hot-and-cold demeanor isn't just a personality trait—it’s a fortress. 

He’s a man old enough to know better than to go chasing after a woman who builds walls out of sarcasm and smoke. And yet, as the plane lurches through the dark, he realizes he’s already decided that the view from the top of those walls might be worth the climb. 

──────•✦•──────

The safehouse in Stuttgart smells like industrial cleaner, and the depressing aroma of stale coffee that has been sitting in a glass pot for twelve hours straight. 

It is a secure, subterranean bunker buried beneath a completely unassuming logistics warehouse, completely isolated from the pristine, rain-slicked German streets above. The walls are painted a uniform, mind-numbing shade of institutional gray, completely covered in dry-erase boards, pinned surveillance photographs, and high-resolution tactical maps that you are currently staring at with a look of profound, unadulterated boredom.

You lean back in a creaking metal folding chair, propping your heavy combat boots directly onto the edge of the central conference table. The tech boys from the agency have been huddled over three separate laptops for six hours, their faces illuminated by the pale, cold blue glow of the monitors as they chip away at the encryption keys you hauled out of the Eastern European compound.

"If that fan clicks one more time, I am going to put a point-forty-five round through the housing," you mutter to no one in particular, your voice a low, gravelly rasp that reflects the absolute lack of decent sleep you've had over the last forty-eight hours.

Evan, sitting two seats down with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, doesn't even look up from his notepad. "It's an air filtration system, you absolute barbarian. It keeps us from breathing in the mold. Try to exercise a modicum of patience."

"Patience is a luxury for people who didn't spend three weeks eating freeze-dried rations in Bolivia, Evan," you shoot back, shifting your weight and crossing your arms over your chest. 

Christ, your groan inwardly, if the CIA wanted me to suffer through German bureaucracy, they could have at least provided a safehouse with functioning heating. My knees feel like they’re filled with crushed glass.

Across the table, Leon is leaning over the shoulder of a young agency cryptographer. He has a pristine, dark leather jacket draped over the back of his chair, standing in just a form-fitting gray shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the broad, disciplined lines of his shoulders. He is listening intently to the analyst's rapid-fire explanations, his brow furrowed in that hyper-focused, intensely serious look that you are quickly realizing is his default when he isn't trying to be a charming smartass.

Suddenly, one of the laptops lets out a sharp, electronic chime. 

The young analyst practically jumps out of his skin, his fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard. "I'm through," he breathes, his voice cracking slightly with excitement. "The secondary data partition from the compound's mainframe... it's completely decrypted."

The entire room shifts. Even the stiff STRATCOM handlers in the back stand up, hovering like vultures over a fresh carcass. The monitor flashes, displaying a highly organized ledger of digital transactions, transport manifests, and a digital invitation embedded with an encrypted barcode.

You drop your boots off the table with a heavy, deliberate thud, leaning forward to squint at the screen. "Well, don't keep us in suspense, kid. What did our local syndicate friends leave behind in their digital trash can?"

Leon straightens up, his blue eyes scanning the decrypted text rapidly before he looks across the table directly at you. A faint, knowing smirk hitches at the corner of his lips. 

"Looks like our Chimera broker isn't interested in selling his merchandise in dirty back alleys anymore," he says, his voice smooth but carrying that distinct, playful lilt he uses whenever he's trying to match your energy. "He’s going upscale."

"Define upscale, Kennedy," you say, arching a single, highly skeptical eyebrow. "Because if it involves me putting on another tactical vest and wading through a swamp, I’m going on strike."

"Try a high-society charity gala in Geneva," Leon counters, leaning his palms flat against the map table, his eyes locking onto yours with a challenging, amused brightness. "The 'Children of Tomorrow' foundation. It’s happening in four days at a private lakeside estate. According to the ledger, a high-ranking Chimera representative is using the event as a front to auction off refined Plagas samples to a select group of international buyers."

You let out a loud, theatrical groan, burying your face in your hands for a brief second. A charity gala. Fantastic. Pure psychological torture. 

"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," you mumble through your fingers. You look up, fixing Evan with a venomous stare. "Tell me I get to be the sniper on the ridge. Tell me I get to sit in the freezing mud for twelve hours with a thermal scope. Anything is better than having to make small talk with European billionaires who smell like caviar and tax evasion."

Evan lets out a dry, raspy chuckle, clearly delighting in your profound misery. "Not a chance. You're senior black ops. You know how to navigate a high-value crowd without drawing blood in the first five minutes—usually. Besides, the security grid at this estate is entirely closed-circuit. You can't shoot your way into a vault that requires a dynamic biometric keycard."

Leon shifts his weight, his eyes tracing the sudden, irritated slump of your shoulders. He lets out a soft laugh, a genuinely warm sound that cuts through the sterile tension of the safehouse bunker. 

"Come on," he teases, leaning in just enough to invade your peripheral vision. "It won't be that bad. You get to dress up, drink champagne that costs more than my monthly government stipend, and watch me look entirely ridiculous in a tight tuxedo."

You turn your head slowly, fixing him with a thoroughly amused look. A dangerous, incredibly playful spark flares up in your chest.

"Oh, trust me, Kennedy," you drawl, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across your face as you lean forward over the table, your voice dropping into a low, intimate purr. "The only thing that's going to keep me from blowing my own brains out during a charity auction is the sheer, unadulterated joy of watching you try to navigate a high-society ballroom without tripping over your own boyish charm. Do they even teach you how to use a salad fork at the academy, or do you just use your combat knife for everything?"

Leon blinks, completely caught off guard by the sudden, sharp shift in your demeanor. The playful, predatory confidence in your eyes catches him right in the chest, and you watch with immense internal satisfaction as a faint, tellsome pink hue creeps up his neck, completely dismantling his smooth exterior.

"I'll have you know my table manners are impeccable," he stammers slightly, a little flustered as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck, his signature awkwardness returning in full force. "I... I can use a salad fork just fine."

"We'll see about that," you tease, standing up from your chair and tossing your empty coffee cup into the recycling bin with a fluid flick of your wrist. 

You look over at Evan, your professional mask clicking right back into place as you tap the table. "Alright, let's get the structural schematics for this estate in Geneva. If we're going to steal a bioweapon from a bunch of billionaires, I want to know exactly where the fire exits are before I put on a pair of heels."

Leon watches you walk toward the main tactical board, his blue eyes wide and entirely captivated as he tries to steady his own racing pulse. 

He shakes his head, a helpless, breathless smile breaking across his face as he realizes that this trip to Switzerland is going to be a very different kind of dangerous.

Taglist: @s8cksxd @echo9821 @xiushiipuff @sassyandclassyx @pillkits @shuuberry @kiramikuu @purplemilkvibe @lerenoir @kneelforloki @anothergojostan @pompeygirl89 @tiredslepz @vodkanoredbull @ynackerman9499 @princeintheshadow @macklinsillybrini @analovesmarvel @kaitieskidmore97 @sharkalina666 @berrooos2 @charlotte-26s-blog @typical-ukraine @winterassasin1804 @ch3rrygirl3 @racoonnoir @superunkn0wn @avengersgirllorianna @deo-data @littlewollff @finns-drafts @tastelessforestdragon @islandprincess @itimisu @mwonstruck7 @sweetsassytaegi @theuntoldlullaby @xozoelivia @snowpiercer21 @innocentcinnamonpun @caytopia @boomitsallie1 @trulyfroggers @plaidamoosette @possums-things @like-gh0sts-in-sn0w

[snowpiercer21]

@littledisasters yay, its a date lol

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[secondlina]

Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.

[plagued-roses]

MAGIC POTATO GO!🥔

[thaumbody]

here we go again

reblogging the golden potato

hoping it will work

that my life will get a perk

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Always reblog the potato.

[wreneddieilysm]

Rebloged.

[chiara-hotel]

lowkey need luck rn 🙏🥔🥔🥔

[lifequixotics]

Potato of luck make my Japanese test go well

[jurisnow]

potato of luck

[vincent-van-gtg]

[fitnessdesire]

Can’t risk it

[laderdesders1]

The duck of creativity. I waited so long for it.

[sweetpea-imagines]

I need creativity rn

[conniebbyscandycane]

Same.

[levi-ish]

I’m a writer, so…

[littledisasters]

SWAN SONG | CHAPTER 11

✦Series Masterlist ✦AO3 ✦Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x doctor!reader ✦Summary: Statistically speaking, a plastic surgeon is not the most useful doctor during a zombie outbreak. Unless the zombies need a face lift.  Unfortunately, a bioterror attack hits your hospital anyway. Now you’re stuck surviving a viral outbreak with a tired government agent who keeps getting injured and showing up at your apartment like a very dangerous stray cat. ✦Content: 18+, Canon typical violence, eventual smut, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, PTSD, trauma recovery, fluff, angst, emotional intimacy, romantic tension, strangers to friends to lovers, domestic, nightmares DM or comment for the taglist

You lean down and kiss him again.

You lean back slightly in his lap, the movement slow but deliberate, and Leon follows immediately.

He doesn’t even seem to think about it.

One second you’re hovering over him, the next he’s sitting up with you, chasing your lips like he can’t quite stand the space between you.

His mouth finds yours again before you fully settle, the kiss warm and insistent. One of his hands slides up to cradle your jaw, fingers firm but careful as he tilts your face toward him.

The other hand moves almost absently under the hem of your shirt. His palm spreads across the warm skin of your back, calloused fingers splaying gently along your spine as if he’s confirming that you’re really there.

The contact sends a quiet shiver through you.

You thread your fingers into his hair again, the strands still slightly damp from the shower. You angle his head just enough to deepen the kiss, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you at all.

For someone who’s spent most of his life holding the world at arm’s length, Leon kisses like a man who’s been starving.

Your brain registers that distantly.

The more immediate problem is the way your chest tightens when he exhales softly against your lips.

You think dimly—somewhere beneath the warmth and the rush of adrenaline and the steady beat of his heart under your hand—that this might be a terrible idea.

Not because you don’t want it.

Quite the opposite.

Because now that you’ve gotten a taste of him like this, you’re pretty sure you’ll never get enough.

Eventually you pull back just enough to breathe. Your forehead rests briefly against his as both of you catch your breath. His hand is still resting under your shirt, warm against your back, his thumb absently tracing slow circles along your skin.

You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your lungs are still working a little harder than usual.

The moment stretches quietly between you. Then his hand slips back up to your face. Leon brushes his thumb gently along your cheek. The gesture is slow, almost thoughtful.

You lift your head slightly. And that’s when you see his expression.

Those blue eyes of his—usually so sharp, so guarded—look impossibly soft in the dim light.

There’s still exhaustion there. Still the faint shadows of whatever hell he crawled out of before showing up at your door. But underneath it is something else entirely.

Something warm. Something vulnerable.

He looks up at you like you’re the only stable thing in his universe.

Which is frankly ridiculous. You’re a slightly sleep-deprived surgeon with a deeply questionable relationship with sarcasm.

But the way he’s looking at you right now makes your chest tighten anyway.

You take his face in your hands, your palms framing his jaw, thumbs brushing over the rough stubble he hasn't had time to shave. For a second, you just look at him, the surgeon in you fighting the woman who just wants to melt into his touch. The medical brain is a persistent little fly. It doesn’t care about the mood. It cares about internal bleeding and hidden hematomas.

"Leon," you say, your voice dropping into that low, insistent tone you usually reserve for uncooperative patients. "Don't lie to me because I will find out anyway. Are you injured? Anywhere? I’m talking deep tissue, cracked ribs, anything that’s going to make me regret what I’m about to do in five minutes."

He lets out a breath that’s half-sigh, half-chuckle, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as he leans into your touch. "Just scrapes and bruises this time," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and sincere. "Nothing a few Aspirin and some sleep won't fix. I promise."

You hold his gaze, squinting slightly as you perform a visual triage in the dim light of the living room. You’re looking for the tell-tale guarding of the abdomen, the shallow breath of a rib fracture, the dilated pupils of a concussion. He looks wrecked, sure, but he isn’t breaking.

"Good," you huff, the tension in your shoulders bleeding out. "Because explaining to my coworkers why my ‘friend’ landed in the ER would be a conversational nightmare I’m not prepared for."

"I'll try to keep my organs inside my body for the sake of your professional standing," he quips, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Appreciate it," you mutter.

But the sarcasm is a thin veil, and it’s tearing fast. 

The urgency from before returns, sharper now, a physical ache that demands proximity. You lean down, your lips finding the sensitive cord of his neck. You don’t just kiss him; you press into him, your teeth grazing his skin in a soft, punishing nip that makes him hiss through his teeth. 

It’s a territorial thing, you realize—a primal need to mark the fact that he’s alive, that he’s here, and that he belongs in this quiet apartment instead of some godforsaken ditch halfway across the world.

The air between you shifts, growing heavy and hungry, thick with the scent of his soap and the lingering, metallic tang of the rain. 

Leon groans, a low sound that vibrates against your chest. His hands slide from your waist to your hips, pulling you flush against him. He catches your lips again, but the gentleness from a moment ago is gone, replaced by a slow, possessive glide of his tongue against yours that makes your toes curl. 

You gasp into his mouth, the sound swallowed by him, and for a second, the room feels like it’s spinning.

Your hands find the hem of his t-shirt. You’re usually a marvel of manual dexterity—you can suture a tear in a tear duct without blinking—but right now, your fingers feel like lead. You tug at the fabric, a little uncoordinated and impatient, your knuckles brushing against the warm skin of his stomach. Leon gets the message immediately. He pulls back just enough to yank the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, discarding it somewhere on the floor without taking his eyes off you.

Then, there he is.

Your hands slide across his bare chest, the heat of him startling even though you knew it was there.  You trace the map of him with a reverence that borders on religious. Your fingertips follow the jagged line of an old gunshot wound near his shoulder, then drift down to the faded puckered skin of a blade scar across his ribs. 

Every mark is a story of a day he almost didn't come home, a testament to the sheer, stubborn will it takes to stay alive in his line of work.

It’s a lot to process—the doctor in you wants to catalog the mechanism of injury for every scar, while the woman in you just wants to press her face against his heartbeat and stay there until the world stops being so violent. 

You move slowly, trying to memorize the texture of him by heart, as if by learning the topography of his skin, you can somehow keep him tethered to the earth.

"You're staring," he whispers, though he doesn't pull away. He looks almost self-conscious under your scrutiny, his muscles tensing beneath your touch.

"I'm a plastic surgeon, Leon," you remind him, your voice a soft, blunt rasp as your thumb traces a particularly deep scar near his sternum.

 "I spent three years of fellowship learning how to make things look like they never happened. But these..." You look up at him, your eyes softening despite your best efforts to remain detached. "I think I prefer the truth."

He doesn't say anything to that. He just reaches up, his hand tangling in your hair to pull you back down into a kiss that tastes like a promise.

You lean back just an inch or two, your hands still resting flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart beneath your palms. You let your gaze wander over the sharp line of his collarbone and the way the dim lamplight catches the gold in his hair before meeting those tired, ice-blue eyes.

"You’re beautiful, Leon," you murmur. The words are soft, stripped of any defensive irony, and they hang in the quiet space between you like a confession.

For a man who has stared down biological nightmares and stared into the abyss of global conspiracies without blinking, this—this simple, quiet bit of praise—seems to be his undoing. Leon’s throat hitches, and he looks away, his gaze dropping to the edge of the mattress. 

In the shadows, you could swear a faint heat is creeping up his neck, a genuine flush that makes your own chest tighten.

It’s almost absurd. He’s a legendary agent, a survivor of a dozen apocalypses, and he’s blushing like a teenager because a girl in wrinkled scrubs called him handsome.

"Hey," you whisper, reaching up to catch his chin between your thumb and forefinger. You gently, insistently, tilt his face back until he’s forced to look at you again. A playful, crooked smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

"Don't give me that look. It’s a professional medical opinion. Completely objective. You aren't allowed to argue with the doctor; it's against hospital policy."

Leon huffs a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking his head faintly as if he can’t quite believe his luck—or your audacity. "Hospital policy, huh?" he rasps, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a low, delicious gravel.

"Strictly enforced," you confirm.

He doesn't argue. Instead, he closes the distance again, his movements possessing a renewed, hungry focus. One hand slides up into the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling firmly in the strands to angle your head, guiding you into a kiss that is deeper, more certain than anything that came before. 

As his tongue glides slowly against yours, his other hand leaves your waist. You feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of your top as he slides it up your side, his touch hesitant for a fraction of a second—that lingering, awkward Leon Kennedy caution—before he finds the curve of your breast. He kneads the soft flesh gently through the cotton, his thumb grazing the peaking center, and the sensation sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

You arch into him instinctively, your back bowing as you gasp into his mouth, the sound half-sob and half-sigh. Your fingers dig into the muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you from floating away.

The friction of his calloused skin against your ribs, the solid, unyielding heat of his lap beneath you, and the sheer, overwhelming need radiating off him makes your head swi

You raise your arms in a silent, fluid request, the movement pulling the hem of your top upward. Leon doesn't hesitate this time. His large, warm hands catch the fabric, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your ribs as he tugs the shirt over your head. 

The sudden contrast of the cool apartment air hitting your heated skin makes your breath hitch, but the chill is short-lived. Leon is looking at you now with an intensity that feels heavy enough to leave a physical mark.

His eyes track the line of your throat, the curve of your shoulders, and the way your chest rises and falls with your own jagged breathing. t’s a look of raw, unadulterated hunger, tempered only by that slight, endearing hesitation that seems to haunt his every move with you.

"Your turn," you breathe, a faint, shaky smirk playing on your lips as you try to ground yourself. "You’re the one staring now, Leon. I’m starting to think you’re conducting a very unprofessional physical exam."

Leon lets out a low, rough chuckle that vibrates right through the couch and into your bones. "Just gathering a second opinion," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet register.

He doesn't wait for a rebuttal. He leans in, his mouth crashing against yours for one more searing, open-mouthed kiss before he begins a slow, deliberate descent. 

He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that makes your nerves feel like they’re on fire. Then, he finds the soft junction where your neck meets your shoulder and bites. 

Just a sharp pressure followed by a dragging, insistent pull of his lips that you know, with clinical certainty, is going to be a bitch to cover with a high-collared scrub top tomorrow.

You don't care. 

You sigh softly, your head tipping back to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there.

As you shift in his lap, trying to get even closer, you become acutely aware of the rigid, heavy length of his arousal pressing firmly against your inner thigh. 

You can feel the heat and the slick moisture spreading through the thin fabric of your shorts, soaking into the material as your body reacts to him with an intensity that’s almost embarrassing.

Every time he breathes against your skin, every time his hand kneads your hip, you feel that pulse of electricity center itself right between your legs. 

"Leon," you moan, the name breaking on a ragged exhale as his mouth moves lower, his breath hot against your collarbone. 

Your hips tilt into him, an unconscious, pleading motion. "Please. Tell me you’re not going to make me wait much longer, because I’m about ten seconds away from losing my mind."

You feel him pause, the hot, erratic puff of his breath ghosting over your collarbone like a physical touch. For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room is the distant, fading rhythm of the rain and the much louder, more frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears.

"Impatient," he murmurs against your skin, his voice vibrating with a playful, low-timbred huskiness that makes your stomach flip.

"Pot, meet kettle," you managed to huff out, though the witty retort loses some of its bite when your voice cracks on the last syllable.

Leon doesn't give you the satisfaction of a comeback. Instead, he shifts his weight, his mouth beginning a slow, agonizingly deliberate descent down the slope of your breast. 

You hold your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, until he finally closes the distance. When he catches the peaked, aching center of your nipple into the heat of his mouth, sucking lightly, a sharp, silvery jolt of electricity shoots straight to your core.

A ragged whimper escapes you—a sound you didn’t even know you were capable of making—and your fingers instinctively tangle into the damp, blonde strands of his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him to you. 

As if he can sense the exact moment your knees go weak, his hand slides up to cup your other breast. His palm is a steady, scorching weight, providing a grounding contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His thumb begins to run over your other nipple, the calloused pad of his finger dragging lightly over the sensitive peak in a rhythmic, torturous friction that makes you cry out into the quiet of the room.

"Leon," you breathe, your head falling back. 

You arch into his touch, your body acting on a purely predatory instinct to get as much of him as possible. The friction of your damp shorts against his thigh is becoming a secondary, pulsing ache that you can no longer ignore.

It's nearly unbearable now, a sharp, white-hot pull that demands more than just fabric-muffled contact. 

You grind your hips down into his lap, a slow, heavy press and you’re rewarded instantly. Leon lets out a broken, guttering moan against the skin of your breast, his fingers digging into your hips with a sudden, bruising strength.

You can’t take the distance anymore, even the few inches of him being buried against your chest. You reach down, cupping his face and tugging him upward until his mouth meets yours in a rough kiss. 

He swears softly into your mouth—a low, dark "Fuck"—as he pulls you so close your ribs feel like they might fuse together.

The kiss is feral. It’s the kind of kiss that happens when two people have spent months pretending they weren't dying to do exactly this. 

Your hands are everywhere—tugging at the damp strands of his hair, clutching at his shoulders, tracing the hard, tensed planes of his back. Your tongues tangle, a slick, rhythmic dance that matches the desperate movement of your hips. You catch his lower lip between your teeth, tugging just hard enough to make him growl, your own breath coming in ragged, whimpering gasps that echo in the quiet bedroom.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips, his voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. "So fucking beautiful like this."

The compliment is sweet, but your patience has officially reached its expiration date. You’re hyper-aware of the heavy, damp heat soaking into your shorts, the fabric clinging to you in a way that’s becoming a distraction. 

You need him. Not through layers, not through carefully placed hands, but him.

With a burst of sudden, restless energy, you scramble off his lap. Leon lets out a small, pathetic whine—a sound so uncharacteristic of the composed DSO agent that it would be funny if you weren't currently vibrating with need. 

You don't give him time to mourn the loss of contact. You fall back onto the mattress and immediately reach out to snag the waistband of his jeans, tugging him toward you.

He follows you instantly, hovering over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. 

His hair is a mess, his lips are swollen and red, and his eyes are dark with a hunger that makes your stomach do a slow, heavy flip.  You reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down until your lips are brushing against the shell of his ear.

"Leon," you whisper, your voice a shaky, demanding rasp. "Stop being a gentleman. Touch me. Properly. Right now."

You can feel the shudder that ripples through his entire frame at the words. He doesn't need to be told twice. His hand slides down, his fingers hooked under the elastic of your shorts, and the look he gives you is so intense, so utterly focused, that it feels more intimate than the kiss.

“Hips up, sweetheart,” Leon murmurs, his voice dropping into that low register that usually commands a room, but here, in the quiet shadows of your bedroom, it just makes your knees go weak.

You comply instantly, arching your back off the mattress with a shaky breath. He handles you with a mix of practiced efficiency and a lingering, reverent hesitation, shrugging your shorts down and off. The cool air hits you for a split second before the heat of him replaces it. 

He leans down, pressing a lingering, searing kiss to the sensitive skin on the inside of your knee.

It’s such a small, surprisingly tender gesture that it catches you off guard, forcing a soft, broken sound from your throat. Then, his hand begins its ascent.

The contrast is almost too much to process—the rough, hard-earned calluses of a man who spent his life gripping cold steel and fighting for survival, now dragging slowly over the silk-soft skin of your inner thigh. 

You shiver violently, your legs trembling as he nears the center of the ache. When his palm finally settles against your core, the contact is electric. He doesn't pull away; he rests there for a heartbeat before his fingers begin to move in a slow, deliberate circle.

He’s not just touching you; he’s exploring, spreading the slick, honeyed evidence of how much you want him across your sensitized skin.

“Leon,” you moan, the name breaking into a needy, high-pitched plea. 

You reach for him, your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his forearms. Clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you from shattering into a million pieces. 

He huffs a rough, dark laugh against your skin, his thumb catching on your clit with a precision that makes your vision go momentarily white. He shifts, hovering over you, his eyes dark with a heady mixture of pride and hunger.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, raw vulnerability. “You’re already soaked, and I’ve barely even touched you properly yet.”

“Shut up,” you gasp, though there’s no heat in the command, only desperation. “Less talking, more… everything else.”

He doesn't give you the chance to complain further. He surges upward, his mouth crashing back onto yours in a kiss that is even more heated than the last. It’s a messy, frantic collision of lips and tongues. 

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him into the cradle of your hips, wanting to bridge every single millimeter of space left between you.

He doesn't keep you waiting. His hand shifts, a single finger brushing slowly, tentatively between your folds, and the sensation is so acute you practically bolt off the mattress. A high, thin whimper breaks from your throat, your hips rocking up against his palm in a reflexive, needy search for more. 

He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers dipping briefly inside you—just a teasing, shallow intrusion that makes your breath hitch—before he pulls back. He doesn’t move away; instead, he uses the slick, hot evidence of your arousal to coat his thumb, circling your clit with a slow, agonizingly deliberate pressure.

You moan directly into his mouth, the sound muffled by his lips, and your hands fly to his head. Your fingers tangle in those blonde strands, tugging just enough to let him know you’re losing your mind. 

"Leon," you breathe against his lips, the name a jagged, desperate plea.

He doesn't answer with words. He doesn't have them. Instead, he plunges two fingers back into you, deep and sudden. The sensation is overwhelming; you whimper, your eyes squeezing shut as he begins to move, his knuckles dragging along your soft, pulsing interior. It’s a rhythmic, heavy friction that targets every nerve ending you possess.

There’s a slight clumsiness to his movements, a hint of the man who hasn’t let himself be this vulnerable with another human being in years. He’s touch-starved in a way that’s almost painful to witness—he’s holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him from drifting into the abyss. 

Every time he adjusts his grip, every time his thumb hitches on your skin, you feel that underlying tremor in his hands. He’s terrified of breaking you, even as he’s clearly desperate to consume you.

"Is that... okay?" he rasps, his forehead leaning against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that’s almost too much to bear.

"If you stop," you gasp, your hips stuttering against his hand as you try to find the rhythm he’s setting, "I will actually kill you, Leon. Keep going."

He lets out a rough, breathless chuckle, and the last of his hesitation vanishes. He increases the pace, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that one spot that makes your vision go fuzzy at the edges. You arch your back, your fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms.

You go pliant and boneless beneath him, your limbs heavy and humming with a sensory overload that has your brain feeling absolutely fried. You’re a mess of tangled sheets and heated skin, and Leon seems to sense the exact moment you stop fighting the sensation and start drowning in it.

He doesn't miss a beat. He returns to the crook of your neck, his mouth hot and demanding as he alternates between soft, soothing kisses and sharp, possessive bites. Each time his teeth graze your skin, a fresh jolt of lightning shoots down your spine, making you arch your back and moan with a needy, pathetic edge that you’d usually be too proud to let anyone hear.

Your chest is heaving, your lungs struggling to keep up with the frantic pace your heart is setting.

Below, his hand is a steady, rhythmic torture. His fingers thrust in and out of you with a newfound confidence, the wet, sliding sound of his intrusion echoing in the quiet of the room. His thumb remains anchored to your clit, circling with a relentless, heavy pressure that keeps you hovering right on the edge.

"Fuck," you choke out, the word vibrating against his ear, raw and unpolished. "Don't stop. Please, Leon, don't you dare stop."

He lets out a low, guttural growl, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises, his voice thick with a sudden, dark resolve.

He redoubles his efforts, his thumb pressing harder, his fingers sliding deeper, moving with a frantic urgency as if he’s trying to make up for every month of "just friends" and every night he spent alone in his own apartment thinking about you. 

You're both chasing it now—the release, the confirmation, the desperate need to prove that you’re both alive and that this—this heat, this sweat, this honesty—is the only thing that's real.

You thread your fingers through the damp, golden-blonde strands of his hair, pulling him up just enough so you can look into those blown-out blue eyes. Your brain is a static-filled mess of endorphins and adrenaline, but the surgical part of you—the part that takes charge in a crisis—kicks in with a sudden, sharp clarity of desire.

"Leon," you whisper against his lips, your voice a ragged, demanding thread. "Sit up. I want to ride you. Now."

He freezes for a split second, his breath hitching in that way that tells you exactly how much your bluntness affects him. Then, a slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who is more than happy to follow orders for once in his life.

"Yes, ma'am," he rasps, the words vibrating with a low, delicious gravel that sends a fresh shiver down your spine.

You lean in, meeting his mouth in a kiss that’s heated, desperate, and admittedly a little clumsy. Your teeth clink against his, your tongues tangling with a frantic sort of rhythm as you both try to compensate for the months of polite distance and "just checking in" phone calls. 

It’s messy and honest, the kind of kiss that only happens when two people are too far gone to care about grace.

