The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.
Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.
This silence was wrong.
You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.
Too late.
Simon stared at you like he’d just watched himself pull a trigger he couldn’t take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.
“...Fuck.”
The word came out under his breath, barely audible.
You wiped quickly at your face. “It’s okay.”, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.
It wasn’t okay.
And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.
He felt sick.
The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.
Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.
“Love.”
You shook your head without turning around.
That hurt more than the tears.
Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.
Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.
Because he yelled.
Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.
“Stand there acting like you deserve that.”
You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. “Simon-”
“No.” He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. “No, don’t excuse it.”
You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.
Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.
“I came home to you,” he said, voice rough. “Warm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.” He laughed once bitterly at himself. “And first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.”
Your lips parted slightly.
Simon looked away, jaw flexing.
“Spent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.” His voice got quieter. “Then I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.”
The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.
The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.
Not angry. Not frustrated.
Devastated.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.
Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.
“You don’t have to comfort me,” you whispered.
That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.
“Christ.”
He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.
“I’m sorry love,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Ever.”
You looked down, vision blurring, “I know you’re tired.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I wasn’t trying to annoy you-”,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.
“I know.” His voice cracked slightly then steadied. “I know you weren’t.”
The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.
“You were taking care of me,” he murmured. “That’s all you were doing.”
You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.
“Look at me.”
You did. Big mistake.
The second he saw how hard you’d been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.
“You never yell at me.”, you sniffled.
That one hit directly to the ribs.
Simon actually flinched.
His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.
“I swear to you,” he said quietly, “the second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.”
You could hear how honest it was.
Simon wasn’t good at pretty apologies. He wasn’t poetic, wasn’t smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.
“I hate that you looked at me like that,” he admitted softly.
“Like what?”
“Like you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.”
His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, you’d looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.
Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly against your temple. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.
“I missed you,” he admitted in a low murmur. “Missed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.” His arms tightened. “Then I come home and act like that.”
Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.
“There she is,” he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. “Thought I fucked this up properly for a second.” he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.
“You didn’t.”
“Nearly did.”
And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end✦
✦wc: 10k✦
✦author's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoy✦
This room is going to suffocate you.
Outside, there’s a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. You’re wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, they’re developing a purplish tint under the nails, and you’d think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.
But you’re burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal you’re not allowed to indulge. It’s wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat that’s hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.
Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.
Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like you’re not even in the room.
He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.
At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.
Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.
“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”
Run of the mill.
Simple.
Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.
Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.
And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.
Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.
Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.
The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.
He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.
You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.
Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.
The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.
But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.
You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.
You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.
You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.
You would’ve been home by now.
But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.
“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.
Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“
The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-
“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“
“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”
“I’m tryin’-“
“Not hard enough.”
“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“
You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.
“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“
“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”
Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”
“They are. Think about it.“
“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“
“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.
“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”
Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”
You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.
It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.
The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.
But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.
You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.
Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.
“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”
Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”
“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.
Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.
“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”
He mutters your name, but you push on.
“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“
Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-
“Sorry-“
“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.
Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.
It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.
You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-
“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“
“Stop.”
You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“
“No. Don’t want Ella-“
“Emma-“
“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”
“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“
“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”
You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.
He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.
Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.
You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.
Dean wants to be done with this.
You’re not done with him.
You swipe right on Emma.
For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.
“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.
“Baby, I need you not to talk-“
“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”
That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.
But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.
Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-
“No.” He grunts, and you blink.
“It’s okay-“
“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”
You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“
“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.
Looking at you.
His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.
“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.
You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“
“’m fine-“
“You’re not fine-“
“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.
“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”
He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head.
“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.
Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.
But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.
Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.
Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.
“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”
You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.
It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.
Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-
It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.
You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.
You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“
“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”
“A bar.”
He makes a sour expression. “Why.”
“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”
Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.
You sigh. ‘Dean-“
“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“
“Yes, you are.”
“No-“
“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.
You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.
And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.
He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.
You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.
“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.
“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.
Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.
“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”
You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.
“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.
Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”
You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.
Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.
What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.
You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.
Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.
Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.
But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.
It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.
Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.
You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-
Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.
He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.
“Where-“
“She left.”
Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“
“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”
“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“
“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”
Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.
“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”
He frowns. “No, I’m not-“
“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.
Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.
“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”
“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“
“I’m not acting like a child-“
“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.
Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.
“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“
He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.
“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”
You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“
You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.
He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.
You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.
He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.
Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.
“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.
Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-
“I don’t hate you.”
You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“
“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“
He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”
“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“
“No.”
“Why-“
“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”
You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“
“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.
His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-
“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”
It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”
You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.
“De- Dean-“
“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.
“Dean-“
“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”
You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.
Dying wish.
He still thinks he’s allowed to die.
“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.
Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“
“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.
He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“
“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“
“I told you, no-“
“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”
You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.
It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.
“What if I want to have sex with you?”
Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“
“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”
He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.
There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.
Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.
His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.
Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.
You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.
Dean mouth hangs slack.
“Jesus fuckin’-“
He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.
You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.
Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.
You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.
A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.
Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.
He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.
“You’re sure-“
“Yes.”
He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”
It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.
You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.
“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“
“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.
A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.
His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.
“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“
“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.
You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.
You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.
This is different.
Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.
He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.
“De, be- Be careful-“
You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.
“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.
And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.
He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”
You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.
“Answer me-“
“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“
“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”
“Dean-“
“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“
“I- I don’t remember-“
“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”
Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.
He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.
“Oh my- Dean-“
“I told you, answer-“
“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“
“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”
“Mmm- Mhm-“
“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“
His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.
Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.
And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.
You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.
He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“
“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“
You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.
It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.
You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off.
A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.
Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.
When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.
You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.
“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“
It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.
You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.
Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-
“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”
You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“
“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”
He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.
“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.
“Dean, Dean, please-“
He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean-“
Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.
Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.
The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“
He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.
“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“
You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.
Then he finally lets you over the edge.
Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.
You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.
“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.
When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.
It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.
But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.
Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.
“I’ll get over it.”
You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.
“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.
“Wha-“
“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”
He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.
“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.
“Blame it on the curse.”
You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.
“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”
You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought he said. “What?”
“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”
He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.
“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“
“It’s not. It’s-“
He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.
“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”
He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.
“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”
Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.
Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.
He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.
At least he still sweeps you off your feet.
Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.
“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.
“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“
Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.
He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.
Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.
Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.
You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.
He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.
“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“
Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.
But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.
He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though.
“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”
You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.
“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“
Again, he moves.
You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.
“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“
You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.
He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.
Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.
He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.
Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.
It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.
Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.
It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.
Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.
You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.
Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.
“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“
“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“
“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”
He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.
“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“
He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.
You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.
There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.
“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.
“Feels good.”
“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.
You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.
Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”
He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.
By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.
Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.
“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.
“Dean…”
“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“
He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.
You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.
“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“
His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.
Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.
“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“
“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”
He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.
You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.
But it was worth it.
Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.
✦End note: please tell me if you enjoyed it i think i started my own ovulation so. oops.✦
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❥ ANGST! (with a happy ending!) ♡♡ Katsuki Bakugo x F!Reader
❥ IN WHICH, Y/N tries to sleep off a petty argument on the living room sofa, and Katsuki refuses to let Y/N spend the night angry and alone.
"Asshole.." Y/N mumbled under her breath, gripping the blanket tight as the heat of the argument still burned in her veins.
She’d wanted to send him to the couch, but she couldn't stand the sight of him for another second. If she stayed, she knew she'd just end up yelling until the neighbors complained.
She stomped into the living room, jaw aching and eyes shimmering with frustration—it was a stupid, small argument that had spiraled into yet another representation of their mutual stubbornness.
She dumped her pillow and blanket onto the couch with a sharp huff, kicking her slippers away.
"Fine. Stay in the bedroom then." She grumbled, cocooning herself in the blanket as she sunk into the cushions.
She struggled to get comfortable, the couch cushions feeling stiff and uninviting. Still burning with the residue of his temper, she squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to fall asleep before her pride dragged her back upstairs to finish the argument.
She didn't want him to come down. And yet, every time a floorboard creaked upstairs, her eyes snapped open, waiting to see if he was actually going to be stubborn enough to let her stay down here all night.
She sighed, rolling onto her stomach as her mind refused to quiet down.
"Quit bein' so stubborn and come upstairs." He grunted from the bottom of the stairs, peeking into the living room where he could just barely see her hair.
Y/N stiffened the moment she heard his voice. She let out a loud huff—a clear signal that she was absolutely not interested in a conversation.
"I said, come upstairs." He repeated with that same demanding tone.
She burrowed herself deeper into the cushions, muttering something about how the couch was perfectly fine and he could enjoy the king-sized bed all by his 'stubborn, explosive self'.
Tense silence filled the room. Y/N was surprised that he didn't fire back, followed by the soft groan of floorboards as he got closer.
"Fine, have it your way." He grumbled in a calm tone. "If you won't come to me, I'll deal with this myself."
She didn't have time to ask what he meant before his body pressed against hers, pinning her into the cushions while he held just enough of his own weight to keep her from being completely crushed—laying on top of her.
"Katsuki, get off!" She muffled into the cushion. She fought to wiggle free, but he remained a dead weight, his arms wrapped securely around her waist.
"Not until you listen." Katsuki muttered, resting his chin on her shoulder. Despite her best efforts to remain angry, his warmth and voice quickly quieted her mind.
"I'm not listening." She insisted, though she let her forehead drop against the cushion, finally defeated. "You were being a jerk.."
"And you were being a hard-headed pain in the ass." His voice was no longer fueled by anger, completely tender.
He reached out, brushing her hair back to search her face. As her eyes fluttered open, she saw the last traces of his frustration—but the pride was gone, replaced by vulnerability and love.
"I'm not sleepin' up there without you, and you're not sleepin' on this shitty couch by yourself." His hand rested on her head, gently pinning her hair back from her face. "Talk, or we're stayin' like this until sunrise."
"You're impossible.." She murmured with a small defeated smile.
"Yeah, well." Katsuki let out a small sigh, his chest rising and falling steadily against her back. "Keep acting like a brat if you want—just start talking."
The living room remained dark, but suddenly the sofa wasn't so cold anymore.
a/n: I didn't watch the leaked movie, but the clips on TikTok were more than enough. It's been a while since I last watched the series, so I've forgotten a lot, but I'm obsessed again.
“Flameo Hotman, huh?”
Your voice was heard through the quiet bedroom as you now leaned against the closed door, keeping your eyes on your husband's back while he was reading through the letter again.
