k a y l a

"Your shoulders."

You immediately straighten. Leon nods once. "Better."

You hate how satisfying that approval feels.

You hate it even more when he clicks his tongue. It's never loud. Just a small little sound whenever you do something stupid.

Miss a target?

Click.

Forget to check a corner?

Click.

Nearly trip over your own feet during a drill?

He made the noise twice that time. Click click.

It's not even intentional. Half the time he doesn't seem aware he's doing it. But after months of training together, the sound becomes synonymous with one thing;  you've done something wrong.

Unfortunately, your brain decides to take that information and run with it.

.

.

.

It becomes apparent during a mission six months later. Leon is crouched beside you, behind an overturned vehicle, while gunfire erupts across the street. 

His hand comes up, holding up three fingers. You understand immediately.

Three hostiles. You nod.

He gestures again, this time waving his hand a little to the left.

Left side is mine. Another nod. With that, you start standing up, readying your weapon-

Click.

You sit back down so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Both of you freeze.

Leon blinks.

You blink.

"...Why did you do that?" The words are whispered, barely audible under the noise of the gunfire. 

Your mouth opens. Then closes. You sit there a moment, mouthing out unintelligible words. Then,  "...I don't know."

Neither of you thinks much about it.

… At first. Then it happens again. And again. And again.

A month later, while sloughing through the underground ruins of a cathedral, his newest tag along finds out.

She’s a nice young woman. A bit younger than him, with chestnut brown hair and kind eyes. Her name is Helena, if you’re recalling correctly.

You’re reaching for something when Leon clicks his tongue. Immediately, without hesitation, you pull back

Her eyebrow raises. "Wait.”

Both you and Leon give her a confused glance.

“Leon…” she takes a breath, “Make that noise again.”

He does. As if on cue, you step a little closer to him, your eyes snapping to his form, as if waiting for a command.

Helena’s eyes widen. "Oh."

You give her a confused look, before starting to walk again. Helena clicks her tongue.

You freeze. The room goes silent.

Then, Helena lets out a laugh. It’s the most genuine reaction you’ve ever heard from her. You can almost see tears forming in her eyes as she doubles over, chuckles falling from her lips.

"You clicker trained your partner!"

Leon’s arms come up in defence. "I did not."

"You absolutely did." The woman gestures towards you both.

"I did not."

"You made her into a golden retriever!"

More laughter. You can feel yourself melting into an embarrassed puddle as Leon just shouts. 

"I DID NOT."

.

.

.

The worst part is that once everyone notices, nobody lets it go.

Chris finds out, while you both try to pursue Ada Wong. Then Piers. Then, Sherry and Jake. Suddenly everyone is testing it.

It's humiliating. It's horrible. It's nonstop.

Click.

You stop peeking out from cover.

Click.

You stop running and start listening.

Click.

You skid to a halt mid run.

The last one makes Leon groan loudly enough to be heard from feet behind you. "This is my fault."

"This is absolutely your fault."

He just rolls his eyes. "I didn't mean to do it."

Helena is quick to snort. "You Pavlov'd her."

"That's really not what Pavlov did."

"You know what I mean."

Meanwhile, you're standing still, watching helplessly while this argument happens around you. Honestly, you're still not entirely convinced it's real.

Until after the mission is over.

The two of you are alone in the safehouse. It's late. Everyone's exhausted. You're sitting on the floor cleaning your pistol when Leon walks into the room carrying two coffees.

Without thinking, you reach for yours. You don’t go for the handle. Instead, you reach for the mug itself.

The cup is hot. Very hot. Hot enough to burn. Leon’s brows raise.

Click.

Your hand jerks away before you even register the sound. The movement is instant. Automatic. Reflexive. The room goes quiet. Slowly, you both look down at the coffee. Then at each other. Then, back at the coffee.

"...Oh."

"...Yeah."

For some reason, that's the moment it finally hits him. Not necessarily because it’s funny, or because everyone keeps teasing him, no. It’s because he realizes how much you've trusted him.

For months.

Every correction. Every lesson. Every warning. Every tiny click of his tongue. Somewhere along the way, your brain decided that sound meant safety.

To listen to him. That he's trying to help.

The realization hits Leon right in the chest.

He looks away first, which is unusual. He's never been particularly good at hiding things from you.

"What?" you ask.

His jaw flexes slightly. "Nothing." 

"You're being weird."

A pause. "...You listen to me."

Your brow furrows. "Usually? Duh?"

"No, I mean..." He exhales softly. "You really trust me."

The words make you freeze for a moment. He hands you the coffee carefully this time, turning it so that you can grab the handle. His shoulder bumps yours when he sits beside you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He feels warm beside you.

Then, Click.

Your head immediately turns toward him.

Leon bursts out laughing. It’s the happiest he’s sounded in days.

You drop your head into your hands.

Are you embarrassed? Definitely.

Would you change it for the world?

Never.

The sounds coming from your mouth are as vile as the gentle smacks and squelches that fill your shared bedroom with Leon. Clinging to his pillar-like body, you press your face to his, feeling the prickly scratch of his stubble against your cheek, lips, and chin. Large and rugged, his hands cup your ass with your legs hooked over the crook of his elbows. The unfamiliar position maddens Leon, driving him to handle you with a roughness he isn’t used to using on you. You’re forced to take the girth that splits you wide, the stretch more intense in this position. Your body jostles with his muscular frame, breasts pressing into his hard pecs. He’s hot against you, barely breaking a sweat while he’s carrying you and sinking into you with soft grunts. Every thrust pulls on your heart; the pleasure he delivers encompasses your mind, body, and soul. You’re like a melted candle in his big, firm arms, shaking while he’s sturdy as can be. He’s so strong; he can handle the powerful recoil from Requiem after all. 

“Too much, princess?” Leon checks in with you, the grip on your ass creating handprints.

“N-no,” you shakily respond, toes curling from their position at his lower back. “Can you do it h-harder,” you stutter, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts. “Please,” you whimper out, your voice sweeter than candy as his glossy cock glides through your taut walls.

Leon’s hips stutter, only for a second before they begin smacking against you at a faster, harder pace. The request, paired with your hips trying to meet his pelvis, is downright explicit coming from you. 

“Thought you were my good girl,” he grunts, swiftly smacking your ass.

“I am,” you pathetically and eagerly moan, the sting on your cheek ringing through your skin.

Leon scoffs playfully, his bangs tickling your ear. “Good girls don’t moan like you’re moaning, and they definitely don’t try to ride their old boyfriend’s cock like this.”

Your hips pause their movements, tightening your arms around his neck and burying your face into his neck. “You’re not old.”

The way you said it in a hushed tone makes him chuckle. 

“Too old for you.”

“Just right for me,” you correct, walls clamping down on him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect for me,” Leon growls, delivering a single, harder slap over the same spot he smacked you earlier.

You squeal and dig your nails into his skin, drawing vibrant red marks over old scratches on his trapezius muscle.

“Let me look at you, baby,” he rasps.

You straighten your back so he can see your face, his thrusts slowing but still deep. Sharp and dark, his eyes lay their wonderment over your pretty features, taking in how divine you look. Your hair’s a mess, your eyes are watery, your mouth is agape; you’re in awe. 

“Mmm,” he hums, inspecting the obscene expression you wear, voice deeper than the vast ocean. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Leon often gets lost in how pretty you are, and right now is no exception, seeing you so fucked out is ruining any self-control he has left.

“My baby girl wants it rough, hm?” Leon’s question is punctuated with a brutal slam, resuming the speed he was at.

You can tell he’s far gone as his tongue drips with lewd words like honey.

“Y-yeess,” your stutter grows into a drawn-out moan, feeling the fat end of his cock push into a sweet spot that makes your heart flip, and your eyes roll back.

Leon’s pale blues observe your lips, traversing upward to your eyes, lost in thought, as if he’s thinking whether or not he should ask what he’s about to ask.

“Want me to ruin you?”

The million-dollar question sets the atmosphere ablaze. 

You nod, tears threatening to spill past your lash line. “Ruin me, Leon.”

Hissing through gritting teeth, Leon’s last threads of restraint snap. If you want him to break you, he will, just for his princess. 

The sharp jut of his pelvis catches you off guard, and you choke on your breath. Leon’s thick tip reaches deeper than ever before, a bulge threatening to show itself in your lower belly as he grows ruthless. You never felt him be this rough before, and it’s something else compared to his usual gentle yet dominant demeanor. There have been many times he wanted to be rough with you, but you were his fragile princess who couldn’t take too much. To finally feel his force, the one he uses during training and missions, is making your entire body vibrate. 

Your hands slip down to his firm pectorals from the impact, making Leon pause to make sure you have a good grip on him.

“Make sure you hold on tight, princess,” he rumbles, kissing your cheek sweetly.

Leon lets go of your ass to wrap a hand around your wrist, pulling it over his neck, his touch soft and gentle. You secure your hands together around his neck, your arms bending around his wide shoulders as you become flush to his body, your heart pounding against the hard planes of his chest. His steely fingers slowly skim down your arm, following it down to your ribs, waist, and hips until he’s cradling your ass with both hands.

“Gonna need it,” he grumbles, squeezing your cheeks. 

Leon’s hips pull back before pushing back in, renewing the tempo. He uses your ass as leverage to hoist you onto his cock while his pelvis meets you halfway for a hard smack. The whimpers that hit his ear as he fucks you nasty drive him crazy. You’re so incredibly wet, dripping down his balls as they smack against you with appalling squelches. 

“So fuckin’ wet,” he grunts, the force of his savage drives breaking up his words.

Leon’s mouth falls open with pants, savoring your heat that’s stretched over him like a glove.

“Makin’ a mess on the floor,” he says, grunting at the end of each strike of his ravenous hips. 

Sliding through your constricting walls, his cock pulses with a need to smear your insides with his semen.

“Let me see that pretty face of yours,” he asks you again, unable to help himself as he needs to see your face unravel. 