Leon pulls back, his chest heaving as he moves to the edge of the bed. You watch, your throat feeling suspiciously tight, as he shucks his pants with a focused efficiency that’s slightly betrayed by the slight tremor in his hands. 

He sits back against the headboard, his broad shoulders framing him against the dim light of the room. He reaches out, his large hands find your waist, and he guides you toward him, his thumbs tracing the line of your hipbones.

"Come here," he murmurs, his voice a low, inviting command.

You don't need to be told twice. You crawl toward him, the cool air of the room forgotten the moment you feel the scorching heat radiating off his skin. As you straddle his lap, the friction of your sensitized skin against his rougher texture makes you gasp. 

You're acutely aware of the rigid, heavy weight of him between your thighs, and the way his hands tighten on your hips, his knuckles white with the effort of keeping himself steady.

"You're sure?" he asks, that lingering, awkward Leon-caution flickering in his eyes for one last second. "I don't... I don't want to hurt you."

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, reaching out to cup his face, your thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. "Leon Kennedy," you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. "You aren't going to break me. Now, shut up, please."

You move with a deliberate, painstaking slowness, your hands braced against his shoulders as you guide yourself down. 

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming—a heavy, stretching fullness that makes your breath catch in the back of your throat. 

You pause halfway, your eyes fluttering shut as you focus on the stretch, your internal muscles clenching instinctively around him. Leon’s hands are gripping onto your hips, his knuckles white as he helps steady your descent, his own breathing coming in harsh, jagged hitches.

When you finally sink all the way down, feeling him bottom out against your cervix, both of you let out a sharp, synchronized hiss of needy air. The contact is electric—blunt, honest, and entirely too much.

"Fuck," Leon rasps, the word breaking into a groan as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. "You feel... so good, sweetheart. Too good."

He nips at the sensitive skin of your shoulder, a sharp, possessive little sting. You exhale sharply, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back. 

Your heart is hammering against your ribs, and for a moment, you just stay there, absorbing the weight and the heat of him, letting the fullness settle into your bones.

Then, you begin to move. It’s not a fast rhythm—not yet. You trace lazy, grinding circles against him, testing the friction, feeling the way he pulses inside you. 

Your head falls back, your exposed throat baring itself to the dim light of the room as your breathing becomes a series of unsteady, broken sighs.

Leon lets out a small, high-pitched whimper—a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender that vibrates through your entire frame. It’s so raw, so stripped of his usual guarded stoicism, that it makes your chest ache with a sudden, fierce affection.

You reach down, taking his face in your hands and forcing him to look up at you. His blue eyes are clouded with a heady mix of lust and a deep-seated vulnerability.

"Keep whining like that, pretty boy," you murmur, your voice a low, teasing rasp. "I think I like it more than the brooding."

You could swear you see a fresh, dark flush creep up his cheekbones, a genuine blush that softens the hard lines of his face. 

He doesn't have a witty comeback this time; he’s too far gone. Instead, he reaches up, his hand tangling in your hair to pull you back down into a kiss that is a frantic, clumsy collision of teeth and tongues.

You meet his hunger with your own, your hips picking up the pace, the lazy circles turning into a rhythmic, bone-deep desperation that neither of you has the energy to fight anymore.

You begin to bounce, your hips finding a frantic, driving cadence that has Leon’s hands tightening on your waist until his fingerprints are practically branded into your skin.

Each time you drop, his hard length bottoming out against your cervix, it sends a jolt through your system—a sharp, dizzying cocktail of slight ache and overwhelming pleasure that makes your vision spark. A series of loud, uninhibited moans and broken mewls rip out of your mouth and echo off the bedroom walls.

You’re being loud. Historically, "undignified" loud. But as you throw your head back, your pulse thrumming in your throat, you realized you’re too far gone to care if the neighbors hear or if your professional reputation is currently evaporating.

Leon’s hands are a restless, wandering fire. They slide from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, before moving up to knead your breasts with a heavy, possessive pressure. 

His palms are memorizing your curves as if he’s trying to store the sensation away for the next time he’s stuck in a cold extraction zone.

He surges upward, his mouth crashing into yours in a desperate, hungry kiss that tastes like salt and heat. 

His arms wrap around you, cording with tension as he starts thrusting up to meet your every downward move head-on. The friction is incredible, and the sound—the wet, rhythmic squelch of him burying himself deep into your dripping, over-sensitized folds—is the only thing you can hear over the roar of blood in your ears.

"Leon," you sob into his mouth, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails probably leaving half-moons in his skin.

He doesn't answer with words. He can't. He just groans, a deep, desperate sound that starts in his chest and ends against your tongue. 

He’s matching your pace perfectly, his movements losing their precision and turning into something raw and primal. Every thrust is a confirmation; every time he fills you, it’s a reminder that the world hasn't taken him yet, and that for this hour, in this bed, he isn't a weapon—he's just yours.

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him in, your inner muscles clenching around him in a rhythmic, involuntary pulse that makes him swear into the crook of your neck.

 You’re both sweating now, your skin sliding against his, the heat in the room rising until it feels like the air itself might catch fire. You’re close—so terrifyingly close to the edge—and you can feel him vibrating with the same frantic, terminal urgency.

The rhythm transcends desperate and borders on the truly frantic, a blurred collision of skin, sweat, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of his hips meeting yours. 

“I love you,” he rasps, the words torn from his chest, sounding raw and unpracticed as he surges up to meet you. “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” you sob back, the confession breaking into a jagged, high-pitched moan as he hits that sweet spot deep inside you again. 

You clench around him instinctively, your internal muscles pulsing in a rhythmic, tight grip that makes him growl, his head falling back against the headboard for a brief, breathless second.

You’re a mess of whimpers and broken gasps, clinging to his broad shoulders like a survivor in a storm. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, the scent of him—salt, heat, and that faint, lingering trace of the rain—filling your senses until your head is spinning. But you can't stay away for long; you lean up again moments later, your mouth seeking his in a series of frantic, open-mouthed kisses that taste of salt and desperation.

Leon is murmuring soft, broken praise against your skin, his voice a low vibration that you feel more than hear. “Good... you’re so good for me... so beautiful,” he breathes, his hands sliding from your hips to your back, pulling you so tight against him that there isn't a single millimeter of air left between your heartbeats.

He buries himself into you one last time, a deep, heavy thrust that seems to touch your very soul, and the world finally tilts on its axis. 

Your back arches, a high, broken moan tearing from your throat as your internal muscles seize around him in a series of rhythmic, crushing pulses. It’s an overwhelming, systemic sensory overload that makes your brain go completely static, leaving only the frantic, electric hum of your own pleasure.

You dig your nails into the hard muscle of his shoulders, your grip desperate and uncoordinated, as if you’re trying to anchor yourself to the earth while your soul tries to leave your body. 

Leon doesn’t pull back; he leans into it, his mouth moving down the sweat-slicked column of your neck in a series of stinging, possessive kisses. He gives one last, deep, staggering thrust—burying himself so completely within you that it feels like he’s trying to merge his skeleton with yours—and then he stills, his entire body going rigid.

He spills into you with a heavy, pulsing heat that you feel deep in your marrow. A low, guttural sound starts in his chest, but he bites down on the curve of your shoulder to stifle the high, pathetic little whimper that threatens to break out of him. It’s the sound of a man finally letting go of a decade’s worth of tension, and it vibrates through your bones like a tuning fork.

For a long, suspended minute, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the frantic, overlapping rhythm of your breathing—two sets of lungs struggling to remember how to function. You’re slumped against him, your forehead resting on his shoulder, your chest heaving against his in a heavy, damp syncopation.

You’re still twitching, small, involuntary aftershocks rippling through your thighs and your core, making you clench around him in little phantom pulses. 

Leon’s arms are steady around your back, his hands splayed wide, holding you with a fierce, protective urgency.

“Leon,” you breathe, the name coming out as a shaky, threadbare whisper. You don’t have the energy for sarcasm, and for once, the dry, witty commentary in your head has been completely silenced.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked. He shifts just enough to press a lingering, salt-tasting kiss to your temple, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You close your eyes, letting your weight settle fully into him, feeling the steady, thudding reassurance of his heart against your own. You’re a mess of tangled limbs, sweat, and shared history, and as the adrenaline begins its slow, shimmering retreat, you realize that for the first time since that Code Yellow sounded, the quiet doesn't feel like a threat. It just feels like home.

He moves with a tenderness that feels almost alien compared to the frantic, borderline-violent urgency of moments ago. 

Leon carefully untangles himself from you, and as he pulls away, you let out a low, involuntary whine—a sound of pure, unadulterated protest at the sudden absence of his heat. It’s a physical ache, that hollow sensation of him leaving you, and for a split second, the cool air of the bedroom feels like an intruder.

"I know, I know," he rasps, his voice a honeyed, broken growl. "I’m right here."

He doesn't let the space last. He lays you gently back onto the mattress, but before your head can even fully sink into the pillow, he’s pulling you against his chest, tucking your smaller frame into the protective curve of his body. He’s still breathing hard, his ribs expanding against yours in a heavy, jagged rhythm, but his focus is entirely on you.

He begins to plant a trail of soft, feather-light kisses across your face—your temple, your cheekbone, the tip of your nose—before settling back into the crook of your neck. 

"You're perfect," he murmurs against your skin, the words vibrating through your collarbone. "Absolutely perfect. I don’t know how the hell I got lucky enough to find you in that madhouse."

You’re still reeling, your lungs struggling to catch up, your fingers still curled tightly into the muscles of his forearms as if you’re afraid he’ll dissipate into smoke. 

"You're stuck with me now, remember?" you manage to breathe out, the sarcasm finally flickering back to life, though it’s faint and fragile. "Medical... medical necessity."

Leon lets out a soft, huffed laugh, his chest vibrating against yours. He shifts, pulling the duvet up over both of your sweat-slicked bodies, shielding you from the world outside. He ducks his head, his nose brushing against yours as he looks at you with a gaze so heavy with affection it makes your throat ache.

"I love you so much," he whispers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that makes you feel like the most precious thing he’s ever held. "More than I probably know how to say."

"I love you too, Leon," you reply, your voice cracking just enough to betray you. 

You bury your face in his chest, listening to the frantic, slowing thrum of his heart—a steady, biological proof that he’s alive, he’s here, and he’s yours.

He begins a slow, soothing motion, his hand gliding up and down the length of your spine in long, grounding strokes. His other hand finds your hair, his fingers threading through the damp strands, untangling the mess you made of it during the heat of it all. It’s a quiet, domestic rhythm that feels like an anchor.

You close your eyes, the exhaustion finally starting to pull at you, safe in the knowledge that for the first time in a very long time, you don't have to be the one doing the saving.

Leon untangles himself with a lingering, reluctant friction, his hand sliding away only after a final, reassuring squeeze of your hip. "Stay here, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice still a low, gravelly wreckage of its former self. "Just give me a second."

You watch him move across the room, the dim light catching the hard, scarred lines of his back. You’re too far gone to do anything but melt into the mattress, your limbs feeling like lead weights and your brain humming with a fuzzy, post-coital static. 

When he returns, he’s carrying a glass of water and a fresh, warm towel. He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and hands you the glass. You take a long, desperate sip, the cool water hitting your parched throat like a miracle. Then, he begins to clean you up.

It’s the gentleness that gets you. He uses the towel with a focused, almost clinical precision, but there’s a reverent softness to the way he wipes the sweat and the spent heat from your skin. You let out a long, contented sigh, your eyes fluttering shut. 

In your world—the world of 24-hour call shifts, arterial bleeds, and being the "cool head" in the OR—you are always the one doing the taking care. You are the one who cleans the wounds and stabilizes the wreckage. Being on the receiving end of this much quiet, domestic devotion makes your throat feel suspiciously tight.

"You're too good at this, Leon," you whisper, your voice sounding small and fragile even to your own ears. "It’s a little bit annoying. I'm supposed to be the one with the bedside manner."

He lets out a soft, breathy chuckle, tossing the towel aside and settling back onto the bed. 

He doesn't just lie down; he maneuvers himself around you, pulling you back into the cradle of his chest until you’re a tangle of heavy limbs and shared warmth. He’s completely boneless, his usual high-alert tension evaporated into the quiet of the room.

You lean back slightly, your head resting against his shoulder as you slide your fingers into the damp, blonde hair at the base of his neck. You begin to scratch lightly at his scalp, your nails dragging in slow, rhythmic arcs. Leon absolutely melts. 

You can feel the precise moment his remaining muscles give up, his entire frame sagging against you with a deep, shuddering exhale. It’s a physical surrender, the kind of trust that a man in his line of work rarely gets to experience.

"See?" you whisper, your voice softer than it’s been all night as you guide his head down until his forehead is resting in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers never stop their slow, hypnotic movement through his hair. "We're both fine. We're here. We're together. No outbreaks, no DSO bullshit. Just us."

Leon shifts, his arm tightening around your waist as he tucks his face further into your skin, his breath hot and steady. "If you keep doing that," he mutters, his words slightly muffled against your shoulder, "I’m going to fall asleep right here. I’m serious."

A tired, playful smirk touches your lips. You don't stop the scratching; if anything, you slow it down, making it even more deliberate. 

"Oh, really?" you tease, your voice a low hum. "Thirty years of tactical training, and all it took was a scalp massage? I think I finally found your off switch, Agent Kennedy. A major security flaw."

"Don't you dare," he grumbles, though there’s no heat in it, only a profound, sleepy contentment. He nuzzles closer, his nose brushing against your collarbone. "Just... don't stop."

You don't. You keep your fingers moving.

Outside, the rain has stopped completely, leaving the world hushed and still. Inside, there’s only the sound of two hearts finally finding a rhythm that isn't dictated by fear. 

The scratching of your nails against his scalp slows as you feel the last of his resistance crumble. 

Leon’s breathing, which had been a ragged, stuttering thing since he first burst through your door, finally begins to lengthen. It turns deep and rhythmic. You feel his weight shift as his chin drops further into the crook of your neck, his body becoming a warm, solid press against your side.

Leon Kennedy is finally out.

You stop the movement of your hand, but you don't pull your fingers away, leaving them resting gently against the nape of his neck. 

You tilt your head just enough to look at him. In the weak, filtered light of the streetlamps outside, the hard, weary lines of his face have smoothed over. The furrow between his brows—the one that seems permanently etched there by decades of looking at things no human should ever have to see—is gone.

He looks... peaceful. It’s a jarring sight. This is the man the government sends in when the world is ending, the one who carries the weight of Raccoon City and a thousand other nameless horrors on his shoulders. 

And yet, here he is, draped across you like he’s finally found the only place on earth where he doesn't have to keep one eye open. He’s soft, he’s relaxed, and most importantly, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your ribs is proof that he’s alive.

The clinical part of your brain tries to keep watch, a lingering habit from too many nights on call, but even that is failing you now. The warmth of the duvet, the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat, and the sheer, bone-deep relief of having him back in your arms are a powerful sedative.

Your own eyelids feel like they’re weighted with lead. You shift just slightly, tucking your nose into his hair, the scent of him acting as the final push you need. Your fingers curl slightly into his hair one last time before your grip loosens.

"We're okay," you murmur, the words barely a breath, meant more for yourself than him.

You let your eyes close, your own breathing syncing up with his, and you drift off into a sleep that, for the first time in a very long time, is completely free of nightmares.

You’re still holding him when the world goes dark, and for tonight, that’s all that matters.

──────•✦•──────

The morning light filters through the blinds in thin, dusty slats, painting stripes of pale gold across the rumpled duvet and the tangled mess of limbs that constitutes his current, and far preferred, reality. 

Leon wakes slowly, the transition from a deep, miraculously dreamless sleep to consciousness feeling less like a tactical snap-to-alert and more like a gentle surfacing. 

Usually, waking up involves a split-second inventory of his surroundings—locating the nearest exit, checking the weight of the holster on the nightstand, and bracing for the inevitable phantom ache of old injuries—but today, the only inventory he cares about is the warm, steady weight of you against his chest. 

You are curled into his side, your breathing a soft, rhythmic puff of air against his collarbone that makes his heart do something inconveniently sentimental.

He remains incredibly still, his chin resting atop your head, savoring the sheer, domestic quiet of it all. It’s a stark contrast to the sterile, flickering fluorescent lights of a DSO safehouse or the mud-caked desperation of a trench in some corner of the world that God forgot.

He feels a sudden, sharp ache in his chest—not from a broken rib or a close call with a Tyrant, but from the terrifying realization of how much he has to lose now. 

He’s spent thirty years convincing himself that attachments are just liabilities, but holding you like this, he knows he’s never been more wrong. 

He shifts slightly, the movement careful and deliberate, and presses a lingering kiss to your temple, the scent of your shampoo—something floral and clean—overpowering the lingering, metallic memory of the mission he left behind.

You stir against him, a low, sleepy murmur vibrating through his skin as you nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, seeking out his heat.

"Five more minutes," you mutter, the words muffled and thick with sleep, your fingers curling blindly into the hair at the base of his neck. 

Leon huffs a quiet, breathy laugh, his chest vibrating against yours. He reaches up, his thumb tracing the soft curve of your cheekbone, his touch light and reverent as if he’s still half-convinced you might vanish if he applies too much pressure.

When your eyes finally flutter open, blinking against the morning sun, you offer him a lopsided, tired smile that hits him harder than a flashbang. 

"Morning," you croak, your voice a beautiful, grainy mess. 

Leon’s thumb continues its slow, rhythmic path across your skin, his blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that usually unnerves people, but here, it’s just full of a quiet, terrifying devotion. 

"Morning," he replies, leaning down to catch your lips in a soft, slow kiss that tastes of sleep and shared history. He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. 

"I talked to Hunnigan yesterday. Or well, I told her I’m taking some time off. Mandatory 'me' time. Although I suspect she’ll just call it 'extravagant slacking' on my next performance review."

He watches the way your eyes light up, the sleepiness replaced by a genuine, sharp spark of surprise. 

"You? Taking time off?" you tease, your hand sliding up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over his stubble. "Is the world not ending? Did someone forget to tell the BOWs to take a vacation?" 

Leon smiles, a real one that actually reaches his eyes, making the fine lines at the corners crinkle. 

"Let 'em have a few days. I figured we could do something radical. Like eat breakfast at a normal hour or watch a movie that doesn't involve a tactical breakdown of their escape routes. Maybe even leave the house without a sidearm, though let’s not get crazy."

You laugh, the sound a bright, grounding melody in the quiet room, and nuzzle closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist as if you’re trying to fuse your skeletons together. 

Leon closes his eyes, wrapping his own arms around you completely, tucking your head under his chin. 

For the first time in more years than he cares to count, the constant, low-level hum of adrenaline in his veins has gone silent. He isn't the hero, he isn't the agent, and he isn't the survivor. 

He’s just a man in a sun-drenched bedroom, finally feeling a sense of peace that he’s realized is far more addictive than the rush of a mission. 

He holds you tighter, breathing you in, and decides that whatever the world throws at him next, it’s going to have to wait. He's busy.

──────•✦•──────

Soon enough, Leon feels the familiar, restless itch beginning to prickle at the back of his neck. It’s a phantom sensation, the biological byproduct of a life lived waiting for the other shoe—or a mutated bio-weapon—to drop. 

He looks at you, still tucked securely against his side, and the sheer, terrifying domesticity of the moment makes his chest tighten with a sudden, sharp anxiety. 

He’s spent three decades as a professional ghost, a man whose only permanent address was a series of interchangeable safehouses and whose only long-term commitment was to a handgun. 

The idea that he can just have this—this quiet, this warmth, this person who smells like expensive soap and hasn't once asked him for a sitrep—feels like a trap he hasn't spotted yet. 

He clears his throat, the sound rough and awkward in the silent room, and his fingers stop their rhythmic stroking of your hair.

"I can't exactly give you a 'white picket fence' life," he starts, the words feeling heavy and clumsy in his mouth. 

He avoids your eyes for a second, staring instead at the way the light catches a scar on his own forearm. 

"I love you. I think you know that by now. But I’m not exactly a 'dinner's on the table at six' kind of guy. My lifestyle... my career... it’s a lot to ask of anyone. If it’s ever too much, if the silence or the 'classified' bullshit becomes a burden you didn't sign up for... I’d understand if you needed to walk." 

He feels like a teenager again, stumbling over a confession he’s practiced in his head a thousand times, his inner monologue dryly noting that for a top-tier federal agent, he’s remarkably bad at basic human communication. 

Great, Kennedy. Real smooth. Why don't you offer her a tactical exit strategy while you're at it?

You shift against him, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him with an expression that suggests you think he’s officially lost his mind. There’s a flicker of that sharp, surgeon’s focus in your eyes, the kind that usually precedes a very blunt anatomical correction.

"Leon, I'm a big girl. I went through med school and residency; I’m not exactly known for being slow on the uptake," you say, your voice dry and peppered with that familiar, comforting sarcasm. 

"I accepted a long time ago that I’m going to go slightly insane every time you’re gone. I also figured out that 'classified' is just your go-to excuse whenever you don't want to tell me something embarrassing. I’m not stupid."

Leon huffs a quiet, surprised laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction, but he sobers up almost instantly. The humor is a nice shield, but the reality of his world is a different beast entirely. 

"It’s not just the stories," he says, his voice dropping to a low, somber register. He reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a desperate kind of reverence. 

"If someone—the wrong kind of people—ever learned about you... you could be in danger. Real danger. They wouldn't just kill you; they’d use you to get to me. I’ve seen it happen. I don't think I could survive being the reason you ended up on an operating table." 

It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting he’s terrified, his mind flashing briefly to the ghosts of Raccoon City and the faces of those he couldn't pull out of the fire.

You don't even blink. Instead, you let out a huff that’s almost a laugh and lean back into the pillows, looking entirely unimpressed by his grim prognosis.

"Leon, relax. Honestly, if you've ever watched even ten minutes of Grey’s Anatomy, you’d know that a hospital is statistically the most dangerous place on the planet. I’ve survived the cafeteria meatloaf. I think I can handle a few 'shadowy figures' if they ever show up." 

You reach out, poking him lightly in the chest right over his heart. 

"You can't spend your entire life worrying about what may or may not happen ten years down the line. That’s a terrible way to live, even for a professional brooder like you."

He looks at you, and for a moment, the DSO agent disappears, replaced by a man who is simply, profoundly tired of being alone. 

"I just... I can't let you go," he whispers, the admission feeling like a surrender. "I tried to be the noble one. I tried to stay away. It didn't work."

You sigh, a soft, exasperated sound, and pull him back down until his face is inches from yours. "Then don't. Just for once, Leon, let yourself have something nice without wondering when it’s going to blow up in your face."

Leon chuckles, a genuine, self-deprecating sound that finally breaks the last of his restless anxiety. 

"To be fair," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours, "things around me do tend to blow up. Usually with a lot of C4 and very little warning."

"I'll take my chances, you miserable bastard. I love you," you mutter, though the insult is wrapped in so much affection it feels like a caress.

"I love you too," he replies, the words no longer feeling like a liability. 

He kisses you then, a slow, gentle pressure that isn't about desperation or survival, but about the quiet, incredible fact that for the first time in his life, he has a reason to actually come home. 

The world is still dangerous, the mission will eventually call, and the shadows aren't going anywhere—but as he pulls you closer, Leon decides that for today, the only thing he’s going to investigate is how long he can stay exactly where he is.

Taglist: @s8cksxd @echo9821 @xiushiipuff @sassyandclassyx @pillkits @shuuberry @kiramikuu @purplemilkvibe @lerenoir @kneelforloki @anothergojostan @pompeygirl89 @tiredslepz @vodkanoredbull @ynackerman9499 @princeintheshadow @macklinsillybrini @analovesmarvel @kaitieskidmore97 @sharkalina666 @berrooos2 @charlotte-26s-blog @typical-ukraine @winterassasin1804 @ch3rrygirl3 @racoonnoir @superunkn0wn @avengersgirllorianna  @deo-data @littlewollff @finns-drafts @tastelessforestdragon @islandprincess

[snowpiercer21]

Ommmmmggggggg this was amazing @littledisasters we have all been waiting for this and it was done so well , so thought out i felt myself checking everyday for this chapter. Bravo!

[littledisasters]

SWAN SONG | CHAPTER 10

✦Series Masterlist ✦AO3 ✦Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x doctor!reader ✦Summary: Statistically speaking, a plastic surgeon is not the most useful doctor during a zombie outbreak. Unless the zombies need a face lift.  Unfortunately, a bioterror attack hits your hospital anyway. Now you’re stuck surviving a viral outbreak with a tired government agent who keeps getting injured and showing up at your apartment like a very dangerous stray cat. ✦Content: 18+, Canon typical violence, eventual smut, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, PTSD, trauma recovery, fluff, angst, emotional intimacy, romantic tension, strangers to friends to lovers, domestic, nightmares DM or comment for the taglist

AN: awww guys I'm so emotional the story is almost over. I'll probably post the rest this weekend, as I still have a bunch of proofreading to do

The jungle goes quiet in the worst way—like something has inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

Leon notices it before the first shot ever lands. Years of instinct have trained him to recognize the absence of noise as its own kind of warning. No insects. No birds. No distant machinery from the supposed “research outpost” they were sent to extract a scientist from.

Too clean.

Too staged.

“Hey,” he mutters into his comm, voice low, controlled. “Anyone else getting that ‘we walked into a horror movie’ feeling?”

Static answers him.

Then—

Gunfire cracks through the trees, sharp and immediate, tearing through the humidity. Bark explodes inches from his head as he drops, rolling behind a thick root system, boots digging into wet soil that smells like rot and iron.

“Yeah,” he breathes, already moving, “that tracks.”

The intel was wrong. Not just wrong—weaponized.

He peeks over cover, eyes tracking movement through the foliage. Not militia. Too coordinated. Too quiet. And then he sees it—

One of them moves wrong.

Fast, but not human-fast. The kind of twitchy, jagged motion that sets every alarm bell in his body screaming.

“Of course it’s bioweapons,” he mutters under his breath, already reaching for a grenade. “Why wouldn’t it be bioweapons?”

He moves before the second wave hits, because standing still gets you killed. The world compresses into angles and timing—snap of gunfire, recoil, the metallic taste of adrenaline crawling up the back of his throat. He drops one, pivots, knife flashing in his hand as something lunges too close—

Too strong.

The impact slams him backward into a concrete wall hidden beneath creeping vines. His shoulder screams, but he doesn’t have the luxury of diagnosing it. The creature—humanoid, barely—lets out a distorted, choking sound as it claws for his throat.

“Yeah, no,” Leon grits out, jamming the knife upward under its jaw and firing point-blank.

The body goes slack.

He shoves it off, breathing hard, ears ringing now—not just from gunfire, but from the creeping realization settling into his bones.

Trap.

Extraction was never the mission.

He scrambles for his comm again. “Command, this is Kennedy. We’ve got advanced B.O.W. presence, repeat—this is not a simple extraction—”

A deafening explosion cuts him off.

The ground disappears.

For a split second, there’s nothing—no up, no down—just the violent sensation of being thrown, his body weightless before gravity remembers him all at once.

Then everything collapses.

Concrete. Steel. Heat. Sound.

Pain.

──────•✦•──────

When he wakes up, it’s dark.

Pitch-black.

Leon inhales sharply and regrets it immediately. His ribs protest, sharp and deep, like something cracked or bruised too close to vital. Dust coats the back of his throat, dry and choking. The air is thick, unmoving, pressing in on him from all sides.

“…great,” he rasps.

His voice sounds small here. That’s never a good sign.

He tries to move and something shifts above him—a groan of unstable debris that freezes him instantly.

Okay. Assessment.

He’s pinned. Not fully crushed, but trapped. One arm free. One leg—he tests it carefully—responsive, but not without pain. Head intact, mostly. Bleeding—yeah, definitely bleeding. He can feel it now, warm and slow along his side.

“Been worse,” he mutters.

For a moment, he just lies there, breathing shallow, controlled, forcing himself to stay calm. Panic wastes oxygen. Panic gets you buried for real.

His hand fumbles for his flashlight. Dead.

“Of course you are,” he sighs.

Silence settles again. Heavy. Suffocating.

And in that silence, with nothing to shoot at, nothing to fix, nothing to do—

His mind betrays him. It goes to you.Not gradually. Just—

You.

Your apartment. The soft hum of your fridge in the middle of the night. The way you stand at your kitchen counter, half-awake, making coffee like it’s a ritual instead of a necessity. The way your hand rests on his shoulder sometimes without thinking—like it belongs there.

The way you look at him. Like he’s something worth coming home to.

Leon squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” he murmurs into the dark, voice rough. “Now you wanna think about that.”