“Don't start with that too.” Zuko wasn't really amused, biting his lip while his fingers curled around the right corner of the paper.
No matter how many times he read through it, the feeling didn't leave him. Something was going to happen, and it wasn't going to end well.
At least Aang still found the time to joke around, as he had asked for some firecracker buns.
While your husband was completely engrossed, you had walked up to him, waiting a couple of seconds for him to realise that you were standing behind him.
If someone had told you that Zuko was going to become that tall, you wouldn't have believed them, but after all, you two had met when you were still teenagers.
The tall male still not noticing his lover, he sighed heavily, which made you slowly put your arms around his waist.
For a second, Zuko stopped breathing, and then a soft, too-quiet-to-hear gasp made its way out of his parted lips.
No matter how many times you would touch him and show your affection, it would still have an effect on him, a good one.
Feeling your skin on his always made him realise that he wasn't alone. Maybe back then he had enjoyed the loneliness, not having enjoyed the company of others, as they always looked at him as if he were a monster, but it changed over time.
Zuko needed someone to calm him down. Someone who felt safe, someone who wouldn't leave him, and he found that in you. You never looked at him as if he were a monster. Sure, at first you didn't get along, but that still never made you say anything hurtful about him.
Your thumb lightly stroked over the fabric of his top, the feeling of his abs beneath your finger. “Remember to breathe,” you whispered against his back, hearing him breathe in slowly before exhaling.
Without a word, Zuko dropped the letter onto the small bedside table to now hold your right hand in his. His hand was calloused and bigger than yours, yet he held you as if you could break any second.
You gently laid a kiss on his back, slowly moving your arms away from him to sit down on the bed, and before Zuko could make a sound, you put your hand on his arm to pull him down so that he was sitting next to you.
The expression on his face had relaxed a fraction, but the frown was still visible in his eyebrows. His normally picture-perfect posture now hunched slightly forward, his elbows resting on his knees while his long hair was held up in a bun, only two strands left out.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Zuko heard your question and only responded with a slight shake of his head.
It's not like he hadn't missed them, he really did. Even though everything started out badly, he still learned to like them. Aang had not really changed, still beaming with happiness and finding ways to joke around. Katara was just as stubborn as she was when she was a teenager, but also gentle with everyone around her. Toph was chaos through and through, but in the best way possible, and Sokka would always find a way to be sarcastic but also overprotective, even without the bending abilities.
But it's been a while now. Though they did send letters to each other, meeting them would mean another adventure. The start of something that they might never be able to finish.
And honestly, Zuko was scared.
While your husband was deep in thought, you had gotten out a small hairbrush from the bedside table, quietly shuffling to sit behind him on the bed as your hands pulled his hair out of the bun.
Only then did Zuko snap out of his thoughts. His long dark hair now free from the restraint. “Can I?”
He didn't even need to know what you were asking about because he knew that you wanted to brush his hair, so he gave you a quiet “yes.”
You softly brushed his hair, trying not to accidentally hurt him as Zuko slowly closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the brush.
“Your hair has gotten so long,” you murmured, making Zuko smile slightly. He knew how much you loved his hair, but wearing it down was probably your favourite.
“Sometimes I feel like you only started liking me when my hair grew long.” Zuko jokingly said while leaning slightly back so that you could brush through his hair easier.
That made you chuckle softly, making your husband realise what you were thinking about. “Don't even dare say a word.”
And you stayed quiet, knowing how much he hated being reminded of his old hairstyle.
After a couple of minutes, you put the hairbrush on the bed and gently ran your fingers through his hair, making Zuko lean back even further just to feel your touch.
“Starving for my touch?” you cooed, a grin making its way onto your face as he chuckled. “Was it that easy to tell?”
“Very easy.” You whispered into his ear before gently turning his face to you with your hand on his cheek.
Not wasting another second, you leaned forward, pressing your lips gently against his. Just the slightest feeling of your plush lips always made him crave more as he tilted his head slightly to the side so that he was able to press his lips properly against yours.
None of it was rushed, taking your time as Zuko relaxed into the kiss even further, but before it could get heated, he slowly pulled back, his eyes searching for yours as you opened them.
“I love you,” he breathlessly whispered, now touching your forehead against his as you responded back with an “I love you too.”
And then, Zuko realised that everything would be fine. He had you, and you weren't going to leave.
— pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Reader, Maekar Targaryen x Wife!Reader (second wife)
— content: 18+ MDNI | smut | yearning | unrequited feelings | angst | pregnancy | implied age gap | filthy smut | voyeurism | someone sees Paris
— summary: Baelor has always wanted you. Maekar's wife. He has wanted you since the first moment he saw you, and he has been very good about it. Until Maekar takes him up on an offer Baelor had made "mostly in jest", and one night turns out to be so much more than he bargained for. Aka, you are between the hammer and the anvil.
— word count: 9k
— a/n: The long-awaited follow-up to The Baby Project. 9k words!!! I am just as baffled as you are. I could not write this any shorter and still tell what I thought was a complete story. Generally, the idea of running that poor old man Maekar ragged is still amusing to me...but now poor Baelor is involved. Thank you as always for all your comments, likes, reblogs, and requests. 🖤
The great hall was a cavern of light and sound, a roaring beast fed by the voices of hundreds and the crackling of the great hearth. The air was thick, a heavy tapestry woven from the scent of spiced meat, the dripping sweetness of melting wax, and the underlying damp, mineral smell of the ancient stone walls. It vibrated with the low, ceaseless hum of a hundred conversations layered over one another. A minstrel in the corner, a man with a straggly beard and nimble fingers, plucked a jaunty, complicated tune on his lute, the notes weaving through the laughter like a silver thread, struggling to be heard over the raucous clatter of wooden plates and the occasional shout of a toast.
To any other observer, it was a scene of robust, unthinking celebration. A display of excess designed to remind the bannermen of House Targaryen's power and generosity.
Baelor could not have told you a single detail about the feast. He did not taste the wine, though his goblet was rarely empty. He did not hear the story the man to his left was telling. The minor lord was recounting a long-winded tale about a hunt that had involved a particularly cunning stag, a beast that had supposedly led three men on a chase through the Kingswood for three days. Baelor nodded at the appropriate intervals, a practiced, polite smile fixed firmly in place, but his mind was entirely elsewhere.
It was on you.
You were seated beside Maekar, as you always were, a position of honor and unassailable right at the high table. Your chair was pulled in close to his, so close that the dark fabric of your gown brushed against the black velvet of his doublet with every small shift you made.
You were laughing at something now, your head tipping back, the sound a clear, bright peal that cut through the din of the hall like a bell. The candlelight loved you. It caught the wild, waist-length halo of your hair, a restless sea that framed your face. It traced the delicate line of your jaw and the soft, vulnerable curve of your throat. And it illuminated the new lushness that three moons of carrying Maekar's child had given you.
Your body had softened, deepened. The change was subtle to those who did not look closely, but to Baelor, it was as stark as the changing of the seasons. Your breasts had grown fuller, heavier, pressing against the fabric of your dress in a way that made it difficult to look away. The bodice, cut in the current fashion, hugged the new curves, emphasizing their swell. Your hips had blossomed, creating a gentle, rounded slope that spoke of life and fertility and a profound, earthy change. Even seated, there was a tiny, barely-there swell of your belly, a subtle rounding of your midsection that was a secret the whole world now knew. You were glowing in the most literal sense of the word. Your skin seemed to hold the light, to radiate a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire roaring in the great hearth. You were extraordinary.
You had been extraordinary since the first moment. Baelor remembered the day. Maekar had brought you before his father at King's Landing, had stood beside you, his hand resting at the small of your back, a gesture of possession and protection that was entirely his. His brother, who had always been carved from granite and stern pronouncements, had looked at you with an expression Baelor had not seen on his face in a long time. It was a look of fierce, tender pride. This is my betrothed, Maekar had said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. And Baelor had looked at you, at your warm, playful eyes and the genuine smile that reached them, and felt something shift in his chest. It was a physical sensation, like a heavy stone finding its final resting place at the bottom of a deep, cold river. Heavy. Permanent. Entirely too late.
That was a year ago. A year of watching you belong completely and devastatingly to his brother. In that time, Baelor had become a connoisseur of your intimacy. He saw it in the way Maekar's hands would find you in any room, a steadying touch on your elbow, a possessive caress on the nape of your neck, a brushing of stray hair behind your ear. He saw it in the way you looked at Maekar, as if he had personally hung every star in the sky just for your amusement, your gaze wide and adoring. He saw it in the way his brother had come alive. Maekar smiled more now. He laughed, a rare and startling sound like rocks grinding together, rough but genuine. He moved with a new ease, a lightness that Baelor knew, with a certainty that was a physical ache, was because of you.
He was not the only one looking tonight. The young lord three seats down, a boy with a fresh face and an eager gaze, kept finding reasons to glance toward the high table. He would look at his plate, seemingly fascinated by a piece of parsley, then at his companion, then his eyes would dart to you, lingering a second too long before he remembered himself and blushed. The knight across the table, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a thick neck, was less subtle. His eyes would fix on you whenever you laughed, his gaze heavy and appreciative. He would take a long draught of his ale, his eyes never leaving you, admiring something he knew he could not touch.
Men had always looked at you. Baelor understood it — a visceral, helpless impulse, the particular misery of a man who knew exactly what he could not have. He could have anything he desired, but he could not have you. You were Maekar's. You carried Maekar's child. You looked at Maekar as if he were the center of your world. And in the face of that, all of Baelor's power felt like dust and ashes.
You leaned in toward Maekar now, your body curving into his space, seeking his warmth. Your lips brushed close to his ear, your thick hair falling forward to curtain the moment, creating a private world in the middle of the crowded hall. You were saying something meant only for him, a secret whispered in the language of lovers. Your fingers curled around his forearm. Whatever it was you said, it caused a reaction. Maekar's mouth curved in that rare way it only ever did for you. He turned his head, his platinum blonde hair almost white in the candlelight, catching the glow, and said something back. Your response was immediate. You laughed again. Baelor's eyes shifted from you and found his brother's eyes already on him.
Maekar said nothing. He simply held Baelor's gaze from across the table, his violet eyes steady and knowing. Baelor held his gaze for one beat, two, the air between them thick and charged with things that could not be spoken. The noise of the hall faded to a dull roar. He could feel the muscles in his jaw tighten, a familiar, low-grade ache that had become his constant companion. Then he looked away, his gaze dropping to the dark, swirling surface of the wine in his goblet. He reached for it, his fingers closing around the stem. He needed the solid feel of it, the coolness. He did not lift it to drink.