You shift back, but only enough to be a couple of centimeters away from his face. Seeing his handsome face causes you to moan aloud. With his bangs messy against his cheeks, his eyes are intense, mimicking the expression he has when a zombie is in his gunsight. The peppery stubble across his handsome face accentuates his features, and his charming wrinkles make you want to kiss every inch of them. He’s all yours, this beast of a man that’s capable of unimaginable feats, and he’s fucking you like his life depends on it.  

“Leon,” you whine, your heart skipping several beats as your fingers dig into his muscular back.

You almost want to tell him it’s too much, because it is, too much in terms of how good he’s fucking you. By now, he’s sure you’ve made him bleed from the scratches that sting his back, shoulders, and trapezius. 

“Feels good, baby?” 

Leon’s eyes falter to your lips, watching you chew on your bottom lip as you try not to scream from the overwhelming amount of pleasure shooting through you when he bottoms out. 

“None of that.”

Leon’s authoritative tone makes you snap out of it, and you leave your poor lip alone. Breathless gasps start escaping you every time his taut balls press up into you after he bottoms out. 

“Wanna hear you, baby,” Leon hums.

As if he wasn’t already ruining you enough, Leon’s thrusts quickly evolve into rapid successions. He knocks the air out of you, your voice reducing to short, broken cries as you try to breathe normally. Clapping skin rings through the room like dynamite, inciting a frenzy within Leon. 

“Pretty little pussy swallowing daddy’s cock like a good girl,” he snarls, a scowl painting his face.

The sudden drop of ‘daddy’ makes you cum instantly. Leon lets out a fierce growl that complements your scream as he bludgeons you with blinding pleasure. Your hips jitter uncontrollably against his pelvis, your pussy trying to close in around him. Small droplets leak out of you and around his gliding cock as his girth fights your walls from closing in on him. Clutching his muscled back, your hips' involuntary roll makes Leon’s rhythm stutter. 

“God damn, baby,” he laments, watching you cum harder than ever before.

Shaking like a leaf in the ample muscle of his arms, you whimper from the aftershocks of a mind-numbing orgasm.

“Leon,” you blubber out, tears rolling down your cheeks as you hide your face from him. 

“Sweetheart,” he coos, rushing to cradle your cheek with a hand he frees from clutching your ass. “Are you okay?”

With tears glittering across your eyelashes, you look at him helplessly, nestling into his large hand. 

“Mhm.”

Leon scans your face for any pain or regret you might have after he treated you roughly for the first time. “Why the tears, hm?”

His tender tone of voice makes your pussy quiver all over again, and he feels it. You catch one of his eyebrows perking up, and his mouth growing into a lop-sided grin.

“You fuck me so good,” you utter, eyes glossy and far gone.

Leon whistles to himself, chuckling darkly as he shakes his head. You usually don’t say things like that, but you’re completely dazed and drunk off him that you don’t care.

Though his reaction wakes you from your trance, and you soon realize the weight of your words, making you recoil in his arms. 

“Uh-uh,” he scolds you for trying to hide from him after all that, returning his hand to your ass and spanking you.

You gasp, clutching to his shoulders as he steps over the little mess of droplets on the floor. Leon lays you in a sea of sheets on the bed, and he doesn’t wait until your back hits the bed before he’s driving into you again. Such explicit whines fall from your lips, and his groans turn guttural and frequent as your sensitive pussy sucks him in. While embedding his cock into you, he maneuvers you into a position he wants you in. Sliding his palms up the bed, he pulls your legs up with his arms and plants his hands beside your ribs. Your legs are stretched out like your pussy is, allowing him absolute dominion over your body. 

You go silent for a few seconds, turning your head away as his cock burrows itself inside of you at a different, more pleasurable angle. Encircling the expanse of his vast shoulders, your nails rake his skin into new scratches, and it only pushes him further into you. Tears fall past your temples as he planks his body above you, putting his delicious weight on you. Leaning into your neck, his grunts vividly hit your ear with each slam of his hips.

“My dirty girl,” he whispers in your ear, the plump of his lips pressing against the shell of it. “Wanting this old man to fuck you like he hates your guts.”

You squeal in delight from his words, the tension in your core already building as it had no time to dissipate from your last orgasm. The mattress shifts off the bed frame with every merciless blow to your body, Leon fucking you like a complete animal. He’s never done you like this before, and it’s destroyed your state of mind. Your hips begin to shrink into the mattress, wanting to get away from the stunning pleasure as it amounts to something so intense that it’s scary. Your face contorts, and your eyebrows furrow severely, your permanently open mouth gasping for air as another orgasm starts to blur your vision. You shift your gaze to his face, and the two of you maintain explicit eye contact. His fine, but aged features harden into a smoldering expression that makes your heart swoon. 

“C’mon, baby, cum on daddy’s cock,” he thunders, voice cracking through the air, feeling your pussy constrict him in repeated pulses.

Your eyelashes flutter, and the world around you pauses, and you wail out. Sobbing as Leon fucks bliss into you, your pussy chokes his cock in unyielding convulsions. The ebb and flow washes over you like nirvana, splitting you into two and putting you back together again, leaving you changed. Leon lets out a groan that is damn near a moan, his cock spasming within your blistering walls. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he roars, kissing you madly and sending a series of groans into your disjointed mouth. 

Goosebumps prick his agitated body while torrents of semen spurt from his tip and through your cervix. You moan with delight, your womb accepting his seed with utter joy. Possessively, Leon pumps in and out of you, his swollen cock throbbing in tandem with his erratic pulse. His breath stutters across your lips, stubble grazing your mouth and chin as you milk every lost drop of him like you were made for him.

As your respective heart rates calm, the two of you are lost in each other’s eyes, swimming in the shared afterglow. He’s looking down at you with reverence, his messy hair curtaining around his face, tickling you. Leaking out of you in thick globs, his cum drops down his balls and onto the bed as he stays buried in your delightful pussy. 

“Maybe I can get you to call me daddy next time,” he huffs, looking down at your body like it’s a work of art.

You sigh, panting with your breasts heaving under his gaze. “Whatever you say, daddy.”

Leon’s sharp eyes roll across your body and up to your face, and you feel him stiffen inside you.

“You keep that up, n’ I’ll put a baby in you.”

Your glossy eyes widen, and your heart rises to your throat, your pussy squeezing him.

“Leon,” you chide, your cheeks growing hot. 

Something metaphorical, possibly. The last echoes of your final words dissipating into the summer air like a whisper, catching harsh on the heart of the ones who hold you as you go. The rustle in the grass at the moment you take your last breath, a spirit on a final walk on earth, touching the stalks one last time and feeling them shiver against your skin. A pebble kicked to the side from your boot as you fell, rolling away and coming to a halt with the shadowed side up. The final cry of your name left aching on the tongue of its speaker, voice cracking in the middle and trembling at the end.

Maybe you don't leave anything behind, because maybe there's nothing left to leave. Maybe your only possessions get burned with you, scattering their ashes into the sky and following you up to whatever heaven lays above you in wait. Maybe, when you live out of motel rooms and the backseat of a black Impala, there's nothing for you to leave behind, because there's nowhere to leave it. Maybe the only thing you leave behind is the letters of your name on a carved piece of wood left under a tree behind Bobby's house, because there's no body to bury, and a cross feels too inviting for the haunted.

Sam knows what you left behind. He can see it in the shadows of every path he walks, from the bedroom you shared to the window of the kitchen, down to the tree in the yard and in between the dappled leaves. He hears it with every gust of wind and every breath that sounds like your name on lips that aren't his; so sorry for your loss, they tell him. It's not really loss if there's nothing left to find, is there? How can it be loss if there's no way of finding you again? What could he possibly see left on earth that reminds him of you in ways that don't lodge under his ribs and burn at this heart and make him wish he wasn't such a coward with his finger on the trigger?

Sam sees everything you left behind in aching clarity, the kind that stings behind his eyes and makes him wish he were blind. At least that way he wouldn't have to see it all. Something about the way the ache burrows into his skin and squeezes around his heart and makes him sob into his pillow in the middle of the night tells him it wouldn't be useful. He sees it all whether he wants to or not, whether he tries to or not, and he sees it in all the places he never expected to.

The first month, he slept in a different room than usual. He slept alone, in a bed meant for one person, because that was easier than sleeping alone in a bed he used to share with you. Because the expanses of it were too huge, and it killed him to reach out for you in his sleep and come up with nothing but chilled night air drifting in from the window. The sheets have been washed, and something cracks inside him when he realizes they no longer smell like you or carry your warmth. It's been replaced by a chilling cold that smells like laundry detergent and spring rain. He had to sit in front of the washing machine with his hands on his head for a while after that.

It hit him when he was making coffee one morning. Usually, you'd come ask him to make you something to drink, appearing beside him with an arm around his waist and your head on his shoulder, whispering sleepy requests for breakfast into the skin of his neck. He turned, half expecting you to appear at his side with a lopsided grin and poke him, but nothing happened. Sinking to his knees, he stayed frozen while the coffee dripped over the edge of the mug and then stayed again long after it cooled on the countertop. By the time he finally got to his feet, his eyes were red rimmed and sore, face blotched with pink across his cheeks, tear tracks crawling through the lines on his face and vanishing into his hair.

It hit for a second time later that week, when he went into town with Dean to get more beer for Bobby's fridge. Standing in the aisle, he found himself mentally calculating how many, if any at all, you were likely to drink. And he found himself instinctively reaching for a second pack, before Dean appeared at his side and gently guided his hand with the extra drinks back to the shelf. It took all his strength not to break down in the aisle, and he managed to wait until he was tucked comfortably into the car before letting any tears fall.

Now, he's empty. Dull, washed-out, aching for something no longer there. A piece of him he didn't know he was missing until he felt it leave. The piece of him you took when you kissed him for the first time, the piece that you tucked into your chest amongst your ribs and promised to keep safe as long as you're alive. You’re not here anymore, and you still haven’t given that piece back. He wanders through the house like a ghost, passing through walls and sinking into floors and hiding in shadows because being in the light is too harsh on his sore eyes. He drifts from room to room, tracing his sullen fingers over every book and object you touched, pressing cracked lips to the pictures of you dotted around the house, cradling the one in his wallet to his chest like it hurts him to let it go.