Because here’s the problem. Here’s the really, really stupid part. He never said it.

Not once.

Not when you fell asleep on his chest. Not when you traced the scar along his ribs like you were cataloging damage you intended to fix. Not when he stood in your doorway after a mission, just… looking at you like an idiot because he didn’t know how to say it without breaking something.

I love you.

Simple. Three words. Apparently impossible.

“Good job, Kennedy,” he mutters, a humorless breath leaving him. 

The darkness presses closer. His chest tightens—not from injury this time, but something sharper. Colder. Because if this is it—

If this is where it ends—

You’ll never know.

And that thought? That does something more than fear. It focuses him. Sharply. Violently.

“No,” he says, more firmly now, voice low but steady. “No, we’re not doing that.”

His hand presses against the rubble pinning him, testing weight, angles, pressure points. Pain flares instantly, white-hot, but he leans into it instead of away.

You’re in D.C. right now, probably finishing a shift, complaining about someone incompetent in the OR, rolling your eyes in that way that means you care more than you admit.

You’re real. You’re alive. And he is not dying in a hole halfway across the world without telling you—

He exhales slowly.

“Get back,” he mutters. “That’s the plan.”

It’s not heroic, or poetic. It’s  the only thing that matters.

He shifts again, ignoring the way his vision swims, bracing his good arm against a fractured beam. The debris groans, threatening to collapse further, dust raining down into his face.

He pushes. Nothing. Again. Pain spikes harder this time, his arm trembling under the strain.

“Come on,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

He thinks of your voice. The dry, unimpressed way you’d look at him right now.

“You’re really going to die because you didn’t think this through?”

That almost makes him laugh.

“Okay, fair,” he mutters. “That does sound like me.”

He adjusts his angle. Smaller movement. Better leverage. Push. Something shifts. Not much—but enough.

Hope is a dangerous thing. He grabs onto it anyway.

“Yeah,” he breathes, more to himself than anything else. “That’s it.”

Again.

The beam lifts just enough for him to drag his leg free, biting back a sharp curse as pain lances through it. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think about what might still collapse on top of him.

Because now there’s an exit. Somewhere. There has to be. And he is getting out.

He claws forward through the dark, through dust and debris and the metallic smell of his own blood, each movement slow and deliberate and fueled by something far more dangerous than survival instinct.

Determination. Singular. Absolute. Get back to you. That’s it. That’s everything. And somewhere above him, faint but real—

Light.

──────•✦•──────

Leon doesn’t remember the exact moment he breaks through to open air—only the feeling of it.

The pressure changes first.

The suffocating weight of dust and concrete gives way to humidity, thick and wet against his skin, dragging real air back into his lungs like something he has to relearn. He stumbles forward out of the collapsed structure, boots slipping in mud and debris, one hand braced against a cracked wall that threatens to give out behind him. 

For a second, he just stands there, bent slightly at the waist, dragging in slow, controlled breaths like he’s convincing his body it’s allowed to keep going. 

“Okay,” he mutters hoarsely, wiping grime and blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Step one: not dead. Strong start.”

The jungle has come back to life, but wrong. The sounds are there again—distant insects, something rustling too fast through the undergrowth—but it all feels sharper now, like the world has teeth again and is waiting for him to slip.

His comm crackles weakly.

“…Kennedy—status—”

He freezes for half a second, then yanks it closer to his mouth. “Yeah, still annoyingly alive,” he answers, voice rough but steady. “Extraction still on the table, or did you guys write me off already?”

There’s a pause, static hissing, and then—relief bleeding through the operator’s voice. “Copy that. LZ is hot but secure. You need to move, agent. We’ve got limited window.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, pushing himself upright despite the protest in his ribs. “Story of my life.”

Move. Right. That’s the problem.

Because now that the adrenaline has dipped just enough to let reality catch up, every injury announces itself at once. His side burns where blood has soaked through his gear. His head—

Yeah. His head is not great.

“Cool,” he mutters under his breath. 

But there’s no hesitation. There never is. He starts moving.

The jungle fights him for every step, thick undergrowth snagging at his boots, branches clawing at his arms like they’ve got opinions about him leaving. The air is heavy, damp enough that every breath feels like dragging water into his lungs. His vision blurs at the edges once, twice, but he blinks it back, jaw tightening.

Not here. Not now.

“Just a walk in the park,” he mutters, pushing through another wall of foliage. “Little cardio. Doctor’s orders.”

Your voice slips into his head uninvited. You don’t do cardio, you get shot at.

“Yeah,” he exhales, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Same thing.”

Gunfire erupts somewhere off to his left—distant, controlled bursts. Friendly. Probably.Or at least not immediately his problem.

He angles toward it anyway, instincts guiding him more than conscious thought now. His body knows the rhythm of extraction zones, the pattern of movement, the subtle cues that mean safety is close enough to reach if he doesn’t screw it up.

A shape crashes through the underbrush ahead of him. Leon’s gun is up before his brain fully processes it.

Not human. Not entirely.

“Of course,” he breathes, already moving.

The thing lunges, faster than it should, limbs jerking in that unnatural, puppet-like way that makes his skin crawl. He fires once—twice—adjusts for the way it keeps coming anyway, and then sidesteps just enough to drive his shoulder into it, sending both of them crashing into the dirt.

Pain detonates through his side. He ignores it.

“Stay down,” he grits out, finishing it with a final shot, chest heaving as silence slams back into place around him.

For a second, he just kneels there, breathing hard, gun still raised even though there’s nothing left moving.

Then—

Rotor blades. Distant at first. Then louder. Real.

Leon lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Oh, thank God.”

He pushes himself up again, every movement slower now, heavier, but there’s something driving him forward that has nothing to do with training anymore.

You. It’s always you.

The clearing opens up ahead, carved brutally into the jungle, dirt churned into mud by the downdraft of the helicopter hovering just above the ground. Floodlights cut through the haze, harsh and blinding after hours in the dark, silhouetting figures moving with practiced urgency.

One of them spots him.

“Contact front—Kennedy!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Leon calls back, lifting a hand in something that might be a wave if it weren’t so uncoordinated. “Miss me?”

They rush him the last few steps, grabbing his arm before he can pretend he doesn’t need the help. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t have the energy to.

The moment his boots hit the ramp of the chopper, the world tilts slightly sideways.

“Easy,” a medic’s voice cuts in, firm but not panicked. “Sit him down.”

Leon drops onto the metal bench with a grunt, elbows braced on his knees as he leans forward, catching his breath. The inside of the helicopter smells like fuel and antiseptic, loud and alive in a way that feels almost surreal after the silence he clawed his way out of.

“Man,” he exhales, dragging a hand through his dust-caked hair. “You guys really know how to roll out the red carpet.”

The medic snorts faintly, already running quick, efficient hands over him. “Hold still.”

There’s a brief pause as the medic assesses, fingers pressing along his ribs, checking his pupils with a small penlight.

Leon squints. “You trying to blind me or is that just a bonus feature?”

“Probable concussion,” the medic says, ignoring him with the ease of someone used to this exact brand of commentary. “Couple lacerations, bruising, subluxed shoulder. Nothing critical.”

Leon blinks at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall of the chopper, head tipping slightly as the tension bleeds out of him in uneven waves.

“Huh,” he murmurs. “I was expecting at least a dramatic diagnosis. Internal bleeding, tragic backstory, something.”

“You want me to find something worse?” the medic shoots back dryly.

“No, no,” Leon lifts a hand weakly. “Let’s not get ambitious.”

The chopper lifts, the ground dropping away beneath them, jungle shrinking into a dark, endless sprawl of green. The vibration settles into his bones, steady and grounding, a stark contrast to the chaos he just crawled out of.

For the first time since the explosion—

He’s still.

And his mind… Goes right back to you. Of course it does.

He stares at nothing in particular, eyes half-lidded as the noise of the rotors fades into the background, replaced by quieter things. Smaller things.

You standing barefoot in your kitchen, stealing the first sip of coffee before it’s even finished brewing.  

The way you sit cross-legged on the couch, completely absorbed in something, brow furrowed in concentration like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

The way you patch him up without making a big deal out of it, your hands steady and warm and familiar, like this—like him—is just another thing you know how to fix.

“Yeah,” he breathes quietly, almost to himself.

Because it’s not the big moments. It never was.

It’s the way you roll your eyes at him when he makes a terrible joke but still smile a second later. It’s the way you let him stay without asking questions he doesn’t know how to answer. It’s the way you look at him like he’s—

Worth something.

Leon huffs a quiet, tired laugh, dragging a hand over his face. “Man,” he mutters under his breath. “You really picked a great time to figure that out.”

Because now there’s no ignoring it. No pushing it off to later.

Later almost didn’t happen.

He shifts slightly, wincing as his ribs remind him they exist, but he barely registers it. His thoughts are somewhere else entirely now, circling the same problem from every angle like it’s a tactical situation he can plan his way through.

How the hell does he say it?

It shouldn’t be complicated. Three words. He’s faced down worse things than this. Significantly worse. And yet—

“Hey,” he mutters quietly, testing it under his breath, like he’s rehearsing for something he’s not sure he’s allowed to have. “I, uh—”

He stops. Grimaces.

“Wow,” he breathes, shaking his head faintly. “That was bad.”

The medic glances over. “You talking to me?”

Leon exhales, leaning his head back against the metal wall. “No. Practicing not sounding like an idiot.”

“…Good luck with that.”

“Yeah,” Leon sighs. “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

He closes his eyes for a second, letting the steady rhythm of the helicopter settle him, but the thought won’t go away.

You. Always you.

The idea of standing in your doorway again, seeing you look at him the way you do—

And saying nothing.

Again.

His jaw tightens.

“No,” he murmurs, quieter now, more certain.

Not this time.

He opens his eyes, staring out at the horizon as it stretches endlessly ahead of them, something steady and unshakable settling into his chest despite the exhaustion, despite the ache, despite everything.

He made it out. He’s going back. And when he sees you—

He’s not leaving those words unsaid again.

──────•✦•──────

It’s raining.

Not the polite kind of rain that taps gently against the window. This is the ugly, aggressive kind—the kind that slants sideways under the streetlights and rattles against the glass like it has a personal vendetta against the city.

You’re halfway through making tea when the knock comes.

Three sharp raps against the door.

You pause, kettle in hand.

For a split second your brain runs through the usual possibilities. Neighbor. Delivery. Some poor idiot who confused your apartment with the one downstairs.

Then the knock comes again—harder this time.

You set the kettle down slowly. You open the door.

And Leon is standing there.

For half a heartbeat your brain does something deeply unhelpful, like freeze-frame the image: him in the dim hallway light, soaked through to the bone, his jacket dark with rain, water dripping from the ends of his hair and down the sharp line of his jaw.

Then he moves.

He steps forward so fast you barely have time to process it before his arms wrap around you.

Hard.

Not the casual half-hug he sometimes gives you when he shows up after a long day. Not the quiet, steady kind that says I’m here.

This is different. This is desperate.

The door thuds shut behind him as he pulls you flush against his chest. For a moment you’re too startled to react.

Leon Kennedy does not do desperate. Leon Kennedy does controlled, mildly exhausted, and occasionally sarcastic.

He does not do this.

His arms tighten around you, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to anchor himself to something solid.

And then you feel it.

He’s shaking.

Not subtle either. His whole body trembles in quick, tight bursts, like adrenaline hasn’t quite finished burning through his system yet.

Your brain flips instantly into clinical mode. You tilt your head slightly, voice calm.

“Are you hurt?”

No response. Instead he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, uneven.

For a second you just stand there, feeling the weight of him against you, the rain soaking into your shoulder where his jacket presses against it.

You slide one hand up his back slowly. He’s solid muscle under the damp fabric, tense like guitar strings.

“Leon,” you murmur, quieter now. “Did you get shot?”

He huffs something that might be a laugh.

“No.”

Your other hand comes up automatically, resting against the back of his head. His hair is damp and cold under your fingers. You brush it back slightly, smoothing it away from his forehead.

“Stabbed?”

“No.”

“Exploded?”

“…Not directly.”

You sigh.

“Fantastic. That really narrows it down.”

For a long moment he doesn’t say anything. He just stays there, face tucked against your neck like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

Then his voice comes out low and rough.

“I just needed to make sure you were okay.”

You blink. That was… not the answer you were expecting. Your brain runs through that sentence again like it’s looking for the hidden clause.

You tilt your head slightly.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He exhales slowly, the breath brushing your collarbone.

“I just needed to see you.”

Well. That does something unpleasantly warm to your chest. Which is frankly rude, because you were planning on maintaining your usual professional emotional detachment tonight.

You rest your chin lightly against the top of his head.

Internally, you’re already running a quiet checklist. He’s soaked. He’s shaking. His breathing is uneven. Pupils probably dilated if you could see them properly.

Translation: adrenaline crash. Or panic. Or both.

Given Leon’s job description, it could honestly be either.

You slide your hand down his back gently.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Well. Congratulations. I am alive and mostly intact.”

He doesn’t move. You shift slightly, nudging him back a step.

“Leon.”

Reluctantly, he lifts his head. His eyes are darker than usual in the low light, exhaustion carved into the lines around them.

You take a second to study his face. No major visible injuries. No blood. No swelling.

Good.

Your hand lifts automatically, brushing the damp hair away from his forehead again.

“You look like hell,” you tell him gently.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’s still holding you. Both hands planted firmly on your waist now, like if he lets go you might evaporate into thin air.

You raise an eyebrow.

“You planning on letting go at some point or are we committing to this as a lifestyle?”

Something faintly amused flickers across his face. But his hands don’t move.

“…Not yet.”

You study him for another second. Then you sigh quietly.

“Alright.”

You slide one arm around his back, the other resting lightly against his side. His shoulders drop a fraction.

That tiny shift tells you everything.

Whatever happened on that mission—whatever nightmare scenario the DSO threw him into this time—it rattled him harder than usual. Which, considering the man survived Raccoon City, is saying something.

Your fingers trace a slow, absent line along the back of his jacket.

“You want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Another moment passes. Rain continues to hammer against the windows. Finally you nudge him gently.

“Come on.”

He frowns slightly.

“Where?”

“Inside my apartment like a normal human being.”

Reluctantly, his hands loosen. You take his hand lightly and guide him toward the living room. He follows without protest.

Which is mildly concerning. Leon Kennedy usually argues about something. You steer him toward the couch.

“Sit.”

He does. Again. No argument. Your internal alarm bells ring quietly. You step back to look at him properly.

He’s drenched. Rainwater has soaked through his shirt, clinging to the hard lines of muscle across his chest and shoulders.

Your brain immediately decides this is extremely unhelpful information to notice. You ignore it. Mostly.

You reach down and gently push his damp hair back again. His eyes close briefly under your touch. That… does something unpleasantly soft to your chest.

You clear your throat.

“Okay.”

You cross your arms.

“First of all, you’re dripping on my couch.”

“Sorry.”

“Second, you look like you wrestled a hurricane.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“Something like that.”

Your gaze softens a little. Without really thinking about it, your thumb brushes lightly across his temple, pushing another stray lock of hair aside.

His eyes open again, meeting yours. There’s something raw in them. Something you don’t usually see. It makes your chest ache in a way you’re not thrilled about.

So you default to sarcasm.

“Well,” you say gently, “since my living room is not technically a field hospital…”

You nod toward the hallway. “Go take a shower.”

He blinks. “A shower.”

“Yes, Leon. You’re familiar with the concept.”

“I know what a shower is.”

“Good. That saves time.”

You tilt your head toward the bathroom again. 

He hesitates. His hands tighten briefly on your waist again before he seems to realize he’s doing it. You soften your voice.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He studies your face for a moment, like he’s verifying that statement. Then he nods slowly.

“Okay.”

You step back, giving him space. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

He stands reluctantly. Still looking like a man who’s not entirely convinced you won’t vanish the moment he turns his back.

You raise an eyebrow. “Go.”

He exhales softly. “Yes, doctor.”

You watch him disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom. The moment the door closes, the apartment falls quiet again. Only the rain against the windows.

You lean back against the kitchen counter. And let out a slow breath.

Your brain mutters dryly.

Congratulations. You’ve somehow become the emotional support civilian for the most traumatized government agent in North America.

You rub your face. Then you reach for a pan. Because if there’s one universal rule in medicine, trauma, and life in general, it’s this:

People handle the apocalypse a little better when they’ve eaten.

The shower runs for a long time.

You hear it through the thin bathroom wall while you move around your kitchen, the quiet domestic sounds of your apartment filling the space—cutting board, the low hiss of a pan heating on the stove, the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Ordinary sounds. Normal sounds. The kind of sounds that usually feel boring. Tonight they feel… deliberate.

You crack two eggs into the pan and stare absently at them while they cook. Your brain, traitor that it is, keeps drifting back to the way Leon looked standing in your doorway.

Soaked. Shaking. Like a man who had been holding himself together with duct tape and stubbornness for several thousand miles.

You frown slightly, flipping the eggs.

He’s come to you injured before. Bleeding, bruised, stitched up in your bathroom like a particularly dangerous stray animal that keeps wandering back to your porch.

But shaken? That’s new.

Leon Kennedy usually holds himself together with an almost irritating amount of composure. Even when he’s exhausted, even when he’s clearly carrying something ugly behind his eyes, he still moves through the world like he’s the one thing in the room that isn’t going to break.

Tonight he looked like someone had finally managed to crack the armor.

You plate the food automatically. Toast. Eggs. Whatever vegetables were left in your fridge that could reasonably pass for a meal.

Your brain pipes up again. 

Congratulations. You’ve domesticated a government agent.

You set the plate on the counter. The shower shuts off. A few seconds later the bathroom door opens.

You glance up. And—well. Your brain takes a moment to reboot.

His hair is damp, pushed back messily from his face. He looks… human again. Still exhausted. Still a little pale. But human.

You lean your hip against the counter, folding your arms. “Better?”

He nods slightly. “Yeah.”

His voice is rougher than usual, like the steam knocked something loose in his lungs.

You push the plate toward him. “Eat.”

He looks at it, then at you. “You didn’t have to—”

“You’re welcome,” you interrupt calmly.

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He sits down at the counter and starts eating, slower than usual, like his body is still catching up with the fact that it’s allowed to relax.

You watch him for a moment. He finishes about half the plate before he looks up. Your eyes meet. There’s a pause. Then, quietly, he asks,

“Can I stay here tonight?”

The question is soft. Careful. Like he’s bracing for the possibility that you might say no. Your chest tightens a little. Because this isn’t Leon asking for a place to crash at.

This is Leon asking for permission to exist somewhere safe for a few hours.

You don’t make him wait.

“Yeah,” you say simply.

Relief flickers across his face so quickly it almost disappears. He sets the fork down slowly.

“Thanks.”

You shrug. “Don’t get sentimental. You already know where the spare towels are.”

That earns you a small, tired huff of laughter. You push off the counter.

“Come on.”

He stands immediately.

There’s something oddly obedient about the way he follows you down the hallway, like his brain has decided that staying within a three-foot radius of you is currently the safest place on earth.

Your bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft spill of streetlight through the curtains.

You turn back toward him. For a second he just stands there, looking slightly unsure of what to do with himself. Which is frankly bizarre.

Leon Kennedy can infiltrate bioterrorist compounds and fistfight monsters the size of SUVs, but apparently the concept of a bed has him stumped.

You sigh.

“Leon.”

“Yeah?”

“Bed.”

You gesture toward it. He exhales slowly, then nods. You climb onto the mattress first, sliding under the blankets.  He hesitates for exactly half a second before following. The mattress dips under his weight.

For a moment he lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling like someone who isn’t entirely convinced he’s allowed to relax.

Then you reach over, grab the front of his shirt and pull. He doesn’t resist. Not even a little. He rolls toward you easily, his arm coming around your waist automatically as your bodies settle together.

The movement is instinctive. Familiar.

You press closer, your forehead brushing lightly against his collarbone. Leon exhales. A long, slow breath that shudders slightly on the way out. His arms tighten around you.

Like he’s making sure you’re really there.

You slide one hand up his chest, resting it over his heart. It’s beating fast. Still running on the last scraps of adrenaline. Your thumb traces slow circles through the fabric of his shirt. Gradually, you feel his breathing start to slow.

You tilt your head slightly, your lips close to his shoulder.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“You’re here,” you add softly. Your hand presses lightly against his chest. “We’re fine.”

For a long moment neither of you move. The rain continues tapping against the windows. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head.

Then, after a few quiet seconds, he murmurs against your hair,

“…Yeah.”

His hand slides slowly up your back, fingers spreading gently between your shoulder blades. You just let him hold you.

The faint glow of streetlights slips through the curtains in thin bands of gold, stretching across the floor and climbing the edge of the bed.

You tilt your head slightly, studying the faint shadow where his neck meets his shoulder. The dim light catches on the line of his jaw, the curve of his collarbone just visible beneath the collar of his T-shirt

You’re not entirely sure when the two of you ended up this close.

Still.

You shift just enough to press a gentle kiss against his shoulder, right where it meets his neck. The gesture is instinctive, soft. Barely there.

But Leon reacts immediately. His breath catches. Then he exhales a slow, shaky breath that brushes warm across the top of your hair.

Your lips linger there for a moment before you settle back against him. For a few seconds neither of you speaks. Then his hand moves.

His fingers slide lightly into your hair, careful and deliberate, like he’s cataloguing every strand. He tucks one loose piece behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your temple. His calloused thumb settles briefly against your cheekbone. The touch is gentle, almost reverent.

He studies your face in the dim light. And when he finally speaks, his voice is rough.

“I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

You go still. Your brain immediately tries to deflect with sarcasm.

Well obviously you’d spiral into emotional devastation and questionable whiskey purchases.

But the look on his face stops the joke before it leaves your mouth. There’s nothing casual about it. No teasing. No careful emotional distance.

Just honest, unfiltered fear. Which is… deeply inconvenient for your usual coping strategies.

You sigh quietly. Your hand slides up from his chest, fingers brushing lightly along his jaw.

“You’d probably be very annoyed,” you say gently.

He huffs a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh. “Annoyed.”

“Yeah.”

Your thumb traces the edge of his stubble. “Government paperwork alone would be a nightmare.”

His eyes soften. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m a doctor,” you reply mildly. “Clinical detachment is a professional skill.”

He watches you for another moment. Your sarcasm doesn’t quite land the way it usually does. Because you can still see it in his expression. That lingering fear.

The kind that only shows up after someone has spent too many hours staring death in the face.

You shift closer to him. Just enough that your foreheads nearly touch. Your voice softens.

“Hey.”

His eyes flicker back to yours.

“I’m not exactly running tactical raids in Eastern Europe,” you point out.

“That doesn’t mean the world can’t still take you.”

The words come out low. Quiet. You study him for a moment. Your fingers slide up into his hair, brushing it back gently from his forehead.

“You’re catastrophizing,” you tell him softly.

“Occupational hazard.”

“That’s fair.”

Your hand drifts down to rest against the back of his neck. Warm skin under your palm. You tilt your head slightly, your voice dropping just a little.

“Leon.”

“Yeah?”

“I survived a bioterror attack inside a hospital.I'm not that fragile,” you remind him.

His mouth twitches faintly. “You also collapsed in the lobby.”

“Not my best moment,” you wince slightly.

“That’s one way to describe it.”

You brush your thumb along the edge of his jaw again.

“Point is,” you continue quietly, “I’m still here.”

His gaze lingers on your face. You can see the moment the words settle somewhere inside him. Your forehead rests lightly against his.

“You’re here,” you add.

His arms tighten slightly around you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

For a moment the two of you just breathe together. The room is warm. The rain outside has softened to a distant hush.

Your thumb traces slow, absent patterns along the back of his neck. Then your inner voice—incapable of leaving emotional moments alone—pipes up again.

Well. You’ve reached the stage of the relationship where the emotionally unavailable government agent admits he’d be devastated if you died.

You exhale quietly through your nose.

Leon is still half-convinced this is a hallucination.

Not the bed. Not the apartment. Not even the quiet rain tapping softly against the windows like it’s trying very politely not to intrude.

You.

You’re real—he knows that. He can feel the weight of you against him, the warmth, the steady rise and fall of your breathing. But his brain, still somewhere under rubble and blood and the suffocating dark from a few hours ago, keeps trying to file this under too good to be true.

Which, historically, is never a great category to be in.

He’s lying on his side, one arm wrapped around you. His body aches in that familiar, bone-deep way—bruises, scrapes, the lingering pull of injuries he’s already half ignoring. But none of that registers as strongly as the fact that you’re here.

Alive.

Unhurt.

Close enough that he can count your eyelashes if he wanted to.

He doesn’t. That feels like crossing into unsettling territory. He has some standards.

Your hand is resting lightly against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you’re making sure he’s still there too.

Fair. He almost wasn’t.

The thought hits sharper than anything else. He swallows it down.

Then you move.

It’s small. Subtle. Just a shift closer, your face tilting toward his, your gaze flicking up to his mouth like you’re thinking—considering—and Leon’s brain immediately panics.

Oh.

Oh no.

This is—this is happening.

His first instinct is to freeze. Which is deeply unhelpful for a man who has fought literal bioweapons but is now being taken out by proximity and emotional vulnerability.

You lean in before he can overthink it—before you can overthink it—and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Not demanding. Just… there.

And Leon—

Leon stops.

For a fraction of a second, everything in him locks up. Not because he doesn’t want it. That’s not even remotely the problem.

The problem is that he wants it too much.

The problem is that his brain immediately flashes to a dozen worst-case scenarios—this goes wrong, he ruins it, you pull away, this fragile, carefully balanced thing between you shatters because he misreads one moment—

The problem is that the last time he thought I should say something, he was pinned under concrete, and pretty sure he was going to die with your name sitting uselessly in his throat.

So yeah. Little bit of pressure. No big deal.

His hand moves before he can talk himself out of it. Slides up your back, fingers spreading, pulling you closer—not forceful, just… certain. Like he needs to close whatever microscopic distance is left between you.

His forehead drops against yours automatically, muscle memory he didn’t know he had until now.

Your breath is warm against his lips. He exhales. It comes out unsteady. He hates that you can probably feel that. You don’t comment on it. Of course you don’t.

Instead, your hand shifts—settling over his where it rests against your side—and then your fingers lace through his.

Gentle. Deliberate. You squeeze once.

“It’s okay,” you murmur softly. “I’m here.”

Leon’s chest tightens so fast it almost knocks the air out of him. Yeah. He’s going to need a minute with that one.

His eyes flick over your face like he’s conducting an assessment—habit, instinct, something ingrained so deeply he doesn’t even think about it anymore. He checks for things he knows aren’t there. Injuries. Fatigue. Something wrong.

You look… tired, maybe. But you look real. Alive.

And the words I almost didn’t make it back to you sit right behind his teeth, heavy and sharp and completely useless.

Because you’re here. Because he is.

Because somehow, against all statistical probability and a truly unreasonable number of poor life choices, he made it back.

And now—

Now he has to decide if he’s going to do the thing he’s been avoiding for months.

He hesitates. Of course he does.

Leon Kennedy, professional idiot, veteran of multiple global biohazards, suddenly unsure how to handle talking.

Great.

His gaze flicks to your mouth again. You’re still close. Still here. Still not pulling away. And the thought hits him—clear, sharp, unavoidable: 

If you don’t do it now, you might never get another chance.

He’s had that thought before. It didn’t end well.

So he moves. He leans up and kisses you. Properly. And the second his lips touch yours, something in him just— 

Goes. Like a dam finally cracking after being held together by duct tape and sheer stubbornness.

The kiss is not smooth. Not anything he’d even remotely describe as cool. It’s urgent. A little desperate.

All the things he doesn’t say packed into one moment because apparently that’s his preferred communication style now.

Your response is immediate.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, and something in his chest loosens at that—something tight and ugly that’s been sitting there since the mission.

His hand tightens at your waist, reminding himself of the fact that this is real, that you’re not going anywhere, that he’s not imagining this because of blood loss or a concussion or—

Yeah. Okay. Stop.

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging him closer, and that—

That almost does him in. He exhales into the kiss, a quiet, broken sound he’s not even going to acknowledge.

It’s not anything like the version of himself he presents to literally everyone else. It’s raw. Messy. Honest in a way that makes him feel like he’s standing in the open without armor.

And somehow, you don’t flinch.

You shift over him, moving without hesitation, and suddenly you’re in his lap, the mattress dipping under the change in weight, the blankets tangling around your legs.

Leon’s hands land on your hips like it’s instinct. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he hasn’t been carefully not doing this for months.

Still here.

Still here.

Still here.

Your fingers brush through his hair again, pushing it back from his forehead, and he leans into it without meaning to—automatic, reflexive, like his body knows before he does.