Maekar looked away too, his attention returning to you as if nothing had happened, as if the silent exchange had been a figment of Baelor's imagination. But Maekar did not forget. He remembered the conversation from days ago with a vividness that made his stomach clench. He had gone to Baelor's solar, seeking company, sympathy. Baelor had made his offer then, his voice calm and even. Are you seeking assistance? He had said. Maekar had been furious. He was frankly lightly offended still. Baelor had seen it in his eyes tonight, a lingering resentment beneath the surface of his composure, a sharpness in his gaze when it landed on Baelor. It was a wound to Maekar's pride, a suggestion that he could not provide for his own wife.
The hour grew late. The energy of the room shifted, winding down like a clockwork mechanism running out of spring. Your head, which had been held high with regal grace throughout the meal, drooped slightly, leaning toward Maekar's shoulder. You caught yourself with a start, sitting up straight and laughing softly at your own tiredness, your hand pressing over your mouth in a gesture of apology. It was a charming, vulnerable display, and it made Baelor's chest ache with a tenderness he had no right to feel.
You turned to Maekar and said something, your voice too low for Baelor to catch. But Maekar understood. He was on his feet before you had finished speaking. His hand found yours, fingers lacing through yours, and he drew you up with great care. He supported your weight as you stood, his other hand hovering near your elbow, ready to catch you if you swayed.
You made your apologies to the table with a smile that could have lit the hall on its own. Several men watched you go: the young lord, the scarred knight, and half a dozen others. Their eyes followed you, a silent testament to your beauty. Maekar's hand settled at the small of your back as he guided you toward the great oak doors. His fingers splayed wide, claiming you, supporting you. You leaned into him as you walked, your head tilting toward his shoulder, your body seeking his support. Just before you passed through the heavy doors, you laughed at something he said, quiet and private, just for him. The sound was like a handful of glittering jewels tossed into the air, bright and beautiful and fleeting, and then it was gone.
The doors swung shut behind you both. Baelor looked down at his wine. The hall felt dimmer somehow, though the candles had not changed. He sat in the dimming light, the ghost of your laughter still ringing in his ears, and waited for the pain to recede into the dull ache he knew so well.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, the latch sliding home with a final, wooden thud that severed the noise of the feast from the sanctuary of your chambers. The roar of the hall, the clinking of goblets, the drunken laughter of the bannermen — it all vanished, replaced instantly by the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the man beside you.
You had taken only two steps into the room, your hand still resting in the crook of Maekar's elbow, when he turned you. The movement was swift but not rough. His hands came up to cradle your face, palms warm and calloused. He didn't speak. He simply looked at you, his pale violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs, as if he were reminding himself, in the quiet dark, that you were real. That you were his.
Then his mouth descended on yours.
It was a slow, deep, consuming kiss that started at your lips and pulled at something deep in your belly. His beard brushed against your chin, a rough friction that sent shivers skating down your spine.
You leaned into him, your body molding itself to the hard lines of his. Your hands released his arm and moved instead to the front of his tunic, fingers curling into the rich fabric. You pulled him closer, eliminating the inches of space between you, because any distance at all felt wrong. You needed the solid wall of his chest against yours, the proof of him grounding you.
He made a low sound in his throat, a rumble of approval against your lips, and began to move you towards the edge of the bed.
The mattress was soft, yielding beneath your weight as he lowered you down, but his eyes never left yours. He followed you down, bracing himself on one arm beside your head, his body a cage of warmth and muscle that blocked out the rest of the world.
"Maekar," you breathed, the name a sigh on your lips.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, his hands moved to the laces of your gown. His fingers were sure, practiced, but there was no rush in his movements. He undid the knots with a patience that felt like reverence. The fabric loosened, and he pushed the heavy material from your shoulders, peeling it away layer by layer until the cool air of the room touched your skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake.
You shivered, not from cold, but from the anticipation of his touch. When you were bared to him, he stilled, his gaze sweeping over you. It was a look of possession, but soft, edged with wonder. His eyes traced the new curves of your body.
His hands came up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, pushing yourself deeper into his hands. He groaned, a vibration you felt against your ribs, and dipped his head to take one tight peak into his mouth.
The sensation was electric. He suckled gently, his tongue swirling around the nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you cry out. Your hands tangled in his hair, the silver-gold strands sliding through your fingers as you held him to you. He worshipped you with his mouth, moving from one breast to the other, lavishing attention on the sensitive flesh until you were writhing beneath him, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
But he didn't stop there. His hands smoothed down your ribs, over the soft curve of your stomach, coming to rest on the gentle swell of your belly. The life inside you fluttered beneath his palm. He lifted his head, his eyes locking onto yours, and then he did something that made your heart stutter in your chest. He leaned down and pressed his lips to your belly. It was a tender, almost chaste kiss, filled with a fierce, protective adoration that brought tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
"Maekar," you whispered again, your voice trembling.
"I know," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and damp. "I know, my heart."
He moved back up your body, capturing your mouth once more. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, stealing the air from your lungs until you were dizzy with need. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against you. He shifted his weight, settling between your thighs. You opened for him willingly, your legs falling apart to accommodate the breadth of him. He reached between you, his fingers finding the slick heat of your folds.
"You are so wet for me," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "Always so ready."
You gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "Please, Maekar. I need you."
He didn't make you wait any longer. He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself at your entrance. With a slow, deliberate thrust, he sank into you.
He knew your body better than he knew his own. He knew exactly how to angle his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur, knew just how much pressure to apply to drive you higher. He made love to you with a focus that was total and complete, his entire being concentrated on the point where your bodies joined. The room filled with the sounds of your coupling — the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the bed frame, the ragged gasps and moans that tore from your throat. You met him thrust for thrust, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and the slowing rhythm of your breathing. You were sated, warm, and content, your body humming with the lingering echoes of pleasure.
Your arm rested across his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns through the light dusting of hair on his pecs. You could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm, a slow, rhythmic beat that soothed you. But as the minutes ticked by, you began to sense a shift in him. The tension that had left his body during your lovemaking was slowly returning, settling in the set of his shoulders and the tight line of his jaw. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes fixed on the dark wooden beams above, unseeing.
You tilted your head back so you could see his face. The firelight had died down to embers, casting his face in half-shadow, highlighting the furrow between his brows. You waited, watching him, knowing him well enough to know that rushing him would get you nowhere.
"What troubles you?" you asked softly.
He didn't look at you immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, as if the answer to some unspoken question was written there. Then, slowly, he exhaled, a long, heavy breath that seemed to deflate his lungs.
"I have been thinking," he said, his voice low, careful. It was the tone he used when he had been turning something over in his mind for a long time, weighing the words before he let them see the light of day.
"What of?" you prompted gently, your fingers still tracing the hard planes of his chest.
He finally looked down at you, his violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone.
"How would you feel," he began, his voice dropping an octave, "about inviting another to our bed?"
You sat up slowly, the movement dragging the sheet with you until it pooled at your waist, exposing your naked breasts to the cool air. You didn't feel the cold. You felt only a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.
Your eyes found his in the dim light, and they were already burning. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thinner.
"Who?"
Your mind was already racing, leaping to conclusions with a speed that terrified you — immediately and catastrophically to another woman. Was there someone at the keep? Someone who didn't carry the weight of his child, who wasn't swollen with the evidence of his duty and desire?
You went sharp, your voice dangerously calm in the way that preceded a storm. "What woman has caught your eye?"
Maekar started to speak, to reach for you, but you cut him off, the words pouring out of you in a torrent of hurt and fury.
"While I am carrying your child?" you demanded.
Your chest heaved with the force of your emotion. You felt a hot, searing pain in your chest that had nothing to do with physical injury. His hands found yours, gripping them tight, fingers lacing through yours, anchoring you.
"There is no one else," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "There will never be anyone else."
The conviction in his voice gave you pause. You looked at him, searching for any sign of deceit, but found only a raw, open honesty.
And then he spoke again.
"I am tired," he admitted.
"Not of you," he added quickly, his thumbs stroking the backs of your hands. "Never of you." He looked away then, his gaze dropping to where your hands were joined. "I would sooner cut off my own hand than disappoint you or leave you wanting for a single thing. But I –"
The fury went out of you slowly, like a fire running out of air. The anger that had been fueling you evaporated, leaving behind a cold wash of realization.
You looked at him and the exhaustion that had been too proud to say plainly until now, buried beneath layers of duty and pride and love. He was a warrior, a prince, a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. And he was terrified that he wasn't enough for you.
It broke your heart.
Before you could speak, to reassure him, to tell him that he was everything, he continued.
"Baelor," he said, the name falling like a stone into a still pond. "Baelor has made his desire for you known to me."
Your eyes widened. You hadn't expected that.
"I suspect he has wanted you for some time." Maekar said, his voice steady, though you could hear the undercurrent of tension in it.
He looked up at you then, his eyes searching yours for any sign of revulsion or anger.
"If you wished it," he said slowly, carefully. "If it would please you... I would ask Baelor to come to our bed. Just once."
He squeezed your hands tighter. "You are everything to me. More than I can say. I would not have you feel debased or used, nor like anything less than what you are. If I have given offense, I am sorry for it, and I swear to you I will never speak of this again.
You were quiet for a long moment. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions. You thought of Baelor — of the way he looked at you, not with the crude hunger of the other men, but with a quiet, aching longing.
And then you looked at Maekar. Your husband. The man who loved you so much he was willing to share you, to set aside his own pride and possessiveness, just to ensure you were satisfied.
You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "You are always enough for me," you whispered fiercely. "I have never wanted anyone else."
"I know it," he said, his voice rough.
You pulled back slightly, searching his face. There was something else there, beneath the sacrifice and the love. A flicker of something you hadn't expected.
"Would it give you pleasure to watch?"
It wasn't an accusation. It was a real question, your eyes searching his face, trying to understand the depths of what he was offering.
A muscle tightened in his jaw. His pupils dilated. He made a sound that was very nearly a groan, a low, ragged exhalation of breath.
"Perhaps," he admitted. The word was low and rough, scraping against his throat.
Something gleamed in your eyes. You looked at him for a long moment, this proud, exhausted, beautiful man who had just admitted he wanted to watch his brother take you to bed — and something in your chest loosened. You held his gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth.
"I think my dutiful husband has earned a single night's respite," you said finally.
Maekar let out a chuckle. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. You could feel the rapid flutter of his heart against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.