Tonight, he lies in bed and dreams. He dreams a lot of things, because Sam has always had an active imagination. He dreams a life where you're alive, in bed beside him, your chest rising and falling soft with every breath you take that ghosts across the bare skin of his chest. He dreams you wake him up with light kisses that tickle his face, curling his mouth into a smile that he wears as he kisses you in return. He dreams you come running in from outside with a ladybug on your thumb and a grin on your face as you tell him its name, dragging him with you as you set it free into the grass again.

Sam dreams happy things, and he wakes up distraught. He wakes up with a sob in his throat that claws its way up, pushing itself out of his mouth like a bullet and sinking into his heart with finality. He sobs your name over and over, lips shaking and chin wobbling on every syllable, like if he says it enough times, you'll appear at his bedside and kiss his forehead soft and tender. He curls himself inward, chest heaving and breath stuttering, making himself small as his tears wet his face, his shirt, his pillow. The salty taste of them reaches his tongue and he laps it up, desperate for any reminder that he can feel something besides sadness. But the water tastes like sorrow, and his head is going under, and there's nothing left for him to do but pray he can swim to shore.

He falls back asleep a few hours later, ribs aching and eyes sore when they're open, face no doubt puffy and ugly. His hand shakes as he wipes away a stray tear he doesn’t remember falling, tucking his hand under your pillow that he hugs close to his chest, burying his face in it. He twitches in his sleep, misery coursing through him like electricity, desperately trying to put him out of his pain like one might put down a sick dog. He needs you here, because he thinks he’s started to forget your laugh and the colour of your eyes, and the panic that grips him is so strong he finally passes out.

Sam dreams awful things this time. He dreams of your body surrounded by blood, skin slashed and muscle torn, the bones in your body broken from the impact. He dreams of your ghostly expression as you slip away, your weak voice whispering I love you to his battered and teary soul, fingers tracing trails of red down his stubbled cheek as you drop your hand to your chest and never raise it again. And then he dreams of himself laying down beside you, the floor slick with your blood, and he dreams about slipping away with you.

And Sam wakes up smiling.

He wakes up with the feather traces of a grin on his face, dimple popping awful in the moonlight of the bedroom, pearly sheets wrapped around his legs like a creature caught in a hunting trap, target on his head right between the eyes. He hauls himself up and stretches, yawning something soft and brushing the sleep from his eyes. Jacket over his shirt, jeans over his boxers, shoes left untied and the laces tucked into the boot. He's careful not to trip down the stairs, body still getting used to being awake and moving.

He can hear Dean and Bobby still asleep in their separate rooms. He can hear tree branches whistling in the wind outside, the lonely cry of an owl puncturing the night's fragility. Owls for wisdom, he remembers. A sign, maybe, to carry on. Or a sign to stop, to turn back and head to bed. A sign to adapt and change because it's the wise thing to do. Or a sign to finish it through and end up with you, because it's wise to be with a lover forever. He's undecided on the significance, but he tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans anyway, the safety flicked off. No bullet, because that feels too close to tempting fate. As ready as he is to see you again, he's not quite ready to die.

Sam opens the latch on the door and let's himself out, breeze ruffling his hair and ghosting across the back of his neck like the kisses you leave there in the night. His boots crunch leaves and dead grass, the occasional pebble getting kicked to the side of the path, shadowed side up. Grass rustling at his knees, the blades tickling his palms as he bends to touch them, feeling their smoothness under his calloused fingertips. A breath of wind under his jacket, cold over his heart and warm when it leaves.

These are the things you've left behind.

A broken Sam Winchester. A mourning earth in cold soil and blistering winds. Turned over rocks that remember the tread of your boot. Grass that yearns for your touch. Earth in memorial, standing guard at your grave. Protective. Nurturing. Motherly. It watches your graveside and keeps it clean for Sam when he finally arrives. It curls up around his knees when he kneels and breaks down, and it skitters his gun away from his hand when he drops it because he's shaking too much to do anything with it. It grows the flower he picks to lay at the wooden slab, petals drooping because his sorrow is too heavy.

Sam lays down in the dirt beside you, head lined up with your grave marker and one hand curling in the soft stems of grass over your ashes. His fingers twitch over where your heart should be, curling and unfurling as if he can feel your heartbeat through the dirt and rocks. He takes a shuddering breath, exhaling it out into the humid air like a promise, a vow to return to you someday, somehow. He hates to think of you alone up there, not understanding what happened and so, so frightened. He hates that he can’t hold you, can’t comfort you, can’t press soft kisses to your temple and rub your back and tuck you into his arms like he used to.

His chest rises once.

"Wait for me."

The first words he's spoken since your death. His voice comes out all scratched and torn and wrong, harsh on the edges made sharp by tears.

His chest falls once.

A pause. A stutter.

His chest rises again, because of course it will. He's cursed, after all. Cursed to live while you were cursed to die.

So, what is left behind when you die?

Memories. A mourning earth. A shattered man.

And strangely enough, love.

Sam remembers you because he loves you. He mourns you because he loves you. He's broken because he loves you. You leave behind love because it's all he knew how to do with you. He'll come join you some day because he loves you then, too. And he will bring you his love cradled in his cupped palms like an angel bringing holy water, and he will shower you in it, and he will tell you that you taught him love and left him with it for him to nurture. And he will tell you he loves you. And he hopes you will tell him you love him too.

What will Sam leave behind when he dies?

Hopefully, love.

-“If those numbers aren’t on my desk by tomorrow morning, I swear to God—” Then the line had gone dead. So now you were here. Alone. Again.

You pushed into your office with a sigh, dropping your bag beside the desk before bending to search through the disaster of paperwork scattered across the surface.

The storm outside rattled faintly through the windows.

Your phone buzzed. Maya. You answered immediately, relieved for the distraction.

“Hey.”

“You’re still there?” your friend asked. “It’s ten at night.”

“I forgot the reports.” “Again? Jesus. That place is killing you.” You laughed weakly, rubbing at your eyes. “Tell me about it.” You could hear traffic on her end, muffled music in the background.

Normal life.

Outside life. For a second, you envied her so badly it hurt.

“You still coming tomorrow?” she asked. “Brunch. Eleven. Don’t cancel this time.”

“I won’t.”

“You said that last week.”

“That was different.”

“You always say that.” You opened your mouth to answer—

—and froze.

There was someone standing outside your office.

Tall. Broad shoulders, still as a statue behind the glass wall. Your stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.

The hallway lights reflected faintly off the blue of his suit.

Homelander. You stopped breathing.

Maya was still talking through the phone. “…and if your boss says anything, tell her to go fu—” You hung up instantly.

His eyes followed the movement. Even through the glass, you could feel it. That unbearable pressure of his attention.

Then he smiled. Slowly. And pushed open the office door.

“Hi.”

Your throat tightened immediately. “H-Homelander.” He stepped inside casually, glancing around your office like he belonged there. Maybe he did.

Everyone in the building belonged to him in some horrible way. “You’re here late,” he said.

You forced yourself to straighten. “Just finishing reports.”

“For Ashley?” You nodded. A flicker crossed his face. Barely there. Displeasure.

“She works you too hard.” The way he said it made your skin prickle. Not sympathetic. Possessive. Before you could answer, he glanced toward your phone still sitting on the desk.

“Who were you talking to?” “My friend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

Too fast. You hated how fast you answered. His smile widened slightly.

“Good.”

The room suddenly felt very small. You tried to laugh politely, but it came out thin and nervous. “Did you need something?” Homelander walked slowly around your desk instead of answering immediately, fingers brushing over the edge of the wood surface.

Calm. Relaxed.

Like a predator already certain the prey wouldn’t run. “I noticed you’ve seemed stressed lately.” Your pulse started climbing. “I’m okay.”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.” He stopped beside you. Too close. You caught the clean, expensive smell of his suit, something sharp beneath it like static in the air before lightning strikes. “You look tired,” he continued quietly. “You skip lunch half the time. Your shoulders tense every time your phone rings. And every morning you come into this building already anxious.”

Your mouth went dry.

Because those were things no one should know. Things no one could know unless they’d been watching. Homelander tilted his head slightly when you didn’t answer.

“I pay attention to you.”

Something cold slid down your spine. The storm cracked outside, thunder rumbling through the glass.

You took a careful step backward.

“I should really finish these reports—”

“Ashley screamed at you today.”

You froze.

His expression didn’t change.

“She made you cry in the bathroom afterward.” Your heart started pounding so hard you could hear it.

How did he—

“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and the softness in his voice scared you more than anger would have.

You swallowed hard. “It’s fine.”

“No,” Homelander murmured. “It isn’t.”

The office lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside the windows, lightning flashed silver across the city skyline. Then Homelander reached up and touched your face.

Gentle. Careful.

His thumb brushed just beneath your eye like he was handling something fragile. You should have moved away.

You knew you should. But shock rooted you in place. His voice dropped lower.

“People are very cruel to you.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because he was right. Because nobody had ever said it out loud before. Everyone always acted like you were overreacting.

Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too weak for the industry.

And now the most terrifying man on earth was looking at you with something dangerously close to tenderness.

“I can take care of it,” he said softly.

Alarm shot through you immediately. “No.” His eyes sharpened slightly.

“No?”

“You don’t have to… do anything.”

Silence. Then that smile returned. Pleasant and artificial.

“You’re scared of me.” Your stomach twisted. Because denying it felt impossible.

Homelander watched your expression carefully, and for one horrible moment you saw something wounded flicker underneath his calm facade.

Not guilt, neither shame. Loneliness.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said quietly. The words should have comforted you. Instead they made your pulse spike harder. Because you suddenly understood that he wanted you to believe him.

Wanted it badly. You stepped away from his hand carefully. “I should get back to work.”