You kiss him like you mean it. Like you were just as scared. That thought lands heavier than anything else.

His grip tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to… keep you.

Your breathing stutters when you finally pull back, just enough for air, your forehead pressing against his again. Your noses brush. Everything slows.

Too fast. This is moving too fast.

He should say something. Something normal. Instead, his brain comes up empty.

Great.

“We’re okay,” you whisper.

Your voice is softer than he’s used to. Less bite, less edge. It does something weird to his chest.

He stares at you. And there it is.

The problem.

The thing that’s been sitting in his throat since he clawed his way out from under that rubble, coughing up dust and one very specific, very inconvenient realization.

He almost didn’t make it back. And if he hadn’t—

You wouldn’t know. You’d just… wait. Or worse, get a call.

God. His stomach twists.

Say it.

Now.

His brain immediately counters: absolutely not. Terrible idea. 

He’s not good at this. He knows that. He can improvise under fire, disarm explosives, navigate political minefields with a half-decent poker face.

This?

This is worse. Because this matters. Because you matter. And because if he screws this up—

He swallows. His chest feels tight again, but not from injury this time. From pressure. From the very real, very immediate understanding that if he doesn’t say it now, he might not get another chance.

He’s had enough of those. Enough things left unsaid. Enough ghosts.

His hand comes up, almost hesitant, settling at the back of your neck. Thumb brushing along your jaw like he’s grounding himself.

“You’re…” he starts, then stops.

Smooth, Kennedy. Real smooth.

He huffs out a quiet, almost self-deprecating breath.

“Hang on,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I’m—this isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

Understatement of the century.

He looks at you again. And yeah. That’s it. That’s the thing he dragged himself out of hell for.

His voice, when it comes out this time, is rough. Unpolished. No clever line to cushion it.

“I thought—” He stops again, jaw tightening briefly. “Back there… I thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

There it is. Start with the obvious. Ease into it.

You don’t interrupt. Of course you don’t. You just watch him, steady, patient. That almost makes it worse.

“I kept thinking—” he continues, quieter now, “you wouldn’t know. And that…” He shakes his head once, frustrated. “That didn’t sit right.”

That’s one way to put it. He exhales, sharper this time.

“Point is,” he says, a little too blunt, because subtlety is officially off the table, “I don’t want to not say it.”

A beat. Then—

“I love you.”

It comes out rough. Not pretty. Not practiced. But it’s real.

And for a split second after, he just… waits.

Which is deeply unfair, considering he’s faced down literal monsters with less hesitation than this. Now he’s bracing like you might hit him. Emotionally. Probably.

He’d take a B.O.W. over this, frankly. At least those follow predictable patterns.

Your hand comes up, fingers sliding along his jaw, steadying, grounding. Here it comes. You study him—too closely—and he resists the urge to look away. Barely. Stay put. Take the hit.

Instead—

“I love you too.”

Oh.

Oh.

That—

That was not the worst-case scenario.

Something in his chest cracks open so fast it almost hurts. Relief hits him like a physical thing, sharp and immediate, knocking the breath out of him in a completely different way than before.

He exhales, a shaky, quiet thing, and then his hands are moving again, sliding up your back, pulling you closer like he needs to make absolutely sure you’re not about to disappear.

“Yeah?” he manages, a little quieter now, a little disbelieving despite himself.

Smooth. Again.

You don’t seem to mind. Of course you don’t. You huff a quiet breath, almost amused, your nose nudging his.

“Yeah, Leon.”

“Good,” he says, because apparently that’s the best he can do.

Smooth. Really nailing this.

You smile—soft, fond—and then you kiss him again.

The panic’s gone. Replaced by something steadier. Something… solid.

Your fingers move through his hair again, and yeah—he’s definitely never going to admit how much that affects him.

Ever.

The storm outside has softened to a quiet drizzle, faint against the windows, but inside—

It’s warm. Still. Safe.

Eventually, the kiss eases, both of you breathing unevenly, your forehead settling against his again. His arms wrap around you, holding you close—not like he’s afraid anymore.

Just… because he can. Because you’re here. Because he is too.

You lean down, pressing a soft kiss beneath his jaw, and he lets out a quiet hum despite himself.

“See?” you murmur.

He huffs softly, one eyebrow twitching. “See what?”

Your lips brush his skin again. “You survived.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Barely,” he mutters.

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyebrow lifting in that familiar way.

“Please,” you say dryly. “You’ve survived worse.”

He studies you for a second.

Yeah. Probably. But—

His hand shifts, thumb brushing along your jaw again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

Then, quieter—

“But this is the part that matters.”

And for once, his brain doesn’t have a sarcastic follow-up. Just that steady, unfamiliar warmth settling in his chest.

Yeah.

This.

This is what he fought for.

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[snowpiercer21]

You don't understand the joy I feel @littledisasters this..this..I have never hung onto such a storyline like this one. This was a slllllooooowwwww burn girl. I can't wait, need more.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Captivity: Need

Warning: kidnap, houselessness, allusions to abuse/trauma, isolation, noncon/dubcon….

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Leon S(exy) Kennedy

Note: I don’t usually write for video games but here we go.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

After you clean up, you wash your hands at the sink. Leon’s low groans rumble from the other side of the wall. You dry off and go to the bed. Not his, yours. Or… the one he’s allowed you. You have to remind yourself that it’s all still his. It’s all just his generosity and that’s never endless.

You pick up the mp3 player and plug it in. Then you straighten out the blankets and fluff the pillow. You sit down and stretch your neck. You grab the book but don’t open it as your name breaks the silence.

“Is it the light? I can turn it off,” you say as you put the book back.

“What are you doing over there?” Leon asks.

You hesitate and drag your hand away from the night table. You crane to look at his shadow in the bigger bed on the other side of the barrier. “This is where… I… I don’t know.”

“There’s a lamp over her.” He says. “It doesn’t bother me.”

You nod and face forward again. Tension crawls across your shoulders and up your spine. You know he’s in no shape to make you do anything. That you don’t have to do what he says. But when he recovers, he won’t forget.

You grab the book and get up. You shut off the lamp and make your way to the door. You slow as you pass through, waiting for him to change his mind. ‘Go back, shut the door’. He doesn’t.

You near his bed and feel around until you find the switch on the lamp. As the glow blooms, you peek down at him. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I don’t need to…”

“Please…” He rasps.

He flattens his hand on the bed and grunts as he lifts himself and pushes himself over. He grabs a pillow and props it against the headboard. You cautiously sit and clutch the book above your lap. He lays on his back, his arm bent over the top of the blanket.

You open the book and move the bookmark against the back cover. It’s difficult to focus as you resist the urge to glance at him again. Is he watching you? No, his eyes are probably closed. He needs rest.

“You don’t sleep.” He says.

You flinch. You push your thumb against the edge of the pages and stare at the spine. “I… try.” You pause. “Before… a bed wasn’t about sleeping, it was just about getting off the street.”

“Hm. Makes sense… well, not really. The way anyone needs to fight for their safety, for their basic needs. That doesn’t make sense.” He grits.

You shrug. “Well, it’s life. We all have to find our way. We can’t blame others for getting lost.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Can’t blame yourself either.”

You tilt your head and say nothing. You trace your finger up the page.

“You should sleep.” He says.

“I should.”

“It’s okay, you know, to just let yourself rest.” He says as he bends his arm and reaches to pet your arm. “It’s okay to take care of yourself. To want more than just what you get or what you can survive with.”

“Leon,” You lower the book. “You should take your own advice and rest. You’re injured. You won’t get better if you don’t.”

“I’m fine.” He insists.

“Fine? Please…”

“I got you.” He puts his arm straight, his shoulder against your thigh as he pets your pant leg.

You close the book. You set it aside. “If I lay down, will you sleep?”

“You don’t snore very loud so… yeah,” he says.

You give him a look and his cheek dimples. You don’t understand how he can joke in his condition. You turn back and turn off the lamp.

You slide down and lower yourself onto your side. As you do, he moves closer and drapes the blanket around you. His touch brushes over your hip and side before he detracts.

His warmth radiates around you. You close your eyes but your nerves stay alight. You know better than to trust others and yet, you aren’t afraid of him. Not like before. For the first time in a long time, you’re not even afraid of tomorrow.

🛏️

Heat flows up your nape and swathes around your neck. A low drone seeps into you as a firm weight hangs around your waist. Your eyes are heavy from sleep, your head thick and cloudy. You groan and shift in the warmth of your awakening.

You pull your hand back to find another. Your fingertips feel along Leon’s knuckles as his fingers are tucked under your side. He breathes into your hair and it flutters down your neck. He’s flush against you, clinging to you.

Your hand pauses on the back of his. You open your eyes and stare at the dim room. You’re startled by the unfamiliarity. No digital letters telling you what to do.

You clasp his wrist and try to pull his arm back. He groans and squeezes you. He nuzzles into your hair and murmurs.

A swell of anxiety courses through you. He’s strong. Even asleep, so much stronger than you. These walls contain you but it’s him who put you within them. Walls are just walls, but men are dangerous.

You lean back as you slowly turn. You nudge him with your elbow until his hold on you slackens. You roll and push yourself up to sitting. He grumbles and falls onto his back, flinging his arm across the other side of the mattress.

“Are you alright?” You ask him. “Your shoulder–”

“Mm, good,” he growls and blinks his eyes open. They find you and a stitch forms between his brows. “You?”

“Fine,” you say. “I should check the bandages.”

“You should lay down,” he counters.

“I’m fine.”

He sighs and pulls his arm back as he turns onto his side. He grabs your knee. “I want you too.” You stare at him. His green eyes glimmer at you. He squeezes. “That would help me get better. To have you close.” His gaze blazes up at you. “That why I brought you here. Because that’s what I want; you.” His hand slips higher. “Now I know, I need you even more.”

[snowpiercer21]

[boxofbonesfic]

Return to Sender Masterlist

Sequel to Unwrapped

Pairing: Dark!Andy Barber x Reader

Summary: Andy Barber promised he would never let you go, and come hell or high water, he’s going to keep that promise.

Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon, Kidnapping, Minor Violence, Gaslighting, Basement Wife Trope, Manipulation, Stalking, (MORE TAGS TO BE ADDED)

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

[snowpiercer21]

When i say i loved this series. I loved it. I have never hated a andy barber character so much then I do this version. He made me sick some of the shit he was saying, but kinda peeped that the moment she returned home. I hope ari is her knight and shining armor is part 9 up? I can't access it.

[littledisasters]

SWAN SONG | MASTERLIST

✦Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x doctor!reader ✦Summary: Statistically speaking, a plastic surgeon is not the most useful doctor during a zombie outbreak. Unless the zombies need a face lift.  Unfortunately, a bioterror attack hits your hospital anyway. Now you’re stuck surviving a viral outbreak with a tired government agent who keeps getting injured and showing up at your apartment like a very dangerous stray cat. ✦Content: 18+, Canon typical violence, eventual smut, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, PTSD, trauma recovery, fluff, angst, emotional intimacy, romantic tension, strangers to friends to lovers, domestic, nightmares

[ONGOING]

✦ CHAPTER 1

✦ CHAPTER 2

✦ CHAPTER 3

✦ CHAPTER 4

✦ CHAPTER 5

[snowpiercer21]

This is so good and I can't wait for more!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Captivity: Care

Warning: kidnap, houselessness, allusions to abuse/trauma, isolation, noncon/dubcon….

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Leon S(exy) Kennedy

Note: I don’t usually write for video games but here we go.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

He’s asleep. Or passed out. Either way, you watch Leon’s chest rise and fall in an even tempo.

The gash on his cheek is trimmed in slender strips and you pat the smaller nick on his opposite brow gently. He doesn’t react. You do your best not to disturb him as you evaluate his injuries.

There were women in the shelter that turned up in similar states. Most of them wouldn’t let anyone touch them. They were obstinate out of shame or defeat. You can’t say you never found yourself in a similar way, but you’d rather the streets than a fist.

You lean over him as you tug the collar of his shirt. You can see purple bruising around his shoulder and lower down, his shirt is slick and crusty.

You search through the kit. There’s a small pair of medical scissors. You pause and stare at the sharp blades in your hand. You take a breath and cut through the fabric of his shirt.

There’s a nasty scrape on his ribs and a cut down one side. His shoulder is bruised up to his neck and across his chest. There's more. Scars from worse than that. Healed but not forgotten. Whatever his job is can’t be easy. Or safe.

You do what you can. You dab the scrape with an alcohol swab and cover it with gauze. You do the same for the gash, putting pressure on it until you’re sure it doesn’t need stitches.

You glance up and down his body. He limped in here. His ankle must be in bad shape but whether it’s a bruise or sprain, there’s not much you can do for that right now. You zip up the kit and set it on the bedside table.

You reach for the edge of the blanket and curl it across him, covering his exposed skin. You pick up your mp3 and put your earbuds back in. You pull up the stool and sit beside the bed. You’re tired but too addled to sleep.

You look at the door. Why did you stay? Why are you taking care of this man who’s trapped you like an animal? You locked yourself in. Are you that pathetic? That lost?

Well, you must be. He was able to carry you off without a hitch. No one noticed, no one cared. You barely do yourself.

There isn’t anything out there to miss and that makes you sad. Before you never really had a moment to think about it. You were surviving. You got through each day and that was that. Now the thought of going back is scary.

Here you have heat, hot water, food, a bed. You don’t have to worry about someone else claiming it first. You don’t have to be on the defense. Maybe you should but you aren’t.

You lower your head and focus on the music. It soothes your brain, eases your muscles, and calms your nerves. Your eyes droop and your blood slows. You don’t even realise you’re asleep as the tempo follows you into your subconscious.

You groan as your neck and shoulders ache. You’re all locked up from the awkward position. You’re bent over on the stool, your head on something firm and warm, arms folded beneath you. The subtle motion that raises you up and lets you down is like a calm tide and the sudden friction on your hair startles your eyes awake.

You blink away the fog as Leon pets your head. His thumb brushes your ear as you turn slightly and see him looking down at you. He’s still on his back as your head is on his stomach. You must’ve fallen forward when you knocked out.

You push yourself up and his hand slips away. You rub your neck and trail your hand down to your shoulder. You look down sheepishly.

“Sorry, I…”

“Don’t be.” He insists. “Thank you.” 

He grunts and tries to sit up. As he curls his shoulders up, he winces. You flinch and move to grab his elbow, helping him rise. He thanks you again and shifts himself back against the pillows. He trembles as he touches the gauze and examines your work.

“I don’t really know… how to help. I tried.”

“You did good,” he assures. “Mmph.” His face tautens. “My ankle… I know I messed it up.”

“Oh, I… I’m sorry.”

“Not you. I’m the one that jumped out that window.”

“Window?” You repeat.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Forget I said that.”

“Leon…”

“Really. I don’t want you to worry about what’s out there. It’s what’s in here that matters. Here. Where it’s safe.” He says.

“How can I not worry? Look at you.”

He snorts. “Huh…”

“What?” You frown.

“Nothing. Just…it’s nice when someone cares. Not about the mission or the target, but about you…” he sniffs and his brows arch before falling again. “Not talking about it,” he reminds himself. “Here.” He turns himself with strained effort. “I need you to help me up.”

“You should rest.”

“No, I need to set my foot before it’s totally f– totally messed up.” He corrects himself.

“Oh. Okay.” You agree.

You push the stool back and stand. You wind up the earbuds around the mp3 player and set it aside. You near him and offer your arm. He latches on and you lean back to leverage him up.

You move, slow and staggered, to the door. He limps, a hand on your shoulder as he grunts at each step. You get to the door and he presses his finger into the sensor. The lock clicks.

You don’t go out. Not even as he pushes the door open. You just stare.

“Come on. It’s out there.” He urges.

You nod and help him through. You get him to the bed in the bigger room. He falls onto it heavily. As he strips away the remnants of his shirt, you sway and peer around.

“What do you need?”

He sniffs. “You’re not running.”

You look at him. His eyes pierce you. You shrug. “Where would I run to?”

“That the only reason?”

You swallow. “I don’t know.”

He lowers his head. “Bottom drawer.” He points without looking. “The drawers beside the computers. There’s a boot.”

He bends over his lap. You step around the drying vomit and follow his instructions. You reach for the drawer and glance back as he rumbles. He grips his ankle, gnashing his teeth as he squeezes.

You find the padded foot cast. You take it out and go to him. He wipes the sweat from his brow as he sits up.

“Need you… to get it on.”

You nod and open it. You strap it around his ankle. He tells you where to do it tighter.

“Alright.” You say as you stand up straight. “Is it okay if I get something to clean up?”

He looks at his bile on the floor. He grimaces. “Shit. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You say. “Is it alright, Leon?”

He stares at you, his eyes searching. He nods carefully. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

You back up and he says your name. You pause.

“I didn’t bring you here to take care of me. It’s supposed to be the other way.” He rasps.

“You have.” You assure him.

[epiphanyrogers]

a fever he can't sweat out

steve rogers x roommate!fem!reader

summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you. warnings/tags: SMUT, sex pollen (dubcon-ish elements), masturbation (m), oral sex (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampies, overstimulation, hyperspermia, mating press, standing sex, aftercare, manhandling, size kink/size difference (reader is smaller than steve, but it's steve he's massive), praise kink, dacryphilia if you squint, sweat kink if you squint, roommates to lovers, guilty!pervy!steve who apologizes but can't stop, PWP but lowkey with plot?, sprinkle of yearning, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI word count: 14.4k (wtf) from maddie: official, diagnosed, terminal case of the yapperitis for this one. i got stressed writing pt. 2 of ocayf, and so decided to take a "little break" from it, and accidentally wrote this instead. it's sort of inspired by this post by @blobfishlol (hope you don't mind the tag!) and it was meant to be a quick, filthy little pwp but apparently my brain said no 🤍 it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted anything this long and i feel like i forgot how to write halfway through, so pls be gentle with me!! (pls don’t be mad this isn’t ocayf pt2, it’s coming 🥹) dt: my bb @love-stucky for letting me yap her ear off about this fic, and also for the edit of the steve pic <33

masterlist

Steve's still running through the debrief in his head when he pulls up outside his apartment block. 

The bike's engine cuts out with a rumble, but Steve still feels a deep thrumming vibration in his chest that won't quit. His heart's pounding - has been pounding since he left the compound, he realises - and that doesn't make sense for someone whose resting heart rate is forty-five. Frowning, Steve rolls his shoulders like he can physically shake off whatever this is. Adrenaline, probably. Leftover cortisol. 

Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.

Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use. 

It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.

And move through it wrong Steve had. 

When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.

He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.

Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.

But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.

The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.

By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.

Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.

But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.

Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.

He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.

Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.

Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.

You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.

And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends. 

You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—

"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!" 

The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"

"Is that my hoodie?"

The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.

You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten. 

"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"

Mind. Right. 

Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?

"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."

"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."

There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.

But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.

He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent. 

You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.

The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.

And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.

Of course, it's not new, the attraction.

He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him. 

Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you. 

But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.

And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—

"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"

Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry. 

"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."

Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.

This is insane. He's going insane.

Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.

"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."

"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."

He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.

His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off. 

"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."

"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"

"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"

He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.

"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."

He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.

Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.

Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.

Maybe he is.

Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.

He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.

Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.

Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.

He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.

His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.

The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.

Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.

This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame. 

Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it. 

Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.

The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.

Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.

"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.

His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.

Maybe it's just because it's been so long?

Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."

This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.

The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.

He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on. 

Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.

That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.

And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.

It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.

Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long. 

He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this. 

And in his thoughts, you're there. 

Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about— 

"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles. 

God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch. 

A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.

Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.

His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.

Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.

A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed. 

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.

But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.

"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"

His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.

For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body

Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.

Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.

Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.

He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.

If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.

"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."

This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?

Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.

But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life. 

He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate. 

Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.

Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.

He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.

And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.

Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.

You're in his bedroom.

Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.

"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."

The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.

Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.

And then your gaze drops lower.

Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.

"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."

You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time. 

He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.

You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"

"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.

"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."

The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.

Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.

"Steve?" 

Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.

Arousal.

You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.

"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.

"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.

You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.

"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."

Anything at all.

Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for. 

You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.

"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."

But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.

The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.

"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.

Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"

He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.

Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.

He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.

"I'm calling Bruce—"

"No!"

The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.

"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."

"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"

"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.

He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."

Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"

"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."

"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"

"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"

He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.

You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.

"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.

You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.

You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.

Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.

God, you want to feel it tomorrow.

He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.

His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.

When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.

Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.

Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring. 

"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"

"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."

And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself. 

His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.

Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.

Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.

The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.

But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock. 

"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"

Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.

"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."

Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this. 

All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.

But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.

Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.

Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.

"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."

He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.

His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet. 

The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you. 

But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.

His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.

But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.

The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left. 

His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.

He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.

"Steve—!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"

But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins. 

All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.

"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me." 

His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.

He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.

Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.

"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.

His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.

Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name. 

Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.

But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.

God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.

The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.

"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.

But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.

"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."

The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.

But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.

"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"

He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.

"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"

He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.

He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.

Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.

"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."

One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.

His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.

He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.

“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."

He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"

The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?

"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."

But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.

"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"

"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.

"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."

The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.

Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone. 

Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.

"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"

But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.

"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."

You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie." 

It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.

Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.

You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.

Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.

"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"

You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.

"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.

"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"

But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.

"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."

Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.

"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full." 

"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl." 

His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.

Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.

A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.

"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."

His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.

But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.

"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.

"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.

"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."

Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.

Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.

"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."

One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already

"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."

"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."

The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.

"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.

But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.

"That's it, come on, give it to me."

And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.

But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better. 

His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.

"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"

Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.

The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.

"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.

You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body. 

Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.

"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."

Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.

"Steve—fuck—oh god, oh god." You're babbling, tears streaming, completely cock-drunk and overwhelmed.

"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"

You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.

The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.

"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.

"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."

His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.

You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.

"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"

His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more. 

Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.

His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.

The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.

His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.

"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"

You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.

"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."

He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.

"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."

He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.

"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.

With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."

Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.

Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.

Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.

"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."

You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.

"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.

The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.

"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."

He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.

"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."

There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.

With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable. 

"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."

Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."

Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.

"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."

His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."

You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him. 

He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.

But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.

He'll figure it out in the morning.

For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.

more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂‍↕️

taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @/love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll - if you’d like to be added to my taglist, please leave comment here!

[snowpiercer21]

This was straight filthy...I loved every minute of it.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Captivity: Walls

Warning: kidnap, houselessness, allusions to abuse/trauma, isolation, noncon/dubcon….

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Leon S(exy) Kennedy

Note: I don’t usually write for video games but here we go.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The days keep the same pattern. You wake up to the same room, the same timeless clock, and the same questions. The doors open one by one, the only measure of the minutes and hours as they pass.

That day, you don’t get up right away. Even as the door clicks open. Why? What’s the point? Are you just to be kept in here like a mouse in a cage? Are you some experiment for some weirdo? What is this?

The display chimes. You roll over. The message is simple. ‘You ok?’

You don’t answer. You close your eyes and breathe. You’ve always existed in limbo. It’s always been about just getting through that day to the next. This is just so much more intense.

The display chimes again. You peek out between your eyelids. ‘Sick?’

You sigh. You sit up and push the blankets down the bed. You turn your legs over the edge and roll your shoulders.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” You say out loud.

You turn and make the bed. Then you cross to start it all again. It’s like that movie; the same day on replay.

When you finish cleaning yourself up, you return the pouch to the drawer. A small one opens; one that’s never opened before. It’s about halfway down.

You reach inside and take out a small device with a wire wrapped around it. Huh. It’s a bit outdated. An mp3 with earbuds attached. You power it on and go back to the bed. You sit and scroll through the music with the tiny buttons. It’s all the artists you wrote down, and then some.

“Thank you.” You say to the display.

You put the earbuds in and hit play. You close your eyes again. You bob your head without thinking. It’s been so long since you could just listen to what you wanted and enjoy.

You sense movement. The safe opens. Another meal. Poached eggs, toast, smoked salmon. You wrote down that you don’t like red meat. Like the music, it’s consistent.

You leave one earbud in and tuck the player in your waistband. You eat patiently. It still makes you uneasy. You can’t help but expect that this won’t always be the case. It could be a trick. Feed you, build trust, then snatch it all away.

You put the tray back and stay on the floor. You turn and sit against the side of the bed. You peer around the room.

“You’re watching me. I know it.”

Of course, you don’t get an answer.

“It’s not really fair. Don’t you think? You can see me, hear me… You decide everything for me. When I eat, when I shower, what I can do.” You sniff and rest your chin on your crossed arms. “Why?”

Nothing. You expect as much. You sigh and put the second earbud in.

The next door opens. Clothes for the day. You get a shower every other. You change and put the dirty clothes in the drawer. You back up and pace the small space. You circle until you’re dizzy.

You huff and pull out the earbuds. You grab your book. You’re almost done the second one. You open it, close it, then toss it up by the pillow.

“Am I ever going to know?” You ask the vacancy.

The display flashes. A face with a slanted frown. Cool. That’s worse than no answer.

You shake your head and stretch out. You roll over and shut your eyes. You don’t care anymore, because whether or not you know, it won’t change anything.

🔒

It’s harder to wake up by the day. Maybe that’s part of this thing. Seeing how long you can hold out.

You open your eyes. The display is blank. You wait. Nothing changes.

Your eyes drift past it and you let out a gurgle. You sit up with a start. It’s different. Not everything but the walls. There are walls! No more sheets. Plaster along two sides, but the others are transparent. There’s a room beyond your room. Your cage is built inside of that.

You stand up and hurry forward but stop yourself before you can reach the wall. You wait for the alarm. It doesn’t sound.

There’s a vent up high in the wall and some slots to let out the air as well. The chest is built into the wall. It must be how they put stuff inside; the safe too.

Outside of your cell, there’s a larger room; a bed, a tall dresser, a rack of clothes on hangers, a desk with several screens on floating arms. Is this on purpose? Are they messing with you by letting you see the innards of this setup?

“Good Morning.” The voice startles you as the man enters from a door opposite the bed. He says your name as he approaches, stopping three feet from the clear wall.

You stare at him. He’s tall with silvering blond hair and eyes somewhere between grey and green. There are subtle lines around his mouth and eyes. He’s older than you.

“Morning.” You utter quietly.

He watches you. His cheek ticks and his throat bobs. He seems nervous as he swipes back his hair as it brushes his cheeks.

“Did you sleep okay?” He asks. You nod. He clears his throat. “That’s good.”

You don’t know what to say but he doesn’t seem to know either. You hug yourself. You look down at the floor. You don’t want to know anymore.

“I’m Leon.” He introduces himself and steps closer.

“Okay,” you peek up. “Leon.”

His lips thin and he takes a breath.

“I was thinking we could eat breakfast together.” He says.

“If that’s… what you want.” You chew your lip and dare to look directly at him. You step closer to the wall. “Leon. Thank you for feeding me. For… making sure I have all these things.” Your stomach flutters nervously. “It’s very generous.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, sure. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Not everyone does the right thing,” you say.

His eyes search you and he gets closer to the wall. His gaze clings to you. His expression softens.

“I only want to do right for you. Whatever you want.” He touches the wall. “I hope you see that.” His fingers rub the thick plexiglass. “I only want to take care of you. To make you… happy.”

You swallow and step closer. You know men, you know how they can change. You have to keep him nice, just say what he wants to hear. You’ve done it before but you know, it only lasts so long.

You put your hand on the glass across from his. “I can see that, Leon. Thank you.”

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[secondlina]

Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.

[sinksanksockie2]

w-what if potato is actually lucky

[biteofcherry]

Abandon all hope

dark Alpha!Steve Rogers x omega female reader

summary: You milked the job at Inferno for more than the paycheck offered and you were satisfied with that. But when the shiny opportunity presents itself to you on a platter, how could you not reach for that forbidden golden card? Though, this time, it's truly a bite bigger than you can chew...

warnings: dark!Steve; A/B/O; secret society; semi-dystopian; non-con manipulated into cnc; primal kink; chase kink; rough sex; fear kink; manhandling; biting; bruising; struggle kink; breeding kink; size kink; light exhibitionism (forced); Steve is un-fucking-hinged!; dirty talk; mention of knotting, but no actual knotting; mention of killing;

word count: 9.6k

Author's Note: Another of the Apex Alphas from the Inferno universe. I've been working on it for months (very very slowly), but finally the Kinky Monster Cocktober presented itself as a perfect opportunity to let that Alpha finally catch me 🤭 Special thanks to @stargazingfangirl18 for being possibly the most feral for Inferno Alphas😆

This is day 3 installment for the Kinky Monster Cocktober

Inferno Masterlist

Main Masterlist

A small, annoyed huff left your lips when you felt your shorts roll up on your right asscheek. At this point you didn’t stop to readjust it, the damn thing would keep riding up anyway. 

