#weaker

But when push comes to shove, when sparks start to fly under your skin, the coil in your guts growing as tight as your muscles, climax just in reach, it’s Carlos who leaves you high and dry. Tousled hair sticking to his sweat-slicked face as he halts all movement, dick pressed just deep enough into you that you can still feel every vein, every throb against your tender walls with none of the payoff.

“CARLOS! WHAT TH- FUCK-!!!”

It’s then that his smile contorts, pressing into a thin, tight-lipped smirk before he can’t hold back a chuckle any longer. Something about the furrow of your brow, the pout on your lips, the determination in the way you reach out for him, grabbing him by whatever piece of flesh you can get your claws into, just does it for him.

“You want more?” He plays dumb, pretending to ignore that way you’re bruising his wrists, and rutting your hips to muster up any smidge of friction you can, and he’ll keep acting the fool until you ask nicely, or he thinks you’ve had enough, whichever comes sooner.

“Please fuck me, Carlos.”

“All you had to do was ask.”

Chris has a raging size kink, and he doesn’t even know it. Bonus points if you’ve got some meat on your bones as well.

Everything in his life is so rigid. Always adhering to strict protocol, even when the world is collapsing around him, his life is tainted and dark. So many eyes look to him for leadership, for strength. It weighs even the best of men down. All he really wants is a little light in his life, a glimmer of hope.

So, it settles his stress levels when he comes home to you, all soft, and small, and round, waiting at the door with open arms and a smile on your face that doesn’t care about anything but him in that moment. Warms his heart when you ask him to reach things off the top shelf, to carry your heavy shopping bags instead of the weight of the world. It’s partly the mundanity of it all. You don’t need him to be a weapon; you just want him to be your husband.

He loves the feel of your body under his fingertips, your soft belly brushed up against his abs. The squishiness of your thighs under his palms. Your own hands, in all their delicateness, tracing his collar, his pecs. Touching him with a tenderness he’s only ever experienced when he’s alone with you.

From tip to wrist, they’re just barely bigger than his palm. It takes both of them to cover his length when you’re stroking his cock, and that ignites something in him. It’s not like a fire; there’s no rage, no incomprehensible need to ravage or smother you. It’s something gentler. It’s a hazy, reverential, and terribly addictive.

Leon likes to take it slow, lazy even, and with an abundance of praise pouring from his mouth.

He wakes you up, normally the morning after a gruelling night. His hair tickling the nape of your neck as he kisses your exposed skin, his calloused fingers exploring your body, paper-soft in pressure, but greedy in their expedition. His hips, slow and rhythmic as he grinds his half-clothed cock against your ass. It’s like he’s trying not to wake you, but he isn’t trying that hard.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He whispers into the crook of your neck when your breath starts to quicken, and your lids just barely flutter open. It makes his chest shake against your back, the hot breeze of his open mouth sending a tingle down your spine. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Though his movements are leisurely and oh so gentle, he breathes you in hard and deliberate, half-silent hums and moans rolling off his tongue as he basks in your scent. His fingers hooking onto the waist of your underwear and easing them down your thighs before you can even reply to his greeting. “You smell so good, feel so warm and soft, pretty baby.”

“Good morning to you, too, stranger.” You reply, barely holding back your own whimpers and sighs at each measured, sloppy kiss Leon presses to your shoulders. You try to roll back, wanting to cup his face and return his kisses, but he gives you no quarter. There’s no force, no push back, but he keeps you in place, removing the tender touch of his palm just long enough to reach down, freeing his cock from his boxers and poking the head between your thighs, hot pre-cum already dripping between your legs.

“No, don’t move. Please, baby. Let me give it to you like this.” Maybe it’s the morning daze, the reverence of his voice, the intoxicating feeling of his length dragging against your own arousal, or a combination of all three, but you don’t even pretend to fight him on it, instead relaxing further into the bed, as you let him have his way. “That’s it, just like that. You’re so good for me.”

With any luck, Leon won’t get called away too soon, and there will be time for kisses and catching up later.  

Wesker loves to see you beg. To plead for his attention, his time, his approval. Doesn’t matter what. Just to see you so needy, so desperate, so eager to appease. It’s so very gratifying to him.

But it’s not about you, per se. Not about your pretty eyes, glossy with tears of desperation. It’s not about the way your voice cracks, how you stutter over your words, anxious to be clear and concise, to please him despite the way his presence, his words, turns every vowel to mush before it can reach the tip of your tongue.

“I’m sorry, Wesker. Please, Captain. May I, Sir…”

Not about how you lick your quaking lips in anticipation, or the way you ignore the bitter taste of metal and leather as you glide your tongue against his crotch, greedy for a taste of what lies beneath. Not the makeup you worked so hard on, now smeared across your face as he smudges it beneath his gloved digits.

“So placid, so willing to let me do whatever I want to you. Isn’t that right, Dear Heart?”

Not even the spark of enthusiasm in your face, the tweak in your posture as he lets you take his fingers down your gullet, or when he orders you bent over, hands spreading your hole wide.

But the way you whine and murmur, praying over and over again for your god to give you an offering, to pump you full of his thick, hot seed. The way you’ll concede anything, your independence, your dignity, your restraint. You’ll do, you’ll say anything he wills you to, anything to placate the man pulling all your strings. As you should.

Still, it feels like an inauspicious start to their honeymoon. Trapped by pouring rain and what sounds like hail in a strange barn that has been empty so long it doesn't even smell like animals anymore.

"I'm sorry, love," Jesper breathes, as he slides off of his horse and offers Wylan a hand down.

Their new rings clink together as Wylan takes the offered help, a little less sure of himself on the horse, but he still has the bearing of a man who both knows what dressage is, and had competed in it when he was young enough to have earned himself some lifelong habits.

Wylan laughs at him, his face bright and open - Van Sunshine, Jesper thinks. He gets to live in that light for the rest of his life. Saints.

"Very rude of you to arrange a storm today," Wylan agrees, raising his arms to loop them around Jesper's shoulders. Jesper, for his part, finds his hands on Wylan's hips, and he's taken aback for the millionth time by how well their bodies fit together, how right they are for each other.

It doesn't hurt that Jesper is cold, and wet, and Wylan is very, very warm. They may have to cuddle for body heat. He hasn't decided yet if that's necessary, or if it can wait until they get back to the farm.

"You know," Wylan's fingers play gently with the short hairs at the nape of Jesper's neck. "It's a little romantic, isn't it? Getting caught in the rain together?"

Jesper loves this man, but he's beginning to remember why absolutely sane was never in his pros column.

"We're in an abandoned barn," Jesper says. "In the middle of nowhere. You think this is romantic?"

Wylan smiles and pulls Jesper's head down to their foreheads are touching. "Yes," he breathes. "I think it's romantic to be trapped by the rain with a handsome man who loves me. Even if we both smell like horses."

"I think this is how horror novels start," Jesper says, but he's smiling anyway. If he has to be trapped in a horror novel, at least he gets to be trapped with his new husband. "And I think that if a monster murderer comes for us, we're going to have to feed the horses to it, and then how will we get back?"

Wylan laughs, his shoulders shaking and eyes closed so that wrinkles decorate his face. "You are ridiculous, do you know that?"

Jesper can't help himself, he has to kiss his husband, has to feel their lips together. He hauls Wylan's body closer, reveling at the heat that radiates through their soaked clothing.

"Sure, you’re totally right, nothing bad could ever happen here," Jesper says, when they break apart.

And then Wylan kisses him again, and there's no need to talk anymore.