The slip was barely a barrier at all, a wisp of material that ended high on your thighs, leaving your legs bare to the shifting air of the room. Moonlight filtered through the high window, casting you in silver and shadow, defining the arc of your belly and the dark promise of your nipples beneath the thin silk. You looked like a painting of a goddess brought to life, trembling with a latent energy that seemed to vibrate right through your skin. You looked like something a man would burn cities for, or at the very least, lose his mind over.
Maekar was standing by the door, his hand paused on the latch. He had been watching you in silence, but as you turned, the air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with the static that always built between you two. He stopped moving entirely. The latch clicked, forgotten in his grip.
He crossed the room then, his stride eating up the distance between you with an easy grace. When he reached you, he didn't speak. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the wild curls of your hair, and he pulled you into him. His mouth crushed yours, hard and demanding. He tasted of wine and the dark, metallic tang of sleepless nights. He kissed you with a thoroughness that stole the air from your lungs, his tongue delving deep to stake a claim, to remind you exactly who you belonged to.
Your knees went weak, the silk of the slip doing nothing to stop the heat radiating from him. You melted into him, your hands finding purchase on the hard planes of his chest, feeling the heavy thrum of his heart against your palms.
He pulled back abruptly, leaving you gasping, your lips swollen and wet. His gaze bore into yours, intense and searching. He took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, his grip firm but not bruising, tilting your face up until you had nowhere to look but him.
"You are mine," he rasped, his voice a low vibration that you felt in your bones.
"I would never forget," you breathed, the truth of it settling in your chest like a stone.
He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less possessive. It was a sealing of a vow, a brand pressed against your mouth. The sheer force of his ownership undid you. The thought of Baelor seemed to dissolve in the face of Maekar's overwhelming presence. Why did you need anyone else when this man could undo you with a look?
He pulled away, his hands catching your wrists and gently disentangling them from his clothes. The loss of his heat was a physical shock. Resting his forehead against yours for a moment, he lingered, his eyes closed, as if he were warring with himself, fighting the same urge to stay.
Then he stepped back. The space between you felt like a chasm.
"Wait for me," he murmured, the command soft but absolute.
He turned and walked out the door, leaving you standing in the pool of moonlight, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You listened to his heavy footsteps receding down the corridor, counting them as they faded. Then silence returned, filled only by the crackle of the dying fire and the rush of your own blood.
Down the hall, the stone floor was cold under Maekar's boots. His blood was still up, heated by the taste of you, by the sight of you standing there like a queen waiting to be worshipped. He felt a strange, chaotic mix of emotions — possessiveness warring with a dark, twisted curiosity.
He reached Baelor's door and didn't bother with politeness. He knocked, three sharp raps that echoed in the quiet hallway.
A moment later, the door opened. Baelor stood there, a book still in one hand. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of his brother standing there at such an hour.
"Maekar?" Baelor's voice was rough. "Is something wrong?"
"I have something you must see immediately." His voice was tight, controlled, but there was an undercurrent of urgency that brooked no argument.
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked back down the corridor.
Baelor hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He looked back into his room, then at his brother's retreating back. There was a tone in Maekar's voice he couldn't place, yet he stepped into the hall.
"Maekar," he called, hurrying to catch up. "Brother, what is this?"
Maekar didn't slow down. "Walk."
Baelor fell into step beside him, matching his long stride. The castle was asleep around them, the shadows long and stretching in the flickering torchlight. He studied Maekar's profile, the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Maekar was impossible to read when he chose to be, a fortress of a man, and tonight he was locked tight.
Baelor's mind raced, spinning through possibilities. He prepared himself for bad news. If there was trouble, he would meet it. But as they turned the corner toward Maekar's chambers, the air seemed to change. It grew heavier, warmer, scented with something sweet and familiar.
Maekar stopped abruptly in front of the door to your chambers. He placed his hand on the wood, his fingers splaying wide. He paused, his back to Baelor, a statue of hesitation. Then, with a sharp exhale, he pushed the door open and stepped aside.
"Look," Maekar said.
Baelor looked.
And there you were.
You were standing by the window, your back to the door, your silhouette etched against the night sky. The silk slip you wore was the color of moonlight itself, clinging to your body with a faithfulness that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Baelor stopped breathing. It felt like he had taken a blow to the chest, a physical impact that knocked the air right out of his lungs.
He had thought about this. Gods forgive him, he had spent countless nights in the dark, staring at the ceiling of his own chamber, thinking about this exact thing, imagining what you would look like out of those heavy court gowns, what your skin would feel like under his hands, what sounds you would make when you were lost to pleasure, what secrets lay behind your closed doors.
Now he knew. Or he was beginning to.
You were breathtaking; a vision made flesh, a creature of such intense, terrifying beauty that it made his hands shake. You looked at him, your gaze locking onto his. There was no shyness in it. Only heat, curiosity, and a depth of invitation that nearly undid him right there.
"Baelor," you said.
Just his name, but the way you said it, the soft rasp of your voice, the way your lips formed the syllable, rushed through his veins, heating him from the inside out. He felt his cock twitch, hardening instantly against the rough fabric of his breeches.
He dragged his gaze away from you, forcing himself to look at Maekar. His brother had moved to a seat near the large bed. Maekar sat down, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back with an air of terrifying composure. This was not the furious brother who had nearly come to blows days ago at the mere suggestion of impropriety.
"What is this?" Baelor managed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
Maekar's violet eyes were fixed on him, sharp and assessing. "My wife is insatiable," Maekar said, his tone calm. "Assist her as you offered."
Baelor felt a surge of adrenaline, a mix of incredulity and a fierce, blinding hunger. He looked back at you. You hadn't moved. You were still watching him, your chest rising and falling slightly faster now, your eyes dark and wide.
This was surely a dream born of too many lonely nights. But the heat of your gaze was real.
He stepped further into the room, moving slowly, giving you every chance to step back, to send him away. He was a knight, a man of honor, and even in the face of this temptation, that honor held. This h would not rush.
He stopped in front of you. Up close, you were even more devastating. The scent of you was intoxicating — vanilla and jasmine. He could see the delicate flush on your cheeks, the soft parting of your lips. He slowly raised one hand, letting it hover for a moment before settling it on your waist.
The silk was warm from your body. Your skin was even warmer beneath it. His hand spanned your side, his thumb brushing against the curve of your belly. He looked deep into your eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of reluctance, anything that would tell him this was a mistake.
There was only a burning curiosity, a softness that welcomed him, and a desire that mirrored his own. You leaned into his touch, just slightly, a subtle movement that surrendered to his weight.
"One rule, brother," Maekar's voice cut through the silence like a whip crack. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of iron.
Baelor glanced over his shoulder. Maekar hadn't moved, but his eyes were burning, fixed on the point where Baelor's hand rested on your hip.
"You will not spill your seed inside my wife," Maekar said, his voice dropping an octave, low and dangerous. "I will not share that with you."
It was a line drawn in the sand. Baelor understood. This was a gift, but it came with conditions. The ultimate claim belonged to Maekar.
Baelor nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion of assent. He didn't care about the restriction. He would take whatever scraps of paradise you were willing to give him.
He turned back to you, lowered his head and captured your mouth with his.
Baelor kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to drink in your soul through his lips. His mouth was soft but insistent, moving against yours with a slow, sensual rhythm.
His other hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You felt the tremor in his hands, the way his restraint was already beginning to fray, and it made you ache for him. You melted into him, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid, thudding beat of his heart. The silk of your slip rubbed against him, a sensory friction that sparked fires along your nerve endings. You were caught between the moonlight at your back and the solid heat of him in front, and for the first time that night, the ache inside you began to feel like it might finally be sated.
The weight of Baelor's hands on your waist was deliberate, his fingers spreading wide as if to memorize the topography of your hips before he guided you backward. You moved without resistance, trusting him completely. The bed gave beneath you, the silk of your shift whispering against the heavy furs as you sank into the softness. He followed you down, crawling over you, the heat of him pressing down, solid and overwhelming. His mouth found yours again, and the world narrowed down to the sensation of his lips. Your lips parted without thought, an invitation he accepted instantly. His tongue slid against yours, slow and possessive, savoring you as if you were the last sip of something rare and intoxicating.
You arched into him, your body seeking more contact, more friction. Your fingers curled into the front of his doublet, the rough fabric biting into your palms as you pulled him closer, needing to bridge the gap between you. His hands never stilled. They traced the curve of your waist, drifting down to the inside of your thighs, his calluses catching on the delicate skin there, sending shivers racing up your spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air. The silk of your shift rode higher with every upward stroke of his thumbs, the fabric bunching around your hips.
Then his palms were sliding under the hem, pushing the fabric upward in one fluid, practiced motion, leaving you exposed to the firelight spilling across the room. You gasped into his mouth as the cool air hit your bare skin, the sudden vulnerability making your nipples tighten into hard peaks. Your breath hitched, a mix of anticipation and exposure.
Baelor groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips, and for a heartbeat, he simply looked. His mismatched eyes dragged over your naked form. He didn't just see you; he devoured you with his gaze, tracing the lines of your body, committing them to memory.
The distinct creak of leather broke the rhythm of your breathing. Maekar. The knowledge that he was watching, that his violet eyes were fixed on your exposed skin, made the heat inside you flare brighter.
Your need was a living thing, clawing at your insides. You slid your hands between your bodies, fumbling desperately at the laces of Baelor's breeches. Your fingers were clumsy, trembling with urgency, but he helped you, his own movements just as eager. The laces came free, the fabric falling open. You wrapped your hand around him, the heat of his cock a brand against your palm. He was thick, heavy, the vein along the underside pulsing against your fingertips. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you smeared it with your thumb, watching his eyelids flutter, his jaw clenching as he fought for control.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word a prayer torn from his chest.
You stroked him once, twice, relishing the weight of him in your hand, and his hips jerked forward, his control fraying. The firelight painted your skin in gold and crimson, glinting off the dampness already gathering between your thighs.
Baelor's gaze darkened. His mouth crashed down on yours again, but just long enough to steal your breath before he broke away. His lips trailed down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You whimpered, your back arching off the bed, offering yourself up to him. His hands found your breasts, one cupping the heavy weight, his thumb circling your nipple until it ached with sensitivity. The other lifted, guiding your flesh to his mouth.