Who knew, with the crowds tonight it could even bring you a few bonuses. 

The two tables you were assigned to service were occupied by the more prominent batch of the forsaken metropolia. Ones that could afford to pay for individual service on the second level of Inferno and, potentially, advance their night into a higher level for more lewd fun. Types that thought themselves to be influential and important, but were merely separated by a ribbon sash from the broken hoards on the first level. 

The bigger sharks were on levels from four to eight; those who came here not to posture or boost their ego, but simply for sating their twisted desires. It was no secrecy what happened on higher levels, though you still suspected you were given a brief summary of the depraved acts happening there.

A small part of you occasionally wondered how it would be to enter those levels, but the dark itch snuffed out quickly under the more pragmatic needs. 

Your pretty green card was all you needed. You told Astoria as much when she proposed to promote you to blue. Playing the part, you fed her lies about being too shy and too uncoordinated to dance for leering Betas and Alphas. 

The truth was: it would be harder to hoard information for later use.

On upper levels, patrons watched, drank and fucked. They rarely talked among themselves, unless it was to share filthy ideas of what to do with an Omega that caught their eye. 

However, on the second level, they met to talk business, to share gossip, to sell information. Scraps you plucked from their mouths without them paying attention. 

Those were the bites that fed you and your group. A stolen crate of medication from a shipment in the docks, which brought your lot money to last for nearly two months. Smooth breaking and entering the house of an officiant that left for vacation. Offering a few sets of hands to a contractor that looked for “cheap hire” - yeah, it was cheap, but for you it was still a nice boost of cash. Avoiding police raids. 

All thanks to spending long nights carrying drinks and snacks for the stupid wannabes. 

You didn’t feel an ounce of remorse. The world you were born into and grew up in was merciless toward Omegas. None of these assholes around you cared for an Omega, why should you care for their careers or lives. 

Centuries ago, supposedly, Alphas had an instinct to provide and care. Omegas to nurture and support. As civilization collapsed into a heap of jaded degenerates, none of the designations remained what it once was. Power still decided who’s on top of the food chain, but needs other than simple survival went extinct. No heats, no ruts, no need to nest. Most of the pregnancies were unplanned, since even those Alphas desiring to fuck an Omega to the ground lacked the ancestor’s primal need to breed. 

Which was all good, in your opinion. Less obstacles on Omega’s path to survival.

What would even be the point of bringing a child to this world if you’d be unable to protect it. Unable to provide comfort and safety. What point, if for years you were the strong one and not a single fucker around you seemed to reflect a ghost of legendary Alphas. 

Your own father, as much as you loved him, was a poor excuse of a provider for the family. Always shaking like a leaf, always keeping his head down, stickler for the rules that brought him nothing but poverty and disrespect. He had more of that emotional caring, at least, but unfortunately it didn’t feed mouths. 

It didn’t save your mother when she got sick.

You were barely eleven then, but it was you who tried to break into an apothecary. Of course you got caught. If it wasn’t for an officer’s exhaustion - he wasn’t merciful, he was just tired and didn’t feel like doing all the paperwork after his shift - you’d be sentenced. He scared you to death with threats, then let you go. 

Your father did nothing. Didn’t try to steal, didn’t seek alliances, didn’t try any shady work. 

You loved your father, but you lost your respect for him. 

Perhaps it was a cruel assessment, but the times were even more cruel. So by the time you were thirteen, you already joined a small group of street smart teenagers. You looked out for each other - within limits of reason. It served to work together and you were loyal, but to a point.

After all, this world demanded everyone to look out for themselves.

So you put on your sweet smile, recognizing the two of the patrons that became your regulars over the past months. With new guests you had to figure out what type of waitress they preferred - a shy one, or a flirtatious one. With regulars putting up a mask was much easier. 

“Your drinks, gentlemen.” You greeted politely, stopping right next to the one who self-proclaimed himself the leader. 

Pete Brenner. The Quadrant Overwatcher. 

A transfigured version of what used to be a district attorney position, reduced to a smaller part of the metropolis. With power to bully locals living in his quadrant, but in reality holding no power whatsoever in the grand scheme of things. He sure hoped to become The District Overwatcher.

“Nicely topped off, sweetcheeks.” Brenner voiced his approval as if you even cared for it.

“I’d never let anyone scam you here, Mr Brenner,” you replied, with just a pinch of coy flirtation that tickled his ego, but wouldn’t put a target on you. 

His mouth opened, but neither dismissal nor a repulsive offer came out. His gaze flicked over your shoulder and his whole demeanor shifted. He straightened, his face going serious. With a wave of two of his fingers he dismissed you. 

Which you’d happily do, but as you turned, an enormous shadow fell over you. A step before you grew an imposing, dark figure. It seemed your eyes had to go up and up to reach the face of the newcomer. When they did, your insides quivered in instinctive terror.

Former designation traits may have died out, but the fear was the basis of survival so it remained the most accurately functioning instinct. 

And it screamed at you to play dead.

Don’t run, because that beast could follow.

Gone were the days when men wearing suits were considered charming gentlemen. This man might be depicted by the controlled media as the paragon of law and propriety, but those values were warped and deformed. The reality was that he decided what law was and how it was executed. And he didn’t care for honor or justice. 

Steve Rogers. 

Beside the tv screen, you haven’t seen him once in person, despite working at the Inferno for two years now. 

Men like Rogers didn’t roam the club’s floors, especially the lowest levels. Even as one of the four owners of the place. Perhaps he visited the top levels on occasions, who knew what depraved cravings a predator like him had. 

In person, especially barely at an arm’s length from you, he was more intimidating than in the media. 

Long legs, with thighs stretching the fabric of his suit pants. He had his hands in his pockets, but somehow you knew they were big and lethal. Wide chest spanning out to the broadest shoulders you’ve ever seen. A tendon in his neck twitched as he tilted his head marginally. His jaw was perfectly clean shaven, chiseled sharp. Cold, blue eyes stared down at you - assessing and dismissing at the same time.

“Bring another round of drinks,” his order came in a surprisingly drawled, bored tone, “for the upcoming toast.” 

“Y-yes, Mr Rogers.” You dropped your gaze, scurrying past him in long hops. 

There were dumb fishes to fillet here, but you weren’t suicidal to play any games with that shark. He was bigger than a shark. More dangerous, too. A fucking creature from the depths. 

You took ten calming breaths before you forced yourself to walk back to their box. Tray perfectly balanced in your hands, you maneuvered between other tables. You forced yourself to focus on the filled glasses, not daring to lift your gaze up to anyone. Especially, since the towering executioner was still standing at the table. 

As his voice flowed, however, you couldn’t help picking up the precious fragments of information that had the power to change your life forever. 

“Bring it tomorrow before the night opening. Through Astoria’s office. The elevator will be waiting for you.” 

The elevator. 

The private one that was code locked and no one beside the four owners had access to it. The only one that led to the highest level, the last circle of hell. Accessible via only one golden keycard. 

Though no one was ever known to enter it, Omegas had their suspicions about it. Considering only the owners had access to the elevator that led to the ninth level, they assumed it was a private entertainment for the top Alphas. For special guests, or maybe for the owners themselves. 

While you understood that assumption, you saw inconsistencies. 

No one was ever invited there. Even if an Omega had signed in blood a non-disclosure agreement, someone would’ve noticed and gossiped. All the time you worked at Inferno, not a single Omega was rumored to have been given the golden card. 

For a while, you suspected it was Astoria’s card, which she displayed as a mark of her high position over all of you. With her intellect and control over the Omegas at Inferno, she could be granted the bonus of accessing the highest level. Of course she flatly denied it when you asked her one time. Even gave you that cold stare, warning you away from it. You wouldn’t expect someone as sharp as her to simply admit to it. 

If it was Astoria’s key card then it held the potential of opening a treasure chest. A whole fucking cave of treasure. 

Astoria had connections, supplies, wealth, which you could only dream of. Surely, if you scooped a tiny bit of it she wouldn’t mind, right? You weren’t a dumb amateur to steal something major that would instantly put an axe to your neck. You’d be clever about it, finding innocuous threads that don’t make a difference for Astoria but greatly improve your living standards.

With excitement bubbling in your chest, you quickly slid drinks around the table, swiftly snatching back any empty glasses from the prior round. You were about to retreat into the shadows of your duties, but you paused to glance at the biggest Alpha you had a chance to meet.

“Anything for you, Mr Rogers?” You brought an extra drink of the same booze, but he didn’t reach for it. Probably deeming it a piss poor substitute for the real expensive shit he got served in whatever dark level he roamed around. 

When his eyes snapped to you, breath hitched in your lungs. In the dimmed lights of the club his irises glowed iridescent blue, beautiful and terrifying. 

Some unknown part of your brain tingled with awareness, urging you to stare into his eyes while gracefully dropping down to your knees. It was different from the petrified reaction of crumbling at an abusive Alpha’s feet and begging for mercy. It was an impulse that felt strange, yet so natural. 

You fought against following it. You dropped your gaze, cutting off the mesmerizing connection with the Alpha’s eyes. 

“No, thank you.” There was no actual charm in Rogers’ voice, but the polite words - while clipped - were a rarity, as unique as shiny gems in the grime of the sewers. 

With a quick nod, you turned on your heel and walked away. Inwardly, you thought that Brenner and his entourage may toast whatever opportunity he’s been given, but yours was greater compared to his. For him it was merely a step. If all went well, for you it would be a leap. 

Continuing with your shift, you formed a plan stone by little stone, until you had a whole path carved in your mind to start on the next day. 

Coming two hours before the gates to hell opened wasn’t suspicious if you had a waitressing position. Omegas on the first and second floor, like you, often came earlier to help the bartenders. You frequently came early to gather any juicy scoop on who might be coming that night and was worth snooping around. The guards merely glanced at the green keycard you waved. 

Years on the streets have taught you to be aware of your surroundings, to notice shifts and changes, as well to recognize returning faces. It took you a split of a second to notice Astoria leave her office and head toward the patrons’ elevator, on her routine duty of checking every floor from the highest to lowest, before the night started. 

Her office door was automatically locked, opened with a keycard or a pin code. But you bravely marched forward, certain that this special evening it was supposed to stay open for Brenner to slip in and use the private elevator. Besides, if anything went wrong, you could always claim you were looking for Astoria herself. 

Blood pumped in your veins with a rush of adrenaline, a spike between excited and reasonable fear.

The door slid open with ease and it felt like a new chapter of your life rolling out a tattered red carpet for you. The glass box taking up the space of one wall lured with its colorful contents - the few keycards for various levels. 

But the one calling out for you was the one at the top. 

A single nugget of gold you itched to snatch, like an obsessed dragon hungry for the treasure and mindless of the alarm bells warning you of terrible curses awaiting. 

You hesitated only a heartbeat, then carefully opened the glass case. You had to strain on your tiptoes to brush your fingertips against the golden keycard. When it finally landed in your hands, you clutched it to your chest like the most precious finding. Its size and weight didn’t differ from the green keycard you had, yet something about it felt heavy.

As if it strung along a sense of dread. 

For the first time, you doubted if you should proceed. You shook that off. Even if the ninth floor didn’t store treasures, you were too curious to pass on that opportunity. To peek into the mysterious floor at least once. 

You quickly padded toward the shiny door of the private elevator. Your reflection was a shadowy silhouette, half the size of the surprisingly massive door. There was a panel on the side, but the digital numbers which usually had to glow were now dark and muted. Only one square at the bottom illuminated neon yellow. 

Bracing for potential blare of alarm, you took a deep breath and pressed it with the pad of your finger. 

No sirens resounded, only a quiet swish of door opening. You jumped inside immediately. You gasped as the elevator closed, engulfing you in semi-darkness. There were no buttons inside to choose a floor, which you found weird since the private elevator shaft went through all the floors. How did it know where to go or where to stop? 

It only occurred to you at that moment that you had no idea if the elevator would take you back up.

You clutched the golden keycard in your hand, with a rapidly quickening heartbeat waiting for the plummet into the lowest circle. Earlier bravado and hunger for benefits dimmed as the light filling the space seemed to hue from pale yellow to red. 

When the elevator finally stopped and the door smoothly slid open, flickers of yellow and orange greeted you in the otherwise dark space. Not a sound, but eerie silence awaited on the other side. 

Your eyebrows drew in a frown as you warily stepped out of the elevator. You expected a floor as spacious as all the others, but instead it appeared to be a circular chamber with walls made of stone. More than a contrast to the glass and steel of the whole Inferno building. The marble floor was cold beneath your bare feet, unlike the heated floors of the upper levels. 

There were no nooks, nor shelves along the tall walls. Only a grand, iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a round, wooden table beneath it. With four chairs. Each adorned with a detailed carving of an animal crest. 

Your attention, however, was drawn to the massive double door on the other side of the chamber. Carved into stone walls like a passage to an ancient world; buried, forgotten, and full of mysteries. 

The door was open wide, but beside the few inches of stone flooring right behind the threshold, you couldn’t see what was inside. The darkness there seemed too thick. Sconce lights along the wall casted merely a smudge of light.

You glanced around as your feet carried you past the table. There was no one inside. Only your heartbeat filled the space. 

Yet you felt eyes following your every move.

Twisting your head back and side, you couldn’t find a flicker of light that would betray a camera catching your trespassing. But the feeling didn’t ease, prickling at the nape of your neck with conviction that a predator lurked somewhere here. 

Swallowing a sudden lump in your throat, you stopped in front of the monstrous door, tilting your head back to read the sign carved above it.

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.

You had no idea what that meant, but you didn’t need to know latin to suspect it was a vow of something terrible. Any reasonable person would pivot on their heel and leave. You couldn’t back down. You didn’t want to be a coward. Didn’t want to miss the opportunity that for so many Omegas would be life-changing. 

You stepped into the dark corridor. It looked endless. Spots of light were reaching just into a point, but as you neared it, they continued to appear further. It took you a moment to realize they weren’t reacting to movement, they were constantly lit, but the corridor itself wasn’t straight. It curved and curved. 

A spiral. 

Probably curling around the central chamber, wider and wider circles each pass. 

You weren’t far into it when the hair on your arms and the back of your neck stood to attention. The smallest gust of wind tickled somewhere between your ankles, alerting you of a movement behind you. 

Heart pounding in your chest, you slowly turned around. And screamed. 

A monster prowled forward, its huge silhouette emerging from the darkness and brushing between the blotches of light from the sconces. 

Its animalistic face glinted steel, sharp teeth out in the open ready to maul your flesh. 

But then it came further into the light and you noticed the human shape of the rest of its body. Massive, still so much bigger, but definitely human. Wearing heavy, combat boots and black pants similar to those worn by Strike teams. His upper body was bare. Displayed like a sculpture of exaggerated perfection that bloomed from smooth waist into broad strokes of chest and shoulders. His arms seemed built of cords and curves, even as they stayed slack at his sides, not flexing in strain. 

As your gaze traveled upward, along his neck and the curve of his jaw, you realized the monstrous face you first noticed was in fact a metal mask. Depicting a wolf. 

It covered the man’s face; protruding snout and sharp teeth hiding his mouth in shadows. His eyes appeared dark, but with the mask on and the shadows filling the corridor it was impossible to say if that was their real color, or if it was a deceit. 

“Little, cunning fox.” His voice carried smoothly, its deep timbre resembling an actual growl. 

You couldn’t tell which aspect of him betrayed it, but you felt it deep in your guts that this was an Alpha. 

And not an ordinary one. 

Markers of scents, as well pheromonal reactions have been extinct for decades, if not a century, so it wasn’t your sense picking up on it. Not every Alpha was built like a monument, either. Yet you felt it, to the very fiber of your being. 

Not one to be spiritual, or seek grains of truths in legends, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be some ancient Alpha monster who slept in these underground ruins for centuries. Awoke now to devour fresh prey. 

“I- “ words were stuck in your throat, fighting for space with your heart that wanted to escape, but you managed to blurt out - “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” 

You shook your head, frowning, as you tried to understand his implication. It wasn’t a place you were ever supposed to find. After all, you snuck in here after cheating the odds, thanks to an overheard conversation. That golden card wasn’t gifted to you. 

The Wolf lifted his arms, brushing the walls of the corridor with his fingers. Fuck, you’d be unable to pass him on either side, he’d catch you easily with how his whole frame filled the space. 

“So clever and resourceful. So determined. So-” though you couldn’t see it, somehow you knew his mouth curved into a wicked grin - “hungry for thrill.” 

“No, I’m not. I’m just trying to survive.” For years, since you’ve been a teenager, it was all about surviving in the cold, careless world. 

“And you’re doing it impressively.” He gave a solemn nod. “Quick-witted. Though your company was rather annoying.”

“I’m here alone!” You quickly supplied.

You suspected he meant the crew you’ve been working with for years. A band of street raised teenagers who grew into shifty adults, using each other not as support but a means to an end. As long as most of you survived, it worked for everybody. You had no foolish ideas about what it was. Still, you wouldn’t so easily hand them over. After some pain, maybe, but not so fast. 

“You’re here with me.” There was something in the Alpha's suddenly cold snap that sent familiar shivers down your spine. 

“Out there, however,” he continued, “you shared your scrappy talents with an ungrateful batch. Despite being the main source of your band’s intel they wouldn’t hesitate to profit off of you. That pitiful self-proclaimed leader, Mason, was scheming to get a deal on you.”

Your fingers clenched into fists, edges of the golden keycard cutting into your skin. A part of you wanted to deny this accusation, out of pure spite. But you never claimed to trust anyone with your life, including the people with whom you often conspired to steal a crumb. Still, it hurt for some reason, to hear that the same people planned on curating your doom. 

“Found himself a hungry buyer. Pete Brenner.” The Wolf spat that name with disdain. 

Heart lurched to your throat, squeezing there along with a shocked gasp. Was that why you were here? But it was Brenner who had been instructed to come via the private elevator, they couldn’t know you would-

“Brenner was too lazy to orchestrate your relocation, he needed Mason to lead you right into him in his district. Thinking you’d be sweetly lured.” You couldn’t see clearly, but you were sure he just rolled his eyes. 

“How do you know all of that?” And why are you telling me all of this? 

The Wolf’s head tilted to the side. His fingertips caressed the stone walls as he took a step towards you. A step you instinctively met with your own small step back. 

“I know everything.” He chuckled darkly. “Everything that happens in this city. Every broken rule. Every resistance. Every connection.” 

He slowly prowled forward and you shuffled backwards, your blood filling with heating adrenaline that was about to reach a boiling point. 

“I know you’re not the kind to be lured sweetly. All those years fighting to stay afloat in the murky waters that you absorbed the darkness. Sniffing out goodies, stealing information, dancing in the shadows.” With each sentence he came forward. Still slow, seemingly unbothered by your retreating form. “You may hate it, like all do, but you grew to enjoy the chase. And I want to teach you-”

“ -to enjoy being hunted.” 

Scream stuck in your own head, or maybe it was the wheezing sound of your blood drowning your insides. You moved faster than ever before, turning around and bolting further down the corridor. 

You had no idea where it led, what other dangers awaited at the end, if there even was an end!, but you had to run. Far away from the monster you knew would give chase. 

Perhaps, it went against logic. If he wanted to hunt you, shouldn’t you provide him with the complete opposite? But your brain appeared to malfunction, too terrified to form up witty plans and outsmart the Alpha. It pulsed with one thought now - run! 

Terror fueled your moves, but there were other flickers heating up beneath your skin. You’ve run plenty of times in your life, but none of your escapes stirred fizzy bubbles popping in your veins with drunk endorphins. 

Raw cry ripped out of your lungs when a heavy arm wrapped around your middle, shoving you against the wall in a sharp move. Those bubbles spiraled in a burst, making you fight against the warm mass pressing you against the hard stone, but also stiffening your nipples. 

“No! Let me go!” Your hands slapped against his chest and arms, legs kicking outward, trying to yank you from the cage of his presence. 

Swiftly, he trapped your wrists above your head. His hips pressed into you, immobilizing your legs. A whimper escaped your lips when you saw, and felt, how truly big and overpowering he was. Dark eyes stared at you from behind the creepy wolf mask. The snout and teeth of it still obscured fine details of his face, but up close you saw the sinister curve of his lips. 

“Oh, I will,” his promise didn’t bring you any relief; rather vowed a worse fate. “After all, we’re just getting started.” 

“What do you want?!” You jerked in his hold, but he didn’t allow you much movement.

“What we both want, little fox.” He leaned closer. Cold metal of his mask brushed your cheek as he moved to whisper in your ear - “To fuck you raw.”

The world stilled. Your heart stuttered its pace. Your eyes widened as you stared at the nameless, masked Alpha holding you in his clutches with the cruel confidence of a heartless executioner. However, your blood didn’t run cold, like it probably would if he laid the fate you expected at first - your death. 

As he revealed his hunger, a wave of heat swallowed you under.

“I don’t want it! I don’t-” you cried your protests, once again squirming against his hold. 

He laughed. A short bark of astoundingly soft, deep sound. 

The Alpha pressed closer against you, causing your boobs to squish against his broad chest. He undoubtedly could feel the poke of your stiffened nipples. So imposing. So damn scary. You were a step away from pissing yourself from fear. Or was it some other kind of wetness… 

“Don’t you?” He teased, rolling his hips against your lower belly. 

You squeaked, shaking your head. 

Slightly leaning back, he looked down at you. His irises, still shadowed, glinted something menacing. He gripped one of your wrists in one of his hands and lowered your arm. Then brought it to his torso. He made you splay your fingers over his pectoral, made you feel the pleasant warmth of his skin and the muscle straining beneath it. 

Slowly, he guided your fingers down his naked chest; forcing you to trail the ridges of carved muscles. Down, and down, and down, where the golden trail of short hair under his belly button darkened as it led underneath the waistband of his pants.

Your breast swelled, even as your mind fought to make yourself nauseous at the thought of being made to cup his bulge. 

But he didn’t force you to touch it. Instead, he moved your hand to your own belly. Fingers uncurled from around your wrist and his whole palm covered yours. So fucking bigger than your own. 

He pressed his fingers on top of yours, then slid them beneath the waistband of your shorts. Pushed them deeper, until they covered your heated pussy. You tried to stop your gasp as he forced one of your digits (along with his own) to spread your cut. 

He made you rub your tingling clit; short swipes over the already slick button. 

Then he yanked your hands out, bringing your glistening fingers up into the faint light. Shame and dread stirred tears in your eyes. You really didn’t want to respond to that beast of a man, why was your body betraying you? 

A zap of current snapped from your chest down to your clit when the Alpha flicked his tongue against your wet fingertip then suckled on it. 

“Don’t worry,” he nipped your finger, “I still want you to keep repeating how much you don’t want it.” 

You couldn’t help the quiver that rocked your body. He was getting off on you fighting him. 

“Aw, no need for that face, my sweet fox.” He cooed. “I won’t just break you for my amusement. I’m not a poor excuse of an Alpha like Brenner.”

“No. You’re not meant to be used and tossed out. You’re meant to be owned.” He swiped his hand over your head in a gentle caress. “Which is why I broke twenty bones in Brenner’s body before I gutted him.”

“If you run far enough you might find him. I could-” his lips curved in a wicked grin- “fuck you next to his body.” 

“That’s disgusting!” You blurted out, making a face, not sure if you were more repulsed by the gruesome murder he just depicted, or the idea of being fucked next to a corpse. 

“That’s the law of nature.” His tone switched to a cold, unyielding harshness that terrified you. His hand, which stroked you just a moment ago, now curled around the front of your neck.

“The bigger predator kills the smaller one-” he pressed against you again, crushing you into the wall- “Then rightfully takes the Omega’s tight cunt and breeds her full.” 

Feeling of dread poured over you with a heavy mass, but within that clogging weight pulsed something hot; sizzling in the synapses that seemed to awake in the unused parts of your brain. 

The Wolf didn’t choke you, but you didn’t dare to shake your head in response to his words. Only your eyes brimmed with salty tears as you stared up into the cold mask. 

“Now run, little fox. I want to execute my fucking law.” 

His fingers spasmed lightly around your neck, for a flicker of a moment before he was releasing you from his grip completely. He took a step back. 

It wasn’t freedom nor mercy. It was an appetizer to a monster’s feast. Yet you couldn’t make yourself stay in place, or drop down to plead for mercy. Somehow you knew it wouldn’t come. Not in the form you hoped for. 

You started forward, begging the darkness to swallow you. The corridor kept stretching and stretching further, neverending. Sconces of light thinned, turning the spiral labyrinth scarier, though at the same time it fed you false hope of getting so lost in the shadows that the Alpha wouldn’t find you. 

Blood rushed through your veins, filling your head with crashing waves. Through it, the echo of your heart sang a staccato of trepidation. With a growing, melodic thrum that struck your body like it was a violin - plucking at strain chords, and each tremble reverberated straight to your pussy.

You didn’t want to comprehend why your body responded to scary violence. Your focus was on escaping, not on what the Alpha would do to you once he caught you. 

But there was no light at the end of that tunnel, only the prospect of a beast pinning you down and ravishing you in a most primal way. 

Another inner chord struck, vibrating with an aroused hum that rippled through your whole body. 

The harder you tried to run, the more excitement bubbled. When you heard heavy footsteps behind you, your core pulsed. As you feared being fucked against your will, your cunt primed itself for the painful pleasure. 

It was madness.

It was wild. 

And when the massive body of the Alpha collided with yours the sound that left your throat wasn’t a shrill scream, but something more guttural. Animalistic. 

He didn’t shield you from the harsh ground; your hands and knees scraped against the cold stones as he pushed you down. One hand gripped the fabric of your top, the other yanked at your shorts. There was no teasing, no gently built threat, but a hungry determination. 

“No!” You tried to kick back at him, but your bare foot made no impression on the steel muscles in his thick thigh. 

Fabric of your top ripped at the seams, useless scraps falling down. Graze of cold steel along your bare back was followed by a warm, wet swipe of tongue. Soft lips brushed your skin, only to bruise it with a nip of sharp teeth a second later. 

He didn’t explore your body like a passionate lover might, but rather devoured - greedy and insatiable. 

A large palm cupped one of your breasts. A nearly tender swipe of a thumb over your nipple, then a squeeze, a pinch. It skated the edge of pain, yet your other breast felt abandoned and cold. Some part of you was looking to snarl if he wouldn’t deliver attention there. 

Shocked by that thought, and the magnitude of inadequate reaction of your body, you attempted to scramble forward. 

He grabbed your hips, yanking you back. Your ass slammed right into his pelvis, the hardness of his cock against your asscheek froze you. Though it wasn’t only terror. There was… curiosity.

Which snapped when the Alpha pulled your shorts down your thighs. 

There was nothing slow in his movements. Each grip and rip were hungry and sharp. A continuation of the chase, even as he had you splayed beneath him. 

A stinging slap that made you cry out. Hands spreading your thighs wider. A knee forced between them, trapping the fabric of your bottoms to the ground. 

“Fucking primed for me.” He groaned in delight, swiping between your wet folds with brutal fingers. 

“Do you like it like that, little fox?” Two of his fingers stretched your hole; his other hand clamping on one of your shoulders and holding you in place. 

“Do you like being my prey?” Cruel words brushed along your skin, following the cool touch of the wolf mask’s snout. “Being chased and caught. Forced to the ground. Powerless against me.” 

He kissed the back of your neck. Then bit it. Without breaking skin, but he put enough force into it to undoubtedly leave a mark. The mask’s metal canines scraped your skin, as well. 

“About to get fucked-” his fingers drove into you mercilessly; your slick sprinkling onto his hand. 

“Don’t- don’t- don’t-” you chanted pleadings with a teary voice, yet your hips kept eagerly rocking back against his hand.  

“I’m going to split that tight cunt on my fat cock.” He growled; tightening his grip on your shoulder, he pressed your chest down to the ground. “I will make you take every fucking inch, keep you on it even if you sob it’s too much.” 

His fingers withdrew with a squelching sound; flickers of embarrassment fell flat compared to the flames of frustrated need that trickled down your inner thigh. 

The sound of a zipper being undone made you shiver. You shook your head frantically, tears wetting your eyelashes. Alpha’s hand moved from your shoulder to the back of your head. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, close to the roots.  

“I’m going to fuck you right here.” You felt the press of velvet hot, tapered tip against your hole. “On the ground, in the dirt. Rough and raw. Until your body burns through the pain and pleasure, until you're a numb ruin that feels nothing but the slosh of my cum filling you.”

Fingers digging into the meat of your hip, he pushed in. A single stroke that buried him to the hilt before your loud cry at the intrusion ceased into a whimper. 

