𝐹𝑈𝑁𝐾𝑌 𝑇𝑂𝑊𝑁

He can do his very best to make you happy without being yours.

A big surge of something loving and needy and sticky as warmed syrup pulls through him when you step out of your motel room and onto the small balcony, down rickety stairs as you adjust your jacket. Still sleep mussed and lovely as ever.

"S'too early," you lament, though the sun is a high golden yolk in the sky already. He thinks you haven't been sleeping well, wants to share a room next time and look after you.

He pushes off where he'd been leaning against Baby without really meaning to and feels a nestle of light in his chest. You're too pretty under the early spring sun, it kisses your nose and sets little gleaming stars in your eyes.

"The day's nearly over, sweet thing," he teases mild. "How'd you sleep?"

You blink at him, lashes pulling apart slow. "Like a baby."

This could mean either awful or wonderfully. But there isn't any time to prod before he remembers what he's holding behind the leather of his jacket. How he may look conspicuous, how you can most definitely tell he's fidgety with his arms half hidden.

"Did something bite your hands off?"

"What? No," he huffs a nervous laugh. "My hands are fine. Perfect, actually."

You hum and cross your arms, one boot kicking out and tapping against smooth asphalt.

"Have you got something?"

He does, but you're rushing him. Better now than ever, he supposes, if he were to wait any longer he might talk himself out of giving it to you. Or his flustering nerves would gnaw him away into a stub.

"Just... don't be weird," he sighs, hands shifting behind his back.

"Being weird is fun," you reply, smile sleepy and scrunching your nose in a way that nearly throws him into a whole tizzy. "Why shouldn't I be weird?"

His cheeks ache with a too-fond grin and his fingers squeeze at the concealed cassette, acting as a heavy weight. It may as well be his heart on a platter.

"You can be as weird as you wanna be," he says. "Just cool it for now."

"Okay." You point, gaze attempting to stretch and curl around his side to see. "Show me what you've got."

With a big, internal, here goes nothing, he pulls the tape out and holds it between two fingers for you to take. Your name on the white note cover, written in his best handwriting, and it's entirely simple. So sickeningly saccharine underneath.

His jaw works with a swallow as you stare at the thing, your expression open, eyes a little wide. He can't read it.

"Take it," he says, insecurity a festering root in his head. "Unless you-"

You grab it from him quick and hold it with such careful palms, fingers a delicate press against the plastic shell.

"There's no unless," you breathe, he registers the airy delight in your tone and feels tons of bricks fall from his shoulders. "You made this for me?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. That's your name on it, right?"

"Right," you whisper, and look up at him, and he's six feet under.

You're happy, and it suits you. More than anything else. He'd like to make this last forever, the small creases at the corners of your mouth as you laugh all soft, the rise of your eyebrows. You stretch a hand out to settle on his bicep.

It's very, extremely difficult to stay standing.

"I've never gotten anything like this before," you admit, a bashfulness about you now that makes his heart squeeze and swell along with your words. "Thank you, De. This is, um. Really neat."

Really neat. He aches and decides to make you thousands more.

But he's turned into complete static when you take a tentative step closer, chest nearly brushing his, and lean up to give a chaste, petal-soft kiss to his cheek. His knees are more jelly than bone.

He hopes to high heaven that he's not at all red.

"What's on it?" you ask.

It's whiplash inducing, the way you act like you haven't just set him and his insides atwirl. But he'll take whatever you give, and push all his nonsensical feelings way, way down, and be grateful for just this.

He gestures to the Impala.

"How about you put it in and see, sweetheart?"

Anything with you is all he wants.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

“You suck.” You’d hissed, and he’d laughed.

It was hard to keep pretending to be pissed at him, when he’d leaned down and kissed you so sweetly.

You’d grabbed his forearms for balance, despite being off your feet. His arm had gone around your chest, bicep near your neck and fingers splayed over the curve of your breast, and you hadn’t been ready for what that would do to you.

It was like drowning in him. You could feel every breath, every word vibrating through your chest, every flex of his muscles when he shifted. He was a wall of heat behind you, and you wouldn’t have minded if he turned you into steam. With his hold on you, you’re sure he would’ve been able to keep you in one place anyway.

“Yeah, I’m gonna tell her that, I-“ Dean had cut himself off, frowning at the air. His lips did a little pucker thing, when he frowned.

You wanted to feel him all over your skin.

“You have her phone number.” Dean had snapped, arm tightening around you. “You tell her yourself.”

Charlie had given a muffled response, and Dean had snorted.

“Good.” He’d looked down at you, and you’d blinked up hopelessly.

He was so pretty. And all yours. You’d never want to take him away from his friends, but there was a tiny, loud part of you that wanted all his attention forever. You’d been trying to smother it. You had no right to ask such a thing.

But Dean had looked at you, and you think you might’ve slipped.

His brow had furrowed. He’d mouthed a you good? And just looked more concerned when you nodded.

You’ve been trying to be good. But he was everywhere, and you couldn’t be blamed for standing under the sun, and hoping it shined just for you. It was that type of thinking that made empires rise and fall. That built religions.

It would be very easy, to build an empire to worship Dean. You think you could build a world to worship him. A whole universe where nothing would ever hurt him. Where hurricanes and tidal waves moved around him, and flowers bloomed in his name, and he could call for what he wanted on the wind and it would always be there.

“I’m gonna call you back, Charlie.” Dean had muttered, eyes never leaving your open expression. “Yeah- Just tell him I’ll be back on Friday. I’ll pull double to make up for the notice. Yeah, thanks.”

He’d hung up the phone, tossing it onto the other side of the couch without a glance.

“You gonna tell me what’s- Woah-“

You’d rolled over, planting your hands on his abdomen and climbing up his chest. Dean had grunted, but let you press over him, holding you steady with a hand on your waist. You’d hovered, breathing heavily as you tried to figure out what to do with yourself.

Dean’s lips had twitched. “Hey, Princess.”

“Hi.” You’d breathed.

He’d reached up, tucking some hair behind your ear. “You want something?” He’d teased, and you’d swallowed.

A nod was the most you could manage. Dean had grinned like a child in a candy store.

“I’m all yours.”

He was. Dean was all yours.

It had been enough of a push for you to straddle him. Then a few more seconds of working yourself up to actually kiss him. Dean hadn’t rushed you. His hand had dipped under your shirt, massaging sensitive skin with his calloused hands. You’d started to get dizzy with need for him. Chewing on your lower lip until it was swallow, grabbing at his shoulders in an attempt to coax him on.

But he’d just waited, and teased. You’d be angry at him, if it didn’t work.

You’d almost attacked him, with the intensity of your kisses. He’d grunted in surprise when you finally moved, slamming your lips over his. You’d been clumsy, desperate and frantic. You’d just needed to feel him, and you wanted him to leave a mark. You hadn’t meant to be so brutal about it that your noses bumped and he grabbed your waist like he was trying to leash an animal.

But when you’d tried to pull away, Dean hadn’t been having it.

“Where’re you going?” He’d muttered, dragging you back down with a hand on the back of your head.

Nowhere.

You had no plans to go anywhere without him again.

Your Dean.

Which was the problem of long distance. Dean was in favor with his boss, and he could use sick time for this because you’d been having a melt down less than twelve hours ago. Although sick time was technically something he should only be using for family. When you’d pointed that out to him, Dean had shrugged and kissed the top of your head.

“He knows you’re family. It counts.”

“No, it doesn’t.” You’d crossed your arms over your chest. “We’re not related, legally or biologically.”

“Well, I’m fixin’ that soon.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You wanna watch a movie?”

You hadn’t wanted to watch a movie. You’d wanted to get to the bottom of what the hell that meant. But Dean’s unfair influence over your body meant you’d ended up cocooned in his arms on the couch. You’d dozed off like that, despite it only being ten or so.

But Dean felt safe. You hadn’t really ever felt a safe like Dean was before him. You knew you’d never feel one after him.

Which was the problem again.

You didn’t mind long distance. You’d have him however you could, and right now this was the only way. At least until you graduated, and you—eventually—told Sam.

But you also missed him more and more when he left. You always felt better when he was here. And no matter how he dismissed it as nothing, he’d flown across the country just because you’d been having a breakdown.

You had a lot of breakdowns. You were feeling better now that he was here, but that wasn’t going to last forever. This was something that was bigger than Dean. Sometimes it felt bigger than you. You’d been swimming upstream in your own mind your whole life, and Dean was strong enough to anchor you from being swept back under the water for a little while. But he couldn’t stop the flow of the water. He couldn’t always be there to keep you afloat.

But you didn’t like trying to swim when you didn’t know there was a guard in place. It made you feel safer, even if you didn’t need him to jump in.

Dean couldn’t keep buying plane tickets and dropping work whenever you needed him. He’d say he could, but it wasn’t financially sustainable. Still, selfishly, you just wanted him here all the time. Just like this.

Maybe not just like this. He was kind of a prisoner like this. No leaving the apartment without telling you, in case Sam was around. No going out with you, in case Sam was around. No FaceTiming Sam, because the observant little fucker would recognize your apartment.

“He’s called me three times today, Princess.” Dean mutters, leaning against the counter in the kitchen. “He’s gonna start poking around. And if he calls the garage, they’re gonna tell him I took time off for my girlfriend.”

“Which he’ll probably come over to tell me about.” You mumble, glaring at the dishes in the sink. “You- You could hide in the closet-“

Dean snorts. “Sweetheart, I’m not gonna fit in your closet.”

“You could if I folded you.”

“Like a pretzel?”

You nod, and Dean smiles with too much softness and affection. You were threatening to turn him into a pretzel. He should be angry.

Instead he just walks over to your side, resting one hand on your hip and dropping his face against your neck. His breath is warm. Shivers run up your spine, and you wobble a little when he kissed over your shoulder.

“You could go under the bed.” You breathe, and he chuckles. The sound rolls through you, and you think he might be able to wreck you with just his voice.

“Not gonna fit there, either.”

“We- We don’t know until we try. That’s the scientific method-“

Dean says your name, strict but not angry. Your face burns and you stare at the sink. He reaches around you, turning off the water before spinning you to face him.

It’s impossible to look him in the eyes. You’d melt on the spot.

Dean noses at your jawline, peppering sweet kisses until your shoulders relax. You tip your head back with a tiny sigh, and he smirks against your skin.

“You trust me?” He murmurs, and you nod.

With everything.

“Good girl.” Dean kisses your cheek, and a downright pathetic sound escapes your throat. “I’ve got this, alright? He’s not gonna know.”

You’d grumble a protest about all the ways Sam could know, if you were able to think in more than colors and music right now. You’re putty under Dean’s hands, tugging hopelessly at his shirt in the hope you’ll be offered a little something more.

But he keeps going on about your first time being special. You don’t want special. You just want him.

Here. With you. On you, all the time.

Not in Chicago. You can’t touch him, when he’s in Chicago.

“Would you ever want to move again?” You ask softly one night, your legs resting over his.

Dean shrugs, rubbing your calf absentmindedly. “I mean, I’m probably gonna have to.”

“Have to?”

“Yeah.” He gives you an amused look. “I can’t live with Charlie forever.”

“Oh. Right.” You flush, picking at your fingers. “Where- Where would you go to live next?”

“Don’t know yet.” He’s silent for a moment, still watching the TV. “What about you? If you could live anywhere in the whole world, where would you take us?”

Us. You and Dean, together.