The first pull of his lips sent a jolt straight to your core, electric and sharp. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to you as his tongue swirled, his teeth scraped gently, and his free hand kneaded the other breast with just the right amount of pressure. Pleasure coiled tight and low in your belly, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking friction, seeking him. He gave it to you — his mouth hot and wet, his fingers pinching your nipple just shy of pain, the dual sensations making your vision blur.
"Baelor—" His name tore from your throat..
He released you with a wet pop, his breath coming fast and ragged. "Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire, his eyes burning into yours. "So fucking beautiful."
From behind, Maekar's voice, laced with possession: "Isn't she?"
The pride in his tone, the absolute certainty of ownership, sent another wave of heat through you. They were both looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth wanting.
Baelor's hands slid down the length of your body, his touch reverent yet possessive. He hooked your knees over his shoulders, the movement effortless, displaying you to him. The cool air hit the wet heat between your thighs; you could feel his breath there, hot and uneven. Could see the way his shoulders tensed as he leaned in, his lips parting in anticipation.
The first stroke of his tongue was slow. Deliberate. A flat, broad lick from your entrance to your clit, as if he were tasting the finest vintage, savoring the first sip. Your fingers clenched in the sheets, your hips jerking upward, chasing the sensation. He did it again. And again. Long, slow stripes, his tongue firm and wet, learning the shape of you, mapping the folds of your sex. You were already trembling, your thighs quivering around his head, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Oh — oh gods —"
His fingers joined the assault, two of them pressing inside you in one smooth, fluid thrust. You were so tight, so hot, your inner walls clenching around him immediately, trying to draw him deeper. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration traveling through your bones and making you whimper. "So fucking tight," he growled, his voice muffled against your skin. He curled his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that made your back bow off the bed, a silent scream tearing at your throat.
Your moan was obscene, broken, your hips bucking wildly as he worked you. He thrust his fingers in and out, his thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles, his mouth sealing over you, sucking, licking, devouring. The sounds you made were beyond your control — high, needy cries mingling with the wet slap of his tongue and the lewd squelch of your arousal as his fingers pistoned in and out of you.
"Baelor, please —"
"Go on. Let him taste you." The command from your husband was the final straw. It shattered what little control you had left.
Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, brutal and beautiful in its intensity. Your back arched, your thighs locking around Baelor's head as you came, your cunt clenching rhythmically around his fingers, your cries filling the chamber. When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn't been abated in the slightest. He crawled up your body, his heavy cock dragging against your thigh. His mouth found yours again, and you could taste yourself on his tongue; sweet, wild, and feel the way his body trembled with the effort of holding back.
You pulled him down, your arms wrapping around his neck as your legs parted instinctively to cradle his hips. He broke the kiss to look at you and the expression on his face made your chest ache. It was adoration mixed with lust.
Then he was moving, shifting your body with easy strength until your head was at the edge of the bed. Your hair spilled like a dark halo over the furs. He knelt between your thighs, taking his cock in his hand, the tip already weeping with need. You reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his length, stroking him, guiding him to where you needed him most.
The first press of him against your entrance was heaven. You were so wet, so ready, but he was thick, the stretch burning in the best possible way as he pushed inside. Your nails dug into his back, your breath stuttering in your chest.
"Fuck —"
He bottomed out with a groan, his entire body trembling. "You —" His voice was ragged, ruined. "You feel —" He couldn't even finish the sentence. He just moved.
Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made your vision white at the edges, your moans turning into broken pleas. "More — harder — please —"
He gave you exactly what you begged for.
His hips snapped forward, his cock driving into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, your cries mixing with his grunts and the wet, obscene noises of your body taking him. You heard Maekar shifting, his breath audible even over the sounds of your coupling, but you couldn't look, couldn't think because Baelor was fucking you, his fingers digging into your hips, his mouth finding your sensitive spots.
"Such a good girl," he growled, his thrusts punishing, perfect. "Taking me so well — this tight little cunt was made for me, wasn't it?"
"Yes —" The word was a sob torn from your throat. "Yes, yes —"
Your head fell back, dangling over the edge of the bed, and that was when you saw him.
Maekar.
His breeches were undone, cock freed from its confines, his hand wrapped around the thick length. He was stroking himself in slow pulls, his eyes locked on the place where you and Baelor met. His lips were parted, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. The sight of him — your husband, so visibly undone, watching you being fucked by another man, sent a dark and twisted wave of pleasure crashing through you.
Baelor followed your gaze. His grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing erratic as he realized what you were looking at. He pulled out of you with a wet, sucking sound, to flip you onto your hands and knees before you could even protest the sudden emptiness. The cool air hit your soaked cunt, making you shiver, your thighs trembling as he positioned himself behind you. His palm came down on your ass, hard, and the sharp sting sent a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Then Baelor was inside you again, his thrusts immediately brutal, his hips slapping against your ass, the sound lewd and echoing in the quiet room. The sensation was perfect. You cried out, your nails digging into the sheets, your body rocking helplessly with the force of him.
"Look at him," Baelor growled, his fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head up to force your gaze forward. "Look at your husband while I fuck you."
You obeyed, unable to do anything else.
Maekar's hand stilled on his cock. His violet eyes burned into yours, his expression a mix of possessiveness and dark, hungry approval. "You love this, don't you?" His voice was sharp and precise. "Love being used like a whore."
You nodded, the movement jerky, your inner walls tightening around Baelor's cock at the degradation. "Yes — gods, use me —"
Maekar stood in one fluid motion, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He crossed to you in two quick strides, his cock thick and flushed dark. He was hard as iron, the tip glistening with pre-cum.
He was right there in front of you. His hand cupped your face gently as his thumb brushed your lower lip. "Such a greedy girl," he murmured, his voice a caress and a threat all at once. "Always so hungry."
You moaned, your tongue darting out to lick the pad of his thumb. He groaned, his cock twitching right in front of your face, another bead of pre-cum welling at the slit.
"You've spoilt her, brother."
Maekar chuckled. “So it would appear.”
The head of his cock brushed against your swollen lips. "Open." You obeyed instantly, parting your lips and flattening your tongue.
The first taste of him was home — salty, musky, the familiar weight of him on your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deep, relaxing your throat to accommodate him as Baelor fucked you from behind. The dual sensations were overwhelming. You were full, stuffed to the brim, your mouth occupied by Maekar's thick length while your cunt was stretched tight around Baelor's. Baelor's balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, sending jolts of pleasure racing up your spine.
"Fuck —" Maekar's hand tangled in your hair, guiding your head, his hips rolling slowly as he fed you inch by inch. "Just like that."
Baelor smacked your arse again and you welcomed it. "You feel incredible," he groaned, his voice strained. "So tight — so perfect."
You couldn't speak. You could only take, existing solely for their pleasure in this moment. Your moans vibrated around Maekar's cock, muffled and wet, your body trembling violently as your orgasm built again, coiling tight and low in your belly like a storm about to break.
Maekar's voice was a low growl, directed over your shoulder. "Fuck her harder."
Baelor obeyed without hesitation.
His next thrust was punishing, his hips snapping against you with enough force to drive you forward, taking Maekar deeper into your throat. His cock hit that spot inside you that made your vision whiten, that blinding point of pleasure that obliterated thought. You came with a muffled scream around Maekar's cock, your body clenching violently, your cunt milking Baelor as your orgasm ripped through you. Your throat fluttered around the thick length filling your mouth, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity of it.
Maekar groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Fuck — fuck —" His cock pulsed on your tongue, and then he was coming, his release hitting the back of your throat in thick, hot spurts. You swallowed around him, desperate to take it all, your own climax still rippling through your body, leaving you a trembling, gasping mess between them.
Baelor's rhythm faltered. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his cock swelling inside you, his entire body tensing as he chased his own release. He was right there, hovering on the edge —
A sharp, cold flash in Maekar's eyes.
"Baelor."
One word. A reminder. A command.
Baelor groaned, a sound of pure frustration, his cock twitching inside you where you wanted him most. But he obeyed. With a ragged curse, he pulled out, his release taking him by force. His cock pulsed, painting your thighs and the curve of your ass in thick, white stripes. His mismatched eyes screwed shut as he rode out the waves of his pleasure.
Maekar slowly withdrew from your mouth, giving you a moment to breathe. He stroked your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip, wiping away a stray drop of his release. His voice was soft, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.
"Good."
You collapsed forward, your body giving out entirely, every muscle liquid and spent. For a moment, there was only the sound of three people trying to remember how to breathe.
The mattress shifted, the heavy weight of Baelor's presence leaving your side, and the sudden coolness of the air struck your sweat-dampened skin. You didn't open your eyes. Your body was a vast, unmapped landscape of sensation, trembling in the aftermath, the aftershocks of your release still fluttering through your inner muscles in small, desperate waves. The sound of water splashing, distinct and wet, echoed against the walls. Then Maekar was in front of you.
"Let me," Maekar murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your chest.
You felt the cloth first against your thigh. It was hot, wrung out just enough to be warm without burning, and the sensation drew a sharp, hissing breath from between your lips. He didn't rush. He wiped away the sticky evidence of Baelor's release, the fabric dragging softly over your sensitive skin.
You forced your eyes open. The room was dim, lit only by the dying orange glow of the hearth and the pale silver spill of moonlight from the high windows. Maekar's face was shadowed, but his eyes were fixed on yours.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly.
You nodded, your throat too tight to speak immediately. Your hand moved slowly, heavily, across the furs until your fingers brushed against his wrist. You felt the steady, rhythmic thump of his pulse beneath your fingertips.
"Yes," you whispered. The word cracked in the quiet room.
"You were perfect," he said, his voice dropping to a register meant only for you, a secret shared in the dark. "So good, my heart."
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The contrast — the roughness of his beard, the softness of the cloth, the hardness of the bed beneath you — threatened to pull you under. It was almost too much.
"You are everything," he whispered against your hair. "Everything. I would have you know that."
He meant it. You heard it in the way his voice broke, just slightly, on the last word. You felt it in the tremor of his hand. You turned your face into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut again, letting yourself drift in the current of his affection. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your shoulders, lifting you as if you weighed nothing more than a feather.
The sudden change in position made your head spin. You gasped, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, steadying yourself against the solid wall of his chest. He held you cradled against him, his heartbeat a fast, steady drum against your ear. He didn't carry you far, just to the other side of the bed, where the pillows were piled high against the headboard.
He lowered you down with excruciating care. Your head sank into the softness of the down pillows, and he immediately reached for the heavy furs that had been kicked to the foot of the bed. Maekar pulled them up, shaking them out so they settled over you like a cloud, burying you in softness. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes. He sat on the very edge of the mattress, his hip pressing into your thigh.. His fingers pushed back the wild tangle of your hair, smoothing it away from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear.