For a second, the room went still. Completely still. Then Homelander smiled again and stepped back.

“Of course.”

Relief flooded you so fast your knees almost weakened. He moved toward the door.

Stopped. Without turning around, he asked:

“Why do you flinch every time someone raises their voice at you?”

Your breath caught and he glanced over his shoulder. Those bright blue eyes pinned you in place effortlessly.

“I hear things,” he said softly. And then he walked out.

—

Three days later, Ashley disappeared. Nobody explained it. One minute she was storming through meetings throwing binders and screaming at assistants, and the next her office sat empty with the blinds drawn shut.

People whispered about scandals.

Transfers. Rehab? Nobody knew.

But the new department head smiled at you too much and approved your vacation request without even reading it. And every time you passed security downstairs, people suddenly avoided eye contact.

Like they knew something you didn’t.

By Friday, you couldn’t sleep. Every tiny sound in your apartment made your heart race. You kept remembering Homelander’s hand against your face. That awful gentleness.

The way he’d said “I can take care of it.” You told yourself it was coincidence, because it had to be-...It had to be.

Until Saturday night.

You were standing in your kitchen making tea when your phone buzzed with a text from Maya.

you:

Running late. Some creep followed me off the subway lol

You frowned immediately.

you:

What?

No response. You stared at the screen. One minute. Two. Then your phone rang. You answered instantly. “Maya?”

Static and heavy breathing. Then a man’s voice.

“Cute friend you got.” Ice flooded your veins. “What the fuck—”

The line disconnected.

You grabbed your coat so fast you nearly dropped the phone, panic rising sharp and ugly in your chest as you rushed toward the apartment door—

—and found Homelander standing outside it, making your entire body lock up instantly. He looked immaculate as always. Cape draped perfectly behind him. Hair untouched by the rain. Like he’d stepped out of a commercial instead of into the hallway outside your apartment at eleven-thirty at night.

“Don’t panic,” he said calmly.

You stared at him in horror. “My friend—”

“She’s fine.”

“How do you know that?” He smiled slightly. “I handled it.” your blood ran cold once again.

“What did you do?”

“He scared her.” Homelander shrugged. “So I scared him more.” The hallway suddenly felt suffocatingly narrow.

You backed away instinctively. “Did you kill him?Homelander’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

Not anger.

Confusion. Like the question itself was unfair. “He touched someone important to you."

The word hit hard enough to make your stomach twist. “You can’t just murder people!”

“Why not?” The sincerity in his voice terrified you. Genuine confusion. As if morality simply worked differently for him.

You shook your head, breathing unevenly. “You can’t solve everything like that.” Homelander stepped closer slowly. “You were terrified when you opened that door.”

You said nothing. “And then you saw me,” he continued softly. “And part of you relaxed.” Your chest tightened immediately because he was right. You hated that he was right. He watched realization cross your face and smiled faintly.

There it was again. That look. Like he was learning you piece by piece.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he murmured. The rain battered against the apartment windows behind you. Your pulse hammered painfully. Homelander reached up carefully and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with unbearable softness.

“I take care of the things that hurt you,” he whispered.

And standing there in the dim apartment hallway with fear tangled so tightly with relief you couldn’t separate them anymore— you realized that was exactly how he wanted it.

The first thing you noticed was that the building had become quieter around you. Not all at once. Not enough to alarm you immediately.

Just slowly, subtly, over the course of a few weeks after Ashley disappeared. Conversations stopped when you walked into break rooms. Coworkers who used to dump work on your desk now smiled too quickly and told you not to worry about deadlines.

People moved out of your way in the hall.

Even the security guards downstairs straightened when they saw your ID badge, suddenly polite in a stiff, nervous sort of way that made unease crawl beneath your skin every single time.

At first, you tried convincing yourself it was coincidence.

Then one morning, you overheard two assistants whispering near the elevators.

“—I’m telling you, he watches her.”

“Shut up, are you insane?”

“I saw him leave her floor last week—”

The elevator doors opened before you could hear more. The moment they noticed you standing there, both women went pale. One of them physically stepped back.

Like you were dangerous too.

By the time you reached your office, your hands were shaking hard enough that you spilled coffee across your desk. You stared at the spreading stain blankly. Your heart wouldn’t slow down. Because deep down, beneath all the rationalizing and denial, you already knew.

Homelander. Everything kept leading back to him. The promotions. The sudden kindness. The fear in everyone else. You pressed trembling fingers against your forehead. This was insane- You needed distance, and space- and something normal.

Which was why, by six-thirty that evening, you were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant downtown across from Maya, trying desperately to force yourself back into reality.

The restaurant smelled like garlic and wine and fresh bread, warm light glowing softly from little candles on every table, and outside the rain drizzled steadily against the windows while traffic blurred red and gold across the wet streets.

It felt normal. And safe. Thank god. Maya was halfway through complaining about her boss when she stopped abruptly and frowned at you over the rim of her wine glass.

“Okay, seriously. What’s wrong with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”

“Sorry.”

“You look exhausted.” You stared down at your untouched pasta. The knot in your chest had been there for days now. Tight. Constant. Every time your phone buzzed. Every time someone looked at you strangely at work. Every time you imagined blue eyes watching from somewhere above the city.

Maya leaned forward slightly, concern softening her face.

“Is this about Vought?” You hesitated. Too long, thats what makes it obvious. Her expression shifted immediately. “Oh my God. It is.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You laughed weakly, but it came out strained. Maya lowered her voice. “Did something happen?” You opened your mouth. Then stopped.

Because how could you even explain it?

I think the most powerful man in the world has become obsessed with me.

It sounded delusional. Worse—it sounded impossible. And yet every instinct in your body had been screaming danger for weeks. “I just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I need to quit.”

Maya blinked. “Then quit.” “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?” Because he would notice. The realization slid into your mind so naturally it made you feel sick.

Homelander would notice, because he noticed everything. The thought alone made your pulse jump. Maya stared at you carefully now, really looking. Then her expression changed. Not fear. Recognition. “You’re scared.”

You looked away immediately. Outside, headlights smeared across the rain-streaked windows. “I’m just stressed.”

“No.” Maya’s voice softened. “You look terrified.” Something sharp tightened painfully in your throat. Because she was right. You were terrified. Terrified in that exhausting, constant way where your body never fully relaxed anymore, where every shadow felt watched and every silence stretched too long.

And somehow the worst part wasn’t even fear of what Homelander might do to you. It was fear of what would happen if he suddenly stopped paying attention altogether. That realization horrified you enough that your stomach twisted. Maya reached across the table and touched your hand gently.

“Hey. Talk to me.”

Warmth spread suddenly behind your eyes. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone normal to touch you. Someone human.

Your voice came out small. “I think something’s wrong with me.” Maya frowned immediately. “What?”

“I keep…” You laughed shakily. “I keep thinking about him.” The words tasted poisonous. Maya went still.

“Who?” You already regretted saying it, but exhaustion cracked something open inside you.

“Homelander.”

Silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy kind. Maya stared at you for a second like she genuinely thought she’d misheard. Then

“…Homelander?” You nodded once, humiliated instantly.

“He keeps showing up and talking to me and I know it’s weird and I know I should report it or something but every time he looks at me I feel like I can’t think properly anymore—”

You stopped abruptly, breathing unevenly. Maya’s face had gone pale.

“You need to stay away from him.”

“I know.”

“Y/n, I mean it.”

“I KNOW.”

Several people glanced over, making you lower your voice immediatly, and Maya leaned closer across the table.

“Listen to me very carefully. Men like that— men with power like that— they don’t get attached normally.”

Your stomach dropped once again, because attached was exactly the word you'd been searching for- Not 'interested' nor 'flirting'.- attached. Like something tightening around your ribs day by day. Maya squeezed your hand harder.

“This is how it starts.”

Fear curled sharply through you, traveling from your toes to your chest.

“How what starts?”

But Maya never answered- because suddenly the restaurant went silent. Instantly.

With conversations getting cut off and forks being set down, the air itself seems to tighten, and your blood turned to ice before you even looked up. Maya’s grip on your hand loosened slowly. Around you, people stared toward the front windows. Toward the figure descending from the sky outside the restaurant in a blur of red, white, and blue.

Your heart stopped.

No.

No no no—

The entire restaurant watched as Homelander landed lightly on the sidewalk beyond the glass, cape settling behind him in perfect waves despite the rain- People immediately started reaching for phones. Someone whispered- “Holy shit…”

Maya looked at you. Really looked at you. And the horror that crossed her face made your stomach lurch. Because she understood instantly.

Homelander smiled the moment he saw you through the window. Not at the restaurant, but at you. That terrifyingly soft expression spread across his face like he’d finally found what he’d been looking for.

Then he walked inside. The atmosphere changed the second he entered. The restaurant owner rushed forward nervously. People stared. Nobody breathed properly. But Homelander ignored all of them. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, fully focused.

“Maya,” you whispered urgently, panic clawing up your throat, “don’t say anything.”

Too late.

Homelander reached your table smoothly, smiling down at you like this was some perfectly ordinary surprise visit.

“There you are.” Your pulse hammered violently. “How did you know I was here?” He tilted his head slightly.

“You told someone at work you were getting dinner downtown." Jesus fuck, had he been listening then too?

Maya slowly pulled her hand away from yours under the table. Homelander noticed immediately. Of course he did.His gaze flickered briefly toward her before returning to you.

“You left work early,” he said softly. “I was worried.” Worried. The word wrapped around your lungs like silk. You could feel the entire restaurant staring. Maya sat rigidly beside you now, fear written plainly across her face.

"i have to use the bathroom." She excuses herself quietly. Traitor, leaving you with him. Homelander noticed that too. And smiled. Not in a polite way, just Patient. Like he understood something she didn’t yet.

“You seem tense,” he murmured to you. No shit, your voice barely worked. “I’m fine.”

“No,” he said gently. “You’re frightened.” The way he said it made heat creep shamefully into your chest. Like he was the only person observant enough to notice. Like fear itself had become intimacy between you.