Maybe it was a mercy that he didn’t toy with you, didn’t make you suffer prolonged slide, feeding you inch by inch of that big - too big - cock. Just a savage thrust that conquered your cunt. 

It burned, yet your pussy fluttered around his girth, rolling out a welcoming flood. 

However, as he started to withdraw, the stretch of him against your walls seemed to grow. Not along his whole length, but close to the base that somehow resisted against the tight rim of your opening. 

Your cunt clenched as a long whine strung out of your throat. 

“Stop! Ah! Stop, wait!” You struggled, attempting to crawl away from the new, maddening sensation. But you couldn’t move, the Alpha’s strength outmatching yours by a ton. 

“Feeling that?” His vicious chuckle tickled the shell of your ear. “That’s my little surprise for you, Omega.” 

He surged into you again, quieting your distress with fullness then renewing it with that wide impossible pressure. 

“Our ancestors had knots. Additional girth designed to inflate at the climax and hold Omega in place on the Alpha’s cock, keeping her nicely stretched and plugged so all that virile cum would fill her to the brim.”

It couldn’t be. It was impossible! Those traits devolved and ceased to exist. There were no rumors even of anyone for the past century to have any suspicion of an Alpha with a knot. 

The potential of it, weaved with the cruelly sinful voice of the monstrous Alpha filling your pussy, shot a star-bright impulse that speared into some hidden, latent part of your brain. Fear of being ripped, after all your body wasn’t equipped to take it (or so you thought), spiked in your blood. 

But then the haze clouded at the edge of your vision. Heat unfurled further, pulsing low in your core. Your pussy spasmed, somehow eager to be stretched beyond what she could take. 

“Oh, do you like that idea, my needy fox?” He rocked slowly in and out, shallow barely-there movement that kept widening your hole. 

“Pity it’s just an echo of the past.” He sighed. “A bonus from strong genes that formed a latent knot at my base. Wish it could fully expand.” 

His fingers dug harder into your hip, holding you in place as he began withdrawing fully. Slowly. 

“You’d scream so prettily when it stretched you.” His voice deepened, turning hungrier and darker as you keened, struggling to stand the stretch. “You would come so fucking hard on it. Cream all over the knot. Wet yourself and me.” 

Tears splattered the stone under your face, a tinge of saltiness from your terror and an abundance of sweetness from the insane pleasure that had no right to accompany that situation. 

Yet it did. It kept increasing, too. 

“As you will now.” The Wolf gritted, pulling the fattest part out then plunging back in.

“Ahhh!” Your toes curled, vision blurring completely - be it from the tears or the abrupt burst of pleasure that crushed your body. 

Orgasms like that shouldn’t be possible. It felt like something beyond the norm of sensations a body was able to stand. Intense. Continuous. Rooted in awareness of being helpless and overpowered. 

Ringing in your ears that erupted with your climax slowly quieted down, even as your body still twitched from the aftershocks. Soon your consciousness was back to registering the dark quiet of the hell’s corridor, filled with marks of your shame - the slap of skin against skin, the sticky wet response of your pussy welcoming predator’s cock, your little choked cries. Ah ah ah ah.

“Fuck, that’s it!” The Alpha grunted above you. 

His mask hit the side of your head as he rutted into you. Harder. Deeper. The hand in your hair gave another harsh tug as his hot breath sang a humid chant against your skin.  

“I knew you’d respond so well. All that fight and fear making your pussy cling to my cock. So needy for me, isn’t it?” You wanted to shake your head in denial, but your walls contracted in submissive confirmation. 

It should be repulsive. In sync with the remnants of the fight that spurred you to attempt escaping at all cost. Yet each thrust of his thick cock, each filthy word and low grunt of his depraved pleasure, fed something desperate inside of you.

An emptiness you never noticed. 

Which awoke with the rush of terror and adrenaline, stirring instincts about which you only read in old books. And a part of you realized the need to fight him, to claw your way out of this hell, wasn’t for a voice of reason, but to please the Alpha further. To tune into his game and willingly turn yourself into prey he gets to break.  

“That’s what you’re made for, Omega. To take your Alpha’s cock and cum. Anywhere. Anytime.” He moved the hand from your hair to grip your other hip, firmly holding you in place as his pace grew savage. 

“Yeah, keep taking it!” He snarled, snapping his hips harder.

The crown of his cock lodged so deep it threatened to kiss your cervix. Despite the risk of pain, you grew impossibly wetter. Or maybe it was his girth, stretching your snug walls. Perhaps a twisted composition of everything, including the helplessness of being pinned to the ground and taken against your will. 

“Fuck! Fuck, I hope it takes.” His rumbly groan had your body tensing. 

This time you shook your head, whimpering a scared No. You reached forward, clawing at the stones beneath you in a futile attempt to somehow move away from him. He didn’t allow it. With a bruising grip he yanked you back onto his cock with a force that burst stars under your eyelids. 

“Oh yes, little fox. I’m going to breed you.” His tone bore not a tinge of cruel amusement, but a dark delight, as if it was his biggest dream coming true.  

A bunch of particles in your mind ignited with that, like a beacon responding to a call you’ve been waiting for your whole life. 

It sprinkled warm contentment along with the rush of extreme panic over the finality of your fate. You realized there was never a chance of changing it, no matter how fast and far you ran. Falling prey to this Alpha had been decided the second you stepped into the deepest circle of Inferno. Maybe even earlier.

Despite muttering broken objections, your moans grew louder with each thrust of his cock. A burst of euphoria and demand for more ruin, urging the Alpha with keening and the arch of your back.

“I’m going to fill your cunt with my cum over and over,” he growled, growing frantic in his pace, “-day after day, and watch you grow round with it.” 

“And it will take. But fuck I hope it takes right now!” Most of his weight draped over you, pinning you to the ground and rendering you breathless. The filth spilling from his mouth in a primal rumble made your cunt flutter. 

“Hope that I knock you up when you’re still fighting it, when you cry how you don’t want it, while your pussy milks me greedily and your womb opens up for my seed.” 

If heat and trebling were wrecking your body up to this point, his last words caused an eruption. A climax that snapped through you with blinding force. And it continued to spread in waves.

“Do you want that, Omega? Want your Alpha to breed you?” He rutted into you in short jerks, keeping his cock balls deep and twitching right at the threshold. 

“Please, please, please…” your hoarse voice bounced against the stone floor as your pussy clenched and gushed.

Your orgasm boiled, refusing to cease. Painful pleasure behind it coming not from your overstimulated cunt, but as if something else deep inside you awoke with relish at the thought of being bred by the monster. 

The Wolf responded with a roar. His hands bruised your hips as he slammed into you for the final time. 

Hot spill filled your pulsing cunt. An overabundance that strained the walls of your core.

He buried his face in your hair; heavy breath puffing in hot, wet gusts against your temple. His voice seemed to break for a second, turning from a shout to a purring moan. It almost felt comforting to have his warm weight blanketing you and his sounds of contentment praising your submission. 

When he moved off your body a while later, shivers followed in his wake. Along with an embarrassing gush of fluids dripping out of your used pussy. 

You dropped down and curled on your side, still breathing hard. Your heart was hammering in your chest, your head felt dizzy. Tingling sensation buzzed in so many spots on your skin where he bit, scratched and gripped you. 

“Absolute perfection.” The Alpha hummed, watching your broken form splayed on the ground before him. 

He was kneeling up; his pants unzipped and pushed down just under his ass. His thick cock was reddened and glistening with your juices and streaks of his own cum. Glancing at it, you couldn’t help the whimper escaping your lips. 

You felt how big it was, how that engorged base stretched you beyond limit, but seeing it brought a new spike of heated fear. 

Because he made it clear that you’d be taking it many more times. 

“That’s how I want you in my bed.” His gaze roamed over your body. “A boneless mess full of my seed.”

You whined when he rolled you onto your back and pushed your knees apart. 

You slapped your hands against his chest, lacking strength but still trying to somehow push him away. With a grunt he settled on top of you. His waist fit between your spread thighs. Wet cock rubbing against your belly. 

“Yeah!” Lips curving into a smile, he encouraged you: “Keep fighting!”

Each slap, each scratch of your nails, each squirm, they seemed to turn him on. You hated him for it, yet couldn’t stop yourself from giving him exactly what he wanted.

Exactly what some twisted part of you enjoyed, as well. 

On your next hit you managed to square on the side of his face, knocking off the monstrous metal mask off his face. It fell to the ground right next to you and you saw his face for the first time. 

You froze, staring up at him. Your fists rested against his broad chest, suddenly depleted of energy to continue your fight. 

Out of all the terrible images your mind could conjure of the Alpha behind the mask, you never expected it to be him. 

With blue eyes so striking they could slice you open like scalpel. They were darker now, irises swallowed by blown wide pupils full of hunger. Stern lines and menacing cold of his usual expression softened with flush and glow. Strands of dark golden hair fell across his forehead in a disarray.

“M-Mr Rogers?” You gasped.

“It’s Alpha, for you,” his chuckle was soft, almost affectionate. “Or Steve, if you’re feeling exceptionally devoted.” 

With a coo, he gripped your wrists in his hand and forced your arms above your head. He readjusted his position, pulling one of your knees to your chest and rolling his hips until his cock was nudging at your soaked opening. 

“Ngh! Too much!” You strained beneath him, terrified of the mindblowing pleasure he could rip out of you in that most painful way. 

“But that’s how you like it, sweet fox.” Steve countered. “You like it when there’s more. More treasures to steal or trade. More challenges. Isn’t that why you stole that golden card? Because you craved what more it could lead to?”

“I didn’t know-” your voice hitched when he inched deeper.

“You knew it wasn’t yours to take. It wasn’t given to you. Neither was the information about the elevator being left open.” Steve slowly pushed in, relishing in the resistance of your pussy, as if he hadn’t ruined it mere minutes before. 

“You dared to do it. You took it for yourself. As I am taking you for myself.” 

A wave of embarrassment swallowed you and Steve grinned, most pleased, when the wet squelch of your cunt filled the air. 

“But I’ll let you in on a secret,” his grin turned dark, a reflection of the ruthless wolf cast in the mask. “I set it all up for you. I hoped you wouldn’t be able to resist. But… if you didn’t steal the card and step into my trap yourself, I’d still take you.” 

“I told you, I know everything about what happens in the city.” He reminded you. “I knew about your group causing trouble for a while. Their demise has been signed for weeks now. As was your fate to cream all over my cock and bear me children.” 

He punctuated the last part with a snarl, bottoming out.

A lightning zapped down your spine, arching you toward your tormentor with possessed worship. 

You weren’t used to such wild fucking, and the previous raw orgasms left you so sensitive. Each greedy thrust elicited a whimper. But it was followed by a moan as sparks reignited low in your belly, threatening to rapidly bring you to another climax. 

“You sound so sweet when you struggle to take me.” Steve grunted, licking a stripe of your skin salty with sweat and dirt. 

He sucked on a spot on your throat, then mouthed along your collarbone where he mauled your skin into another mark. His tongue wrote wet sins over your breasts as he kept fucking into you with deep strokes. 

The hand from under your knee moved to your face, gripping your jaw between his fingers. Your lips were parted on strings of gasps, but his hold forced them open wider. 

Your eyes widened when a dab of spit landed on your tongue. Instead of disgust, however, your body shuddered in complete surrender, rolling your eyes to the back of your skull. 

Then Steve’s lips were staking the claim of your mouth. Feral and dominating. His own growly moan vibrated along your tongue. He swallowed your cries that grew when you sensed his pace picking up and realized he was about to come and fill you again. 

“I’m so close, Omega,” Steve panted against your lips. “Gonna fill you. You want that, don’t you? Want your Alpha’s cum deep in your tight cunt.” 

He slid his hand between your bodies, kneading and pinching in his way southward. When his fingers circled your swollen clit you bucked wildly, knees drawing up, toes curling. 

“That’s it, come for your Alpha. Soak up all that cum. Be a good breeding bitch and take it!” 

You surrendered with a hoarse cry. Your muscles shook with strain, so many spots skating the edge of a painful cramp. With how hard your walls clenched around Steve’s cock it was a shocking miracle he was able to spear deeper. You felt him throb; a pulsating sensation teasing your overworked pussy. 

Pleasure and exhaustion rendered you boneless. You went lax beneath the bulk of the monster that defiled you, letting his warmth coat you as he kept his body like a shield over you. 

The abundance of his seed made your abdomen feel inflated. The excess of it seeped out of you in a thin trickle, the Alpha’s cock still locking most of it inside of you. 

You hummed as he nosed along your cheek and down your neck. With your gaze blurry, you stared at the dimmed light casted by the sconces, wondering if that was your future now. To be lost in an ancient maze, warmed only by the unhinged affection of a savage Alpha. 

When sometimes later your worn body was lifted into strong arms, you didn’t even flinch. For the moment there was no fight in you left as the onslaught has left you exhausted. You pressed your cheek to his shoulder, keeping your own fingers interlaced and resting on your chest. 

Then he set the scary wolf mask in your lap. Hollow eyes stared up at you, provoking you to whimper in fear and search the Alpha’s comforting warmth. Despite knowing he was the one wearing the mask, equalling him as terrifying and cruel, somehow it made all the difference when Steve’s eyes were peering at you from beneath that mask.

A flicker of life rejuvenated the last working particles of your brain when a brighter light appeared on your way. 

Steve was taking you back to the circular chamber of the ninth floor. 

It appeared much warmer and less intimidating after hours spent in the depths of shadows in the terrifying labyrinth. Though it remained the bottom of hell, with no route to escape. You doubted Steve would put you in the elevator and allowed you to return to your previous life.

Not with his clear intention to impregnate you. 

As Steve stepped onto the marble floor the light from the huge iron chandelier revealed not only the marks of Alpha’s insatiable hunger on your skin, but also three intimidating silhouettes. 

Monsters of Steve’s kin. Wearing masks similar to the one nestled in your lap. A lion, a bull, and a serpent.

Each oozed horror of a different kind. Their dark power shifted the atmosphere.

Icy terror gripped your chest. Was he going to let them-

“I stake claim.” Steve’s voice cut through your panicking thoughts with a sharp, cold cut. 

It was a declaration of unchangeable law. A vow of ownership set into the very foundation of the metropolis. It weaved itself into your bones, as well. 

A doom for you, but you pitied anyone who ever dared taking you away from Steve’s grasp. Though neither of the other monsters appeared angered by his selfish possessiveness. Their lack of interest in you was a relief. 

“What bond do you choose?” Asked the one wearing a bull’s mask.

Being so tired and aching, you couldn’t comprehend what they meant. When Steve put you down on your feet, your muscles refused to cooperate and your body nearly folded down in exhaustion. Steve held you up, wrapping one of his arms around your middle. 

He didn’t care that his mask dropped to the floor, the wolf’s empty gaze staring up at you in the Alpha’s clutches. Steve grabbed a fistful of your hair with his other hand, tilting your head to the side. 

“I choose a traditional one.” His possessive growl caressed the skin of your neck.  

“A bite.”

He didn’t give you a second to prepare for the dark intention of his words. Pain burst in your neck where Steve sank his teeth in, piercing through your skin and drawing a flow of blood. 

Your body jerked in his hold, feet scraping against the smooth marble. Your high pitched shriek rolled into a broken sob, that soon dissipated into a lifeless moan. Consciousness escaped you as fast as your blood dripped down your naked chest.  

As the heavy fog engulfed you, a trice repeated “Claim witnessed” jingled in the back of your head. 

Then it was darkness. Your body shut down, granting you blissful unawareness.

When you blinked away the haze - much much later - marble and stone were gone, replaced by a soft gray glow of early morning that peered through the dark trunks of thick trees. You were in the back of a car that drove through the forests. Far outside of the city.

Though you sensed the Alpha’s presence right beside you, you chose to stare out the tinted window at the view so foreign and wild. You’ve never stepped further than the outskirts of the city. 

Then again, you never had savage, filthy sex either. Never came so hard, much less from fear and being overpowered. 

Your sore body was wrapped in a soft suit jacket. Steve’s undoubtedly. It was big enough to cover your ass and for the sleeves to reach your knuckles. You slipped your fingers beneath the collar, feeling around the spot burning with dull pain. 

Where he bit you.

Soft dressing covered the wound. It seemed it wasn’t bleeding anymore, which meant you were out for quite a while. 

“Fitting,” you croaked out, “that a wolf lives in the forest.”

You sensed his gaze on you, evoking that deep-core shiver you couldn’t differentiate anymore between trepidation and exhilaration. But you didn’t turn to him yet. You didn’t have the courage to look into his blue eyes and see the reflection of your own ruin. 

His large, warm hand rested just above your ankle; thumb rubbing your skin in slow motion.

“Fitting for a fox, too,” came his reply. “Especially when you start nesting.”

“I’m not nesting.” Despite being unable to raise your voice - your throat scraped raw from all the sounds he drew from you all night - you snapped at him quietly. 

His caress on your calf paused. His fingers tightened, squeezing your limb in a warning.

“You will.”  

[stargazingfangirl18]

Special thanks to @stargazingfangirl18 for being possibly the most feral for Inferno Alphas😆

Bwahahahahaha indeed! I am gnawing at the bars of my enclosure on the daily for them 😶‍🌫️

for years you were the strong one and not a single fucker around you seemed to reflect a ghost of legendary Alphas. 

👀 Careful what you wish for. Also, I am LOVING these layers you’re adding to Inferno and the verse as a whole! 🤓

This man might be depicted by the controlled media as the paragon of law and propriety, but those values were warped and deformed. The reality was that he decided what law was and how it was executed. And he didn’t care for honor or justice. 

Surely, if you scooped a tiny bit of it she wouldn’t mind, right? You weren’t a dumb amateur to steal something major that would instantly put an axe to your neck. You’d be clever about it, finding innocuous threads that don’t make a difference for Astoria but greatly improve your living standards.

Oh nooooo! Don’t do it! 😢

Massive, still so much bigger, but definitely human. Wearing heavy, combat boots and black pants similar to those worn by Strike teams. His upper body was bare. Displayed like a sculpture of exaggerated perfection that bloomed from smooth waist into broad strokes of chest and shoulders. His arms seemed built of cords and curves, even as they stayed slack at his sides, not flexing in strain. 

😦😦😦 Jesus Christ, what a visual.

“Don’t be. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” 

“What we both want, little fox.” He leaned closer. Cold metal of his mask brushed your cheek as he moved to whisper in your ear - “To fuck you raw.”

::flutter flutter:: 🥴🥴🥴

“Don’t worry,” he nipped your finger, “I still want you to keep repeating how much you don’t want it.” 

Jesus Christ, Eva 💀🪦💐

“Which is why I broke twenty bones in Brenner’s body before I gutted him.”

Lolll. I’ll ready the burial plot 🪏

but within that clogging weight pulsed something hot; sizzling in the synapses that seemed to awake in the unused parts of your brain. 

I LOVE how these alphas unearth the long buried and hibernating primal instincts 😮‍💨

It wasn’t freedom nor mercy. It was an appetizer to a monster’s feast.

LOVE this line 🤌🏻

“Until your body burns through the pain and pleasure, until you're a numb ruin that feels nothing but the slosh of my cum filling you.”

SLOSH OF MY CUMMMMM 🥴🥴🥴

OH MY GODDDDD! This was a divine slice of hoe heaven. I knew it was going to be amazing, but getting to read it and experience it was just O_O in the BEST way. I honestly feel speechless and like I don’t have the words worthy enough to do justice to this masterpiece, but I think you’ve truly outdone yourself. This is an instant fave ❤️

P.S. My panties are completely ruined. Like, I need a boat to return to dry land.

[snowpiercer21]

This was wild..pun intended hehe

[stargazingfangirl18]

Restoration

Pairing: Andy Barber x Fem!Reader x Ari Levinson Word Count: 3,829 Summary: Even after everything, you were still struggling to believe in happily ever afters–especially for you. Warnings: A/B/O AU. M/F/M dynamic. Explicit language. Sassy, untrusting, rough around the edges!Reader. A fictional verse that is not kind to omegas. Reference to past physical and sexual abuse (not by Andy or Ari). Reader being in a disassociated state post heat. Lots of anger, fear, and acting out. Destruction of property. Alllll the feels. 

A/N: We have one more little, stubborn hiccup before we can all take a deep breath and relax. 

POUND TOWN MASTERLIST

For the next few days following your heat and sleeping with Andy and Ari, you were in a haze.

Your inner omega had taken over, preening and enjoying the afterglow of your heat and being with your alphas, and you didn’t resist. 

It was easier to just take a back seat and try to process everything that had happened, everything that had changed.

You spent most of your time curled up on the sofa, wrapped in your favorite blanket, and staring off into space. 

You didn’t resist Andy and Ari’s affection as they checked on you frequently, but you didn’t return it either. You didn’t seek it out.

You also missed the way they kept trading looks of concern at your near comatose state.

Not even Ari offering a baking extravaganza garnered a reaction–or any interest at all–from you. 

So they decided to let you be, at least for a few days, knowing that a lot had happened in a very short stretch of time, and you were likely still absorbing it all. 

And you were.

Until you weren’t anymore.

It was like a switch being flipped, the way your brain rebooted and you instantly shoved your inner omega back down where she belonged.

As you surfaced back to the present moment, your skin was warm and prickling with anger, with humiliation. 

You were angry at all of them–Andy, Ari, your inner omega.

You were furious at yourself, too. 

Your mind kept returning to that moment–the morning after–and the way you had sobbed and clung to Andy and Ari.

Like a pathetic chump.

Like a stupid, needy, weak omega.

And you were none of those things.

You refused to be.

It was strange, how that emotional outburst seemed so much more vulnerable than the sex you had shared with Andy and Ari. 

Out of everything that had happened, it was that moment that left you most shaken.

You had never cried like that before, had never been so consumed by so many feelings, had never broken down–especially in front of another. 

And now, even just thinking about it made you cringe. Made you see red.

In a different kind of haze now than your former dissociative state, you finally abandoned your post in the living room. 

Andy was at work, and Ari was humming away in the kitchen, so there was no one around to see you go down into the basement.

You weren’t exactly sure what you were doing or what you were looking for. Until your eyes landed on the cans of paint stacked in the corner near Ari’s workbench.

You grabbed one, eyes glinting at the black color noted on the label before you stalked back upstairs and into your bedroom.

You were breathing heavily now, a mixture of anxiety and anger–fear and doubt–swirling through your body and making it hard to focus on anything.

Part of you was annoyed at the way you had crumbled and given in in the midst of your heat. How vulnerable you had made yourself. How willing. 

How disgustingly weak and emotional.

Your inner omega was so stupid for thinking this could just be your new norm now–happiness and connection, praise and affection–just like that.

You knew better. Things would never be that easy for you, that good.

Because you didn’t deserve any of it.

You did not deserve this picture-perfect happy life and the two perfect, doting alphas that came along with it. 

And you were so fucking sick of it being shoved down your throat–the thing you wanted most, deep down, but knew you could never have.

Your head buzzed louder and louder as you pried the lid off the paint can, and then you lifted it between your hands, turned, and threw it at your bedroom wall. And then another wall, and another.

Until ugly black streaks marred the soft, pretty color Andy had picked out for you. 

Until the disgusting, cloying smell of paint filled the room.

But you didn’t stop there, once the paint can was empty, you tossed it aside, moving toward your bed next.

Angry tears streamed down your face as you snatched the scissors from your desk and began to cut up the expensive bed set that had been gifted to you along with the rest of this perfect room that you didn’t fit into at all. You stabbed the scissors into the pretty pillows and mattress, tearing them open until fluff and foam spilled out in a huge mess.

You didn’t care that Andy and Ari had so obviously and painstakingly set up this space just for you. You couldn’t think about them right now.

As mindless as you had been with pleasure and content by the end of your heat, you felt just as mindless now as you destroyed your room–except this haze didn’t stem from pleasure, it stemmed from anger.

And fear.

Shame, too.

You didn’t belong here, you didn’t belong here, you didn’t belong here.

The words echoed through your mind on repeat as you moved to ripping the framed artwork from the walls next and slamming them down onto the floor until broken glass and frames littered the plush carpet. You moved to overturning your desk next, before pulling all of your clothes from the bureau and strewning them across the room. 

It was like, one by one, with each act of destruction, you rebelled against all the little hints of who Andy and Ari wanted you to be.

Who you weren’t at all. 

When you finally stopped your reign of terror–face streaked with tears and eyes wild–you turned to find Ari standing in your doorway, looking absolutely gutted.

Not because you destroyed your room, but because you, yourself, were hurting. 

And god, that just made you want to break everything all over again.

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t say a word, or let Ari either, you just turned on your heel and stormed into your ensuite, locking yourself inside as you tried to muffle your sobs of overwhelm.

By the time Andy arrived home from work–early because of your antics–you were numb.

You were in a different kind of daze now, an autopilot one–an unfeeling one–as Andy and Ari shuffled you out to the car and stowed you in the backseat. 

None of you spoke as they began a long drive to who knows where. You didn’t, and you didn’t care either. 

Well, not until the car turned down a road that you would have missed entirely if you didn’t know it was here. 

The car bounced over uneven ground and gravel for a few moments before finally clearing a long, overgrown driveway to reveal a derelict house in the middle of the countryside. 

In the middle of nowhere.

It was instant, the way your stomach dropped like a lead weight.

Because you knew what this was.

You knew exactly what this was. 

You wouldn’t be the first problem or unwanted omega to be abandoned in the middle of nowhere, and you wouldn’t be the last. 

That’s just the way this fucked up world worked.

Omegas–especially bad ones, like you–were disposable. 

Your inner omega whined in distress as you stared up at the ugly, broken down house. So very different from the beautiful home Andy and Ari owned. That they tried so hard to share with you for months.

But you had fucked it all up. 

And now here you were, on the doorstep of your worst nightmare–a consequence of your own shitty behavior since the day you had first met the two alphas. 

The wave that rose up within you wasn’t one of anger, but devastation, and it only made you more volatile as you followed Andy and Ari’s cues and shoved out of the car. 

Finally, they were doing exactly what you always knew they would, deep down.

They were throwing you away, like garbage. 

Because you weren’t good enough.

You never had been, and you never would be.

Wearing that familiar mask of anger now–the only protection you had left–you clenched your fists at your sides as you rounded on them. You were pissed off that your tears finally escaped as you met their gazes and looked them both in the eye as they finally revealed their true colors to you.

You were so proud of the sass you were able to muster as you hissed, “Did you finally have your fill of me? You got what you wanted, you got to knot me, so now you’re just gonna leave me out here in the middle of nowhere to rot and pretend like I never existed?” 

Rather than agree with you, or object to your accusation, Andy and Ari just remained stoic and quiet as they watched you. 

That, more than anything, had anxiety and a gut wrenching sort of terror roiling throughout you. In all the months that you had known Andy and Ari, they had never been so reserved or quiet, not with you. 

But it made sense now, for them to be cold with you, especially at this moment. 

You had been nothing but a literal nightmare since you came home with them, and after your heat, and what could have been a turning point for your new pack, you had taken ten steps backwards and destroyed their house while you were at it.

You really were an utter disappointment.

Finally, Andy gestured for you to follow him as he dug an unfamiliar set of keys from his pocket and started to walk toward the rundown house. “Come on, this way.”

You stared after him, furious as the visage of him blurred from your unshed tears. You did your best to blink them back, clenching your hands into fists as you ignored Ari’s watchful gaze and stomped after Andy. 

If this was going to happen, you weren’t going to be a little bitch about it. Your inner omega could cry and whine all she wanted, but you were gonna show them just how much you didn’t care that they were abandoning you. 

Because you didn’t need Andy and Ari, just as much as they didn’t want you.

You kept your face twisted into a sneer as you entered the decrepit house. You could feel Ari looming in the doorway behind you, but Andy was nowhere to be found. 

The sensation of being trapped–in danger–started to lap at you, but before your hypervigilant mind could run away with that new thread of fear, Andy’s voice called out from the living room just off the entryway. 

“My realty firm bought this place to flip and eventually sell.”

A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, holding a sledgehammer.

“Demo is scheduled to start next week, but I thought maybe you could get it started?” he said.

You scoffed. “So you’re gonna put me to work and get as much out of me as you can before leaving me here to fend for myself?”

Andy’s resulting smile was sad, but it was Ari who answered you. 

“No, sweetheart, we just thought that maybe this could be a good, therapeutic outlet for you, to get out some of that anger and whatever else you’ve clearly been struggling with.”

Brows furrowing, your face bloomed with the heat of humiliation–because you were so fucked up that they just called it out now, and because this wasn’t what you had thought it was. 

Not at all. 

You glanced from the sledgehammer, then between Ari and Andy. 