"Sleep," he whispered. "I have you."
But your eyes drifted past him, drawn by a movement in the shadows.
Baelor was standing near the foot of the bed, his back partially turned. The moonlight caught the sharp lines of his shoulders as he moved, quiet and methodical. He found his shirt on the floor and pulled it over his head, the fabric sliding down to hide the skin you had only moments ago been raking your nails against. He told himself it was decency. He was giving you privacy, retreating to allow husband and wife their moment. It was the honorable thing to do.
But you could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his spine. He moved like a man in a trance, his breeches still unlaced and hanging loosely on his hips. He was watching. Even as he dressed, he was watching the way Maekar's hand smoothed your hair, the way your body curled instinctively toward your husband, seeking his heat, the way your fingers twitched against the furs as if reaching for him even in your drowsy state.
His chest rose and fell in one deep, shuddering breath he couldn't quite suppress. The longing that rolled off him was palpable, a thick wave of sadness that seemed to lower the temperature of the room. It wasn't just the night, though, that had been extraordinary, a fever dream made flesh that he would remember for the rest of his days. It was this. This quiet aftermath, the domestic belonging. This was what he was starving for.
He had touched you, tasted you, heard you cry out his name. But he would never have this. He would never be the one to tuck you in, the one whose hand you sought in the dark, the one who got to whisper that he loved you and know that you were safe simply because he was there.
One night was not enough.
The pain of it was written into the lines of his back, the slump of his shoulders. He was a man who had mastered his emotions, who moved through the world with wisdom and calm, but in this moment, he looked utterly undone.
Your heart ached for him. You saw the raw, open wound of his loneliness, and you couldn't bear it. Not tonight. Not after everything.
You turned your head slightly on the pillow, looking up at Maekar. He was still smoothing your hair, his eyes soft and full of a devotion that made your breath catch.
"Maekar," you whispered.
He stilled immediately, his hand resting warm against your cheek. "Yes, my heart?"
"Come to bed. Lay with me."
He stood, shed his breeches, and slid in beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the furs rustling as he settled. You didn't wait — you rolled toward him immediately, your body finding the familiar curve of his, your leg draping over his, your head tucking into the hollow of his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you flush against him.
Baelor had taken two steps toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
The question hung in the air, soft and certain. Baelor froze before turning slowly.
You had raised your head from Maekar's chest, looking at him over the mound of blankets, your eyes clear and steady in the dim light.
Baelor stood in the center of the room, his shirt still unlaced, looking like a man who had forgotten how to speak. He looked between the two of you — his brother, whom he loved, and you, the woman he had somehow impossibly fallen for with a terrifying intensity.
"I —" He started, then stopped. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "I thought —"
"Are you not staying?" you asked.
The question was simple. It shouldn't have undone him as completely as it did.
He looked at Maekar. Something passed between them in the silence, not permission, but an acknowledgment. Maekar's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. But he didn't speak, only held you a little tighter.
Baelor couldn't leave. He didn't have the strength to walk away, not when you were looking at him like that, not when the alternative was a cold empty bed and a lifetime of wondering.
You had already closed your eyes, your breathing beginning to slow and deepen.
"Come to bed, Baelor," you murmured, the words slurring slightly with exhaustion. "Just for tonight."
Just for tonight.
The words were a lifeline and a wound all at once. He stood there for one last heartbeat, looking at the two of you tangled together in the vast bed. Then he moved, slowly, carefully around the foot of the bed to the empty side. He looked down at the narrow space between you and the edge and sat on top of the covers. It wasn't much. But it was enough.
"Stop this nonsense, brother," Maekar murmured, "Sleep properly."
Baelor slowly climbed under the furs.
You shifted, rolling so that your back was now against Maekar’s chest. Your hand moved without thought to rest against Baelor's chest, a tether in the dark.
He looked down at your hand and felt the warmth of it seeping through his skin. His eyes locked with Maekar’s over your shoulder. Maekar was watching him, his violet eyes steady and unreadable in the darkness. Then he placed a kiss on your cheek, let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes.
Slowly, Baelor lowered himself down. He lay on his side facing you, careful not to touch you anywhere else, not crossing any line that hadn't been offered.
He watched your face in the moonlight, listened to the sound of your breathing, and felt his own sync to it without meaning to. The warmth of you radiated into his side, seeping into the cold places he had been carrying for longer than he could name.
As he lay there in the dark, watching the woman he could never keep, held by the brother he could never replace, Baelor closed his eyes and let himself pretend, just for tonight, that this was where he was meant to be.
OH THE RESCUE MISSION FIC TEASER GAVE ME BUTTERFLIES ALREADY READING IT IM SO EXCITED!!!!!
┆ - ۫ ׅ "if she dies, there's nothing in the world left for me anymore."
Being Leon's wife was hard, especially when you get kidnapped at night, while Leon has no idea until he returns to an empty home.
𝓛 EON SCOTT KENNEDY :: Your protective husband.
ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤnow playing - My Way Of Life by Frank Sinatra
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⇆ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻
⸝⸝ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤangst mixed with comfort fic :: 𝓛eon kennedy x fem!reader
╰┈➤ ｡ content & warning(s) : established relationship, angst mixed with comfort at the end, this takes place in RE9, rescue mission mixed with the plot of RE9, RE9 spoilers if you haven't seen or played the game, implied pregnancy, protective!leon, Leon immediately locks in, small age gap, Ed and Lorraine type of dynamic, no y/n, and just (your name), Leon doesn't play about his wife.
author's note: I literally didn't think it would be this long, but I kept my promise, anon teehee, I hope you like this! I enjoyed making this so much (ps, there MIGHT be grammar issues). ♡
summary / synopsis : You return home after a long day at work, expecting a normal night. You were getting ready for bed as you waited for your husband when the electricity went out, startling you. But before you could call your husband, you were kidnapped by a certain doctor. Leon comes home to find you gone, and he isn't happy at all.
Your protective husband, Leon, never liked the idea of leaving you home alone, especially someone with a past like his. He had a major fear of something happening to you; he didn't ever want to think about someone kidnapping you as bait, yet it appears his greatest fear was about to hit him and hard.
You were returning home after a long shift at your work, driving on the familiar road as you listened to old music on the radio, which filled the silence in the car. watching as cars drove past you, it was getting late. You were sure that Leon was still busy investigating that virus he didn't want to tell you about. You could only hope that your husband was okay, along with Sherry.
unaware of the danger lurking at your house or what was going to happen to you soon and fast, yet as you pulled into the driveway, you noticed something odd: the porchlight was on. You recalled that you left it off when you left for work, and Leon hasn't returned home. You made sure of this by looking for his familiar Porsche, yet nothing.
But then again, you have a bad memory sometimes, maybe you did leave it on? That should have been a major red flag, but you dismissed it as a bad memory, since you've done that a few times in the past. letting out a soft sigh as you parked on the familiar driveway, putting the car in park as you turned the headlights off.
Something in your gut told you to stay in the car, not get in the house, and just call Leon. Maybe you were just stressed out from work, tired that your own body was playing tricks on you again, but even as you turned off the engine, your gut feeling got even worse.
grabbing your purse from the passenger's seat as you dug through it for a moment, looking for your phone before you pulled it out, unlocking it quickly as you scrolled through your contacts, your finger hovering over your husband's number. He was busy with that investigation. You shouldn't bother him with your paranoid behaviour.
Yet even as you thought that, something just felt so off. Deciding to be on the careful side, you decided to send Leon a quick text, asking him if he had gotten home earlier than you and turned the porchlight on, yet even as you waited for your husband's response, something about the situation felt odd; he would've told you if he did.
As the minutes ticked by so slowly, he didn't reply. He was probably busy, deciding to brush it off as you were tired from work, grabbing your purse and keys as you opened the car door, getting out as you closed the door behind you, and making sure to lock the vehicle. As you walked to the porch, with each step, it felt heavier than the last.
You unlocked the front door, stepping inside as you made sure to check your surroundings first. You may be tired right now, but one thing you learnt from being Leon's wife was to always double-check everything, especially in moments like these. You closed the door behind you and locked it.
putting your purse down on the console table as you opened one of the drawers, digging through it for a moment or so until you finally found the hidden pistol, making sure it was loaded, and thankfully it was, kicking off your heels as you placed them to the side, you didn't bother to relax, deciding the check the whole house before you could even do anything along those lines.
You made sure all of the windows were locked and sealed shut, as well as the back door, turning the security system on. Once you made sure the house was locked tight, you finally relaxed, your muscles aching with some of your fingers cramping from typing all day, putting the pistol down on the kitchen counter.
You should probably get ready for bed; you definitely need to wash your face after having makeup on all day. letting out a tired sigh as you made your way to the bedroom, walking into the bathroom that was connected to the room, taking off your work clothes, and putting the clothes into a basket before finding something to sleep in.
Yet as you started to wash your face, barely turning on the sink, the electricity suddenly went out. startling you as you immediately turned off the tap water, that gut feeling from earlier? It got even worse, and this time, you believed it.
immediately rushing out of the bathroom and your bedroom, making your way towards the kitchen to get the pistol that you had left on the counter earlier, only to find that it was gone. Someone was inside your house. Like any rational person, you grabbed one of the knives from the kitchen drawer and walked towards the front entrance.
digging in your purse for your phone, and as soon as you found it, you unlocked it immediately, your fingers rushing to try to call your husband, but before your finger could press on the call button, that's when you heard a thud from behind you.
putting your phone in your front pocket so you wouldn't drop it and to also hide it, as you whipped around, only to find someone standing meters away from you. Before you could process it, his calloused hand wrapped around your neck, surprising you, but you quickly took the moment to stab whatever you could.
As everything had faded to black, you heard a groan from the stranger, followed by the dripping of something that you could only presume was blood. That's when your vision faded to black, your body going limp soon after.
Leon got home late. Later than he ever expected, but mostly since he was investigating alongside Sherry the mysterious string of deaths of the Raccoon City incident, driving the familiar road before he eventually arrived at the familiar house, seeing your car parked, he assumed that you were either waiting for him or sleeping since all of the lights were out.
driving into the driveway as he put the Porsche in park, turning the engine off with a click before he grabbed his belongings and got out of the car, closing the car door from behind him as he walked towards the porch, digging through his jacket's pockets for the keys, yet, as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he found that it was left unlocked.