Homelander crouched slightly beside your chair then, bringing himself closer to eye level, and the entire restaurant seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his attention.

“You know I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, and your throat tightened.

Because part of you believed him completely. That was the worst thing. Not the fear. Not even the obsession. It was the unbearable safety you felt whenever he appeared. Like no matter how terrifying he was, nothing else in the world could possibly touch you while his eyes were on you.

Homelander saw something change in your expression then. He saw it happen. His smile softened with slow, terrifying satisfaction.

“There she is,” he whispered.

And you realized with sudden horror that he was watching you become dependent on him in real time.

Just waiting.

By the time Maya returned to the table, your head already felt strange, Like the entire evening had slipped sideways into something unreal while you weren’t paying attention.

Homelander had moved back slightly by then, posture relaxed again, one arm hooked lazily over the back of your chair as if he’d always belonged there, as if seeing the most powerful man in the world sitting in a tiny downtown restaurant beside an ordinary Vought employee was somehow normal.

But nothing felt normal anymore. Not the way people stared at you now. Not the way your pulse reacted every time his attention settled fully onto you. Not the awful, humiliating relief spreading slowly through your body whenever he spoke in that low, gentle voice.

Maya sat down carefully, eyes flicking between the two of you. You could tell she’d been crying in the bathroom. Shes always been an emotional person. Her mascara looked slightly smudged beneath the dim restaurant lighting. Guilt twisted sharply in your chest. Because she looked scared.

Not for herself, but for you.

Homelander smiled at her pleasantly. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she answered too quickly. You noticed she didn’t look at him anymore when she spoke. Only at you, like she was trying to communicate something silently.

Run. Leave. Wake up.

But then Homelander’s hand settled lightly against the small of your back beneath the table and every thought scattered instantly. The touch wasn’t forceful, and that was the problem. His fingertips barely rested there at all through the fabric of your dress, warm and steady and impossibly careful, yet the moment he touched you, your body reacted before your mind could.

The tension in your shoulders loosened, your breathing slowed and Homelander felt it happen. You knew he did because his thumb stroked once, slow and approving.

A tiny movement. Still your stomach flipped violently. Maya saw your expression change.

Horror flashed across her face immediately, if thats even possible at her current expression anymore. You looked away from her first because you hated yourself for that.

Dinner ended not long after.

Nobody argued when Homelander quietly insisted on taking you home.

How could they?

Outside, the rain had gotten heavier, pouring silver beneath the city lights while crowds gathered along the sidewalk behind barricades and security trying desperately to catch a glimpse of him. Phones flashed constantly. People shouted his name. But Homelander barely acknowledged any of it.

His focus stayed on you as you stepped outside beside him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the cold night air. The second the rain touched you, Homelander frowned.

Then his cape settled around your shoulders, making you feel warmer immediately. It smelled like him.

“You’ll freeze,” he murmured.

The crowd noise seemed distant suddenly. Muted. Like the entire world had narrowed down to the warmth wrapped around you and the terrifying softness in his eyes.

You should have refused.

Instead your fingers clutched the edge of the cape tighter around yourself automatically.

And Homelander smiled. God, that smile. Not public, an' not performative. Atleast he makes you think that.

Maya stepped closer quickly before you could move.

“Text me when you get home,” she said firmly. Too firmly. Like she was trying to remind you of something. You nodded immediately. “I will."

Homelander looked between the two of you, quietly observing, or rather analyzing. Then he asked softly-

“Do you always worry this much about her?” Maya stiffened.

“She’s my best friend.”

At that, something unreadable crossed Homelander’s face, its gone almost instantly. But you felt his hand press slightly more firmly against your back. Possessive.

Maya noticed too, And you could see fear rise behind her eyes again. Then Homelander smiled warmly at her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

The words should have sounded reassuring.

Instead, they landed like a threat.

Maya heard it too. You saw it in her eyes.

But before either of you could say anything else, Homelander’s arm wrapped around your waist. The movement was smooth and natural enough to almost seem casual. Except the second he pulled you against his side, your entire body locked up from the sheer overwhelming awareness of him.

Strong.

Not human.

His hand rested securely against your hip while the rain poured harder around you, the city glowing gold and red beneath blurred stormlight.

“You ready?” he asked softly near your ear. Your throat tightened. What is he talking about?

“For what?” His smile deepened slightly, and then the ground disappeared. A startled sound tore from your chest as the world dropped violently beneath you, wind rushing past in freezing waves while the city exploded into dizzying lights below. Your fingers grabbed his suit instantly. Instinct.

Homelander laughed quietly at the reaction, one arm tightening around you effortlessly as he carried you high above Manhattan. “Easy,” he murmured. The sound of his voice vibrated through his chest beneath your hands. You couldn’t breathe properly.

Not from fear alone, no-...just, from him. From the overwhelming closeness of him.

Rain whipped through the air around you while clouds swallowed the city lights below in silver haze, and you buried your face against his shoulder automatically as another gust of wind hit.

Immediately, Homelander’s expression softened.

“There you go,” he whispered, too soft for a disgusting Manipulator. Like he liked seeing you cling to him. Like he wanted it. The realization made heat twist low in your stomach despite the terror.

You hated- no, despised- how safe he felt.

Hated how his arms around you made the rest of the world disappear completely.

The penthouse came into view slowly through the rain.

Massive windows glowing gold high above the city.

Isolated & untouchable. Your stomach flipped hard at the sight. Because suddenly, horribly, it didn’t feel like he was taking you home. It felt like he was taking you somewhere that belonged to him.

Somewhere above everyone else. Into his Nest.

Homelander landed smoothly on the balcony, barely jostling you despite the force that cracked faintly beneath his boots.

But he didn’t let go immediately afterward.

His arms stayed around you.

Keeping you close against him while rainwater slid down the sharp line of his jaw and the city glittered endlessly beneath the storm behind him.

For a second, neither of you spoke, not being able to.

You became painfully aware of your hands still gripping the front of his suit.

Of how close your bodies were.

Of the way he was looking at you.

Not hungry. -actually, hungry. Really fuckin' hungry. Your pulse stuttered unevenly.

“I should go home,” you whispered.

Homelander’s eyes searched your face quietly.

Then very gently, he brushed wet hair back from your cheek.

“You don’t want to be alone tonight.”

The words wrapped around your exhausted mind so softly that for one horrible second, you almost nodded.

Because after weeks of fear and confusion and pressure and loneliness—

the thought of leaving him suddenly hurt. He saw the exact instant your expression weakened, and something dark and deeply satisfied flickered behind his eyes.

Not victory, just ownership. His thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone.

“Come inside,” he said quietly, knowing just what tone to use. Not a command- worse. An invitation he already knew you wanted to accept.

Lightning flashed across the sky behind him, illuminating the enormous penthouse windows glowing gold in the dark like something beautiful and dangerous waiting with its mouth open.

And after a long, trembling hesitation—

you followed him inside.

He did it. You're his perfect girl now.

..and the death of you being none other than one dean winchester. a man who talked his way into your father’s life, and then sweet-talked his way into yours. oh, and your bed. and underwear. and literally anything and everything of you that he can get his hands on. 

so, it had been a surprise to come home from college, a fresh graduate, to find some random man living in your house. well, it may not be your house, but it also isn’t his. and his strange, coming-and-going persona was just off-putting (but not for long– of course), and you did all in your power to ignore him. 

again, not for long– of course.

a military man, or so your father said, but it hadn’t taken you long to realise what dean really was; a hunter. and even though you know of no one who’s served, you know that they don’t turn up at your front door in the early hours of the morning, “sweetheart,” dripping from a bloody mouth, and an even bloodier body. 

and it’d all begun that night. you haven’t known peace since. 

“want me to fuck you, is that want you want? want me to get rid of that ache between your thighs ‘cause you can’t? c’mon, tell me, kid.” dean encourages you, hand now back between your thighs. his fingers rub slow, agonising circles on your clit– meanwhile, your unresponsive, sans for a few moans here and there, some pawing at his bicep. “not gonna do anythin’ ‘til you use your big girl words..”

if anyone else spoke to you this way, you’d probably throw up. most definitely. but not with dean– never with dean. his words batter around in your brain like rocks that cut into the soft earth, carving out a path for his depraved intentions for you. and you drink it all up, never minding how the sweeter they get, the more bitter they taste. 

poison can only kill those who notice it. 

“please..” you plea. however, you never finish the ask– mainly because dean’s now pressing two fingers into your wet cunt, collecting your arousal as he works them in and out– for what should you ask for? him to get down on one knee, ask you to marry him? see if he wants to all the things you want to do, but haven’t had the chance to? what do you want? “please–”

there’s a lot that won’t come of this– when it inevitably ends. he was your dad’s friend first; your secret lover next. and you’d much rather it be you that also has him last, in any way you can. 

but you can’t ask for anything. not anything you really want. so, you focus on getting your brains fucked out. it’ll do for now. 

“i just need you,” you admit, albeit pathetically, with your voice all quiet and soft and needy. your cunt clenches around him as he pushes in a third finger. “i need you to fuck me.”