And you know that tone of his. It’s the deep, overly causal one he uses when he really wants to know something, but doesn’t know how to directly ask. You can see it all over his face.

“To live?” You ask. “Or for vacation?”

“Hm. Both?”

You nod, leaning into the cushions and watching him while you think. You trust him. You do. And you love him, and he loves you. He said it. He can’t take it back.

“I wouldn’t want to live in Chicago.” You say, and Dean’s head whips over.

“You- You wouldn’t?”

You shake your head. You can see it. The ache behind his eyes, and the way he works his jaw. He’s quickly trying to shift his face back into something neutral, to not let the hurt show, because he’s amazing and never wants you to feel bad.

It’s a little too late. You’re already wishing you’d phrased that differently, and throttling your tongue for being so stupid.

“Alright.” Dean rasps, looking back to the TV. He’s not rubbing your calf anymore. “That- That’s alright-“

“I’d want to live with you.” You say quickly, and Dean snaps his attention back again.

“You would?”

You nod, hugging yourself tight. “Stop moving your neck so fast, De. You’re going to crink it.”

“Yeah, yeah I know- You’d want to live with me?”

He sounds like you’ve just told him I rented a whole diner for you to eat whatever you want or Scooby Doo is outside, and real, and he wants to invite you to join the Gang. You can’t help your own smile from creeping over your face.

“Of course I would. I love you.”

Dean grins, squeezing your ankle. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

You flush, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “Thanks.”

“Always.” He kisses your knee, watching you for a moment before murmuring. “Why not Chicago?”

“My- My family.” You whisper. “They live in Chicago.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. His hold on you tightens.

You haven’t told him much about your family, but he knows enough. And from the glint in his eyes, you don’t think he’s going to let you live near them if you try.

“Not Chicago.” He mutters, and you nod.

“You- You’re not going to try and confront them-“

“No. Not yet.”

You frown. “Dean-“

“Joking.” It doesn’t sound like he is. “We probably live in way different parts of the city anyway. Don’t think they’re slumming it near me and Charlie’s two bedroom with rats in the basement.”

“The rats are back? I told you to buy those traps, De-“

“I did! But the little sons of bitches, they’re persistent.”

“Did you tell your landlord?”

“Nah, we got it.”

“You have to tell him, the longer you wait the worse it’s going to get-“

“We will-“

“You just said you wouldn’t.” You challenge, narrowing your eyes. “And if you get eaten by rats, I’m going to be very mad at you.”

Dean’s lips twitch, and he huffs a low laugh. “Bossy.”

“Shut up.” You kick him softly, and he doesn’t even pretend to flinch. “Tell your landlord about the rats, or I swear to god-“

“You gonna do something to me, Princess?” He smirks, his hand on your calf slowly gliding up. Teasing the soft skin on the back of your thigh.

You squeak, kicking him away on instinct, and he laughs. He’s stronger, holding you in place as he traces up the sensitive area. Rough, careful fingers tickling over places you didn’t know could feel electric, then a little higher, and higher.

Dean’s hand lingers right on the curve of your ass. If he shifted a little to the side, he’d be thumbing at your clothed pussy.

You stare at him, breathing ragged and short. His lips twitch, but his eyes are dark and hungry as he watches you twitch under him. You want to grab his hand and force it between your legs. You can’t remember how to move.

“You’re real quiet, baby.” He teases, kissing your knee and pushing his hand a little higher. “Feelin’ alright?”

You whimper, arching up into his touch. “Dean…”

“You were saying something about how you were gonna be very mad at me.” He drawls, fingers drifting slightly to the side. Still not touching. Still so close.

“I- I will be.” You try to breathe out. “If you don’t do… The thing.” For a split second, you’ve completely forgotten what.

“That right?” Dean hums, and you raise your chin.

“Mhm.” You whisper, and he laughs.

“Alright, Princess.” He leans over you, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to your lips. It’s entirely unfair how he pushes up your knee, almost completely exposing you to his gaze. How he presses his hips over you, so you can feel the hard outline of his cock over your heat.

You grab his shoulders, digging your nails in, and he hums.

“We’ll figure out where we’re going later, okay?”

You nod, then actually hear his words. “Where we’re going?”

“To live.” He pauses, rising over you wide eyes. “Y’know, if that’s something you’d wanna do with me-“

“Yes.”

Your answer is far too quick, but Dean only grins. “Really?”

You nod, fiddling with the buttons on his henley. “I- I mean- We’ve been dating a while, and- And eventually the next step is-“

“Meet the family?”

“No! I- I mean, yes, but I can’t meet your family until we tell Sam, and my family is in South Dakota, and-“

Dean silences you with a kiss. You’re grateful. You would’ve rambled for another twenty minutes.

“Breathe.” He mumbles, and you grumble.

“I am.”

“Good.” Dean smiles against your lips. “We can do all the steps when you’re ready, baby. I’m just happy to be on the ride.”

You flush, but nod. Dean kisses the corner of your mouth, his knee between your thighs but not against your core, and-

“You have to fuck me first.” You blurt, and Dean sputters and freezes so fast you think the words might’ve punched him.

“I- You can’t just-“ He’s leaning back, and when your eyes dart to his crotch, you can see the hard outline of his cock straining against his sweats. “Jesus, woman-“

“Sorry, I- I just- I want to do that soon. Please.”

Dean looks at you like you’re from another planet. Smiling and shaking his head, huffing a low laugh that just makes you feel all tingly.

“Yeah. Okay.” He sighs. “I’m on it.”

If it is having sex with you, that seems to be the only thing Dean isn’t on. He’s on kissing, and touching, and teasing you until you’re a livewire under his hands. But he never does anything about it. The electricity just hangs in the air, and you grind into the pillows when he’s not looking, desperate for some relief. You’re worried he’s going to wake up to you humping his leg, if he doesn’t do something soon.

He’s lucky he’s a perfect boyfriend in every other way. The week passes slowly, and he doesn’t once complain about his lockdown in your apartment. You text him when you’re with Sam so he can go out to get groceries. You kiss him goodbye in the morning, and he’s waiting for you at the door like a dog when you get home. You’re smiling more than you’re crying, because Dean’s good at making you smile.

People are noticing. The smiling, and his… other effects.

“Look at those.” Kai jeers, following you out of class again. You’re still tensed, but less worried than before. Dean spent a good part of yesterday teaching you how to defend yourself against an attacker, which mostly meant you trying to beat him up and him happily praising you whenever you landed a punch.

Crotch and eyeballs, Princess. His voice drawls in your head. Chin up, shoulders back. No one fucks with my girl.

You give Kai your usual, unimpressed look, but this time you really mean it. You can’t imagine why he’d think he stands a chance, when you have Dean.

Kai whistles, smirking like a wolf. “Oh, she’s angry today. Your fake boyfriend not giving you enough attention?”

“He’s not fake-“

“I can tell.” Kai sneers,  and you think he was setting himself up for that. “Look at you. It’s disgusting.”

He spits, and you lean back slightly. “Kai-“

“You let him touch you like that? Bet he can’t even make you cum, and you let him mark you like fuckin’ property-“

“Hey.” Sam barks from behind you, and your shoulders sag. “Don’t talk to her like that, dude. You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

Kai rolls his eyes, though it must be hard to appear unintimidated by Sam’s six foot bajillion height and mass. “Fuck off, Winchester. Bet you’re the one marking her up, cheating on that blonde bitch you’ve got-“

You move faster than Kai can react, or Sam can hold you back. You go for the groin. Just like Dean told you.

Kai’s a lot less intimidating, when he’s a whimpering little ball on the floor. You smile smugly. Sam mostly just looks exasperated.

“You- Where did you even learn to-“

“My Dad.” You lie smoothly, fidgeting with the skin on your ring finger.

Sam gives you a disbelieving look. “Bobby taught you to roundhouse groins?”

You shrug. “We grew up in the woods. Never knew who we’d run into.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he also lets it go. Probably just so he can drag you away from the crime scene and switch gears to interrogating you about the hickeys.

“You were with your mystery boyfriend.” He accuses over lunch, and you sigh.

There’s no use denying that part anymore. You’d glanced in the mirror while Sam got dinner, and you were going to need to buy a spray bottle for your feral boyfriend. Dean didn’t seem to believe there was a spot on your neck that shouldn’t be covered in little love bites and bruises. You look like you’d been in a loosing fight with a swarm of bugs.

“Yeah. I was.”

Sam sighs. “Do I still not get to meet him?”

“Soon, Sam-“

“You keep saying soon.” He mutters, glaring at his salad. “You know, I introduced you to Jess before we even went on our first date.”

You swallow, guilt building like bile in your stomach. That’s true. He did. And you always used to tell each other everything, but now…

It’s been almost two years of sneaking around behind Sam. Months of fully dating and not telling him. You’ve said I love yous. You were talking about moving in together, and last night Dean got a little drunk and started rambling about how you’d make the cutest babies together. There aren’t even real doubts in your head anymore. Not about Dean. Everything that hurts it just the permanent sting of being alive, and being you. Everything that you’re certain of is Dean.

But before it was Dean, it was Sam. It still is Sam.

And you need to tell him. But not right now, in the middle of the cafeteria, without warning Dean. You’ve ran through every possible scenario, and most of them end in at least some form of Sam trying to punch Dean. In the best case, Dean invites Sam to hit him to get them all over it, Sam does, and everyone moves on. In the worst, you tell Sam right now, he realizes Dean has to be here to give you the hickeys, and he drives to your apartment right now to beat the shit out of the unprepared dork who’s probably eating pie on your couch.

“It’s complicated.” You mumble, poking at your own food. “It’s- It’s not because I don’t trust you, I promise-“

“Well, do you think I won’t like him? Because if that’s it, I don’t think you should be with someone you’re worried about your friends meeting-“

“I’m not worried about you liking him. I- I think you’re going to love him.” You already love him. He’s your brother, and you spent years hyping up how much I’d like the massive, handsome loser, so really this is your fault, Sam. “He’s sweet.”

“Sweet.” Sam echoes, flat and unimpressed. “He marked you up like you’re a turkey,” Sam says your name, and you flush.

“I didn’t mind-“

“Gross-“

“And he’s just… insatiable, okay?” You give Sam a pleading look. “He loves me. He’s really good to me.” Except for the fact that he won’t fuck you, but you don’t think Sam’s going to appreciate that detail. “And he’d just- He’s so stupid and smart and nice and- And funny and helpful and perfect and hot- He’s so fucking hot, Sam, it’s crazy-“

“Okay, okay-“ Sam recoils, raising his hands in surrender. “I get it. He’s great.”

“He is.” You press your lips in a tight line. “Please. Just- Give me a little more time.”

Sam nods, sighing heavily through his nose. “Fine. I can’t wait to meet Jesus, I guess.”

You laugh softly, and Sam’s lips twitch. You’ll talk to Dean about it tonight. Make a solid, no backing out plan about talking to Sam.

You mean to talk to Dean about it.

But you get home, and he’s made you dinner. You get distracted. It’s your favorite, and he’s letting you ramble about all your classes while bumping your feet under the table, and you only remember the serious conversation you were supposed to be having when Dean’s phone starts to ring.

“Shit.” He mutters. “It’s Sammy.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean-“

“C’mon.” He grabs your hand, and suddenly your standing and letting him lead you out of the kitchen. “Told you, I got a plan.”

Dean did have a plan. And it’s not bad, but it’s not amazing either.