“Go on,” Andy encouraged, once again holding out the unfamiliar tool to you. “We’re taking the house down to the studs, so you can break whatever you like - walls, floors, the furniture that’s left.” He went quiet for a moment before he whispered his next words with a hint of understanding, “Let it all go, omega. Get it all out so you don’t need to carry it anymore.”

Your vision blurred with tears at that–not just because Andy’s words were so on point–but because you had never felt so seen–and understood–in your life, and even after everything, how terrible you had been, Andy and Ari were still trying to help you. 

The instinct to scoff or get sassy in response to the vulnerability you felt right now needled along your skin, but you suppressed it. Instead, you just watched them for a moment. 

Really allowed yourself to witness Andy and Ari–your alphas–and how they had never stopped trying to make this work or make you happy, the entire time you had been with them.

Beneath your anger, you felt so much shame for your actions and behavior over the past few months, at how hard it was for you to let them in, and how much the idea scared you.

Because if you let them into your heart, if you allowed yourself to have them and this happy life they kept promising, you’d have so much to lose.

So much to mourn once it was over and you were left alone and miserable again.

But isn’t it better to have something so good that just the thought of losing it terrifies you? your inner omega whispered.

All of these thoughts and more swirled within you–your tender, yearning heart warring with the hard edge of jaded logic that had protected you as much as possible during the course of your sad, unhappy life.

You felt it all building up within you, bubbling over, but for once, instead of stuffing it back down like you always did, you let it rise up completely.

And you took the sledgehammer from Andy. 

You side stepped him–stilling when he held out an arm and slipped a pair of safety goggles on your face–before stalking into the dim, outdated living room.

It was dirty and dank, everything covered in dust and grime, and yet it resonated with you on a deep level, because you couldn’t help but think this is what you looked like on the inside. 

A hollow, empty, broken shell–damaged and dirty beyond repair. 

And that just had everything inside of you ratcheting up until your body vibrated with the onslaught and your tears finally spilled over. 

You started with the stray, wooden coffee table that was covered in dust–winding up and bringing the sledgehammer down onto it and watching as it splintered before collapsing entirely under a second blow.

Years and years worth of anger and pain, desolation and abandonment, rose up as you turned to the rotting fireplace next. You smashed the half-broken wood mantle into smithereens before shattering the old, stained ceramic tiles surrounding the hearth.

As you watched it all shatter and skitter across the creaky floorboards, it felt like all of the impenetrable armor you had worn your whole life–out of necessity, for survival–shattered and fell away with it. 

You felt strangely lighter as you started smashing holes in the wall, picturing the breeder’s ugly, menacing face as the sledgehammer demolished. You let out these pained, ragged shrieks as you pulled back and let loose, over and over again, laying waste not only to the room, but to everything inside of you that had kept you so small and miserable and hollow your whole life. 

That had eaten away at you more and more with each passing day. 

How unloved and lonely you felt spending your whole life at the breeder facility. 

How dirty and violated you felt each time the breeder left you in messy ruins in your stupid glass cage. 

How angry you were at your inner omega for wanting more than you knew was meant for you. 

How furious you were at yourself for fucking up the one stroke of luck and good fortune that had ever come your way. 

You were covered in sweat and dust, openly crying now, tears fogging up your safety goggles as you heaved and swung–breaking down so much more than the walls around you–until you couldn’t raise the hammer anymore. 

Your arms were like limp noodles once you finally stopped, your body thrumming with both adrenaline and something else. You thought it might be the cathartic release your alphas had wanted for you, but there was still one dark, ugly thought that you just couldn’t shake. 

One fear and doubt that you knew would continue to block you from happiness and love, even though it was staring you straight in the face and offered to you so freely on a daily basis. 

So you let it rise up, too, wanting to exorcise it along with the rest of your demons.

You don’t deserve happiness or love, that quiet voice whispered the familiar words in the back of  your mind. Because you’re not a good omega. You’re not even a good person.

“I don’t understand!” you shouted as you tore off the safety goggles with one hand and dropped the sledgehammer with the other, whirling on Andy and Ari. “I don’t understand why you want me!”

Crying harder as all of your messiest feelings and insecurities poured out of you, you sank to your knees, exhausted and hugging yourself tightly as you sobbed. 

“I don’t understand,” you heaved, your voice a sad broken thing. “Why do you want me?”

“We love you, honey,” Andy spoke softly as he sank down beside you. 

“And we’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it to believe it, and then some,” Ari promised as he knelt at your other side. 

Despite their reassuring words, your most terrifying fear and doubt bubbled up, your words a pathetic whine as you begged, “Don’t leave me!”

“We would never,” Ari murmured, shifting closer. His hand reached for you but stilled just over the small of your back, the heat of his non-touch making you cry harder.

Because you wanted him to touch you–without hesitance, without reserve–you wanted his comfort and his warmth and his love. You wanted it more than you had ever wanted anything in your entire life.

“We love you, honey, so much,” Andy spoke softly, shifting closer, and like Ari, without actually touching you, so cognizant of the hard boundaries you had always set. 

“Why?” you shook your head. “It doesn’t make sense! I don’t deserve it. I’m…I’m broken,” you looked between them with your devastated gaze, telling them one of the thoughts–and truths–that haunted you most. “You both deserve a perfect omega, and I’m not that. No matter how hard I could try, I will never be that for you.”

Andy’s smile was so soft and earnest as he replied, “To us, you are perfect, just as you are.”

It took a moment for his words to really sink in for you, and when they did, your heart glowed, because for once, you actually allowed yourself to hear them, to accept them. 

To believe them.

As much as you always found yourself lacking–and never good enough–Andy and Ari thought you perfect, just as you were.

They loved you–you–just as you were.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything,” you hiccuped through your tears. “I’m sorry I’m such a bad omega; I don’t know how to do this. I’ll try, for real. I’ll be good. I can be good.”

“We don’t want you to be good, sweetheart,” Ari soothed, his soft, sweet scent filling your nose and settling some of the distress eating away at you. “We just want you to be happy. That’s all. We just want you to be at peace with all of this, with us.”

“And you’re not bad,” Andy said. “We never thought that about you, honey. The only thing you are to us is home, and we just want to be your home, too.”

You looked up at that. 

Home.

The one thing you had always wanted most of all. 

The thing that had been granted to you, despite who you were and where you had come from, and that you just couldn’t seem to accept no matter how much–and how deeply–you yearned for it.

“I’m your home?” you echoed Andy’s words on a hopeful whisper as you peeked between him and Ari for confirmation.

He nodded, the most tender smile on his face as his own eyes shone with tears. “I told you that the first time we ever met, that you smell like home, and I was right.”

“And he’ll never let you hear the end of it,” Ari inserted on a playful mutter that had you giggling despite your tears and emotional overwhelm.

This is what it could always be like for you, if you let it, if you tried. 

Love and laughter and home.

Feeling something inside of your chest finally loosen–crack wide open–after years and years of tightness and constriction, of being overly guarded and stubborn to your own detriment, you sniffled, resolutely deciding to let it. 

To try. 

Gingerly–shyly–you reached for Andy and Ari’s hands, clutching one in each of yours for dear life, and feeling instantly grounded and safe as their alpha scents rose up around you–more pronounced now at your voluntary touch. 

“I don’t really know how to do this,” you confessed on a shaky whisper. “How to be happy and loved, but what I do know is that I don’t want to be this way anymore. I don’t want to be miserable and angry and afraid. But that's all I’ve ever known. Good things–and people–don’t happen to me.”

“They do now,” Andy replied fervently, lifting your hand and meeting your tearful gaze as he pressed his lips to your knuckles in a soft, lingering kiss before continuing, “If you let us, honey, we’ll show you what it’s like to be loved and happy. We’ll do everything we can to give you the kind of life you deserve.”

“That’s all we want for you, omega,” Ari added, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand clutched so firmly in his. “We just want to love you.”

Your hackles didn’t rise at their perfect words and promises, instead, you felt something unfamiliar flutter to life in your chest. 

It was light, and it felt like hope, and you thought that maybe–just maybe–you could let it plant like a seed in your heart, and you could tend to it daily, allowing–no, encouraging–it to grow.

Maybe, one day, you wouldn’t be like a dark, dirty house inside, you’d be more like a beautiful, thriving garden.

You just needed to try. To really try.

“Can we hug you, honey?” Andy asked softly, breaking you from your thoughts as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

You nodded without hesitation, even quavering out a quiet, “Please.”

And you didn’t even have a second to overthink or regret the vulnerability and neediness of your plea–of your submission to Andy’s request–before both of your alphas were moving as one. 

Andy and Ari carefully smushed you between them, murmuring a litany of praise and love as you went pliant in their hold, feeling that spark of hope in your chest glow a little brighter as you finally surrendered to them–and their love–completely and without reserve. 

🥺🥺🥺

I know some of you may be disappointed that I’ve spent a lot of time on this trio lately, but the muse was just so enamored with them, and their story flowed so easily! And now we are FINALLY moving into a good, non-angsty place for these babies!!!

—

Please take a moment to drop a comment or reblog. Engagement is the fuel that keeps writers writing and sharing their work for your enjoyment, so do your part to keep our fandom alive. Serial likers will be blocked.

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

Please note that I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, or published anywhere other than my Tumblr. I also do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI platforms. Reblogs are most welcome and encouraged though! ❤️

[snowpiercer21]

She needs to make like Elsa and let it go..poor women.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Irreverent

Pairing: Soft Dark!Andy Barber x Witness!Reader

Summary: You’re a distraction—you make him think about things he shouldn’t. Things he really, really shouldn’t. 

Word count: 8,179

Warnings: Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Infidelity, Obsession, Obsessive behavior, Public sex, Gaslighting, minor descriptions of violence, Praise kink, Dead dove do not eat, Active shooter situation

A/N: omg. i kept daydreaming about soft!dark Andy Barber getting nasty in the courthouse, and it evolved into this. i really hope y’all enjoy it! as always comments are amazing, and reblogs are golden. thank you all so much for reading! divider by @whimsicalrogers​ 

This is a work of FICTION, and it is Dark, so I assume once you’ve clicked through the link that you are comfortable with that. I do not give consent for my work to be copied, translated, or posted elsewhere, even if I am credited. This work is entirely mine, and unbeta’d, so read at your own risk! Enjoy 😘

🚫

You’re so small when you walk in the door to the police station—and not just because you’re almost two full heads shorter than he is. You’re actively trying to make yourself smaller, unnoticeable. It’s obvious your intention is self preservation, which makes sense given what you’re here to talk about—who you’re here to talk about. 

It makes him want to protect you. 

Keep reading

[snowpiercer21]

Like what..did he? But what about the?

[stargazingfangirl18]

Up In Flames

Pairing: Andy Barber x Fem!Reader x Ari Levinson Word Count: 3,448 Summary: Thanks to the unrelenting agony of your heat, your stubborn resistance–and all of your well-crafted defenses–slowly begin to crumble. Warnings: A/B/O AU. M/F/M dynamic. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Sassy, untrusting, rough around the edges!Reader. A fictional verse that is not kind to omegas. Reference to past physical and sexual abuse (not by Andy or Ari). Unprotected sex with very firm boundaries. Heat sex/knotting. Feels. Smidge of angst (but it’s therapeutic).  

A/N: I think we have all been waiting for this… Enjoy 😘

POUND TOWN MASTERLIST

Two days.

You lasted two whole days of enduring the worst and most painful heat you had ever had–all on your lonesome–before you finally crawled to your bedroom door and unlocked it.

Just that small movement drained the last of your ebbing energy, and you collapsed into the pathetic nest you had fashioned on your floor a few feet away, uncaring that you were naked and as vulnerable as ever.

You had never been so exhausted and miserable in your life, your body rattling with intense waves of pain every few moments, needling along every inch of you in a way that was so unbearable you had already bit your tongue raw to suppress your agonized screams.

As your door tentatively pushed open and Andy and Ari came into view–looking exhausted themselves, and rumpled, too–you couldn’t even muster the stink eye they deserved because this was all their fault. 

If you were still at the breeder’s you’d still be on suppressants.

If you weren’t theirs now, in close proximity to them always, and constantly exposed to the low key courting that was going on on a daily basis, this never would have happened.

Because both your body and your inner omega knew that you were in the presence of what you, an omega, needed most, what you existed for–the knots of your alphas to claim you–and right now–take away your pain.

You had tried everything to get through this yourself, to bear the unimaginable pain, to distract yourself from the tempting, looming presence of your alphas just outside your room. 

You had sat in your bath tub and let cold water pour down on you for hours.

Then you had tried hot water to see if that helped any better–it didn’t.

You had even resorted to touching yourself despite knowing Andy and Ari were just a few feet away and would be able to hear and scent what you were doing, but you hadn’t been able to make yourself orgasm, and all of your attempts to pleasure yourself just fell flat. 

No matter what you did, your mind kept straying—fixating—on the presence of Andy and Ari just outside of your room, one sitting on either side of your door, as close as you would let them be for now.

Every so often, you would get a whiff of their scents, and for just a second, the agony would recede before it came roaring back ten times over. 

Like now, as Andy and Ari hesitantly inched closer. Their scents rushed into your room and hung heavy in the air as you whimpered in sheer torture, your stomach clenching as a stabbing pain pulsed through you.

Panting through it, you curled up in your pile of sweat-soaked blankets that wasn’t really a nest because you had never made one of those before–you had never been allowed to.

“Let us help you up, honey,” Andy murmured as he and Ari crouched on either side of you, but you scrambled away from them.

“No!” you hissed, pressing against the side of your bed as you glared at them. “Don’t touch me.”

Retreating a few steps to give you space, Andy and Ari shared a furrow-browed look before returning their concerned gazes to you. 

“Not sure how this will work otherwise, sweetheart,” Ari told you, his smile tentatively playful.

“I’m in charge,” you panted, whining and clutching your stomach as another wave of pain seared through you. You used your bed to help you stand as you told them, “I don’t want either of you touching me more than needed for the actual fucking, because this is all this is.”

“Okay, honey,” Andy held up his hands in mock surrender, his eyes somber and unwavering. “You’re in charge. We’ll follow your lead. Whatever you need.”

Turning, you leaned against the bed for a moment to catch your breath. When you glanced back at them, you realized that both alphas were staring at your back–at the web of raised scars along your flesh from the breeder.

Even though your body was ragged and tired beyond belief, you managed to straighten your spine, your chin tilting in defiance as you met both their gazes without shying away. 

“See something you don’t like?” you snapped. “You knew what you signed up for: damaged goods.”

“No, omega, you’re beautiful,” Ari said earnestly at the same time Andy rumbled, “I’m sorry that happened to you, honey. You deserved so much better.”

Your eyes smarted and you turned away in a huff before crawling onto the bed and kneeling just off center. You watched both men for a beat, contemplating, struggling to decide what came next since you were the one running the show. 

Then your inner omega niggled at you from just beneath the surface, so you let her take charge–for the first time ever. 

“Andy,” you summoned him first. 

Although Ari had only ever been soft and sweet with you, there was something about Andy that was like safety incarnate. He soothed you and grounded you in a way you had never experienced before, and you needed that so desperately now as you made yourself vulnerable in a way you swore you never ever would. 

And to two alphas no less. 

Just as your mind started to spiral out about how weak and willing you were, the most painful ripple yet licked along every inch of you. You gritted your teeth, digging your fingers into your bare thighs as you choked back a scream.

That had Andy moving toward you quickly now, glancing over his shoulder at Ari–who gave him an encouraging nod and smile–before he focused all his attention on you. 

Andy stood at the edge of the bed and quickly undressed before his hand dropped to grip his hard cock and slowly stroke himself in preparation. 

Your gaze fell to watch his motions, and nerves or something must have played across your features because Andy was soothing you in a heartbeat, his voice low and rumbly and making your insides flutter as he spoke. 

“I won’t hurt you, honey, I promise. I just want to help take the pain away. I want to make you feel good.”

“Good luck,” you snorted, your eyes flashing with defiance as they met his.

Because you had never once enjoyed sex, and you doubted you ever would.

Andy’s lips twitched in amusement at your sass, but he didn’t hesitate to move closer, joining you in bed. 

You were overly aware of Ari–who was naked now too–sitting at the foot of the bed, watching you both as Andy reclined beside you, and you instantly rose up on your knees beside him.

As eager as you were to not be in pain anymore, you were also all up in your head at what was about to happen. So you tried to keep it as clinical as possible. 

This wasn’t real sex. This wasn’t about lust or desire or desperation for another. This wasn’t even about pleasure. It was a method to cure your ailment, and that was it.

Your jaw was clenched as you threw your leg over Andy’s hips and hovered over him. Try as you might, you couldn’t stop yourself from taking a moment to look at him.

He really was beautiful. Pale skin over flexing muscles. Dark hair peppering his chest, and his shoulders broad and rounded in a way that made your insides clench with want. His face was rosy, but rather than looking eager to fuck, his eyes just shown with worry as he watched you. 

Trying to ignore how obvious his care was for you–how it shone at you from his eyes so openly and without reserve–you focused instead on the way your pussy gushed some more as your gaze shifted to Andy’s long, hard cock.

You reached for him, unable to keep your eyes from flickering up to meet his just as your fingers closed around the hot, steely length of him and started to guide him to your cunt. You watched as Andy’s nostrils flared at your touch, as his cheek ticked, but he otherwise remained silent and stoic. 

Something inside of you desperately wanted to hide from that soft, watchful gaze of his, especially now, during something so intimate.

No, clinical! Necessary! you internally berated yourself.

Forcefully pulling your gaze from Andy’s, your eyes landed on his big hands and how they were fisting the sheets at his sides. You focused on that minute detail instead as you slowly sank down on his cock without fanfare. 

By the time he was buried to the hilt, you were unable to suppress your loud moan of relief just as something struck you–you realized that Andy wasn’t fisting the sheets because he was enjoying this, but because he was trying to resist the urge to touch you. 

And something about that realization made your pussy flutter as your chest ached, but you tried to ignore it all as you let your body take over and started to slowly ride Andy.

You hated to admit it, but he felt incredible. 

This was the first time you were having sex since the last time the breeder assaulted you, and all those times–all that sex–it never felt like this.

This felt good. 

It weirdly almost felt…safe.

Most importantly, every deep drive of Andy’s hard cock inside of you was pushing the pain of your heat further and further away.

You shifted atop him, unable to help it as your hands fell to his flat stomach, and you leaned forward a little. The new angle made you gasp sharply and clench hard. 

Andy groaned in response, the sound making your insides flutter wildly as your inner omega whined in elation at making her alpha feel good. 

You saw Andy’s hands lift toward you, but then suddenly Ari was there, gently gripping Andy’s hands in his own and holding them down and away from you, just like you had demanded.

“Thank you,” Andy panted, his guilty gaze finding Ari’s before his eyes rolled back in his head as your pace picked up. He sank back with a loud groan, his fingers clenching in Ari’s grip as he moaned, “Feels so good, you feel so incredible, omega. So perfect.”

You couldn’t stifle the needy whine his praise evoked. Huffing as your face burned, you closed your eyes, trying to block them both out as you allowed your head to fall back and lost yourself to how amazing it felt to have Andy’s cock inside of you.

So deep inside of you–filling you up. Not only keeping the heat pain at bay but chasing away the soul deep emptiness that had consumed you for as long as you could remember.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Ari’s soft voice pulled you out of the murky mire of your thoughts, and you were grateful, fixating on his quiet murmurs of praise as your thighs began to burn and your insides started to pull taut. 

It was like your body had a mind of its own as your hand slid between your thighs to find your clit. Your fingers rubbed frantic circles, and you gave a wordless cry as a whole new layer of pleasure was unlocked by the added stimulation.

You rode Andy more vigorously now, so hyper aware of the way he perfectly filled you up over and over again, his hard cock hitting so many sweet spots you were only now discovering for the first time.

You came without warning, without being prepared for it. 

For the first time since you were young and experimenting with your own touch, you were orgasming. 

The white hot flood of pleasure erupted from your core before streaking through the rest of you. Your body was overwrought with it, clenching and trembling as your pussy clamped and fluttered around Andy’s cock.

He groaned loudly, his hips frantically rutting up into you a few times before he gave a shout and you felt a warm rush as he came inside you. As he pumped you full of his cum, that new sensation—and the sense of being claimed that came along with it—had you whining through another orgasm as you clawed at Andy’s muscled stomach and mindlessly rode him through the latest wave of bliss. 

When Andy’s alpha knot expanded and locked your bodies together, your mind went instantly blank and hazy–no pain or negative thoughts or deep-seeded fear to be found.

You were so head empty in a way you had never been before–a good way–that you didn’t even remember dismounting Andy to clamber on top of Ari next. 

But it was like you couldn’t get enough now. 

You needed more. 

More from your alphas–everything they were willing to give you, and then some.

You were drunk off of their pleasure scents, which were so musky with tones of desire and need, for you.

The sound of Ari’s gravelly groan of delight as you sank down on his cock for the very first time instantly  brought you back to the present.

Just in time to see his massive hands reach for you without thinking, but thankfully Andy intercepted them, kissing the backs of Ari’s hands before gently holding them down and showering you both in praise.

Despite your utter exhaustion, your body was so warm and tingly and you couldn’t stop writhing on top of Ari, moaning at how good his thick, meaty cock felt stretching you to your limit.

You started to bounce on him eagerly, letting out these sharp, breathless cries every time you took him to the root all over again, felt him drive into you so deep and good, it had your toes curling as your breath caught in your chest.

The fact that Ari came first with a blissed out moan of your name had your insides lighting up before you followed him over the edge with a wordless cry of ecstasy.

Like with Andy, the feeling of taking Ari’s knot had your mind going instantly quiet and floaty. Distantly, you had a sneaking suspicion that you were lost to your inner omega’s euphoria, but you were too blissed out and well fucked to care.

You sagged over Ari long enough to catch your breath, to wait for his knot to go down, and then your nostrils were flaring as your dark eyes found Andy, and you reached for him all over again. 

From there, the three of you descended into a marathon of desperate heat sex, where you alternated between fucking your two eager and willing alphas until your body was finally sated.

Until you were pain free for the first time in days as you passed out into a blissful, much-needed slumber.

The next morning, you woke up slowly, feeling sore and lethargic in the most pleasant way.

It wasn’t until your eyes fluttered open, and you found yourself curled up between the sleeping forms of your alphas—who had somehow managed to maintain your demanded distance even in sleep—that you remembered everything that had happened the night before.  

Shockingly, you didn’t immediately feel regret. 

All you could feel at the moment was very soft and extremely sad as you took in the distance between you, Andy, and Ari, and how they were both sleeping at the very edges of your much-smaller-than-theirs bed so they could give you your space. 

Despite being close enough that you could feel their warmth and smell the way sex and sweat still lingered heavy on their skin, you found yourself wishing they were closer. 

You didn’t want to run and hide and not look at them after a night of being more vulnerable than ever. You, not just your inner omega, you wanted to curl close to them both at once and be blanketed by their warmth and bodies and their lo—

You tried to shake that thought from your mind quickly, but it seemed impossible as you kept replaying moments from last night in your head. 

It wasn’t just the pleasure you had experienced. It was the way that for the first time in your life, sex hadn’t been used as a method to put you in your place. To hurt you or punish you. 

To violate you. 

With Andy and Ari, sex had been a way for them to take care of you. To help you and soothe your distressed omega. 

To them—and with you—sex had been a way for them to express their love for you. 

And you couldn’t stubbornly deny it any longer. 

Because all of those moments that kept replaying in your mind weren’t centered on the sex and the way Andy and Ari had prioritized you and your pleasure and needs first and foremost. 

The memories that kept gnawing at you were much more innocent…

The shaky exhale of relief and reverence Andy had let out when your bodies finally joined.

The uninhibited awe shining from his eyes as you sat atop him, taking pleasure from his willing body. 

The way Ari’s massive hands twitched at his sides, extensions of him and how desperately he had wanted to touch you.

The strand of boundless joy in his scent and the unadulterated love gleaming in his eyes as he watched you. 

The final memory hit you like a bolt of lightning, because when it had happened, you had been too exhausted and blissed out to register it in the moment…

Your body felt so loose and warm–so full and boneless all at once as you sank against the bed in a blissful heap.

Keeping your eyes open was impossible, so you didn’t even try, but you were aware that Andy and Ari sat on either side of you, close enough to feel their presence and breathe in their comforting scents, but far enough away to give you your space.

“You did so well for us, honey,” Andy murmured softly, his voice like a soothing caress along your pleasantly sore body.

“Thank you for letting us take care of you,” Ari added, his voice more of an alpha purr than speaking. “We love you, omega.”

“We love you so much,” Andy echoed, his voice catching.

And from the deep recesses of your throat, for the first time ever, a fragile omega chirp rose up and fell from your lips before you finally gave in to the call of sleep.

Now, your eyes burned with tears at the memory, your insides swooping and fluttering, somersaulting and quavering.

You had spent every waking moment since the day you were brought home trying to keep Andy and Ari at bay—trying to keep your heart protected from them and their desire to possess you, to own you. 

But if last night proved anything, it was that what they had been telling you from the start was true—they didn’t want to own you, they wanted to love you.  

And they so clearly and irrevocably did. 

Andy and Ari loved you. 

Your alphas loved you. 

Feeling overcome with a flood of emotions you weren’t prepared to feel, you tentatively shifted closer to Andy without thinking. A lump swelled in your throat, your heart beating erratically—fearfully—beneath your ribs as you moved even closer to him, on purpose.

Your fingers trembled as they willingly touched his bare chest, as you watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his body as he breathed. Something rose within you as your palm met Andy’s skin and you felt the steady beat of his heart–his heart that was so full of love for you.

A moment later, it was the sound of your quiet, muffled sob against Andy’s chest as you hid your face against his warm skin that woke both alphas.

They were instantly alert, their gazes meeting across the bed over your curled up form, eyes shining with hope and pure joy as they had a silent conversation before slowly converging on you as one.

Until you were firmly–safely–sandwiched between them, Andy’s hands so gentle as they caressed along your skin, his lips pressed to your forehead as Ari kissed the crown of your head and softly rubbed your back in soothing circles. 

And you let them. 

You didn’t resist at all, crying harder–letting go of all the fear and hurt that had been a part of you for as long as you could remember–as you melted beneath their attention, finally surrendering to their soft touches and affection.

To Andy and Ari’s love for you.

You drank it all in, basked in it–in every last word and gentle caress–so desperately wanting more as you whined your need and wept, so overwhelmed to finally have what you had always wanted your entire miserable life…

Safety, a forever home, and real, unconditional love.

CRYING IN MY ALPHA SANDWICH 😭 I will need 7-10 business days to recover from this.

Pretty please take a moment to drop me your thoughts! I am simply dying to know your reaction to this milestone!!!

—

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I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

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[snowpiercer21]

This was much needed

[stargazingfangirl18]

Overcome

Pairing: Ari Levinson x Fem!Reader Word Count: 6,520 Summary: Your dream of escaping the mob life is ruined when your father gifts you to his trusted and loyal bodyguard who’s had his eye on you for a long, long time.  Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Soft!dark mob!bodyguard Ari. Shitty parent dynamic. Being gifted to another. Forced union/relationship. Non-con to dub-con. Vaginal fingering. Slight condescension. Oral sex (f receiving). Unprotected sex. Rough sex. Feral!Ari. Breeding kink if you squint. Angst.

A/N: I’m so excited to share this story with you for my birthday bash! This story has been living rent free in my mind for years, and I’m so happy to finally bring it to life! I hope you enjoy ❤️

Prompts: Ari Levinson + “Shh shh shh, I’m not going to hurt you.” + Mob enforcer or mob bodyguard!babe + Lizard brain mode + Babe is handsy AF

The party had barely been in full swing for an hour, and you already wanted to hide.

You felt more like your father’s pawn than his guest, and you knew that your presence here tonight was solely to present a picture perfect family and united front rather than any real desire on his part to have you there because he loved you or wanted to spend time with you.

Thankfully, beyond public appearances like this, you weren’t very involved in your father’s activities. You never had been, and you never wanted to be. Even being here tonight as an outsider looking in had you anxious and on edge. 

The mob life was one you were born into, but it wasn’t one that you would ever choose for yourself. 

You didn’t believe in violence. You weren’t hungry for power or infamy. While there were definitely benefits to your father’s wealth and connections, you’d leave behind the lavish lifestyle afforded by organized crime in a heartbeat if it meant real, true freedom. 

If it meant peace.

But sadly, you didn’t get that choice. 

You were an adult still living in your parents’ opulent home, because your father had to control you like he controlled everything else, and really, at the end of the day, there was nothing you could do about it.

It had been this way your entire life. 