Leon immediately became alerted, dropping the keys as they hit the ground with a clink! But he didn't care, grabbing the gun from his harness as he pushed the door open, immediately seeing the puddle of blood. It was like memories flashed through his mind, memories of you.
It immediately stirred ugly feelings in his stomach, something he didn't want to feel. that he never wanted to feel, rushing further into the familiar house as a string of curses was muttered under his breath, thinking of the worst as his heart ached.
But before Leon could search the whole house, making his way towards the kitchen, where he saw polaroids after polaroids littering the floor and counters. picking one of them up, noticing that you and he were in the picture, up close, in the kitchen. That was two weeks ago when you two had cooked together.
Leon immediately understood what happened, dropping the polariod to the ground as he crushed it under his boot, his gloved hand clenching, the leather making a sickening noise as he cursed under his breath. The timing just couldn't be perfect. It was clear that whoever had taken his wife was watching him and her for weeks.
planning this so exactly that it made Leon even angrier for not noticing the signs earlier, for not being there for you when you needed it so desperately. Leon had never felt this type of ugly feeling in such a long time; it made his heart ache. knowing that he's failed you as a husband.
But the person who had taken you forgot one little thing. You were his wife. And if you knew Leon, then you would know that he doesn't like what is his being taken away from him so blatantly. One thing about Leon is that he'll stop at nothing to get you back safely.
Leon didn't hesitate to look for you immediately, searching the entire house with urgency, trying to find some semblance of where you were at; he didn't relax. How could he? You could be getting hurt, and that thought alone scared him to death. The person who had taken you had been watching the two of you long enough to pull something like this off.
Yet, he didn't find anything, just polaroids of you two. Leon could feel his emotions welling up so terribly. enough for him to grab his phone from his pocket and immediately reach out to Sherry. The line rang for a couple of seconds before she eventually picked up, " Leon? Did you find anything about the victims? "
Leon paused, hearing Sherry's voice was able to calm down his storm of emotions, " No. Somebody took (your name).. " he replied curtly, letting out a sigh as he frowned, " ..I think there are more people involved in this, Sherry. " Leon took a glance around the messy house.
Sherry paused at Leon's words, her voice becoming worried instantly, " You should come back, I can try to track down her phone or something... this might be aligned with the case, someone took her deliberately. " Hearing her words, Leon slowly nodded even though she couldn't see him; the timing couldn't be perfect.
" I'll be heading that way then. " Leon lowly murmured, gripping his phone before he hung up, settling it back into his pocket. He couldn't even look at the polaroids that were surrounding the kitchen, immediately walking off to the front entryway. Every step felt heavier than the last.
His fingers were twitching ever so slightly before he eventually made it to the front door, slamming it open as he walked outside. The fresh air did nothing to comfort him as he slammed the door shut, locking it quickly before he rushed over to his Porsche. He didn't bother to wait around, turning on the engine quickly as the tires screeched, making an ugly noise, before he sped towards the remote building.
It took a few minutes at best to arrive at the building. He was speeding over there anyway; he was sure he ran a few stop signs and went over the speed limit, but he didn't care, not when you were gone. He couldn't care about the meaningless things. Leon took a deep breath to calm himself down, knowing well that if he got too emotional, this could go badly for him.
Taking a look down at his gloved hand as it trembled slightly, his body felt so numb, his heart felt so heavy, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to calm down, knowing well that you wouldn't like him in such a state, you would scold him. he just... he had to believe that you were still safe.
Sherry was currently trying to look for your location, her fingers quickly typing on the keyboard, hoping that she would find anything related to you for Leon's sake, knowing well he was probably a panicked mess despite hiding it with his gruff demeanor. before she had heard the door slam open.
signaling Leon's arrival, she wasn't too surprised; she was just surprised that he was managing to calm himself down, hearing the footsteps from behind her as she looked over her shoulder, seeing Leon's familiar figure, offering a weak smile that would do nothing to comfort the man, not when you were gone.
" I still haven't found anything. It's like... the signal on her phone is weak. " Sherry shook her head, but that didn't stop her; hearing Sherry's words, Leon paused. There could still be a chance that you were alive, God, he hoped that chance was right. " How are you holding up? " he asked gruffly, doing anything to distract himself from the storm in his mind.
Sherry paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she sighed, looking down at her gloved hand, watching it tremble slightly as she forced herself to look away, not wanting ot see the marks of the virus peeking through the leather fabric, " I'm... holding up fine, " she lied, of course, she would. Leon paused, hearing her trembling voice, taking a few steps towards her as he placed a hand on her shoulder.
The silence between them was slightly comforting. Even in a struggling moment like this one, the only audible sound was their breathing and the typing of the keyboard; they were still alive. That thought alone comforted both of them slightly.
When you woke up, your throat was aching, and you tried to move your arms, only to find them tied up. That's when it finally hit you, memories rushing back to you like a wave, enough to hurt your head and make the edges of your vision blacken slightly, giving you tunnel vision for a few moments as you tried to calm down.
You were in a dark room, no source of light anywhere, your eyes adjusting to the pitch-black room, taking a few breaths to calm yourself down and to not hyperventilate in a moment like this. You weren't stupid enough to start screaming for help; you didn't even know where you were.
The only things your ears and nose could make out were the smell of decay and dirt, leaving you in a confused spot as you shut your eyes, hoping that your vision would clear. But that's when you heard the clicking of something, snapping you awake instantly, becoming alert for anything.
" You're finally awake.. good, good. I hoped that you wouldn't be dead. " a male's voice echoed, leaving you in a state of confusion. Was he the only one who brought you here? You could only presume so, hearing something click as a bright light blinded your vision, earning a soft groan from you as you squeezed your eyes shut.
" Worry not, I have no intentions of harming you... yet. You just happen to be a part of the plans. consider yourself.. special. " his words echoed in your mind, plans? What plans? When you finally opened your eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the sudden lighting, you saw a man, his back facing you; he was big. You didn't recognize him.
" ...who- who are you?.. " Your voice was hoarse, a ringing was heard in your ears, making you wince slightly before the man paused at your question, turning around, seeing the man in his glory. " Oh, forgive me, how rude of me. Dr. Victor Gideon. " The name ran out in your head, yet you didn't recognize it at all.
" What do you want from me?.. " you asked. Gideon tilted his head to the side slightly as your words before chuckling, as if what you said was the funniest thing ever. confusing you even more, but before you could say anything, he spoke up, " It's not exactly what I want from you, but rather... what I need from you, Mrs. Kennedy. "
confusion filled your veins, but your mind worked through it quickly, " You're using me as bait... for my husband to what? " Your response made Gideon smile with delight, taking a few steps toward you, but you tried your best to back away with little effort due to being tied to the chair. " You smart girl, I like you. emotional but smart. " his words made your skin crawl, quite literally.
Gideon walked to your side, his larger frame towering over yours, brushing his fingers on the back of your nape, " It's a shame that you have to die, but don't worry... " his large hand wrapping around your neck, cutting off your air supply, surprising you immediately. " I'll make it painless. Your husband will be glad for that much. "
" g-get- off of me! " You tried to shake off his grip, you weren't sure what to think, he was threatening you with sweet words, enough to make your skin crawl, hearing his sickening chuckle again before he released his grip on your throat, you gasped for air for a moment.
" ..ah, I see why you're so emotional now, " Gideon slowly trailed off, making you pause, looking at the man with a confused expression, glaring daggers at him, but he didn't seem threatened by that, only smiling, " you have a life growing inside of you, does your husband know this? "
It was quiet in the room; neither Sherry nor Leon bothered to fill up the silence, just their presences comforting each other in such a dire moment. Sherry knew better than to ask Leon how he was feeling, already sensing the waves of emotions coming off of the tired man.
Sherry paused, seeing a notification pop up in the right corner of the screen. It was another body. " Leon.. come look at this. " Sherry called out to the man as he took a few steps forward, looking at the screen as Sherry pulled up the latest body that was discovered, his eyes narrowing, " I'll go check it out. " Leon lowly mumured, making Sherry pause as she looked at him with a concerned expression.
" ..I'll send you the coordinates, just.. be careful. Your symptoms could be getting worse. " Sherry reminded before she looked back at the screen, her fingers moving to type on the keyboard, " I'll keep looking for (your name). " Her words comforted Leon in a sense, before he could only nod at her words, offering a small smile to reassure her. He started to walk out of the room, shutting the door behind him, as she was the only one to remain in the room.
unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.
Leon drove to where the coordinates were, Elbridge, seeing a bunch of police cars at the scene, letting out a tired sigh as he turned off the engine, putting on his earpiece before he got out of the Porsche. making his way to the scene, forcing his brain to go on investigator mode, trying to hold in his emotions, like a dam waiting for the water to explode, the water is already leaking.
Fortunately, it was the same as the others; the markings on the deceased's body were almost like decay, another survivor of Raccoon City who had died from similar effects as the other bodies they had found. It wasn't comforting to know that he could end up like that or worse, better than being shot in the head.
Leon was kneeling by the body, the hand only peeking out, revealing the same black blotches, before he stood up, hearing Sherry's voice through the earpiece: " Talk to me. Is this one like the others? " walking towards the yellow tape before he curtly replied, " Same black blotches. "
Pulling the tape up as he knelt to get under it, hearing her voice come through again, " And it's not postmortem lividity? " he stood up straight as he replied, " No... " making his way towards his Porsche as he passed by a few cops, " No, this is different. That's six now. Six survivors of Raccoon City all dead from the same thing. "
Sherry's voice came through again as he came near his Porsche, " Yeah.. that's.. not good. " Leon replied quickly, " No.. No, it's not. " opening the car door as he got in, slamming the door shut as he settled in the driver's seat, " But.. I have something for you, " Leon grabbed his phone from the passenger's seat, not letting his hopes get up so quickly as he heard Sherry speak again, " The team has settled on a person of interest.. someone with ties to Umbrella. "
Leon scrolled through a few photos of the person, listening to Sherry speak, " Victor Gideon, " letting out a quiet hum as he placed his phone down on the passenger's seat, " Who is he? " Leon grabbed his gun as Sherry spoke again, " A former T-virus researcher. " before she spoke again, " Hey, I just got a report of a missing police officer. I-It might be unrelated, but he disappeared near where the fifth body was found. "
Leon put his gun away in his jacket, glancing over at his gloved hand, moving it slightly, " You there, Leon? " slowly shaking his head even though she couldn't see, " Yeah, I'm here. " glancing over at the rear view mirror as she spoke again, concern in her voice, " You okay? " Leon didn't bother responding, simply starting the car's engine, curtly replying with " send me the address, I'll check it out. "
In simple words, the next few minutes mixed along with hours were followed by hell itself. Leon was helping out a woman named Grace Ashcroft, even if it did mean going through hell and back during the whole night just to help her escape. His wife? Sherry was still trying to locate her; wherever she was hidden, it was a good spot, enough for her phone not to get located easily.