 You sit across from him on the bathroom floor, his back pressed against the wall so there’s only a white plaster wall behind him. Nothing identifiably yours. Not even a towel that Sam could see the next time he comes over. Just wall, and Dean in the frame.

“Are you sure this-“

“I’ve got it.” He smiles at you, winking once before picking up the call.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, and you flinch at the sudden volume.

Dean grins at his phone, stretching his leg so his foot presses against your thigh. “Hey, Sammy. What’s-“

“You’ve been dodging my calls all week! I thought something happened to you, I thought you were going on another cross country drive and got kidnapped-“

“I’ve never been kidnapped-“

“But you could be, that’s my point-“

“Aw, you think I’m worth kidnapping? I’m flattered, dude-“

“I’m serious, Dean, I was worried about you. I called Charlie, and she said you were out all week. What the fuck does out mean, where are you-“

“I’m in New Orleans.” Dean shrugs. “Visiting Benny.”

Sam’s silent for a moment, and Dean glances at you over the phone, brows raised. You nod, squeezing his ankle three times, and his lips twitch.

“If I call Benny, is he going to tell me you’re there?” Sam finally snaps, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Of course he is, bitch-“

“Is he with you right now?”

“He’s gettin’ us dinner.”

“Dinner? It’s almost midnight, why are you eating dinner so late?”

“We got distracted. Out drinking.”

“Drinking.” Sam repeats, and you can hear the suspicion in his voice.

“That’s what I said, Sammy.”

“With Benny.”

“Do I need to get you to a freakin’ ear doctor or something-“

“Did you bring a girl back with you?”

Dean sits up, his grip on the phone getting white knuckled. “No, I’ve told you I don’t do that anymore-“

“But you went drinking with Benny.” Sam says. “You only go to visit Benny when you want to go on a bender and get laid, Dean.”

“Well, I’m growing as a man. Just visiting my friend, didn’t know that was a crime-“

“Did you break up with your secret girlfriend.”

“No-“

“Does she know where you are-“

“She always knows where I am, I share my location with her-“

“You share your location?” Sam sounds shocked. You can picture his gaping expression without seeing the screen.

Dean’s ears go a little red, his eyes darting up to yours before he looks back to Sam. “Yeah.” He mutters. “We’re long distance. Good to know where the other is.”

“Long distance? I didn’t know you were long distance.”

Your eyes widen, and you shoot up with a panicked expression. Dean doesn’t look away from the phone, but his leg wraps over yours. Keeping you firmly on the ground.

“We don’t talk about our relationships. Didn’t think you cared.”

“Of course I care- I tell you about Jess all the time-“

“Because you’re a nerd and you need my help flirting with your own fiancée-“

“Because you ask what’s going on with me, Dean! And- I ask what’s going on with you, and you just say Charlie and I ate dog food again.”

You give Dean a disbelieving look, eyes narrowing, and he shoots you a quick sheepish smile as Sam keeps rambling.

You ate dog food? You mouth, and he shrugs.

Charlie dared me. Wasn’t gonna be a pussy.

You kick him, and he grins.

“Dean!” Sam shouts. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I’m listening to you.” Dean looks back to his phone. “You think I’m awesome and the coolest brother alive, and you wanna hear every detail of how my girlfriend loves me and adores me and dotes on me-“

Sam makes a gagging sound, and you lie flat on your back, unable to keep looking him in the eyes.

“That’s- So gross-“

“Sorry I’m loved, dork.”

“No, you’re not.” Sam grumbles. “If you were so freakin’ loved, then it shouldn’t be a problem for me to meet your girlfriend, should it.”

Dean sighs. “Look, Sammy, I-“

There’s a loud sound from Sam’s end of the phone, and you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him. He looks nervous. You rarely see Dean nervous.

“De.” You whisper, and he shoots you a shut up look.

“Is that Dean?” Jess barks. “Give me that, Samuel- Dean.”

She sounds like she’s about to torture him for information. You can’t blame him for looking so worried.

“Hey, Jess, what’s up-“

“Where are you.”

“New Orleans. I’m visiting my friend-“

“I don’t care.” Jess snaps, and Dean’s throat bobs.

“Yeah. Uh- Alright-“

“You have a girlfriend.”

“Um-“

“How long have you been together.”

“Seven months.”

“Long time.” Jess says, and Dean nods.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You almost snort, and he shoots you a glare. You mouth sorry. You don’t mean it. He’s cute when he’s nervous.

“So, what’s goin’ on with you, Jess-“

“Your girlfriend is long distance?” Jess cuts him off, and Dean sighs.

“Yeah. She is.”

“Where does she live?”

He blinks, and you love the man. He’s a genius about a lot of things.

You’d bet a lot of money it hadn’t once crossed his mind that they might ask questions about his girlfriend like they had for you. When Jess had given you the same interrogation, you’d been smooth. Said her that you weren’t going to tell her anything. You’ve seen her stalk people online too many times to risk it.

But you hadn’t warned Dean about that skill of her’s. And you try to mouth don’t answer at him, but he’s too panicked to notice.

“Uh… She’s- She’s from-“

You sigh, pushing fully up on your palms. “Say Canada.” You hiss, and he blinks hopelessly.

“California.”

You’re going to kill him.

“She’s from California?” Jess pushes, and you shake your head.

Dean swallows. “Uh- No.”

“You just said-“

“She lives in California. She’s- She’s from Chicago.”

God, he’s such an idiot. You can’t believe you’re going to have his babies one day.

“Chicago?” Sam asks, confused in the background. Dean looks like he wants to run.

“Yeah?”

“Where in Chicago.”

“The… Rich part?”

“Your girlfriend is rich?” Jess asks, and you groan, flopping back onto the floor.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, she is.”

“What does she do?”

“Television?”

“So she’s based in LA?”

“Sure! I mean-“ He clears his throat. “Yeah. She is.”

Jess hums. “How old is she?”

You don’t even bother to shake your head at him this time. He wouldn’t see it.

“Twenty-one?”

Sam coughs. “You’re dating a twenty-one year old? That’s like- My age, Dean.”

“Uh- Technically it’s a year older than you-“

“And she’s rich.” Jess mutters. You cover your face with your hands. “Where’d she get her money?”

“Family?” Dean says weakly. Your best bet is that he just hangs up the phone.

“What does her family do?”

“Money stuff.”

Money stuff? You mouth at him, and he cringes.

He’s usually a very good liar. Jess must just be a better interrogator.

“Is she hot?”

“She’s beautiful.” He answers quickly, and you’d like the ground swallow you whole now. “You’re gonna adore her, I promise. She’s smarter than Sammy, funniest person I know- She’s awesome.”

Jess hums, words slow and careful. “You love her.”

“More than anything.”

“Hm.”

“I have to go, alright.” Dean glances at you, lips twitching up. “Benny’s back with dinner.”

“Oh, can I talk to him-“

“No. Bye.”

Dean hangs up, tossing his phone to the side and grinning at you. You’re still on the floor. You have no plans to come back up.

“What’re you doing down there, Princess?” He teases, and you grumble.

“Dying.”

“Yeah?” He grabs your foot, dragging you across the floor until you’re a puddle at his knees.

You turn your face into his thigh, nodding. He laughs, rubbing your shoulders gently.

“Don’t die on me, baby. I’d have to learn how to bring you back.”

“There’s no reversing death.” You grunt, and Dean shrugs.

“I’d figure it out. For you.”

You flush, pressing your face further into him.

“I’d figure it out for you too.” You mumble, and Dean chuckles.

“I know.”

“What happens when Sam calls Benny-“

“Benny tells him I’m there, and plays a clip of me in the background asking him for something, then hangs up the phone.”

You roll over with wide eyes, and he shrugs.

“I can plan stuff.”

“I know.” You whisper. “It’s always just really hot when you do.”

You don’t know what possessed you to say that, but it slips from your lips and Dean’s nostrils flare like he’s smelled something sweet.

“Is it?” His voice dropped impossibly lower. When you nod, his tongue darts over his lips. “What else do I do that’s really hot?”

“I- I, um- I-“

“Come on, Princess.” He coos, smirking down at you. He’s rubbing your thigh again. He always does it like he’s starting a fire. “Talk to me. What do I do?”

You take a deep breath, fixing your eyes on the ceiling. “You, um- When- You- This.” You breathe out, eyes fluttering shut.

Dean grunts, squeezing the very top of your thigh. “This?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright.” He says it low. Careful. “What else?”

“When- When you talk to me.”

Dea chuckles. “Princess, I talk to you all the damn time-“

“I know.”

He’s silent for a second, and you curl into yourself. You know Dean wants you. He’s never been shy about it.

But the longer he’s refused to just fuck you, the more you’d been worried about it. How vast your desire for him is. How you’re a little scared of it yourself, sometimes. You’ve been worried about just this, that Dean would see you and decide that you weren’t worth all the trouble, that how much you wanted him was weird, that you were weird, that he wasn’t interested in having to guide you through all your depraved daydreams about his biceps and his hands and his mouth-

“You get turned on by my voice?” Dean rasps, and you wrap your arms protectively around yourself.

“Maybe.”

He says your name, and you shake your head.

“I- I do, but- I can’t control it-“

“Do you want to control it?”

Your heart stops for a second. His voice is deep, words less teasing and more commanding. An offer that demands a quick answer. You open your eyes and find him staring at you with blown out eyes. He’s restrained, his touch lighter than a moment ago, but you can see the heave of his chest.

And when your eyes drag down, the bulge in his pants.

You let out a sharp breath. Dean grunts your name, and you look up at him with wide, anxious eyes.

“Do you want to control it?” He repeats, and you shake your head. “Use your words-“

“No.” You whisper, and Dean nods.

He starts to drag his thumb in small circles, on your bare upper thigh. You shiver, and he tracks the motion with a predatory focus. You think you might be about to pass out with desire.

“What do you want, Princess?”

“You.” You breathe, and Dean’s smirk is proud and self-satisfied.

“Me?”

You nod, and he chuckles.

“You know, I’ve been trying to ease you into shit. You like attention, baby. Like me giving you things.”

Your face burns. “I- I just like you-“

“I know.” He coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “You like me so much you don’t need to be eased in, do you? You’re just that ready for my cock.”

Oh. There’s nothing you can say to that. Your body feels like jelly.

Dean leans down, brushing his lips lightly over yours. You try to reach up to deepen the kiss, but he pulls away too fast. You’re left blinking up at him, mouth hanging and breathing shallow. Dean runs a splayed hand up your side, and squeezes your ribs.

“In.” He mutters, and you take a long, deep breath. “Out.”

You left the air go, and he smiles.

“Good girl.”

You’d strangle him if you could remember how. “Don’t be a butt.” You mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Don’t be a butt?” You nod, and he raises his brows. “How would I be a butt, Princess.”

“If- If you pull away.”

“Hm.” Dean presses further down, his bulge rubbing against your core. A humiliating sound comes out of you, and Dean’s eyes just spark. “What if I’m not plannin’ to pull away?”

You can’t look away from where he’s grinding against you. “That would be nice.” You whisper, and Dean laughs.

He cradles your cheek, and taps your lower lip. “Eyes.”

Your gaze snaps back to his, and if you hadn’t melted you before you are now. He’s looking at you with a soft reverence, over taking even the hungry glint.

“Hey.” He smiles, loving and careful. “You sure?”

“Very.” You answer quickly. Dean’s jaw ticks.