“yeah, ‘s that what you want?” his voice drops to a volume that almost matches yours, his tone mimicking your vulnerability. “want me to fuck you, fill your pretty cunt with cum ‘til you can’t hold anymore? y’want me to have you on all fours, ignorin’ all your whimperin’ and cryin’?” and then, like it’s an afterthought, he asks, “want me to make you all happy inside ‘cause no other guy can?”

each question is like pestilence to you; infecting and corrupting, getting stuck in every fold of your brain until you swear that it’s chanting dean dean dean over and over at you. everything is simply about him. you wouldn’t have it any other way.

you nod eagerly. to all of his questions.

and then, all you can do right now is press your sticky thighs together, absentmindedly grind on your bedsheets now and again, as he takes his sweet, agonising time to get undressed. whatever. it gives you a (bleak) moment to think– if your brain can still do that, at this point.

he hadn’t come to you as he usually does. bloody, usually in search of a quick “fix”– which, instead of getting stitched-up or having some injury or another attended to, it’s him, balls-deep in your cunt– and eager enough to sleep in your bed like its his own. like your husband and wife.

no, tonight, he’d arrived long before that. long before the early hours of morning light; it was a family barbeque, with the invitation extended to him as well because his brother was with “the wife” (this much you know to be true; dean showed you photos, once, when you got confident enough to ask about him, and not the ‘dean’ that your dad thinks is real). he’d overstayed his welcome, your mom claiming in her worried tone that he was too drunk to drive back, and that’d it be much safer is he stayed in the guest room. neither of you had complaints. after that, all it took was for your parents to head to bed, and you waiting in yours. waiting, for the man borne of gunpowder and other dastardly things, to stalk into your room and savage you. 

the rest is history. 

then, as if he can tell that you’re far away in some mundane memory, dean’s hands are dragging you by the hips closer to him, your body trapped under his. he’s so warm– so.. real– and you swear you’re getting dizzy off of him, drinking in his presence like you’re a dog parched.

you’ve never needed anything, or anyone, more. you merely whine and whimper, buck your hips into dean’s as he slowly pulls your panties down your body with a single finger. your cunt clenches around nothing as cool air hits your sweat-slicked body. dean seems to revel in this, smirking wickedly as you blindly grab at his hand, meanwhile you grow more antsy because he keeps pulling away when you grow more desperate. 

“this isn’t fair,” you pout. he merely laughs at your behaviour, mimicking your pleading face. it’s embarrassing, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to be a big girl. “dean, you’re being so mean to me–”

“yeah? i’m the mean one? like you weren’t out there today, sweetheart, beggin’ with me those wet eyes and makin’ me so fuckin’ hard that i just wanted to punish you right there and then.” his tone matches his words. unforgiving and relentless. a consequence for your behaviour; a repercussion for your teasing. “all in front of your old man as well. not as innocent as you fuckin’ make yourself, are you? guess i’m gonna have to fuck some sense into you..”

you almost cum right then and there. almost. seriously– the way dean talks to you, reduces to you to nothing more than something for him to fuck and fill, ruins you more than it should. the thought of him taking out all his anger on you– this unspoken, pent-up rage that he could put to better use, but decides that you are the one who should suffer from it– practically soaks the sheets under you, to the point where your already-warm cheeks grow hotter. 

but it also makes you remember how easy it is for him to leave you.

before you can have that devastating toll of reality come crashing down on you, dean’s fingers are back inside of you, stretching you out so he can bury his fat cock into you. you’re whimpering once more in an instant. begging for him to thrust himself into you; babbling for him to put a baby into you. anything and everything that will get him to love you. and maybe to make him stay.

“i’ll be good for you,” you hastily tell him; you know that he’ll understand it as you being good enough for him to fuck, and not that it’s your (last) pathetic plea to keep him as yours. forever. even though dean doesn’t belong to you. “i’ll be so good for you– just– can you–”

you end up cutting yourself off, and it’s only because dean’s pulling his fingers from your cunt, grabbing your jaw with his clean hand and forcing you to meet his eyes. and, sure, you’ve stared into his eyes many times before, but tonight, it’s different. not different in that good way, either– the kind that makes you all giddy inside because all it’ll take is you making some seemingly innocent comment (one loaded with innuendos, that your parents miraculously don’t pick up on) for him to be pounding into you hours later. 

tonight, they’re darker. it’d be easy to blame it on the dimness of the room, but your curtains are wide open– the moonlight bathes him in bright light, and you can see everything as he towers over you. they’re unsettling, and unkind, and they’re just so.. angry. it doesn’t feel like dean. the one you know. 

the one you’ve created.

silently, eagerly, you take his fingers into your mouth. the same fingers that were in your cunt just mere minutes ago; you’re good at ignoring this little tidbit, and even more so good at taking his fingers like the good girl you are. you keep waiting for him to say it– letting him shove them so far down your throat that your eyes water and you gag slightly– but he never does. never gives you the praise you crave. like you might die, if you don’t get those two syllables that remind you how important you are. 

“yeah, just like that,” dean hums, his blunt nails scraping the back of your throat. this makes you gag once more, choking on not only saliva, but your own arousal. your vision blurs a little as a you try to keep your eyes on him– maybe bat your lashes now and again whilst you clean him up– but it gets to a point where that dreaded pit in your stomach blooms into something that threatens to swallow you whole like a black hole, and you have to stare at his jaw instead. “y’good at listenin’ to me, aren’t you? always wantin’ to do the best f’me..”

you garble something incoherent, then start gasping for air– he’s finally pulled his fingers from your mouth, all wet and slick, and then casually drags them across your heaving chest to dry them off. 

and before you can adjust to being able to breathe properly again, he’s pushing your legs apart even more. positioning his fat cock at your cunt; one hand holding it, and the other on your waist, like he’s ready to hold you down in case you try to writhe away (because, well, that did happen once– the first time he fucked you). you have to grip the sheets to stop yourself from bucking your hips forward, forcing your hole to take all of him before you’ve adjusted. because you can’t stop yourself; you need that mind-numbing sensation of dean fucking you raw before you lose it for good.

but you can’t deny the searing ache you get as the tip pushes into you, making your back arch off of the sweaty sheets and into his body. biting your bottom lip to stop your protest that claws up your throat and waits on your tongue when he shoves you back down onto the bed in response. “not yet, kid.” he keeps only the tip in you. “gotta be nice and still f’me ‘cause we can’t have you gettin’ hurt, can we?”

you nod dumbly. “no.”

“hey– ‘no’ what?” 

“no–” and when you hesitate, he shoves more of his cock into you. your cunt willingly tightens around him, making him groan. “dad.”

“there we fuckin’ go.”

and with that, he buries himself to the hilt inside of you. the suddenness of it is enough to make you cry out loudly, your hands flying from the sheets to his bare shoulders. your face burns from shame of how loud you’re being– and yet, he just laughs softly, tutting at your inability to not alert everyone in the house of what’s going on. 

he’s now got one hand on your waist and the other on the pillow next to your head– every now and then, as you painfully attempt to adjust to him– his thumb trapping loose strands of your hair under it as he waits. but no matter how close he is to you, it’s never enough. he could cut you open, carve out your insides and live in you, and yet, it still wouldn’t be enough. 

it’s never fucking enough. 

you shift backwards a little, like a dog that’s been kicked, but you don’t go far– not with how tight dean’s hand holds you in place. “where you tryin’ to run off to, huh? thought you needed dad to take care of your problem,” he mutters as he pokes and prods at your swollen clit. “guessin’ she needs some extra attention from me; been neglectin’ her f’too long..” his voice is all tight and restrained. you can tell that he’s resisting hard to fight the itch that must be scratched; to satiate that carnal desire that keeps him feeding on your sensuality. and yet, all you can do avert your gaze from him. 

he doesn’t seem to pick up on your sudden remorse. well– maybe he does, but dean winchester is not synonymous with “feelings”. 

instead, he immediately gets to rutting into your cunt, breathing hard against your mouth with each pump. the taste of blood and war-torn violence hasn’t been lost on you– even if this isn’t the typical manner in why he fucks you like a starevd animal. and within seconds you’re basically crying from the overwhelming adrenaline of a stuffed hole and the sickening urge for him to be close.. in more ways than one. 

“finally got you to pipe down, didn’t i?” he asks, each word enunciated by a thrust into you. he pulls away from your mouth and presses his forehead to your collarbone. you can feel his sweat pass from him to you, tainting you with the anger that blooms throughout his body. “got– fuck– more ways than one of shuttin’ you up. maybe we should try ‘em out?”

if violence can be passed via osmosis, you might just be the first victim. 

you’re whining (even with dean’s hand now over your mouth) and thrashing, basically deaf to any and all words that fall from his mouth and bury deep into your brain. they find their way into the grey matter, corrupt something docile and baby pink, morph into an ugly grey; dead and meaningless. all the while, he still slam into each time he pulls back. the air around you becomes permeating with the animalistic scent of sex and bodily fluids, the squelching noises of your drooling cunt making it worse tenfold. 

the sound of skin against skin sings as dean’s pelvis meets your ass, along with his hand on the pillow now tugs harshly on your hair. and all he has to do to, in order for you to sing his praises, is bury his cock deep inside of you, tease and taunt you like he’s trying to dumb you down and make you forget about any sense of humanity you once had. and it works.

“fuckin’ wanted this all along, didn’t you? just– just couldn’t ask me f’it, though, could you?” it’s always the rhetoricals that get you; make your brain all fuzzy, and make him laugh at you because you must be so fucking stupid to him. always. and then, like he remembers that he needs to reward you for being such a good girl for him, “god– never fuckin’ leavin’ you again, sweetheart. never gonna find anyone else like you, am i?”

you can feel the sheets beneath you grow sticker with each thrust, his cock basically being sucked into you with little to no resistant– thanks to how wet you are– as tears freefall down your face and your babbling gets reduced to nothing worthy of substance. your hands tighten around one another, slipping here and there from how sweaty they are, as you keep dean as close to you as you possibly can.

“never– never!” you reply, shaking your head eagerly as you agree to.. whatever dean asked. you didn’t pick up on it– not when he’s balls-deep in your drooling hole, his body hanging over you like he wants to keep you trapped there for life. your abdomen tightens and seizes in that way it does when you’re close to orgasm, and you bury your face in your chest as it comes closer and closer. 

one of his hands crawls up your spine, fingers brushing the skin– and ends up harshly yanking on your hair, pulling your head back. “hey, hey– ‘m not havin’ my girl shy away from me,” he spits at you, ignoring how apologies bleed from your mouth like they’re nothing. “you’ve been wantin’ me all night, haven’t you? and i don’t plan on lettin’ you go that easily, kid.”

it almost scares you how easily he can say these things to you. not worry about the repercussions, like how his words fester in your brain. how you manage to fool yourself into meaning any of it. how you stay stuck under him– his thumb, his touch, his everything– trailing after him like a lost puppy and craving his attention. and all the while, as you ruminate on a life that will never happen, he still fucks himself into your gaping cunt, pushing himself deeper and deeper. 

your throat clenches in rhythm with your hole. your heartbeat pulses in time with your clit. your body is so suddenly attentive to every little thing that it physically hurts. all you can focus on is no longer the sex, but that aching void of want; that feral desire to be wanted threatening to consume you whole. 

it’s enough to snap you out of the delusional nightmare you walk in.

the way you breathe out dean’s name, in that aching and restless way of yours, borders on something a lot like panic. it probably is panic, and for a second or so, he doesn’t pick up on it; bottoms out in you with each thrust, his fat cock scraping your walls every time he pushes in or pulls back. you’ve stopped making your pathetic noises entirely, as your emotional state takes centre stage, and all you want is out.