As the hours ticked by, so agonizingly slow. His symptoms grew worse, and his 'disease' was spreading throughout his body. Even by the end of it all, he failed to help out Grace and the little girl she was with, Emily. piling on his even larger amount of guilt. knowing that he's failed to be there for people he desperately wanted to help.
Leon couldn't even go back home; he wouldn't dare when you're not there, so when finally Sherry was able to locate you, telling him that you were at Raccoon City, Leon practically dropped everything, knowing that Grace and his wife were at Raccoon City. It was bait. Oh, he knew that so well.
They hoped that Leon would take it so eagerly, like a dog getting a treat, and he did. not bothering ot wait for backup, his emotions boiling over, he wouldn't and couldn't wait around for backup, knowing well that you were probably suffering and he hadn't been there to help you.
His number one weakness was you, and clearly, they knew that well enough to dangle his wife right in front of him, and he took it without hesitation. Leon was always so weak for you, willing to do anything just to get you back, even if it meant going back to the place he never wanted to go back to.
He had to go for you and Grace. He couldn't just wait.
You've been alone for god knows how long, the only source of light was the light shining on you, Gideon had left you a long time ago, and you were alone. listening for any sort of noise. But you gave up even doing something like that, thankfully, that man was stupid or planned to leave a small scalpel behind, it was near the light, so... here you were, trying to grab the scapel to free yourself and try to find your phone and where you were at.
After shifting for so much and scooting closer and closer to the table, you finally got near enough to have one of your fingers grab the cold metal, the sensation tingling under your fingertips as you tried to position yourself carefully. scratching the cold blade with the rope that was holding your wrists together.
Yet every so often, you thought of what that man had said to you, a life growing inside of you. It was a pestering thought. You assumed that he was lying and tried not to think much of it, yet it bugged you and stuck itself onto you like a second skin.
Regardless of that, you finally managed to free your wrists after minutes of trying to cut through the rope, wincing slightly as you moved your hands around; they were bruised. Being the rational person you were, you decided to keep the scalpel, regardless of the small blade.
slowly getting up as your body ached, you wouldn't be too surprised if that man had injected something into you when you were passed out. Your body felt much weaker than usual, to a concerning amount, but as you looked around the dusty room for any sort of exit, trying to use the same exit that Gideon had used, it was blocked with something.
Of course, he would block it with something. But you were a very persistent woman. So, like any other woman, you tried to push open the door, but the thing that was barricading the door from the other side wasn't heavy, much to your advantage. Of course, at first, it wasn't easy pushing the door open; your body was much weaker than before.
Yet as you were trying to free yourself, Leon was already in Raccoon City, roaming the ruined city, reliving a few memories as he passed by familiar buildings, but he wasn't at the center of the ruined city yet.
After minutes of slamming your body against the door, you managed to free yourself with much of your dumb luck, enough to make a small yet large enough crack to push your body through; as soon as you got out of that suffocating room, your sight was met with a ruined city. confusion flickering in your body, before you noticed that you were actually on a ruined but tall building.
much to your dumb luck. You quite literally had to be careful where you stepped because you were about to fall through a couple of floors if you hadn't paid attention to your surroundings, and that included the large holes in the floors. You had to find a way to get down to the ground and not fall to your demise.
easy right? Well, you're horribly wrong. stairs? all gone. Holes in the ground? You were sure you were going to break your bones if you dropped from a great height. You didn't even know how Gideon managed to get out of the building. because you were stuck unless you wanted your lower body broken if you dropped down.
But, much to your luck, your husband, Leon, was already searching the depths of the city; you just had to wait, and you did! hoping that Leon was actually looking for you, or you were going to sacrifice your lower body just to get down from the tall building you were trapped in.
Leon was already exploring the ruined city, and Grace was somewhere near the center of Raccoon City, but he couldn't get on the other side of that locked main gate, so he was trying to find the detonator parts for the unfinished detonator. He came across zombies and other unpleasant things like spiders, or god knows what they are. The last building he wanted to check was the tall one before he would return to the central camp.
Not the easiest ruined building to explore, but he managed to do it.
While he was looking around the first few floors, he came across a few zombies and quickly got rid of them to make a safe path for himself, hoping to find something useful within the building, and eventually, He finally got around to the top floor that was impossible to get to.
But the man was persistent. If there was a way, then there's a will to do it.
It took a few minutes at best to find something to get to the top floors, but he did it; the floors had barely any zombies in them, and he wasn't complaining, though. Leon was rounding a corner before he saw a familiar figure, squinting his eyes for a moment to confirm his suspicions. Your back was facing him, but he could recognize your familiar features even if your back was facing him. " (your name)? " he called out, making you jump in surprise, but you turned around, and you two made eye contact.
The wind was blowing softly, you took small steps to your husband; your eyes welling up with tears, so happy to see a familiar face, " Leon- " but before you could take another step towards him, something, or rather, a hand, grabbed your ankle, making you fall and started dragging you down as you screamed in surprise, Leon immediately rushed over to you, dropping his gun as he dropped down to the concrete and tried to grab one of your hands, dust swirled everywhere.
Thankfully. Leon was quick enough; his hand was holding onto your hand, and you were hanging in the air. A zombie had grabbed your ankle. Leon thought he had cleared every floor, but it was clear that one was smart enough to hide. He wasn't going to lose you now; he couldn't when he just found you.
Leon's muscles flexed as he managed to pull you up, making you land near the floor beside him as he grabbed his axe from his belt and quickly cut the zombie's hand off. Once he made sure they had died from the fall, making a sickening crunch, Leon immediately checked on you.
" hun- are you okay?- What happened to you? " his voice was urgent as he grabbed your shoulders, noticing the bruises on your body. The sight made his heart ache with pain. The dam holding back the water was starting to break because you were hurt. He didn't bother to hide his emotions as you shakily nodded your head, wrapping your arms around him as you sobbed into his shoulder.
Leon didn't bother to stay in that building any further with you; he didn't want to risk you getting hurt even more, so, after twenty minutes of going down floor by floor, you two finally made it to the ground. Leon didn't think it was smart to have a conversation right there and started taking you to the central camp, making sure to protect you from everything.
Until you two finally arrived at the tent, he made sure nobody or nothing was following you two, and once he had made sure, he checked on you. " ..are you okay?- Did anyone hurt you? " Leon asked you as his gloved hands held your cheeks, his worried eyes checking your body for any injuries, but only found bruises and scratches.
" I-I'm fine.. I'm just glad to see you. " You slowly shook your head at his other question. You weren't sure if you should tell your husband what Gideon had said to you earlier, you didn't want to dump more issues on Leon, and held your tongue, especially since you two weren't in the best spot right now.
Leon let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in when he heard your response. He wrapped his arms around your shaky frame as you two held each other for a moment, despite your dire situation. Leon was so happy to see you unharmed; he was so utterly exhausted, but having you in his arms eased his troubles.
After a moment of silence, Leon spoke up quietly, " You need to stay here. I'll have Sherry send backup to come pick you up and take you someplace safe. " his words surprised you. You pulled back from the embrace and stared at him with a confused expression. " You're... not gonna stay? " Your words made his heart ache even more. He didn't want to leave you when he had just found you yet.
He had to find grace; he didn't know what he would do with himself if he just left her alone with them. " I have to find someone. It's not safe for you to come with me. " Leon pressed a small kiss on your head. His words made your heart ache.
" I can't lose you.. I'm so scared. " Your voice shook, you weren't scared of being by yourself, you were scared of losing him. Your words made Leon pause, " I know.. But I have to help her... I love you. " Leon pressed a small kiss near your lips, hugging you one last time before he left, leaving just as quickly as he found you.
You were left alone for god knows how long. quietly crying until you couldn't cry anymore, you were just alone.. in the ruined city, whilst your husband was off to his own death, or at least you hoped that he wasn't. You hoped for everything but a horrible ending for you. You didn't bother to rush after him; you didn't want to argue with him, not when he's in such a bad state.
You subconsciously held your stomach, briefly looking down as your hand held your abdomen, a small yet sad smile appeared on your lips, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, the only sounds were the sounds outside you didn't want to name.
You were just looking around, doing nothing too crazy as you waited; minutes turned into hours. It was starting to get dark out, your eyes felt heavy, but you kept them open just in case anything happened until you heard noises outside, loud ones. enough to startle you and alert your body to stay awake, to which it did.
Peeking out, you saw a helicopter landing nearby with a few agents rushing out. One of them seemed to see your figure from a distance and quickly rushed over to you, asking for your name, to which you provided, and he immediately took you with him into the chopper. Everything after that was a blur of events you couldn't even remember due to how tired you were.
Yet, in the end of all of it. You were brought back home, and an agent stayed with you in case anything happened: you tried asking for your husband, but the agent wouldn't answer any of your questions, fearing for the worst already, but something in your heart told you to wait, just wait for him. You didn't give up on him so easily.
You forced yourself to clean the messy house and went to bed on the couch, but you couldn't sleep, tossing and turning, leaving bitter feelings swelling up inside of you until you felt sick, so utterly sick to the point you rushed to the bathroom and threw up. Gideon's words echoed in your brain.
Forcing you to remember that... rather weird interaction, what if you were pregnant? He seemed so sure when he said it with that creepy smile, you fixated on his words to the point you forgot about your surroundings, sitting down near the toilet in case you threw up even more.
until you heard a familiar voice from the entrance of the bathroom, " feeling sick after all of that? " You snapped your head towards the door, where your husband, Leon, was currently leaning on the doorframe, looking worse but better in a sense; he wasn't wearing those gloves anymore.
You could only force yourself to smile at his horrible joking, shaking your head as you stood up, " I was worried sick about you, and that's the first thing you say to me? " you mused, letting out a disbelieving laugh as Leon chuckled along with you.
" ..I missed you. There wasn't a single moment when I wasn't thinking about you. " Leon's words made your heart warm, a small smile appearing on your lips as your worries went away just by your husband's words, carefully taking his hand in yours. " You truly make me wonder why I even love you. "