“Alright.” He mutters, scanning over your limp, ready body. “You trust me?”

You nod, and he takes a deep breath.

“You love me?”

Another nod. You open your mouth in offering, and his throat bobs slightly.

Slowly, Dean pushes his thumb between your lips. Not as deep as you want it, but enough for you to suck and flick your tongue against the pad of his finger. He grunts, fully thrusting his hips against yours. The pressure makes you keen, your eyes fluttering back as you suck on his thumb.

Dean pulls it away, smearing the spit over your cheek. You watch him, unsure what to do with yourself but watch him. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so focused.

“You really want it, huh.” He rasps.

“Please.”

He seems satisfied with the answer. Strong arms are suddenly dragging you forward across the floor, and before you know it you’re being carried bridal-style out of the bathroom.

“Dean-“

“I’ve got you.” He mutters, face set with determination. “Gonna take care of you, Princess. Don’t worry.”

You were not the least bit worried. Dean has done nothing but care for you since the moment you met. “What- What about you?”

He sets you down on your bed, frowning slightly. “What about me.”

“You- It should- I don’t want to-“ You take a deep breath, fixing your gaze on his chest. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” You mumble, face burning with shame. You’re not enough, you’re not enough for him-

“That’s fine.”

You blink at him in shock. “But- It should be good for you, too-“

“Baby,” he smirks. “You could lie there and call me names and it would still be good for me.”

“I- I don’t want to call you names-“

“I know.” Dean shrugs, pulling off his shirt. “’S why I got you.”

You will not let yourself be distracted by his naked chest. “But if you’d like names-“

“I’m gonna like anything you do. Shirt.”

You sit up, pulling off your top as you glare at him. “You don’t know you’re going to like anything I do. I could be horrible at this.”

“You won’t be.” Dean waves you off, and you scowl.

“There’s no review board yet, we have no data to support your claim-“

Dean grabs your ankles again, and you squeal as he drags you down to the end of the bed. He swallows the sound with a deep kiss, and you pull at his hair. You can’t remember why you were anxious. Everything is just Dean.

“Stop tryin’ to think your way through sex.” He mutters against you lips, voice lined with affection.

You shake your head weakly. “I- I can’t. What if I’m bad at it, Dean, I’m serious-“

“I know you are, sweet girl.” He kisses the tip of your nose. “But I am too. You don’t have to do anything.”

“But-“

“I don’t want you to do anything.” He rises over you, dropping his voice back down. To the borderline growl from the bathroom floor. “I want you to lie there, look pretty, and only react if I earn it. Can you do that? For me?”

You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean’s lips twitch.

“That help?”

“Mhm.”

“Awesome.” He leans back down, kissing you gentle and lazy. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

You grumble, and Dean grins..

“I got an idea of  what you might like, alright-“

“How?” You ask, even knowing you shouldn’t. Dean doesn’t seem bothered.

“Because,” He pushes back up, eyes shining in the low light of your room. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed Princess, but I’m sorta in love with you.”

You flush. “I- I love you too, but- I don’t know what-“

“You don’t know what you like, baby.”

“Yeah.” You shrink a little into the mattress. “Good point.”

“Thanks.” He grins. You could swear he puffs out his chest. “But- Listen, just because I got more experience or whatever doesn’t mean I’m going to bat a hundred. And if I’m wrong about anything, you stop me. No hesitation.” He grabs one of your hand, squeezing it gently. “Kick my ass if you have to. You shouldn’t, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna work this out together, alright? And if you don’t like something, you’re the boss. You shut it down. Got it?”

You nod weakly, and Dean gives you a half-amused look.

“I know it’s hard, sweetheart, but you gotta talk to me. Got it?”

“Got it.” You echo, and his smile relaxes.

“There you go.” He squeezes your hand again, moving back to his feet. “I’m gonna get you undressed, okay? Just try to feel it.”

You nod, grabbing at the sheets before he even moves. The anticipation is enough to spark all your nerves. You think you might be seconds from bursting into flames, when you feel his hot breath over the plane of your stomach.

Then Dean actually starts to touch you. And it’s nowhere he hasn’t touched you before, but you’ve never lain on the bed for him like this. And he’s never touched you like you’re a present he’s trying to unwrap without damaging an inch of your shiny paper.

His touches are light and deliberate. Rough fingers tease up your sides as he starts to kiss your neck, and your hands immediately fly to his hair.

“Sorry-“

“No,” Dean reaches up, pushing you back when you try to let go. “Put ‘em wherever you want.”

You mumble an agreement, closing your eyes. You want to try and follow his advice. Just feel it.

It’s easier than you thought it was going to be. Dean’s touch is like a wildfire, and you’re more than happy be swept up in the flame.

He keeps kissing your neck, over the marks he’s almost tattooed onto your throat. After a few moments of just winding you up with flicks of his tongue and light touches, one hand glides behind your back. You arch up, gasping softly. Dean grunts, trailing up your spine until he reaches the hook of your bra.

He gets it in one move, and hums against the base of your throat as he pulls the cloth away.

Your instinct is to cover it. Your arms even go to cross your chest, but Dean shoots up, grabbing your wrists and pinning them at your sides. You let him.

Under your own eyes, your breasts look like lumps of fat.

Dean’s staring at them like he’s unearthed diamonds, and it makes you feel fuzzy. Turned on and exposed in the best way. He lets go of one of your wrists, moving to roll one peaked nipple between his fingers.

Your whole body trembles like he hit a button. Your legs spread, head tossing back into the mattress.

“Hell yeah.” Dean mutters, switching to the opposite breast. You buck slightly, and he smirks. “You like that?”

“Yes.” You grab his wrist, trying to hold him there. “Don’t- Don’t stop.”

Dean hums, pushing his hips down. You can feel his bulge again, and the combination with Dean’s toying of your breast feels like you’re being shocked in the best way.

“Look at you.” Dean mutters, soothing his thumb over the little bud. “So pretty, baby. And reactive.”

He pinches your opposite nipple, and you mewl. Your hips have started to roll up, seeking release. Dean groans, dropping his brow to your chest.

“Drive me crazy.” He mutters, leaving scattered kisses over the top of your chest. “You got no idea, amount of times I’ve dreamed of this. Even better than I thought, and- Hold on, I gotta-“

Dean takes one of your nipples in his mouth, and another disgustingly lustful sound leaves your body.

He’s good at this. Impossibly so. His lips wrap around your peaked bud, sucking as his tongue flicks up and down. You try to stay still, but he’s still pushing you into the mattress with his legs and hips, and the need there is becoming unbearable.

But you also never want him to stop doing this. It’s an impossible dilemma.

Dean choses for you. He switches to the other nipple, lapping there for enough time that your breasts have a pleasurable ache. It leaks down between your thighs, making them sticking and tense. You need something to relieve the feeling. You need Dean.

“I’ll be back.” He tells your breasts, kissing each one gently, and you giggle.

“You’re such a dork.”

“Yeah,” he winks. “But you’re into me.”

There’s no arguing with that.

Dean leaves open mouthed kisses over your tummy, pulling down your shorts and underwear in one, smooth motion.

Leaving you completely exposed. Completely naked.

You press your thighs back together on instinct, and Dean pauses. Looks up at you with a curious expression.

“I- I don’t-“

“More time?” He asks it so casually. As if you could possibly want to walk away right now.

“No! No.” You stare at him, then at his jeans.

Still on. With a slightly bigger crotch than usual, but on.

Dean follows you gaze. He smiles.

You don’t even have to ask before he’s standing over you, pulling off his belt. It’s maybe the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. How lazily smug he is, how he looks at you like he thinks you’re the thing he should be smug over, how deliberate and quick his fingers are. His muscles flex, and he pulls off the belt, and that’s even sexier than before.

Then he’s pulling down his pants. Taking his boxers with them.

And any quiet, persistent worries like flies that had been buzzing in your head—that he wouldn’t want this as much—are punched out of your head.

Dean’s hard.

Big and thick and so hard you’re worried he doesn’t have enough blood to aide the rest of his body.

You push up on your hands slowly. You want to touch him. To see what it feels like, so you can get ready for that to be inside of you. If it can even get inside of you.

“That won’t fit.” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“It’ll fit.”

You shake your head. “No, I- I’ve felt it myself-“

“You’ve felt it yourself?” He teases, and you shoot him a glare.

“I was curious.”

“Of course you were.”

You ignore him. “And I tested it, De. I could barely fit two of my fingers, and- You’re- You’re very-“

“I’m what, Princess?” He teases, and you swallow.

You might be about to drool. As you’d been talking, Dean had started to slowly stroke his cock, and the sight is doing funny things to your brain.

“Come on, smart girl. Use your words.” Dean takes a slightly step forward, the head of his cock close to your lips.

Your legs spread, and you bite your lip when he twitches in his hand.

“What am I.”

“Big.” You mumble. “Very big.”

He smirks. “There you go, look at my girl, talking to me-“

“Dean.” It’s meant to be a scold. It comes out a whine. “You- You’re not going to fit-“

“I’m gonna make it fit.” He vows, grabbing your chin between two fingers. “Can you look at me, baby?”

You tear your gaze from his cock, and he smiles softly.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “Just- Thinking-“

“I know.” He tips your head a little further down, leaning down for a kiss. “Let me do that part.”

You nod. Feel it.

Dean starts to push you back onto the mattress with his kisses, and you let him. You close your eyes, humming and kissing him back. Letting yourself feel every brush of him over you, every trace of his fingers on your hips and the warmth that spreads from his every touch.

He touches your core, and you let out a soft, airy breath. Dean groans, pressing his brow against yours as he teases between your folds.

“You’re so wet.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you always walkin’ around like this?”

You nod, dazed and quiet. Dean kisses the corner of your mouth, almost coaxing the words out as he starts to rub his palm over your pussy.

“When- Whenever you’re here.” You mumble. “Or- After I call you.”

Dean grunts, pushing his hand a little harder. “You think of me when you touch yourself?”

You shake your head. “I- I’m not good at doing that. I just-“ Your breath hitches when Dean starts to grind his palm into your clit. “Deean-“

“I know.” He kisses your cheek as you whine. “Keep going, baby, you’re doin’ so well. What aren’t you good at?”

You don’t know how he’s speaking so casually. Like he doesn’t have a hand between your legs and his cock pushing into your thigh.

“Touching-“ You whimper as he teases the tip of a finger inside your pussy. “Touching myself. I- I’ve never been- Fuck-“

“Keep goin’.” Dean coos, sliding thick finger slowly inside if you.

It takes a second for you to find your voice again. It’s just a finger. Just one of Dean’s fingers, filling you up to his knuckle. He pumps it slowly, dragging through your fluttering channel, and you grab at his shoulders.

“I- I always think about you.” You say, words slurring slightly. He’s hitting something deep inside of you, and it’s gooey. Makes you feel like you’re floating on a cloud.

 Dean grins. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

He’s pumping a little faster, his palm still pressed over your clit. Your toes curl, as he kisses under your ear.

“What do you think about me, sweetheart?”

“Lots of things.”

“Hmm.” Dean pulls his hand fully away, and before you can protest all the air is knocked out of your body with a small slap to your clit.

You squeak. It feels like he shot lightning into your veins. Your hips even buck off the bed, trying to chase his touch.

Dean’s eyes sparkle, and splays a firm hand over your abdomen, pushing you back into the mattress.

“You like that?” He teases, and you nod desperately.