“dean–” you start, but find a small wince slipping out. “dean, please–”

“what, not good enough f’you?” it’s clear that he thinks you’re simply begging for more, to which he gives you; his mouth on your throat and as he sinks his teeth in, his hand on your waist digging into your flesh and opening up a cut he gave you a couple of weeks back. you can feel the blood begin to ooze out as you try and fight against his pumping, which starts to lose rhythm. “c’mon, y’know i gotta do the best for my girl–”

“please, stop–”

and, thankfully, this gets across to him. 

he stops moving inside of you almost at once, pulling his face away from your throat. through blurred vision, his concerned eyes sear into you, trying to work out why you’re suddenly acting like this. but you can’t bring yourself to look at him; just stare at his throat. it’s easier like this. 

“hey, hey, hey,” dean reassures you, hand letting go of your hair and now stroking your face. you’re not sure where the one he was scratching you with just a minute has gone, but you can still feel the blood. the heavy, iron scent that permeates the air. you want to choke. “what’s goin’ on, sweetheart? c’mon, y’know you have to talk to me about these things.”

“i can’t do it,” is all you give him. 

there’s a beat. 

he frowns lightly, and even in the low light, he’s never looked prettier. it makes you sick to think about how much you love him. “what d’you mean? what– what does that mean?”

“i can’t do it– this. it’s just– fuck–” you press your hand to your mouth a second, waiting for your brain to organise its thoughts and get them out in a correct, big girl manner. you’re not going to make a fool of yourself now. “you say all this shit to me, about how i’m the best and you’ll never leave me, but you never mean any of it, do you? just come and fuck me when you please, because nobody else will? is that what it is?”

it’s mean of you, and you know it. you’ve always been someone sweet, someone who can soften sharpened edges; like dean’s. and this is anything but. 

he’d never made you any promises– not real ones, anyway. so what this is, is you letting you invented fantasies and perverted dreams of him get the better of you. that you’re so desperate for something with him– this man, a hunter, who’d rather be with you in glimpses and fleeting moments; times when he only needs you because he needs you– that you’re willing to turn everything around that he’s ever said, and aim it back at him like a nuclear weapon. 

and, after a beat, he snaps. 

“what did you think this was?” there’s no anger to it, nor pessimism or irritation. if anything, it’s passive. like you’ve been the one in control this entire time. he pulls his dick from you entirely, and you grimace slightly at the feeling of warm cum seeping out. “‘cause, kid– from where i’m standin’, this was just a simple fuck here and there. nothin’ else.”

nothing else. 

it’s been apparent from the start that this relationship would be a problem– if lonesome feelings grew, twisted and turned, and buried themselves into the dirt deeper. feelings that should’ve been a thing, and yet, they are. 

and it was stupid of you to be hanging around a man twenty or so years your senior; a man who fights and kills for a living, with no promise he’ll return home alive. a man who doesn’t deserve– want or need, more like– an angel like you. 

“so, why would you tell me all those things? why?” your voice strained as you attempt to ignore the ache in your throat. you’re not going to cry. no. those tears, ones that prick at the corners of your eyes and threaten to make an appearance in your vulnerable, stupid state. but you won’t allow them to fall; you will save these for the private affair in which you mourn the loss of dean’s warmth. and dean in general. “why would you tell me how much you love me when you fuck me, just to not have it mean anything? why would you do that to me, dean?”

he’s more controlled with his feelings than you are. then again, did he ever have any feelings towards you at all? “why would you think that, sweetheart? i– look, the last thing that i wanna do is play around with your feelings, and i thought i was pretty fuckin’ clear from the start what this was.”

you merely stare at him, wondering where this “clear from the start,” bullshit he sprouts is. wonder why he suddenly backtracks all the compliments, the sly innuendos, the praise– oh, the fucking praise– that you spent night after night replaying in your head, rutting into your sheets because you needed him so badly. only for it all to be a lie. 

hell, he could’ve created an nda for you, written out a contract that told you that you must never, never, let your heart get so involved. and yet, your own silly fantasies would still get the better of you.

“kid, this was never goin’ to be somethin’ serious. you’re a good girl an’ all, but..”

and you know the truth. the problem lies with you, and dean, and everything else about this arrangement. because you know how it ends; either you drink the poison and accept that you’re nothing more to him than a “simple fuck,” or you keep letting him smash your heart to bits and pieces. 

nothing meant anything, ever. 

“then get the fuck out of here,” you demand. and when dean doesn’t move, just stares down at you with those exhausted eyes and a solemnly pleading expression, you snap, “go! now! get the fuck out of here!”

your voice cracks, much like your heart, as you lash out at the man that you thought you could love forever. it was silly, delusional, to think like that. 

dean slowly backs away from you, and off of the bed. it’s not that usual slowness– the one he weaponises against you before he ruts into your dripping cunt and buries his cum there. rather, it’s like he’s hesitant to leave you, in case you act impulsively in his absence. because your delusional fantasies have all crashed down on you, burying you alive, and leaving you is going to hurt him as much as it hurts you. 

it’s like he’s scared. 

“if that’s what you really want, kid.. then, fine.” he’s dressing now, not paying you any attention. just focuses on himself, gathering his underwear and sticky jeans– your arousal is staining the crotch area, and something you can’t satisfy anymore aches deep within you– and you wrap your arms around your legs, hugging your knees. 

the silence ensnares you in its teeth, holding you there as you’re forced to watch dean leave your room as silently as he entered. like he was never there. and you’re only spat out by the silence when you’re well and truly alone. thrusted into the cold, wet sheets of a memory already long forgotten.

as soon as he’s gone, you curl in on yourself, body wracked with sobs. you feel stupid– not only for believing in something could come of a silly, puppy-love affair, but also letting him go. ruining something so beautiful. because you had wanted something more. something concrete and everlasting; that defined the love you had for a man twenty years older than you and a penchant for promising you his death before his love.

so. you don’t remember how this began, but now? now, you know how it ends.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself, both feet planted firmly onto the ground. You were a soldier. You could do this. You had done it many times before. This one wasn’t any different. 

Why you had ended up in this situation in the first place? Against better judgement no less? Excellent question, you were going to bring that up with upper management next time you had a chance. 

You let go and winced, hearing the trickle in the ceramic bowl. 

“Are you okay in there?” Crystal asked through the door of the bathroom stall. 

You drew in a sharp breath. Razorblades, liquid fire passing through your urethra. “No, I haven’t gotten any antibiotics yet.” 

Crystal sighed. “Does it hurt enough to make you stop hooking up with a twenty-one year old?” 

“I’m not hooking up with him, I hooked up with him once,” you hissed, pulling your underwear back up. 

Crystal chuckled. “Once? I thought you did the dirty like a hundred times because of his god given stamina?” 

You stepped out of the stall. “Not that many.” 

“Enough times to give you a UTI from hell.” Crystal followed you to the sink and you washed your hands. “I know you’re texting him.” 

“I’m not texting him,” you lied, a small blush creeping into your cheeks. 

“Your phone is buzzing more than my vibrator,” Crystal huffed. 

“That’s my mom.”

Crystal raised an eyebrow at you in the mirror. “You don’t talk to your mom.” 

You opened your mouth, trying to make up a better lie. 

Crystal shook her head. “Well whatever you do, pee after sex, girl. I’m begging you.” 

She didn’t have to tell you that. You weren’t going to make peeing razorblades a habit. Just like you weren’t going to make sleeping with the rookie a habit. 

Even though Leon was very sweet. He texted you in the morning before he went to work. A message you usually opened around noon, when you woke up for the day. On your days off, at night, you talked to each other on the phone until you fell asleep. 

Well, for the past two days you had. It wasn’t like this was a long term thing. Or was ever going to be. You had to figure out a way to let him down gently eventually, but for now, might as well enjoy it, right? You felt a little like you had gotten your early twenties self back through him. Like you were in the queue for tickets to a Nirvana concert and you were living in Seattle. 

But you lived in Raccoon City and you weren’t in your early twenties anymore. In fact, you were quite a long ways from your early twenties.

You adjusted the straps on your stripper attire. Today you were wearing a particularly risky little number. All straps and naked skin in between. Perfect for a Friday to make most of your income for the week. 

Your first dance certainly had been a success. You had gotten a lot of tips. You also spotted Brian out there somewhere, looking at you from behind the curtain of dollar bills as they rained down on you. 

Now that the razorblades were done you were ready to seek him out and get your first private dance secured. The earlier you gave him one, the likelier he was to come back for seconds later. Successful stripping was all strategy and timing. Skill was important, sure. But understanding the hustle got you paid more than the average girl. 

“Hey, hot stuff,” Brian greeted you as you approached him. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” you purred.

His eyebrows shot up and he got the hundred dollar bill out of his pocket so fast, you didn’t even have time to blink. 

You bit back a smile and took it from him. “So generous,” you whispered into his ear, a strategic hand placed on his hard chest. Brian liked the idea of being the one guy that afforded your lifestyle. That didn’t even come close but you wouldn’t tell him that. Fantasy was everything. Creating it was one part of your core skill set. 

The other part of your core skillset was being more flexible than any of them had ever seen outside the club. It made their imagination run wild.