Feeling a headache coming on–along with the familiar burning sensation at the back of your eyes that always accompanied how hopeless you felt–you took a shaky breath and began to make your way through the sea of people surrounding you.

You felt the back of your neck prickle as you did so and glanced up, your eyes connecting with a watchful, steely gaze.

It belonged to Ari Levinson, your father’s bodyguard and closest confidant. 

Despite the way Ari was a constant looming shadow in your life, you never really engaged with him much one on one. The truth was, like everything else in your father’s orbit, Ari scared you.

It wasn’t just his humongous size and how stoic and intimidating he was, it was the fact that Ari’s duty was to protect your father–one of the most dangerous and ruthless men around–which spoke volumes about how lethal and brutal Ari himself must be. 

Granted, Ari had only ever been cordial with you, and usually at a distance, but sometimes, you swore you caught him haunting your space. You’d get a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye but when you’d turn to look, he’d be gone, the faint scent of his cologne lingering–the only evidence that he had been there, watching you. 

He was like a spectre that you couldn’t always see, but you could feel, and lately, it seemed like Ari had been watching you more and more. Or maybe you had only just noticed his unwanted attention, but regardless, it made you extremely anxious. 

Did your father tell him to keep an eye on you, too? Had you done something you shouldn’t have and now you were under a microscope? Walking on eggshells and you didn’t even realize it? 

Your belly flipped unpleasantly as you slipped outside, grateful to be the only one seeking a bit of fresh air on the stone balcony off the manor’s ballroom. 

Your anxiety wasn’t the only thing that had your stomach turning–seeing the guests tonight, who your father did business with, it was terrifying. 

Because they weren’t all mobsters. 

Some were, but most weren’t. Politicians. Law enforcement. Judges. Faces behind large charities and corporations that were supposed to do good. 

Your father’s network ran far and wide, and it made you sick to realize who he had under his thumb. 

How powerful he truly was. 

So lost to your thoughts, you didn’t realize that you were no longer alone until a deep, gruff voice spoke behind you.

“Your father’s looking for you.”

You jumped a foot, choking on a shriek as you whirled around to find Ari looming close. 

“You scared me!” you trembled, clutching your chest as you tried to take an instinctive step away only to realize you had nowhere to go with the stone balustrade at your back.

“Did I?” Ari hummed as his eyes brazenly raked your form, drinking in your floor-length evening gown. 

It was lovely but much more conservative than what most of the women in the ballroom wore. Still, it gave enough of a hint at your curves to have Ari’s gaze lingering, and your belly swooping as your eyes shyly fell to the ground. 

Between one breath and the next, Ari moved closer, looming so near now, that his warmth chased the evening chill from your body. 

Startled, you glance up at him, eyes wide. 

Something in Ari’s gaze made you think that he was amused by your reaction, and the longer you watched him watch you, you realized something else about his eyes–that they had a predatory gleam that made all of your hair stand on end.

Again, you tried to retreat from him, but you were pinned to the balustrade with nowhere to go, trapped in close proximity to your father’s bodyguard who didn’t seem to be in any rush to move away from you.

You could only imagine how obvious your discomfort was–because you weren’t good at hiding your feelings–but Ari didn’t seem the least bit concerned. If anything, he lingered, his eyes dipping from your face to drink in the swell of your chest. 

Suddenly, he reached out, gently tracing the collar of your dress, fingers skimming the bare skin at the top of your chest and making your breath catch as you shivered at his bold and unexpected touch. 

“Beautiful,” his voice was a low husk as he spoke the solitary word, but something about his tone was enough to make your face flood with heat.

Unable to stand his direct gaze any longer, your eyes fell, and you glanced down at your dress, touching the soft material as you whispered, “Thank you, it’s new.”

Ari’s gravelly chuckle had you peeking up at him from beneath your lashes, and he ducked close, meeting your startled gaze as he rumbled, “I wasn’t talking about the dress.”

As your mouth gaped in shock at his comment–and the fact that he thought you were beautiful–Ari straightened. 

He finally stepped away, gesturing for you to walk ahead of him. “Time to get you back to the ball, princess.”

Flustered, and wanting to hide now more than ever, you scurried past Ari and back inside the ballroom, feeling the heat of his gaze on you the entire time. 

A few weeks after the party, you surprisingly found yourself riding in the back of your father’s town car one night with the man himself, and Ari. 

You tried to keep your nervous fidgeting at bay, knowing you would easily draw attention to yourself in such close proximity, but it was a challenge because a cocktail of anxiety and confusion gnawed at you as you wondered why you were here with them.

You never accompanied your father on business, as it was no secret you had a genuine aversion to his mob dealings.

So it was shocking–and very much out of the norm–for you to be here right now. 

Then again, your father did enjoy making others miserable and lording his power over them. 

Perhaps that’s why you were here. 

Maybe you had done something to stoke his ire, and this was a way to make you uncomfortable and scared. 

You couldn’t think of anything you might have done, but then again, your general and complete disinterest in all your father had built–and the way you “turned up your nose” at him– made him angry. 

That wasn’t your intention though. You weren’t disrespectful, argumentative, or ungrateful. 

You just didn’t want the life he chose for himself to be yours as well. It scared you. 

Which is likely why your father didn’t love you–he just tolerated you. You weren’t the son he had always wanted, and since your mother wasn’t able to have more children after your birth, his line ended with you, and you were the ultimate disappointment to a man like him.

You jerked as your father’s voice sounded from beside you, peeking over to see him turned toward Ari, addressing the beefy bodyguard who took up almost as much space in the backseat as you and your father combined.

“You’ve been by my side for over twenty years now. Hell, I watched you grow up, Ari, and you’re the person I trust most of all.” 

Your father’s voice was so warm as he spoke to Ari–so unlike how he spoke to you–that your eyes stung and you quickly turned away to look out your window as the car drove on. 

Ari’s voice was a gruff rumble like always–as if it was rusty because it didn’t get much use–as he replied, “I don’t take your trust lightly, sir.”

“I know you don’t, son,” your father chuckled. “I’ve always known you were loyal, but last week, when that parley with Hansen went sideways and you saved my ass—“

“I was just doing my job, and I’d do it again, without hesitation.”

“I know you would. You’re fearless and reliable in a way that no one else in our outfit is, which is why I have a surprise for you.”

It was almost perfect timing, the way your father’s words still hung in the air as the car rolled to a stop out front of a brightly lit cabin in the middle of the deep, dark woods.

In the middle of nowhere.

Whereas you were confused, Ari straightened in recognition, the shadow of alarm furrowing his brow as he looked at your father and asked, “Did you receive a threat that I’m not aware of?”

“No.”

“Then why are we at one of your safe houses?”

“Because you’ll need somewhere safe and private to enjoy your thank you gift, and besides, you’ve earned a reprieve.”

Now your own brow furrowed at your father’s words as you continued to look out of your window and into the darkness beyond. You again wondered what you were doing here, especially if it was a trek for Ari, and after a long moment, you finally registered the tense, awkward silence around you. 

You glanced over to find both your father and Ari staring at you–your father with a triumphant smirk, and Ari with a stoic gaze that just hinted at his surprise, and how pleased he was. 

It took a moment for it to click, for your father’s words to replay in your mind, and then it hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking all the air from your lungs as you stared at him in horror.

Because you were Ari’s thank you gift.

Your chest hitched in panic–in disbelief–betrayal flooding through you as you met your father’s cold, unapologetic gaze. 

Before you could respond, your car door opened, and your father’s chauffeur stood aside, waiting for you to emerge. 

“Go on,” your father snapped, impatience coloring his voice and bleeding into his features.

You flinched, dazed as you slid from the backseat. Once you were standing outside of the car, your knees barely kept you upright as you shifted aside and hugged yourself tightly, staring up at the unfamiliar cabin, your mind a whirlwind of hurt, fear, and shock.

“I could always tell this safe house was your favorite,” your father said jovially as he corralled Ari closer to you. 

“Sir,” Ari tilted his head in acknowledgement, his dark eyes flickering between the wood structure and you standing a few feet away, visibly cowering.

Your father’s jovial nature quickly shifted to distaste as he turned to you. 

“You belong to Ari now,” he said in a voice so steely and uncaring–and brooking no argument–that it made your eyes fill with tears.

You knew he didn’t love you, but to give you to someone else, like you were a thing and not a person–not his own flesh and blood–it had a well of desolation opening up inside of you.

Were you really that unlovable in his eyes?

“You do what he says,” your father went on. “Anything he says. Your whole reason for existing now is to please Ari.”

“But…you can’t just give me to him,” you trembled, batting away a tear that escaped.

Your father’s laugh was mean and had you flinching again. “I can do anything I want. Speaking of want–I always wanted a son, but instead I got you. You’ve been useless to me your whole life, but now, just this once, you have something of value to me: Ari’s desire for you.”

That had Ari shifting his weight and speaking up, “Sir, I’m sorry. I never meant any disrespect—“

Your father’s features shifted to fond amusement as his eyes flickered to Ari. “These things happen. And she is pretty, at the very least,” he waved a dismissive hand at you before clasping Ari’s shoulder. “Ari, you’ve been loyal to me since you were sixteen. You’ve worked hard, been dedicated, not afraid to get your hands dirty. You worked your way up the ranks the good old fashion way, and after last week, it just solidified what I already knew–you are meant to be the son I always wanted.”

Reaching for you, your father grabbed your hand, yanking you close, uncaring of how you stumbled and squeaked in pain. When he tried to put your hand in Ari’s, you pulled away, making him hiss and turn on you.

“You better fall in line quickly, you little bitch, because you know what happens to those I have no use for.” He leaned in close, spittle flying as he snarled, “I get rid of them, for good.”

The sound you made was pathetic–a whimper and a sob combined–but this time when your father grabbed your hand and placed it in Ari’s, you didn’t pull away. You just stared down at the way the bodyguard’s hand was so massive, so much bigger than yours, and yet his touch was gentle as his thumb brushed along your trembling fingers. 

“This is more than a thank you gift, it’s a union,” your father declared. “One day, you’ll run this outfit, and I’ll be proud to hand over my legacy to you. For now, enjoy your gift.” He shot Ari a wink, not bothering to look your way. “I’ll send a driver to retrieve you both Monday morning.”

You couldn’t help but wilt beneath Ari’s unwavering gaze, which was so filled with so much yearning. You trembled harder as his thumb drew along your knuckles now, but then he sighed and took a step back. 

“I appreciate the gesture, sir, really, but I’m scheduled to be on duty all weekend.”

“Christ, you’re a workaholic,” your father laughed. “Don’t worry about it, I have Everett filling in.”

He gestured toward the car, and you saw the familiar looming figure of Curtis Everett–another member of your father’s security detail–sitting in the front passenger seat. Seeing Ari and your father’s gazes looking his way, he gave a small nod, and Ari loosened up instantly. 

It was obvious he trusted Curtis in his stead. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“No need to thank me, son. This will benefit us both. Now!” He clapped his hands together loudly, making you jump. “Go on and seal the deal. We can talk about a formal union next week. For now, have fun. You deserve it.”

A few more tears spilled over as your father spoke about you like a toy for Ari’s entertainment, and nothing more. You watched, stunned, as he made his way back in the car, and soon the vehicle was driving away, leaving you all alone, in the middle of nowhere, with Ari.

“Come on, sweet gift,” Ari husked, an eagerness you had never heard before seeping into his words. “I’ve waited a long time to have you, and I’m not waiting any longer.”

You just stared at him for a moment, your face a canvas of devastation, but when he moved closer and pressed a big, warm hand to the small of your back and guided you toward the front steps leading up to the cabin’s porch, you didn’t resist. 

What was the point? 

You knew you were no match for Ari. 

And your father had made his threat perfectly clear, you didn’t really have a choice in this matter, not if you wanted to stay alive. 

You were foolish to think you’d ever escape him, or escape this life. 

You were overcome with a deep sense of sorrow as you realized your life as you knew it–and all your hopes and dreams for the future–were gone now. 

Just like that.

It was like you were on autopilot as Ari led you inside, static filling your head and making it hard to even see or process your surroundings, let alone what was coming next. 

All too soon, you were in the large bedroom of the cabin. A humongous four poster bed occupied most of the space, and the lights were turned low, creating a warm ambiance you would have appreciated in any other circumstance. 

But right now, as panic swirled within you, you turned away from the bed, gasping as you face planted right into Ari’s broad chest. You stumbled away from him, but only got a couple of steps before he caught your wrist and pulled you close once more.

Again, you recoiled, your breaths coming quicker now as anger glinted in Ari’s eyes, making your insides curdle in terror. 

Because this was a man whose job wasn’t only to protect your father, but to kill people on his whim.

Ari tutted, taking a calming breath before he reached for you again. He yanked you flush against him–more roughly this time–causing a whimper to fall from your lips before your face crumpled and you started to cry.

Ari cooed at you as he backed you into the wall, the soft sound making your insides flutter as his hands found your hips and gave an appreciative squeeze. The next sound he made was a lewd groan as his touch grew more brazen, skimming up your sides before cupping your breasts and giving a firm grope. 

You whined, but had nowhere to go. You got a glimpse of the victory shining in Ari’s eyes at this realization as well, before you turned your face away. 

But he just took that as an invitation to lean in and press his lips to your throat. You gasped, then gave a frightened cry as his teeth nipped your skin hard enough to hurt, and probably leave a mark. 

You wept harder as Ari gave your tits another harsh squeeze before he started to unbutton the front of your dress. 

“No!” you tried to shove him away, but it was useless, so you clutched at the front of your dress instead, trying to stop the inevitable as you curled in on yourself.

Ari’s hand shot out, gripping your throat and making you shriek as he pressed your head back against the wall and aimed your terrified gaze his way. 

“If you keep fighting me, this is going to be very unpleasant for you.” His hand gripped your neck tighter in a wordless threat, and you squealed, a new wash of tears spilling over as you cried harder.

Ari took another soothing breath, that scary glint fading from his gaze as he watched you weep. He released your throat, drawing his knuckles down your tender skin as he stepped closer–right against you–so you felt every inch of his big, firm body against yours.

The way he loomed over you emphasized the intimidating size of him, and it occurred to you then, how easily he could really hurt you. And as horrible as all of this was, you didn’t want that on top of everything else. 

“Please, don’t hurt me,” you quavered, sniffling as more tears streaked down your cheeks.

Ari’s hand lifted, and you flinched, but all he did was brush the tears from your cheek. “Shh shh shh, I’m not going to hurt you,” he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to your other cheek before his lips found your ear. “I’m going to unwrap my gift.”

He started to do just that, staring you down–like he was daring you to resist some more–as he undid the buttons along the front of your dress.

You didn’t resist, you just squirmed as you whispered, “I don’t want this,” hoping that maybe if you said it aloud, he’d realize how fucked up this was, how wrong it was. 

But Ari just smirked at you. “What you want doesn’t matter, it never has, at least not to your father.”

His words were like a slap to the face. You wondered if he said them because of your resistance–because it had bruised his ego. Regardless, he pressed on a very real pain point that had you curling in on yourself and looking away, devastated.

“He never wanted you, sweet gift, but me?” Ari purred as he undid the final button of your dress and gently nudged the sides apart, baring your body to him for the first time. “You are all I want.”

You shuddered at that, more affected by Ari’s confession than you should have been, than you wanted to be.

“Yeah, you’re not used to being wanted, are you? Especially like this.” Ari pressed a kiss to your forehead before his mouth continued on, peppering a trail of soft kisses along your face as his hands pushed the dress from your body until it pooled at your feet.  

His hands anchored onto your hips, giving a possessive squeeze that had your breath catching as your heart raced.

“I can make you feel so good,” Ari whispered against your tear-stained cheek. “All you have to do is be good for me, and I’ll show you how good it feels to be mine.”

Another shiver wracked through you, your tummy fluttering in a way that made shame rise up within you. 

You weren’t sure if it was your reaction–however silent–or Ari’s own words, but a sudden feral, manic gleam sparked in his gaze.

“You’re mine now,” he growled, almost like he was realizing it for the first time. 

One of Ari’s hands lifted, gently collaring the front of your throat and making your heart skip a beat before hammering in fear as you imagined how easy it would be for him to crush your neck like he nearly did before.

“Say it,” he demanded, his touch trailing up until his thumb could test the softness of your lower lip. 

Your silence had his eyes snapping up to yours so suddenly, it made you jerk in alarm. That feral gaze glittered with warning as he said, “I won’t ask again.”

“I’m…I’m yours,” you wisped, your voice cracking with fear on the last word. 

Ari didn’t seem to mind, cooing at you as he tilted your face for better access before leaning in to kiss you hard.

Ari’s lips against yours for the very first time wasn’t sweet or savoring or even exploratory. It was possessive–an ardent conquering of your lips by his, and all you could do was cling to Ari’s broad shoulders as he thoroughly plundered your mouth and staked his claim until you were both breathless and panting.

Just as suddenly as he kissed you, Ari turned–taking you with him–before tossing you on the bed. 

You whimpered in fear as you watched him loom over your sprawled form, because you could see it–the way Ari was so close to snapping. 

He was toeing the line between giving into the carnal side of him that just wanted to fuck you and fill you, and the logical, calculating part of him that was trying not to scare you too much. 

That wanted to take his time with you.

His wide chest heaved with an inhale, then a deep exhale as he gathered himself, his nostrils flaring as he watched you like a predator that wasn’t so much going in for the kill as excited to play with its food. 

Ari’s movements were slow and calculated as he moved closer. It didn’t register in your brain that he was positioned between your sprawled legs until he gently gripped one of your ankles in each of his hands and tugged you closer. He guided your legs around either side of his thighs as he stood over your, his calloused touch shifting to cup your knees as you shook and stared up at him with wide, glistening eyes. 

He was gentle as he started to trace along your bare skin with his fingertips. His thumb brushed over the curve of your knee, his other fingers trailing along your outer thigh. When he curled his fingers and drew his knuckles up your inner thigh, you snapped your legs shut as much as you could with him looming like he was. 

Ari’s laugh was breathless, his eyes sparkling–and impossibly dark–as he met your pleading, tearful gaze and cooed, “Let me touch what’s mine, sweet gift.”

Your hesitation to do what you were told resulted in Ari’s hand once again collaring your throat and making you whimper. He intentionally aimed your terrified gaze his way as his other hand continued its journey up your inner thigh before reaching its destination. 

It was a mindfuck, the way Ari meanly forced eye contact when you were obviously so scared and vulnerable, but once he tore off your panties, his fingers were so gentle as they began to pet along your bare cunt for the first time.

“You’re so warm and soft,” he hummed, his nostrils flaring as he watched a new wave of tears spill down your cheeks. 

Your tears came harder as you felt your pussy grow slick at Ari’s touch, betraying you entirely as it gave in to the way his thumb circled your clit until it was throbbing, your traitorous body wanting more, as your hips tilted up in invitation of their own accord. 

Whining your humiliation, you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to turn away to hide. Ari surprisingly let you, releasing your throat so you could sink back against the bed and he could move closer. 

You felt the mattress dip with his weight as he planted his free hand above your head and stretched out over you. His big body sank closer to yours, mere inches separating you now as his fingers teased along your slit before dipping down to the pool of arousal gathering at your entrance. 

Gasping as Ari’s finger glanced over your hole, you whined again, fisting the blankets on either side of you as you felt your insides flutter with anticipation even as your mind wailed in despair. 

Ari’s lips touched your cheek, his words washing over you in a humid puff as he spoke,  “Stop being difficult. Stop thinking so much, and just feel. Your body wants this–wants me–even if your mind is trying to tell you otherwise. Let it feel good, sweetheart.”

It was like you had no choice but to obey him, because Ari’s fingers were circling your clit again, rubbing in a way that had you mewling and squirming and–

You came suddenly, gasping as your body locked up before arching sharply as pleasure flooded through your veins in a dizzying rush that made you keen. 

“Yeah, there you go,” Ari praised, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips as he lingered close and drank you in. “Fuck, you’re pretty when you cum. This sweet pussy is so responsive and eager for my touch, isn’t she?”

You were too stunned to resist as Ari suddenly straightened and undid your bra before tossing it aside. He groaned at the sight of you completely naked before him and took a moment to cup your heaving breasts in his big hands. He gave them a squeeze before he sank to his knees, yanking you closer and lapping up the evidence of your orgasm with his tongue. 

Vulnerability and traitorous desire warred within you, making you freeze as Ari moaned into your cunt before he spread your folds with his thumbs and tongued at your fluttering hole.

Your face flamed as you tried to weakly shove him away, but he persisted, his hand reaching up to plant against your belly in silent warning as his tongue trailed higher before flicking over your sensitive clit. 

You gasped, jerking at the delicious sensation, hating that it felt so good as you sank back against the bed–a pliant mess–and just took it. It was like with every eager lap of Ari’s tongue, with every talented tease of his fingers, your mind got quieter and quieter, and your body came to life in a way it never had before. 

When you realized you were gripping Ari’s hair instead of trying to shove him away, you felt shame roil within you, but then Ari’s tongue shoved into your cunt, and you keened as you jerked against him, your insides wound so incredibly tight that all you could think about was how badly you needed more.

When your legs spread of their own accord and you rutted against Ari’s face in desperation, he gazed up the length of your writhing body, triumph flashing in his eyes, before he doubled down and devoured your cunt until you were crying and shaking with another orgasm. 

Your tears didn’t stop once you came down from your high, a distant part of you so distraught and mourning the way you were giving in and accepting this cruel, fucked up fate that your father had dealt you.

Those thoughts were quickly chased from your mind as Ari suddenly stood over you, completely naked now. He was so big, and thick with muscle, his body flexing and his strength obvious as he easily manhandled you to the center of the bed before stretching out over you.

You sniffled as his full weight sank against you, taking up residence between your legs, as he dipped close for a languid kiss. You didn’t return it as much as endure it, but the fact that you didn’t turn away had him cooing, “Good girl,” against your lips before he retreated.

He stayed close though, his eyes like two deep, dark pools of sin as they met yours–ensnared your gaze entirely–as he lined himself up with your entrance and slowly started to fill you with his cock.

You whined at the way he stretched you, turning away then due to the discomfort, but Ari just cooed at you some more, his lips pressing against your jaw as he told you, “You can take it, I know you can, because you were made for me, sweet gift.”

He pulled back, gazing down the length of your bodies so he could watch the way your tight pussy slowly swallowed every hard, thick inch of his cock. Once he bottomed out, Ari grunted, and you felt him shudder with a shaky exhale as he basked in the feeling of your tight, hot cunt gripping his cock for dear life. 

You couldn’t help but blink your eyes back open and look at him, because you could feel the way something had shifted now that your body was joined with Ari’s.

That feral gleam was back in his eyes, and as Ari’s hands framed your hips and he slowly retreated before thrusting deep inside you once more, you could actually see his composure begin to crack. 

Your gasp was sharp as the next drive of his hips had him fucking into you harder, deeper, deep enough to make you mewl pathetically and press a hand to his flexing stomach to try to stem the onslaught of his desire.

Of his passion for you. 

But it was like being inside of you flipped that primal switch in his brain, and any care Ari had shown you before–his patience and soft touch–was gone now.

He fucked you like an animal, snarling as he pounded you into the mattress, holding you down by your waist as his hips snapped against you over and over again, and he moaned in pleasure as he used your tight, wet hole the way he had always dreamt of. 

You had a feeling that the only reason his fingers eventually sought your clit was so he could feel you cum around him, squeeze and flutter around his cock, and his obscene groan as you did just that proved your point.

You whimpered, feeling wrung out already, as Ari gave another deep rut and lingered. You felt his cock twitch inside of you, and then you jumped as his teeth grazed the hinge of your jaw before he pulled back, then out of you altogether. 

Ari rolled you onto your side, groping your ass as he held you the way he wanted and shoved back inside of you. He gave a loud moan as he started to pump into you wildly, the bed shaking with the force of your coupling before he gave a snarl as he came.

Gasping at the hot flood of his cum, you just laid there, tears webbing along your eyelashes as you felt Ari jerk into you a few more times, fucking his cum deeper inside of you before he finally went still. 

Your eyes fluttered in exhaustion, but before you could sink into a much needed reprieve, Ari rolled you onto your belly. You yelped as he yanked you up onto your hands and knees before he slid back into you, still hard despite his orgasm and already filling you with his cream.

Your body jostled as Ari started fucking you again, pounding into you relentlessly, and with so much force, that you had to press your hand against the headboard to keep from being shoved into face first in his mindless fervor.

When you felt Ari’s free hand smooth up your back, you shivered, feeling a tweak and flutter deep within you. His touch skimmed down before it rounded your hip and planted against your belly, pressing firmly. 

You couldn’t help it as you moaned on his next thrust, feeling it more now as his touch reaffirmed his claiming of you–his complete and utter possession of you. 

“Never gonna stop, I’m never gonna stop filling you up,” Ari panted, his fingers dipping to strum your clit. 

He groaned as you clenched around him at the added stimulation, countering your soft, pretty cry of pleasure with a gravelly hum of satisfaction. 

“Cum for me, sweet gift, give me one more so I can feel you grip my cock like you just can’t get enough of it, can’t get enough of me.”

Ari curled over you–his big body completely blanketing yours–as he fucked you faster. It was so overwhelming, it felt like you were being consumed by him entirely as the sound of skin slapping skin echoed around the room, along with the wet squelches of your pussy, making your cheeks burn.

Your face flamed hotter as you found yourself shoving back into the eager drives of his cock, your needy body having a mind of its own now as it greedily chased another release.

Ari’s fingers descended down your belly to play with your clit, making you keen and him groan in response as your cunt clenched hard as a result. 

A particularly firm rub of his thumb against your sensitive bundle of nerves, teamed with his hard cock hitting just right deep inside you, had you crying out with bliss, your fingers curling against the bedding as your body rocked with your most intense orgasm yet.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Ari groaned, his arm curling around your middle, holding you captive against him as his hips pistoned wildly and he rutted into you with feral desperation. “Squeeze me tight, baby, milk this fucking cock.”

Your pussy fluttered and pulsed some more at his lewdness, pulling another primal groan from Ari before he gave a shout and was unloading inside of you all over again. 

His sweaty forehead dropped to your shoulder, and he shoved into you with force–completely overcome with feral bliss–as his cum coated your insides. He continued to rut into you, fucking his cream as deep as he could into your sweet, thoroughly owned pussy.

As Ari sagged against you, you were both panting and covered in sweat.

Trembling beneath Ari’s heavy weight, you felt a few fresh tears seep free and streak down your face, because you had never had someone cum inside of you before, and Ari had done it twice tonight.

You felt so owned now, so thoroughly debauched and claimed, and you knew that there was no going back from this–you really were Ari’s now, in every way.

As you started to cry once more, Ari hushed you, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder– much softer and less feral than a moment ago–as he straightened and pulled out of you with a soft grunt. 

He gave your sides a squeeze before easing you onto your back. He thumbed away your tears next, his eyes bright with possessive satisfaction as they raked over your thoroughly fucked form. 

Ari’s hands smoothed down your sides, his touch moving lower as he shifted down the bed. You didn’t even have the energy to try to pull away as he placed a gentle kiss on your puffy cunt that was still leaking his cum.

“She’s mine now, too,” Ari purred, giving your folds one more kiss before his mouth ascended.

He kissed up your belly, then between your breasts, before he finally ended his intimate, possessive trek with a soft kiss to your lips. Ari took another moment to wipe away the last remnants of your tears as you blinked up at him sleepily, no longer shying away from his touch. 

Because what was the point?

You–and your body–belonged to Ari now, and you both knew it.

So as Ari laid beside you and tugged you closer, arranging you against his chest, you didn’t resist. 

In fact, a tiny, fractured part of you felt grateful that he was showing you any kind of warmth and kindness at all, instead of discarding you like a used fuck toy since he got what he wanted. 

“Sleep now, sweetheart,” Ari’s deep voice rumbled as he petted your head. “Because you probably won’t get much rest this weekend, so you should get it while you can.”

Even as your belly twisted in hopeless defeat, your pussy—the ultimate betrayer–fluttered with interest at Ari’s warning. 

At his sinful promise of what was to come and what he had in store for you.

You knew that whatever it was, you wouldn’t be able to deny it, deny him. 

Because this was your life now…

Being shackled to the mob, and your father, without any hope for escape.

Being Ari’s entirely–body and mind–whether you liked it or not. 

Your new reality was everything you had never wanted, but for Ari? 

All he had ever wanted was you.

And now he had you, for good.

Ngl, I made myself pretty 🥴 with this lolol. Happy, horny birthday to me lollll. Please take a moment to screech at me, I’d love to know what you think! And if your panties have been ruined bwahaha.

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[snowpiercer21]

👌🏽 *chef's kiss*