“More.” You grab his wrist, trying to push him back down. “More-“

“So bossy.” Dean drawls, his free hand moving back to your core. Slowly dragging circles around your clit with his thumb, while never actually touching the swollen bundle of nerves. “You wanna try again?”

You nod, giving him your best, most hopeless eyes. “Please.”

“Hm. ‘S not a full sentence.”

“Yes, it is-“

“You’re supposed to say my name.” He grins down at you, flicking his thumb against your clit. “Say please, Dean,” he raises his voice to mock yours. “Then I’ll fuck you nice and stupid on my big cock.”

That shouldn’t make your pussy squeeze around nothing the way it does. “Dean, just- Just fuck me-“

“Ah.” He pushes his finger back into your pussy, just holding it inside of you. “You can do it, Princess. Just say please.”

You glare at him. He smiles back.

“Please.” You mumble, and he raises his brows.

“Didn’t get that. Big girl voice, come on-“

“Please! Please, Dean, please- Oooh-“

Two fingers. Dean pushes a second finger inside of you, and your hands scramble against the sheets. You almost fly off the bed, but he’s pinning you firmly down. There’s nothing you can do but feel the stretch.

“Good girl.” He crooks the finger, rubbing on that floaty, tingly spot. “You never told me what you thought about, y’know.”

“Don’t- Remember-“  You cut yourself off with a moan, as Dean starts to move again. He’s faster than before, scissoring his fingers deep inside you. Making you shiver and mewl, when he hits your g-spot.

“Try for me, baby.” He coos, voice shockingly firm over the wet sounds of what he’s doing to you. “Come on, what where you doin’ while you were thinking about me-“

“Trying to pretend you were there.” He must be putting a spell over you. The words drizzle easily out like honey. “I- I’d think about you and need to- To pretend you were there- Oh my god-“

He slaps your pussy again, and there’s a feeling like lava building in your gut. Good, sweet lava. You need it to explode more than anything.

“De- Dean-“

“You’d hump the sheets wouldn’t you.” He mutters in your ear. “Would need me so fuckin’ bad you’d start squirming and cryin’, thinking about this, about how good I was gonna make you feel.”

“Yes.” You turn your face into the pillows, babbling on. Anything to get him to keep talking. “Yes, Dean, yes-“

“You went crazy, didn’t you sweetheart.” He kisses your cheek. “So crazy, wishing I was there. Calling my name, dreamin’ about me-“

“Dean-“ You pull on his arm. You can feel it, about to burst. He leaves a sharp hit on your clit before shoving his fingers back in, and it’s caught right in your throat. “De- Dean-“

“It’s getting there.” He mutters to himself. Like he just knows. “You’re close, sweetheart, you’ve got it. You’ve got it-“

Dean slams against that spot inside of you, voice deep and enchanting in your ear, and it’s all you need to fall right over the edge.

Your vision goes white. You lose control of your body, shaking and spasming as you come apart under Dean. And he doesn’t seem to consider an orgasm his job done. He kisses you once, quick and bruising, then attaches his mouth back to your tit. Sucking and flicking in time with his thumb on your clit.

You scream his name, shaking with the pleasure. Your body doesn’t know what to do with it but tremble and make incoherent pleas of Dean’s name.

He hums against your nipple, pressing down hard on your clit. Your arms wrap around his neck, almost putting him in a headlock.

Dean doesn’t seem to mind at all. His fingers don’t stop until you’re twitching and limp beneath him, and he rises back over you with an affectionate smile.

You’re already wrecked. You didn’t know you could feel so unraveled without wanting to put yourself back together.

Dean kisses you, and you find the strength to cup his face.

“All good?” He asks, quiet and careful.

You almost giggle. You’ve never been better, and you haven’t even been fucked yet. “Amazing.”

His shoulders sag with relief. “Awesome.” He pauses, hovering over you. “If you think that’s all you’re ready for-“

“No.” You spread your legs, and Dean looks down to track the movement. His eyes get darker than before.

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“More.” You pause, then add. “Please.”

Dean chuckles, looking up at you with that same awe from before.

“You get real mouthy when you wanna be fucked, huh?”

You shrug, even as you feel that tingle of embarrassment. “Apparently.”

Dean grins, wide and unrestrained. He crawls back over you, and it takes a lot of effort to not just watch his cock swing between his thighs. You don’t care if it won’t fit anymore. You want him to take everything you have, and maybe a little more.

“You know.” He says, still using  that annoyingly casual tone. “I’d dream of you, too.”

You look up at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Dream of you just like this.” He squeezes your hip, smirking as your body jumps from the touch. “Vivid dreams, too. Everything I’d do to you, once you let me.”

You can’t help yourself. “Like what?”

Dean smirks. “Want to get a peek at the program, dirty girl?”

“No- No.” You flush. “I just- I-“

“S’alright.” He kisses you, sweet and slow.

You’re so lost in it, you almost miss his cock notching against your pussy.

“Dean-“

“Shh.” He kisses you again, and you melt into the mattress. “Relax. I’ve gotcha.”

You hum, and let yourself go loose as he starts to rub himself between the lips of your pussy. You can hear it, the obscene sound of him smearing you all over his cock. It’s enough pressure to keep you building up, but also enough for you to realize how empty you are. Your cunt keeps  squeezing around nothing, and the spot inside of you is burning for Dean’s touch.

But he just keeps rubbing himself. And you want to be good for him. So you relax.

“I’d think of putting this sweet little pussy,” he taps his head against your clit, and you whine pathetically. “On my mouth. Holding you there for hours, letting myself drown between your thighs. Having you just sit on my cock, and wait until you’re crying to fuck you.”

He starts to push inside, and you gasp. It stings, but it doesn’t hurt.

Dean keeps going, slowly bullying every inch inside of you as you writhe.

“Be lying if I said I didn’t want you on your knees.” He drawls in your ear. “Sucking my cock like it’s candy. You got no idea, Princess, how fuckin’ hard you make me when I take you to the beach. Spend the whole day hiding a boner ‘cause you can’t keep those damn lollipops out of your mouth. Then I kiss you and you taste like strawberries or somethin’, and now I’m thinking about how it would feel to taste myself on those perfect fuckin’ lips.”

You gape, his cock still slowly pushing into you. Dean smirks, bumping your noses.

“Already so quiet?” He whispers, breath fanning over your lips. “You know, I thought about makin’ you taste yourself. Would be so easy, and you’d like it. I know you would.” He thrusts slightly, and you squeak as he bottoms out. “But- Shit.”

Dean closes his eyes, jaw working, and you try to ask him if he’s okay, but you think he knocked your voice out of your throat.

You’d already been sensitive, or whatever Dean said. Now your body feels like a live-wire—as if just one word from Dean would make you explode all over again—and you’re stuffed with Dean’s cock. It feels like he’s trapping the pleasure inside of you. Making it grow and grow until you’re shaking again.

Dean lets out a sharp breath, dropping his brow against yours.

“Stop- Stop clenching.” He grunts, and you tense. “Shit-“

“I’m sorry- I’m-“

“No, you’re good, just-“

Dean’s hand snakes between your bodies, and you moan as he starts to rub your clit. You go limp again, and he makes a deep, rumbling sound of relief.

“Son of a bitch.” He huffs a laugh, kissing your open mouth. “Nearly blew it, you’re- Jesus.”

He laughs again, and you blink at him in confusion.

“Is it- Bad-“

“No. Christ, no, you’re just-“ He grunts, rutting slightly into you. “You’re tight. Really fuckin’ tight.”

“Oh.” It’s a stupid question. You can’t help but ask it. “Which is good?”

Dean stares at you for a second, almost in disbelief. That softness is back in his gaze, his lips curved in a tiny, secret smile, and he looks at you like he’s not sure you’re a dream.

You know the feeling.

He kisses you even softer than before, and you fully relax beneath him. Whatever ache had been between your legs before is gone. It’s just the sheer fulness of Dean, and the need for more.

“It’s good.” He murmurs. “Real good, Princess.”

You hum happily, and Dean starts to slowly grind his cock into you.

“You’ve got the prettiest, sweetest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.” He mutters. “Taking my cock better than a pro, sweetheart.” He smiles, all boyish pride. “Told you it would fit.”

You don’t even care about the teasing. You can’t think beyond Dean’s cock, repeatedly bumping into your g-spot, and his deep voice saying things that sound like liquid gold. You want him poured over you until you shine.

“Dean…” You’re not sure what you want. You know he can give it to you. “Deeean, oh- Oh-“

“That’s right.” Dean pulls fully out, before slamming back in.

Your back arches. Sparks might fly behind your vision.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that, let my cock fuck you, nice and dumb.” He kisses all over your face, and you babble something close to his name.

He’s finding a pace, and it’s pulling you apart in the best fucking way. You thought you’d been remade before, on his hands, but that had been nothing. Like this, there isn’t a space where you can’t feel Dean. His chest draped over yours, his mouth kissing and muttering praise, his voice and cock overtaking all your thoughts until there’s no noise.

It’s just Dean, drilling into you. Dragging you open before shoving back inside, making your whole world spin.

“Knew how good you’d feel, knew you could take it. You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, sucking my cock in like a perfect little slut-“

You mewl as he hits even deeper, and Dean’s chuckle vibrates through you.

“Yeah, I know- I know, baby girl.”

You wrap your arms around him, letting the way he’s pounding into you take you higher and higher.

“My girl, my- Fuck-“ Dean moans, right in your ear. It’s maybe the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. “Never gonna get enough of this pussy, made for me, so- So fucking good-“

Dean cuts himself off with another moan, and you can feel him start to slip. His thrusts get shorter, and his shoulder ripple with restraint but he’s thrusting harder and harder. You call his name, scraping at his shoulders, but you don’t get any response except a borderline feral kiss.

“You’re- You’re so good, Princess.” He mutters, like he can’t even help it. “Love you so fuckin’ much, love you- Fuuuck-“

He groans in your ear, and cock rubbing against your g-spot as he starts to finger at your clit again, and your orgasm hits you without warning. Pulls you under Dean’s tide, flooding the world with light as you call his name. ‘

Dean roars yours as you clench and flutter around his cock, and you didn’t know the orgasm could feel better. But the mess between your thighs is lewd and loud as he fucks both of you through it, and a perverted, hungry part of you wants to taste it. Taste the hot cum he’d painted your gummy walls with, mixed with your own release. When Dean pulls out, you can see it sticking to him.

You want him in your mouth, like the candy he’d teased you about earlier.

Later. Right now, you’re not sure if you’re ever going to walk again.

Dean kisses your brows, mumbling low praise before going to the bathroom. He comes back with a warm washcloth that he dabs between your legs, his voice soft as he almost talks you down from the floaty, colorful world the orgasms had slipped you into.

“You did perfect.” He murmurs. “But if you got feedback for me, we can start a suggestion box-“

“No.” You say, your voice hoarse. “Good.”

Dean chuckles. “Just good?”

“Really good.”

“Out of ten.”

“Zintillion.”

He pauses. “That a real number?”

You shrug, smiling at him stupidly. He shakes his head, climbing back over to give you a soft kiss.

“What am I gonna do with you,” he says, voice still filled with affection.

You beam at him. “That again?”

Dean laughs. “Trust me, we’re doing that until Little Dean stops.”

“They make pills-“

“Jesus. I woke up a monster.” He starts to pull you up, and you go easily. “C’mon, pornstar. You have to pee.”