“You know, I need to ask you something,” Brian murmured, as you shook your ass close enough to his face that he could take a bite out of it if he weren't restricted by club rules.

“Go ahead,” you said, your head somewhere close to your calves. 

“Did you lie to me about your side business because I’m a cop or because you don’t trust me as a person?” 

You wrinkled your forehead, coming back up and sitting on his lap. “I don’t follow.” 

“The clients you see ‘off the books’ so to speak. Did you not offer it to me because you think being the sergeant I would report you or is it because it’s personal?”

You chuckled. Not the prostitution talk again. This was so boring. “What clients do I see ‘off the books’?” 

“The rookie for one.” 

Your movements stuttered for a second, but not that Brian would notice. He was clearly preoccupied with one of your nipples slipping out between the straps. 

“What rookie?” You shrugged softly, palming your tits, as you rolled your hips over his half-hard cock. 

“Lola, come on. As if a woman like you would have sex with a dork like that for free,” he pressed, clearly distracted by your body. 

“See, so I obviously didn’t sleep with him, Brian baby.” You held onto his shoulders and put a little more effort into it to end this conversation. 

“That’s not what he says,” he murmured and your face fell. You turned away from Brian so he wouldn’t notice. What the fuck. So he did talk? Like Crystal predicted. 

No, he wasn’t like that. That was so unlike him. That was locker room talk in the RPD. Someone’s imagination was a little too vivid. 

You scoffed, pursing your lips. “And you believe him but not me? Disappointing.” You playfully ran a finger along the collar of his shirt. He was still in uniform. “Besides, the rookie is Helena’s regular. Maybe he’s confusing me with her.” 

“You were wearing his jacket when I saw you at the hardware store. Not Helena.” You stumbled in your movements again, a little more noticeable this time. “He’s parading around the office like he owns you, I hate it.” Brian looked at you with puppy eyes, which was a ridiculous sight to see on a middle aged police sergeant. 

“Does he really?” you whispered and Brian squeezed his eyes shut. 

“So it’s true then? Why don’t you trust me, Lola? I’ve known you for years.” 

You shook your head, trying to defuse the situation. Brian clearly was having a lot more of an emotional investment in this than he should have. 

“Brian, if I had a side business, you’d be the first to know about it,” you said, smiling at him, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Brian liked to feel special, maybe you could hook him with that. 

“Really?” He asked, leaning in a little too close for comfort.

The timer going off saved you. 

“Your time’s up, baby,” you crooned, climbing off him, clasping your shaky hands behind your back. This had been very uncomfortable. On so many levels. 

Brian got up off the couch, reaching into his pants, adjusting his boner for comfort while your heart was nearly beating out of your chest. What did he mean the rookie was parading around the RPD like he owned you? There was no way you misread him like that. 

You winked at Brian. “I’ll see you later. Okay, baby?” 

Brian blew you a kiss and you felt a little sick. On top of that you felt the need to pee again, knowing full well barely anything would come out. The UTI was a constant reminder of your stupidity. Of course all the rookie wanted was fuck the stripper. This wasn’t about you. 

You leaned against your locker, breathing out, remembering how you had told Crystal that the power imbalance between you and Leon with him being a cop wouldn’t be flipped just because you were playing with him for one night. You had played with him for two now.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You opened your locker and grabbed your make up to touch up. Your phone buzzed. A new text.

Have a great shift. 

From Leon. Of course.

Another one.

I can’t stop thinking about you. 

Another. 

Does Guinevere like strawberries?

You smiled. 

She does. So do I, you typed back, biting back a grin and putting your phone back into your bag. He wasn’t like that. A guy that checked in to see if your guinea pig liked strawberries? No way was he talking. Brian probably just put two and two together about the jacket. 

After touching up your make up, you went back out on the hunt, but not without stopping by the bar. 

“Do you have Cranberry juice?” you asked Crystal. 

“We have cosmopolitans?” Crystal yelled over the music.

You pressed your lips together. “You know what, sure. Give me a cosmo.” 

“That’s terrible for a UTI,” Crystal warned but you smiled at her. 

“I know.” You needed something a little stronger to shake off the encounter you just had with Brian. A little something to take the edge off. 

“Why are you looking at rats on company time?” 

Lieutenant Branagh’s words rang in his ears long after his shift at the RPD was over. He had explained to him that they weren’t rats and that in fact, guinea pigs were the one rodent species with the single most refined verbal communication system. They were so community oriented that it was actually illegal to keep them by themselves in some countries. 

“Really?” Branagh had asked. “That is fascinating. As is the report I asked you to complete about two hours ago.” 

Leon had jumped and frantically searched for the correct stack of papers, much to Brian’s amusement, who snickered at him from across the room. 

He was absolutely cooked. He didn’t care if he was your favourite toy. After feeling the snug, warm fit of your pussy around his cock, he was absolutely done for. He would be on his knees, begging for more if he had to. He had never met anyone like you. 

Walking through the door of the apartment, the unmistakable smell of weed hit him square in the face. 

“Hey, hermano. Qué pasa?” his roommate greeted him. 

Leon coughed. “Would you not open a window? There’s no oxygen in here.” 

“That’s kinda the appeal,” Luis said, taking another hit from his bong. 

Leon raised an eyebrow at him, slipping off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket. “What? Hotboxing our entire apartment?” 

Luis grinned. “Yes.” 

Leon cracked open a window regardless. 

“Do you wanna go out tonight?” Luis leaned over the backrest of the cream coloured couch. “The girls from the Alpha Kappa Delta sorority are throwing a party.” 

Leon lifted a slice of pizza from the carton on the kitchen counter, figuring out if it was fresh or not. “What does that even mean? Do you know what that means?” 

“It means they’re really hot,” Luis countered. “And I need a wingman.” 

Leon stared at him. “You need to write your dissertation and not hang out with undergrad sorority girls whose papers you’re grading.” 

Luis clicked his tongue. “You’re such a cop sometimes, you know.” 

Leon rolled his eyes and shook his head, throwing the slice of pizza onto a plate and plopping down on the couch next to Luis. 

“I did laundry today,” he said.  

Leon chuckled. “Congratulations?” 

A cheeky grin split Luis’ face straight in half. “But of course because you left your clothes in the dryer, I had to take them out to use it. And when I did, I found this.” 

Luis held up a delicate lace thong, measuring exactly two square inches of surface area in line with regulations for all strip clubs in the country. Leon flinched and frantically snatched it from his grasp. 

“I assume it’s not you wearing that.” His gaze dropped down to Leon’s crotch. “Unless I severely misjudged your character when we met on craigslist.” 

A blush crept into Leon’s cheeks, your underwear still clutched in his fist. 

“I mean, not that it would be a problem if you did. You yanquis are way too uptight.” He tapped his hand on the backrest of the couch, waiting for Leon to spill the beans. “On top of that, I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t come home the other night. Like at all. I was worried sick. Tried to stay up. You can’t do that to me, Leon. I was so tired in class all day. I could hardly concentrate. That’s how worried I was.”

Leon sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Okay, I met someone. She’s really nice.” 

Luis chuckled. “Nice girls don’t wear underwear like that. Trust me, I know.” 

Leon’s brows knitted together. “You know what, that's kinda offensive actually. And yes they do.” 

Luis prepared his bong for another hit. “Alright, how did you meet her?”

Leon opened his mouth, trying to come up with something that wasn’t ‘during a lap dance that my superior paid for’. “At the club.” 

Luis shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut in amusement. “You don’t go to the club.” 

“Well, that one time I went, I met her.” Leon shrugged, thinking this conversation was over. 

“So what’s she like?” Luis kept asking. 

“She’s…” Leon paused, trying to come up with words that adequately described you. “Really kind. I don’t think she thinks she is. She puts on this whole façade, but she fosters guinea pigs. You know, the rodents? And when they’re sick, she has this little inhaler that she puts in front of them so their airways clear up?” 

Luis looked at Leon, deadpan. 

“And she’s so talented, my god,” Leon went on, waxing fucking lyrical about you. 

“I bet she is,” Luis said, smirking

“That’s not what I mean,” Leon scrambled. “I mean, yes the sex was amazing. I think my soul left my body for a second but I mean her dancing. When she gets up on the pole, it’s like the world stops and everybody is under her spell.” 

Luis coughed. “The pole?” 

Leon grimaced, avoiding his gaze. 

“Are you fucking a stripper? Holy shit.” He broke into a whole coughing fit. “Leon, that is, wow, that is quite something. Wait, she’s not charging you extra, is she? For, you know?” 

Leon chewed on his lower lip. “Don’t talk about her like that.” 

Luis held up his hands in defense. “Hey, again with the uptight yanqui. Oldest trade in the world. There’s no shame in it. Just want to make sure you’re not reading more into this than it actually is.” 

“She’s not charging me,” Leon hissed. 

Luis nodded, taking another hit from his bong. “Can I meet her?” he asked nasally through the smoke. 

“We’re not quite in the ‘let’s get to know people in each other’s lives’ stage,” Leon said, getting up to get another slice of pizza. 

"I see." Luis nodded, clicked his fingers and whipped around. "Can you ask her if she's available for dances outside of the club?"

Leon grimaced. “What? No, what am I? Her pimp?” 

“I'm just thinking, if we showed up to a college party with a bunch of strippers, all the girls would flock to us. Come on, you have to take advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity.” 

Leon sighed. “I have no desire to impress college girls, Luis. And I don't want this to be a once in a lifetime opportunity actually," he murmured, a lot quieter.

Luis held his right hand up to his heart. “Should I prepare my best man speech now or can that wait until next week? I have a paper due.” 

Leon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who the hell let you into grad school, Luis? I'm being so serious.” 

Luis flashed him a pearly white smile. “Dr. Luis.”

"You don't have your PhD yet. You're not even close." Leon huffed.

"And you don't have your stripper girlfriend yet. You're not even close."

As much as Leon hated to admit it, Luis was right for once in his life.

------