Dean carries you to the toilet, kissing the top of your head and muttering something about getting you water. You hum, staring at your hands as he walks away.

You had sex.

Very good sex. You’re not sure if that’s because of Dean, or sex in general. You’re guessing the latter, but you’ll need to compare notes with Jess. But that might just also be a Winchester thing, so you should find some books about it, just to be sure. It’s not like you plan to have sex with anyone else—and you’re sure Dean is better at it than everyone, because it’s Dean—but you’d still like to know, just to understand-

There’s a loud noise from the living room, and your head shoots up.

“Dean?”

“I’m fine!” He calls back. “You just- Uh- Stay there-“

“Do not stay there.” A third voice calls your name.

A third voice.

Fuck.

Your head is still moving too slow to recognize who it is. But you know you know them, and they sound pissed.

“Get out here right now.”

“Don’t- I’ve got it, sweetheart, stay there-“

“He does not have it. Come here-“

You roll your eyes. You are not a dog. You are choosing to go there.

And you’re planning to lecture both of them on as much, when you throw on Dean’s shirt and shuffle into the living room.

Then you see them. And your heart stops.

Dean bowing his head sheepishly, already moving to block your bare legs from view.

Jess is standing with her hands on her hips, glaring between you and Dean.

“I knew it.”

✦Part 7✦

✦End note: the way i'm living through them may but unhealthy but you know what i don't care they're so important to me✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.

You.

He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.

"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.

"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.

His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."

"Very."

He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.

Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.

Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.

"Don't," you breathe.

Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.

Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.

"Persistent," you mutter.

"Understatement."

It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack. 

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.

"You okay?" he asks without turning.

"Fine."

He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.

"Your heart rate's up."

"So is yours."

"Occupational hazard."

You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I adjusted my stance."

You snort. "Sure you did, hero."

His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.

"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.

"You hate sand."

"I could learn."

"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."

"It started it."

He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."

"Coward."

They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.

Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.

Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."

"And our worst bet for everything else."

"Probably."

He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."

"I am standing back."

"Further."

He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.

"Try not to worry so loudly."

"I don't worry."

You glance up. "Leon."

"...I worry a normal amount."

You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."

You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.

"You can let go," he says gently.

You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."

"Very."

But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.

Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.

Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.

"Help," he croaks.

Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"

The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."

His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner.  Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.

"Careful," he murmurs.

"I know."

His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.

The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."

Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.

"Jackpot," you whisper.

Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.

Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."

You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.

Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Good."

"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"

The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.

The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.

"Back!" Leon snaps.

You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.

One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision. 

More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.

"Too many," you shout.

"Move!"

You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.

A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.

The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.

"Leon!"

He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.

Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.

Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.

He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head, throat tight. "No."

"Good."

His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.

"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."

You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.

Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.

The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.

Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.

"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."

He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."

"You got a call."

"We both got a call."

"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."

"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."

"That's not a crime."

"It should be."

You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."

"I'll buy you dessert."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time, too."

His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."

You glance at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."

"I'd last three."

"Two and a half."

He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."

The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.

Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.

"Hold."

You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.

He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."

"Could be."

He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"

"Always."

One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.

You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."

"Switch packs with me."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"It wasn't an order either."

For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.

"Tension," he says softly.

"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."

"Comes with the badge."

"You don't even carry a badge."

"Metaphorical badge."

You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.

"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.

"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.

He gives you a look. You give him one right back.

"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."

"Yes, dear."

His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."

"Yes, sir," you salute.

Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.

"Stand clear," you say.

He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.

"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."

He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."

Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.

"On you."

You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.

Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.

All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.

"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.

You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.

"Stay close," he murmurs.

You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.

"Always do," you whisper back.

The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.

Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.

A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.

"Probably just settling," you whisper.

Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.

Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.

"Leon—!"

He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.

You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat. 

Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.

"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.

Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.

The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.

"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."

You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."

His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.

The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.

You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.

"Oh," you say softly.

Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.

"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.

He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.

"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."

You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.

"Good news," you murmur.

His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.

"This won't stop it," you say quietly.

"I know."

He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.

"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.

"No."

"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"

"No, Leon."

He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.

"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."

You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.

He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.

He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.

"Always," you whisper.

Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.

"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.

"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.

He glances at you immediately. "What?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.

The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.

"Hey," Leon says quietly.

You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."

He stops anyway.

"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."

Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down. 

When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.

You shake your head. "We don't have time."

"Sit."

There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.

The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.

His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.

His brows draw together. "You're burning up."

"Shock," you say weakly.

"You know that's not true."

His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.

"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.

"We're going to fix this," he says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.

"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."

His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"...Maybe."

"Confusion?"

You hesitate.

His expression darkens. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.

"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."

"I'm right here."

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.

"Leon."

"Yeah."

"If I start to..."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."

"You need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"That's not what I mean."

His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.

"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."

Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.

"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."

"Maybe," you echo.

He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.

Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.

You blink. "Leon—"

"Save your strength."

"I can walk."

"I know."

And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.

You nod weakly. "Yeah."

"Good."

He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything."

You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.

"...Dessert," you mumble finally.

A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.

Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.

Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"

A pause. "...Yeah."

The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.

The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.

Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.

"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."

A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."

He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."

You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.

"It's... dark," you mumble.

His chest tightens. The lights are still on.

"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."

Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.

"...Leon."

Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."

Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.

"You look... tired."

He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.

Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.

"You should sleep," you whisper.

The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.

"Soon, sweetheart," he says.

Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.

Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"

The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.

Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.

"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice. 

Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."

Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.

"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."

You stir weakly. "...'m tired."

"I know."

"So tired."

His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.

"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.

Your eyes open a sliver.

"...Promise?"

The question is so small it barely exists.

He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.

He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.

"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.

He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.

"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."

He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.

"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."

The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.

Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.

A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.

"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."

He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.

"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."

Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.

Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.

"Where are we?" you murmur.

"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."

Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."

His throat tightens.

"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.

He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.

He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.

He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.

A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.

Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.

"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.

He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.

Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.

He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.

"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.

From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.

Behind him, the ward remains still.

Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"

He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.

"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."

You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."

"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."

Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.

The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.

"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."

Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.

The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.

Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.

Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.

He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."

He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.

His pulse hammers harder.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers.

Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.

Mutation rates. Transmission vectors. Failure rates. 

Failure rates.

His jaw tightens.

A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.

He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.

ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE

He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.

Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.

Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.

"Damn it," he breathes.

The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.

Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.

For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.

He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.

"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."

His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.

His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.

He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.

Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.

Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:

ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN

For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.

"Okay," he whispers, voice breaking anyway. "Okay. We're good. We're... we're good."

He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.

"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."

Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."

No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.

A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.

"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."

Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.

"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."

His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.

"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."

Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."

His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.

"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."

He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.

"You hear me? We've got plans."

Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."

He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.

"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."

He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."

The needle presses into your skin.

He hesitates.

Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."

He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.

"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."

He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.

Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.

"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."

He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.

"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."

Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.

"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.

Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.

He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.

"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."

He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.

"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."

Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.

There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.

"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."

Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.

"That's it," he says urgently. "That's something. That's good. Keep going."

Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."

Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.

"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.

"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."

He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.

Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.

His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.

"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."

Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.

Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."

Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.

Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.

Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.

Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.

The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.

Leon.

He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.

Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"

He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.

For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.

"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."

You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."

Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."

"Was I... gone?"

His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."

You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.

"You scared me," he says quietly.

Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."

His head snaps slightly. "Don't."

The word is sharp, then softens immediately.

"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."

You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.

"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."

He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."

He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.

"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"

"Everything hurts."

He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."

Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.

"...You found it," you whisper.

He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.

Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."

You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.

"You were crying," you say softly.

Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.

"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."

A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.

"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.

Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.

"I'm here," you whisper.

He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in. 

"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."

You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.

"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."

He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.

"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.

A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.

Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.

Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.

Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Monitoring," he corrects.

"You blink?"

"Sometimes."

You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Always."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.

When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.

"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.

Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.

You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.

"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."

Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.

Your chest tightens.

"You remembered," you whisper.

He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."

You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.

An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.

For a long moment, you can't speak.

"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."

"Leon..."

He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.

"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"

You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."

You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.

"Worth it?" he asks.

You nod. "Absolutely."

You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before. 

You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.

"I love you," you whisper.

His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."

Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."

You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."

"Still."

His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.

Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.

"Two weeks," you murmur.

"Yeah."

"You think you can handle boring?"

He huffs softly. "I'll manage."

You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

When you found out you were pregnant it was on the first day of Leon's deployment to Spain in 2004, 6 years after the incident in raccoon city. 

Leon had only been gone for 3 days, but after the first day it felt like too long. 

You had been married for 5 years, but had never talked about expanding your little family. When you got married Leon had been suffering through a lot of trauma, and while you had overcome most of it as a team, deep down you knew your husband. Raccoon city still had a grip on his mind. 

When you first got married, Leon suffered a lot after missions, and would resort to drinking to help reduce the stress. 

When Leon got back from Spain, you waited days until you finally told him. Given that you couldn’t keep a secret from him. You sat him down on your living room couch, and broke the news to him.

At first, Leon had said nothing, brows furrowed staring at the floor in conflict. He had experienced the horrors of this cruel world first-hand. The guilt of bringing a child into this world instantly consumed him. So much so that he froze in place, and flinched when you touched his shoulder in comfort. 

You remember the hurt that settled deep in your gut that night. When he finally looked in your direction, you saw a face that belonged to a different man. It was the face of a man you met years ago. The face of a man you did not know of yet. 

It scared you at first. 

After silently staring at each other for what felt like an eternity, Leon stood up. His warm palm wrapped around the back of your head. As he leaned down to tenderly kiss the top of your head, inhaling your scent before standing up and leaving. 

That night Leon went for a drive, and didn’t return until well into the night.

The door made no noise when he gently opened it. You were fast asleep, facing the opposite side of your shared bed.

He dropped to his knees beside your head, and stared at you for exactly 10 minutes, letting himself exist in your unconscious presence. 

Leon never told you what exactly happened the night after taking his leave, but he made a promise to himself, and to you, that he would never let anything harm either of you. It’s been 18 years, and he has yet to break his promise. 

The next morning, you woke up to Leon making breakfast in the kitchen. He sat you down that morning, and held your hand in his palm, telling you that it’s best if you relocate soon. 

“Honey, I’ve been thinking. I think it’s best if we move somewhere more secluded. For the safety of you and the baby.”

That same week he requested his assistant for a list of available houses in secluded areas on the market. Thankfully Leon and you were able to settle on a nice spacious house overlooking a lake surrounded by greenery. Leon ensured there was a town, and a private school nearby that would allow your future child to grow into their education. 

After weeks of settling into your new home, Leon started with an overprotective overdrive. He became overly cautious, trying to minimize risk, and avoid any potential harm. While it may have come across as intense or restrictive, you knew deep down that he needed this. 

So, you let Leon be as overprotective as he needed to be. If baby proofing the entire house meant his peace of mind? So be it. He wanted to install cameras, motion censor detectors, finger print identification to enhance home security? You were looking at surveillance cameras with him. He wanted to install bulletproof windows throughout the house? You would make sure he found the best specialized construction materials. 

Leon prepared the nursery as soon as you were done settling in, he so desperately wanted a girl. In fact, he was sure it would be a girl. He made sure the room was renovated into a soft pink and white wallpaper, soft pink double doors, and had been very involved in decorating your daughter’s room. 

Fortunately, Leon had been right. You were expecting a beautiful baby girl. 

If you thought he was overprotective, clingy, and obsessed with you then. Imagine it amplifying ten-fold. His urge to nurture, and protect was like never before. 

And if he thought you were already spoiled? He would now never prove it otherwise.

When your baby girl came into your world, everything changed. 

Now 18 years later, your daughter was heading off to college, and Leon was scared as ever. 

“Honey,” you console, rubbing his shirtless back, “She’ll just be a few hours away.” Leon sits at the edge of the bed, as you coddle him. 

A shudder rakes through Leon’s chest, and you smile at how distraught he looks. Your hand slides from his back to rest idly on his shoulder before moving to his chest as you continue to soothe him.

You make yourself comfortable behind him by resting your head on his shoulder, looking over his handsome face. You knelt behind him, knees pressed together, legs folded neatly beneath you. 

The room is dark. The only source of light is the full moon, shining through the white sheer curtains. 

“She’s ready.” You try to convince him, but Leon shakes his head. “She’s not ready. She thinks she is. That’s not the same thing.” 

You pushed the wet bang covering his face, an aftermath of a shower, “We raised her to be.”

Your husband looked so sexy tonight. His hair was wet and he looked particularly troubled. Your favorite. 

“On the bright side,” You offered in a light and teasing tone, pressing your lace covered chest against him, “we’ll have more time together.”

Leon softly shakes his head, but you see the corners of his lips turn up. Your hand stays over his chest, your head still resting against his shoulder. For a moment neither of you spoke.

His hand came up, covering yours, holding it there.

He exhaled, some of the tension leaving him, and leaned back—just enough that you had to follow.

You lifted your head, close now, your cheek brushing his. “Yeah?” you said softly.

He turned toward you, and whatever answer you had caught somewhere between them. Your foreheads nearly touched before he closed the distance, the kiss gentle, unhurried.

You shifted, one leg slipping out from beneath you as you leaned into him, and he reached for you without thinking. The movement carried you sideways, easing down into the bed, the conversation dissolving into something quieter, closer. 

Leon settles you into a kiss, as the room around you rises in temperature. Your hand tightens its grip on his hair, when you feel him thrust into you. You subtly lift your hips to let him bunch your nightgown up to your waist. 

Your lips disconnect from Leon's when a moan ripples out of you as his thinly clothed cock grinds directly into your naked cunt. He sits up to get momentum to grind into you properly, water droplets fall over your soft skin as he towers over you. 

He’s so heavy, you almost feel him inside you. His thin pajama pants soak with a perfect mix of his precum and your aroused slick. 

All you can do is take what he’s giving you, and ask for more. 

“Can’t wait to fuck into this pussy everyday from now on.” You reach for him with a broken whine, and Leon’s eager to hear it. 

“Yeah? You like that? Knowing your husband will pound this needy pussy. Hm?” He urges you to answer him, but you’re so lost in your own bliss, still stuck on the excitement of what's to come in the near future. 

A slap to your clit, jolts you awake. “Yes!” You chant. “Yes–Yes!”

“Say it.” He commands. “Tell your husband what you want. Look at me when you say it.” You peel your eyes open, and stare straight into his icy blue eyes. You almost cum right then and there. He wears a look on his face, where he looks mean, but yet so sickly in love. Crazy in love even. 

“I want-” You begin in a murmur, but he stops his needy grind into your sex into slow agonizing thrusts, “Louder,” he cuts you off. 

“I want” you moan when you see him bring his face a hair apart from yours, tucking his hands behind your head, tangling his fingers into your strands. 

After years of marriage he’s still the sexiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on. Age looks beautiful on him, you’re sure of it. 

He’s breathing directly over your mouth now, and you’re eagerly inhaling his puffs of air. Your eyes are glazed over, but his face is utterly clear before you. 

He presses a chaste wet open mouthed peck on the corner of your mouth in encouragement before pressing another on the column of your throat. 

“Tell me.”

You build up whatever strength you have left. “I want you to fuck your wife.” 

Leon grunts in response, before slipping his cock out of his pajama pants, stroking himself as you reach inside your nightgown to pull your tits out. 

Leon consumes you in a breathtaking kiss that knocks the thoughts straight out of your mind until all your mind can produce is thoughts of him.

He gently soothes the meat of your thigh before sliding his thumbs to push your lips apart to push himself inside. His eyebrows furrow in utter bliss when the head of his cock snugly slides in. 

You watch in awe as both your mouths hang open at the raw feeling of one another. “Fuck I might cum right here.” He murmurs to himself but you catch it and tighten yourself around him in response, caging him between your legs. 

Trapping him in eternal bliss.

He buries himself to a hilt. 

He hooks his arms into your knees, pulling you closer and into a soft, yet, loose mating press. He plants a final kiss into your lips before pulling completely out, and pounding you into the mattress for the remainder of the night. 

– 

The morning came slowly. Pale light crept through the sheer curtains, washing the room in warm sunlight. 

Leon lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped firmly around you, fingers gently rubbing your back. 

His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but you knew by the tension of his jaw that he hadn’t slept much. 

You traced idle patterns against his sternum before resting it against the side of his neck, holding him close. “She’s going to call. You know she will.” You murmur against him.

“First day,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “She won’t last a week without calling.”

You smiled against his shoulders, “Is that you hoping or are you predicting?”

He was quiet for a beat, “Both.”

You pushed yourself up to look at him properly. The morning light caught the silver threading through his hair. The fine lines at the corner of his eyes, and his stubble littered with salt and pepper. Eighteen years, and he still made your chest ache just by existing in the same room. 

“Leon,” you waited until he looked at you. “You gave her everything she needed. All of it. You’ve kept her safe. Always”

Something moved behind his eyes. The years of carrying the weight of the aftermath of Raccoon City. Something he never asked to do. It probably always will, but the look in his eyes was different now. Something that looked remarkably like peace. 

He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before pressing your lips together in a gentle short kiss. 

“We did,” he corrected quietly, holding your gaze with his. 

–

The day was upon your family. It was finally move-in day. Leon was as stressed as ever. Only giving out short clipped replies. 

After you helped load everything into the suv (told Leon what should go where), he was adamant on making sure his daughter was missing absolutely nothing.  

“Do you have your ID? Your pepper spray? Your emergency phone? You still have our number’s memorized right?” 

Your daughter is nodding along in the backseat, “Yes dad…” 

“Recite my phone number–” You laughed before reaching over the center console to place a hand on his bicep, “Honey, I think she has it all down.”

The drive was quiet. 

The ride felt full, and the silence was a little heavy, broken with an occasional conversation you had with your daughter. She had her sock feet propped up on the center console, occasionally tapping them against your rested elbow on the console to grab your attention. 

Usually Leon would playfully chastise her about her ‘stinky feet’ propped up, however, today he said nothing about it. You noticed, and you’re sure your daughter probably did too. 

The campus appeared through the tree line. Students everywhere. 

You were staring outside the window as Leon slowly pulled into the drive-way for check in, and your daughter exited quickly with a harsh slam of the door. 

“I don’t think it closed,” Leon muttered to himself. 

You didn’t tear your eyes away from the students unloading their boxes. When a lanky boy struggled with an overstuffed suitcase while his parents trailed behind him loaded with boxes. 

You watched as the handle gave out completely. The suitcase hit the pavement and burst open, sending clothes scattering across the walkway. You’re about to express your sadness for the kid before Leon pipes up instead, “Guess he won’t have to unpack that for later.”

You turned slowly to look at your husband before pushing his shoulder as laughter bubbled inside your chest. 

Your daughter decided to materialize in front of your window as she happily jingled the keys to her dormitory in front of you. 

Moving her in took three hours. Leon carried everything heavy without being asked, reorganized her furniture twice until the sight lines from her window made sense to him. All that was left was a few minor decorations that could make your daughter feel more at home. 

“Okay,” you said, pulling a soft woven throw blanket from a bag, and draping it over her made bed. “Neutral base, but it adds warmth in case you want to take a small nap after classes. What do you think?” 

Your daughter accessed the made bed with new sheets you bought for her. “I love it.” Leon looked at the blanket, “It’ll run hot in September. How well does the AC work here?” He inquired, looking around for a vent with a flashlight in hand. Even if the room was as lit up as ever. 

You playfully roll your eyes at his silly question. 

You reach into the bag and pull out some string lights that shine a warm gold. “I think you’ll like the way these will look when Autumn finally arrives, no?” Your daughter smiles before nodding her head. 

You held them up, “These can go above the headboard or around the edges of the ceiling.” 

Leon’s attention moved from the air vents to the cord from the lights, tracking the length to the outlet. Then to the curtains, then back to the cord. 

“Won’t that cause a fire?” He questioned. “It’s ambience,” You tell him. 

“It’s fire with ambience.”

Your daughter took the string lights from you and began hanging them herself, decisively, making eye contact with her father the entire time. 

He said nothing. He did however quietly reposition her curtains slightly further from the bulbs when he thought nobody was watching. 

You saw. You said nothing. 

Instead, you directed your attention to the full length mirror that sat awkward against the wall. “Leon, honey,” You call after him, “Can you move this mirror next to her dresser against the wall.” Leon moves it to where you direct. You can tell he has something to say, but you’re not sure if it’s about the mirror itself or your choice in placement.

He stood behind you, looking over your shoulder, studying it. 

“If someone breaks in–”

“Leon.”

“I’m just saying. Reflective surfaces work both ways.”

“It’s a mirror.”

“It can be a tactical disadvantage.”

Your daughter looked at him with amusement. “Dad, it’s a dorm room at a university.” “Even worse. That’s what makes it unpredictable.”

By the time the room was finished you stood in the doorway together, taking it in. Warm lights glowing softly above the headboard. The throw folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The mirror catching the afternoon light. Posters of shows and music artists littered your daughters room, accompanied by a few books, and trinkets. The little plant Leon spent too much time repositioning on the windowsill, “Four inches to the left”, he had explained. 

The room looked like your daughter. It looked like both of you. “It’s perfect”, your daughter said. 

Leon tested the room lock on her door 4 times while pretending he wasn’t. To avoid involving himself in the emotional moment, but your daughter knew better. 

“Smoke detector needs new batteries”, he said. 

She watched him with patient, knowing eyes. She inherited his icy blue eyes, and along with it his awareness. She missed nothing. 

“Dad,” she said gently, the way sometimes you did when you wanted to tell him something you knew would stay with him. 

He stopped. 

She crossed the small room and hugged him. Not quickly, but the kind of hug that acknowledged everything neither of them were saying. You stood beside them, hand resting on both their backs. 

Leon’s arms wrapped around her, and for a moment he looked exactly like the man who had knelt beside your bed 18 years ago, making a promise to someone who couldn’t hear him. 

He kept it. 

The hug lasted longer than any of you anticipated. Leon’s arms were wrapped around your daughter with the kind of grip that had protected her from everything real. 

Then, muffled against the top of her head, very quickly, as though if he said it fast enough it might sound reasonable:

“We can leave right now. Say the word. We pack everything up, car’s still warm, we can be home by dinner, you can do online classes, I already looked into it. Several accredited universities offer fully remote programs, your room at home is exactly as you left it–”

“Dad.”

“–the plant can come with us, I’ll carry it myself–”

“Dad.”

“–I’m just saying options here, completely valid options. No problemo. Many people do it.”

Your daughter pulled back and looked at him. Her eyes were glassy but she was smiling. She had his eyes. She always had his eyes. The eyes he had before they turned hard, and cool. 

“I know,” she said softly.

Leon pressed his lips together and nodded once. Swallowed hard. Said nothing else. 

His hand came up and kissed the top of her head. 

–

The drive back was quieter than the ride there. When you got home, the only thing that greeted you both was your two dogs. 

You went upstairs and found Leon setting up a warm bath. 

One hand testing the temperature beneath the faucet, shoulders carrying the quiet weight he’d been holding since the drive home. 

Your bare feet crossed the tile floor softly and wrapped yourself around him from behind. 

One arm looped over his shoulder, draped across his chest. The other slipped beneath his arm, palm settling flat against his sternum. You pressed yourself into his back and held him there, and he relaxed the moment he felt you. 

You tilted your head up toward him, cheek resting against the side of his face, close enough that you could feel the tension actively leaving his face. 

He didn’t speak right away. 

His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it rested against his chest. His thumb moved back and forth. Once, twice. 

The faucet kept running, steam rose quietly around you both. 

“She called,” you murmured against his cheek like a secret kept between you both. “She wanted to wish us a good night.”

You felt him exhale. Long and slow. Like something he’d been holding since you dropped her off. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm, said she loves her room.” His hand tightened over yours. 

“Good,” he said quietly, “That’s good.”

You stayed like that a little longer, neither of you in any rush to move. 

Outside the small frosted window the night settled in completely, the kind of deep quiet that only ever existed out here by the lake. 

“She also said,” you continued softly, “That the smoke detector in her room has fresh batteries.”

You felt it before you heard it. A slow rumble in his chest. Low and reluctant, the way his laughs always started when he was trying not to give them to you.

“Naturally,” he said. You smiled against his jaw. 

His thumb hadn’t stopped moving against the back of your hand, finger sometimes settling over your wedding ring for longer than necessary. That slow absent rhythm he’d had for as long as you’d known him. You doubted he even realized he was doing it. 

He turned his face towards yours then, just slightly. Just enough. His nose brushed your temple and he stayed there, eyes closed, breathing you in the same way he always did when he was trying to memorize you. 

The faucet shut off, and the room went quiet. 

Just the two of you, the steam, and the still hot water. 

“Come on,” you murmured. “Bath’s ready.”

He didn’t move immediately. 

His lips pressed softly against your temple instead, warm and unhurried. 

Then he unfolded your arms gently from around him, turned, and looked at you in that way that told you, you were everything he used to wish to have when nights were particularly harder than others. 

The way that still, after everything, made you feel like the only fixed point in whatever world he was navigating.

He gently helped you strip from your clothes, before helping you step into the warm bath. 

He settled behind you, arms instantly engulfing your frame. 

His scarred hand, enclosed itself around the area where your throat met your jaw, tilting your head to rest on his shoulder with the quietest pressure.

Rough at the palm, yet familiar in a way that went beyond muscle memory. It was impossibly gentle for a hand that had lived the life his had. 

You let yourself sink back into him completely. 

Leon did everything that mattered. He dipped his head and took full advantage of the column of your throat now open to him, pressing his lips there softly. Once. Then again slightly higher. Then the curve where your neck met your shoulder. Unhurried. Deliberate, and careful.

You felt the tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying between you both since last night. 

“Leon”, you murmured. Not asking for anything. 

His lips stilled for a moment against your skin. His arms tightened. 

Outside the lake sat silver and motionless beneath the moon. The house was quiet in the specific way it would take some getting used to. 

But here, in the warm water, enclosed in him entirely. Like you knew you always would be. 

Tie had a different quality when Leon held you this way. It slowed. 

His breath came slow and even against your skin. The hand at your jaw had relaxed, no longer tilting, but jesting. Cradling you. 

You reached up and covered his hand with yours. 

“What are you thinking about?” You asked softly.

A long pause. 

“The first night in the new house,” he said, “You were so excited about the lake view. You made me stand at the kitchen window for 20 minutes.”

You laughed softly at that. “It was a beautiful view.”

“It still is.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see the edge of his jaw above you. 

“You were just pretending to be indifferent,” You said. He was scared, but you decided to leave that observation out. “But I saw you looking at it after you thought I’d gone to bed.:

His chest moved against your back. That low reluctant rumble again. 

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Baby.”

“I liked the view,” he admitted quietly. “I like anything that makes you stand enough to just,” He paused, “ Exist for a minute.”

All these years and he still said things that caught you completely off guard. Not often. Leon was a man of few words, but when he chose them they landed with the full weight of everything he left unsaid. 

The silence comfortably engulfed you both again. His thumb traced a slow rhythm against your cheekbone. 

“You cried,” Leon said suddenly. 

You blinked, “What?”

“When we first moved in,” He clarified, his voice was low. “You walked through the front door, saw the lake through the back window, and cried.”

“I was pregnant Leon. I cried at commercials.”

“You cried at the weather forecast.” “It was an unusually moving forecast. Besides, all it does is rain here, of course I was a little sad!”

His chest shook against your back. You smiled at the ceiling. 

“You walked through every single room.” He continued. There was something different in his voice now. Tender. Like he was trying to handle this particular memory with care. 

“Twice. With your hand in your barely-showing stomach. The entire time you didn’t realize you were doing it.”

You hadn’t realized he noticed. 

“You stopped in the arched nursery doorway,” he added quietly, “You didn’t go in because they had just finished installing the soft pink wallpaper, but you stood there looking at it for a long time.”

The memory surfaced slowly. The smell of the plaster they used to install the wallpaper. The late afternoon light through the bulletproof windows that hadn’t had curtains yet until Leon and you were sure everything that had to do with remodeling was done. You were so excited to just start decorating. 

“I was trying to imagine her in it,” You said softly. “I was trying to imagine her. A little piece of both of us coming to life.”

“I know.” His arms shifted around you. “I was standing behind you. You didn’t hear me come up.”

“You were always so quiet.”

“Occupational habit,” he reminds you with a gentle pinch on your side, that only makes you press into him more. 

You laced your fingers more firmly through his beneath the water. 

“What were you thinking?” You asked. “When you were standing there behind me.”

A long pause. Leon didn’t rush toward answers. He never had. You had learned years ago to simply wait for him inside his silence. 

“I was thinking about how I almost didn’t come home that first night,” he said. “After you told me.”

Your breath caught quietly. 

“What–”

“Not like that,” he reassured you gently, understanding immediately, “I just drove. For hours. Ended up parked outside the city somewhere. Couldn’t tell you where.” His thumb hadn’t stopped moving against your cheek. “I sat there trying to figure out if I was the kind of man who had any business being someone’s father.”

The bath had gone still around you.

“And?” you asked quietly, voice shaking slightly.

His lips found your hairline. 

“And I thought about you.” Simple. Certain. “That was it. That was the whole answer.”

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The mattress isn't entirely cold yet. You throw back the comforter, and the sheets are still crisply white. If he was taken, he didn't put up a fight –

"I'm in here, clover," a quiet voice says, crackling through the baby monitor on the nightstand.

You recognize the last word for what it is: not your name, not a term of endearment, but a code word delivered like one.

Everyone healthy and accounted for. No present danger.

You spend a dizzying moment remembering that you're in your warm bed, in your safe bedroom, in your locked house, on your quiet street. The morning sun threatens entry, nothing more.

Leon’s voice sounds from the baby monitor again, fizzy with speaker static.

"Don't get up, we're coming to you."

The familiar weight and cadence of Leon's footsteps in the hallway is further comfort. You sink into the mattress, unwinding in measured breaths so you don’t spiral. The problem floorboard outside the bedroom door creaks, and then he's there, and so is she.

Your daughter. She’s still small enough that Leon’s hand spans her entire back, holding her easily against the warm skin of his chest. Despite the relocation, she’s fast asleep.

He takes one look at you and crosses to your side.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You're okay.”

You're almost okay. The adrenaline is draining and your heart has stopped kicking you in the ribs. You’re staring up at the ceiling. You feel him touch your arm.

"Look at me."

You do. His gaze is steady and stalwart, a code all its own. I'm right here. The sun, a bright sliver through the curtains, paints a stripe of beaming gold down the side of his face. The silver in his stubble shines like metal shavings and his rumpled hair gleams like polished brass, but it's the illuminated depth of his eyes that you can't look away from.

He gently pushes a strand of hair back from your sweaty temple.

"Same nightmare?"

"Same flavor." You touch the downy-soft hair of your daughter. Her cheek is pressed right over Leon's heart. "I didn't hear her fuss."

He gives you that little smirk, moving to get up on his side of the bed. "That was the idea."

He sits carefully against the headboard, movements so controlled that your daughter barely jostles. The train of his robe catches and hangs off the edge of the bed, but you pull the comforter up and tuck it around him, around the both of you, realigning as you fit together. The cotton of his boxer briefs is soft under your hand when you settle it on his hip. His free arm comes around you, drawing you in close, a cradle of its own. He presses a scruffy kiss into your hair.

Your daughter gives a tiny sigh. Her perfect little hand, balled into a loose fist, overlaps the raised end of a scar that cuts across Leon’s pectoral. She rises and falls with his every breath, and this close, you can see Leon’s heartbeat gently rocking her. It almost chokes you.

Leon turns his head, his chin scratchy against your forehead.

“You’re tense.”

You’re gripping his hip; you only realize it when he brings his knee up a little. His hand on your daughter’s back still bears the faint marks of the defeated virus, his skin pale and patterned like crawling mycelium. You set your hand on top of his.

“I feel like I'm still waiting for the next shoe to drop,” you admit.

He's silent, his lips against your hairline, but his hand tightens ever so slightly under yours and his bicep flexes, as if to squeeze you closer.

"And you're checking perimeters again,” you add.

He doesn't deny it. That's why the sheets were cool, that's why you hadn't heard the baby fussing. He was already up.

You pull back to look at him.

"Did we rush into this?"

Your daughter senses the distress in your voice. Her little face scrunches and her body squirms, but Leon reacts with a calm as smooth as glass. He strokes her back and hums low in his chest, a deep, soothing thrum that vibrates across his sternum. Her face smooths out, her storm cloud dissolved before it can form, and she settles in again.

He looks up at you.

"What if we'd waited forever, and the shoe never dropped?"

You’re still rocked by the way he’d handled your daughter. You think, maybe if he did that to you, it would fix you.

“I can’t promise you that it’s over, forever,” he continues. “But something felt different this time. Like I could finally close the book.”

“Then why the perimeters?”

Leon shrugs one shoulder.

“Old dog,” he says.

You look between his eyes, searching for something to feed the panic. He reads you too easily, and tugs you in close.

He kisses your lips, sweet. Reassuring.

“It’s safe in the nest today, little bird. No one’s shaking the tree.”

You snort a laugh against his mouth, because he’s ridiculous. But the viscid knot in your belly finally starts to loosen, and the last tatters of your nightmare feel ashy and dismissable.

His hair is soft, combing through your fingers, and the weight and heat of him beside you is an anchor. He kisses you while the inviting smell of coffee, brewed on a timer, curls into your bedroom like a beckoning finger, but you don’t want to heed it just yet. You kiss him until your daughter starts to squirm again, and Leon transfers her to your chest, because it’s an empty tummy this time.

The sliver of morning sun has moved, and your daughter’s fine hair glows like a halo in its golden warmth. You stroke your thumb over her soft, soft skin.

It could all go tits up tomorrow. But today, at least, no one’s shaking the tree.

❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊ ❊