Hi,Jo(She/Her)🇨🇦. 25/GED graduate, studying to be able to work as a technician in social and community work, ADHD/Fibromyalgia/Chronic pain. Multiple Fandoms, speaks French/English.
It's been 2 months already that we're in 2025 and I just realized that it's been 2 months that my boyfriend and I have been together for 10 years. Holy moly. Also, I got this wonderful art piece of me and my boyfriend. made by Catherine Taylor. A great friend of mine. Here's her website:
Welcome to Catherine Taylor Artist Blog! My name is Catherine and I'm a Canadian Illustrator and Animator. I've recently graduated from New
She also has an Instagram: catherine_sketchbook
She's open for commissions. I love her to bits, and I'm so glad she did the commission.
steve harrington x fem!reader
(18+; MDNI; 7.1k words)
It’s always been easy being around Steve, ever since the day that he and Robin showed up at the Squawk and announced that they were there to work at the station. You hadn’t argued — honestly, it was kind of nice to have someone else helping you out — and Steve is the kind of person who can make hours melt by in seconds. Whether he was cracking a joke to try and make you laugh, sliding a sandwich across across your desk when you forget your lunch, or seeking you out by the coffee machine for a chat between sets, time always passed a little too quickly when you were with him.
(You search the basement of Hawkins Lab and find a little more than you were expecting.)
cw: sex pollen, dub con (ish, there's still pretty enthusiastic consent), p-in-v sex, creampie, pussy eating, fingering, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, spit, big dick!steve, steve being a munch
(go read keer-y's sex pollen fic too btw cause we parallel wrote them lol)
masterlist || divider by @/enchanthings || ao3 link
The sight of the old Hawkins Lab looms in front of you, all concrete and barred windows, and your stomach sinks at the sight of it. To your left, Dustin lets out an annoyed huff despite the fact that abandoning your post at the church was his idea, and to your right, Steve shuffles forward as your ragtag group presses forward, Nancy and Jonathan a few paces ahead of you.
Your job, as it has been for a few months, continues to be the physical blockade between the warring friends. To be Switzerland, the Demilitarization Zone of conflict, the human embodiment of a white flag. Your role is to never spill your own personal opinions on the arguments that you’re caught between, because if you did, the scale would absolutely tip in Steve’s favor — you’ve heard quite enough of Dustin’s barbed insults in the past year, thank you very much — but as the it was, you haven’t been around the rest of the monster hunting crew long enough for your thoughts to be valued by the wider circle.
(You do like to give Steve a reassuring shoulder squeeze from time to time though, especially whenever Dustin starts insulting him outright. You’re not sure it helps, but the soft smile you get in return is enough to settle some of the lingering guilt over not being able to do more.)
But still, you fall in step next to Steve just as Dustin surges forward, catching Nancy’s attention as he asks a question you can’t quite hear. You take the moment to cast a sidelong glance towards Steve, quietly asking, “Everything alright? You hit your head pretty hard back there when the car crashed.”
He sighs, passing the flashlight back and forth between his hands. “Yeah, I’m fine. More worried about…”
His face tilts up, and you follow his gaze forward.
Dustin.
“I think if there were any lasting damage, he would’ve complained by now,” you offer.
“Fair enough,” he says. A beat passes before he asks, “And you? I know you were in the backseat with Nance and Jonathan, but…”
You blink in surprise. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just got a face full of your headrest. No biggie.”
A hushed laugh escapes him, and for the first time since the crawl that got you all in this mess in the first place, the tension in his shoulders loosens incrementally, and he turns to look at you fully. “Well, if it starts to hurt, let me know, okay? I can try and scrounge around for—”
“Steve!”
Dustin’s voice cuts across your conversation, and you both turn to where he’s waiting impatiently by the entrance to the lab, hands planted on his hips as though he’s a beleaguered mother and not a sixteen year old boy.
Steve lets out another sigh, and with a nod towards the kid, settles a hand on your back as he guides you forward. Dustin disappears inside, clearly not wanting to wait for the two of you to catch up. You get to the door first, but Steve’s quick to dart forward, yanking the door open and gesturing you through with a flourish.
You smile despite yourself.
Nancy and Jonathan are already in deep conversation by the time you catch up, and you bite back a laugh when Steve gestures to the space around you, saying, “Wow, this looks promising.”
Dustin shoots back a comment you don’t quite hear as you take in your surroundings, eyeing the vines wrapping around every surface that you can see. Hesitantly, you reach over, fingers outstretched towards a thick tendril on the wall, but before you can make contact, Steve’s at your side, intercepting your hand.
You blink up at him owlishly.
“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” he offers in way of explanation.
“Is it dangerous?” you ask.
He shrugs and gestures towards the faded scar around his neck. “Remind me to tell you about ’86 later.”
You nod and follow him back to the rest of the group, confused to find them in an intense discussion about a movie plot of all things (Is this really the right time? you wonder) and Steve calls across the lobby, “Why are you explaining the plot of a movie that we all know, Henderson?”
“Because, Steven, Return of the Jedi is an oddly relevant movie!” Dustin snaps.
“Yeah, and we’ve all seen it,” Steve retorts.
You frown. “I’ve never seen a Star Wars film.”
Steve winces. “Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you say.
“Anyway,” Dustin interjects. “As I was saying…”
You listen attentively as Dustin explains his theory — even if you’re only half following it, because you’re not quite sure what a shield generator even is — and brush your hand against Steve’s wrist after Dustin once again shoots the guy a snarky comment, sticking close by as you follow the group into a staircase.
Which, in turn, causes another debate when Steve points out, “Henderson and I need some space. New groups?”
“Are you serious right now?” Jonathan demands. “Who exactly are you planning on going with, Steve?”
Steve opens his mouth, incensed and ready to retort, but you quickly draw everyone’s attention towards you when you say, “Steve and I’ll go down, and Dustin can go up with you and Nancy, alright?”
Nancy shrugs, Jonathan nods, but Dustin only shoots you a scornful look.“Really? Send the two idiots downstairs? You don’t even know what you’re looking for, much less Steve.”
“Henderson!” comes Steve’s sharp admonishment. “Seriously, man?”
You breathe in and out of your nose slowly, tamping down your annoyance. “Steve and I know enough to not touch anything suspicious and radio if we see something. That’s the point, right? Radio if we see something odd?”
Nancy, thankfully, nods, and draws Dustin’s attention away. “Come on, Dust. There’ll probably be more interesting stuff upstairs anyway.” With one more sweeping look towards Steve, she adds, “Make sure to call the second you see something.”
“We will,” he promises, lifting up his walkie as if to make his point, and without another word, he steps off the landing and onto the staircase leading down.
You offer the rest of the group a silent wave and quickly follow after.
The two of walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s not until everyone else’s footsteps have fully receded into the distance that Steve speaks up.
“Hey, about what I said back there, in the lobby,” he begins, clearly uncomfortable. You pause on the steps, taking in the shape of his shoulders tensing up beneath his suede coat. “About, uh, the movie. I’m sorry. If I’d known you hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have—”
“Steve,” you cut him off gently, closing the gap between you to grab his arm. “I’m not offended by it.”
But he refuses to meet your eye. “It’s not that, it’s just — that was totally rude and I shouldn’t have—”
“How could you have known that I haven’t seen a movie literally everyone else has seen?” you ask. “Trust me, I know I’m the outlier. I didn’t think anything of it.”
And finally, finally, he turns to look at you. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” you say. “Maybe being stuck down here will give me the motivation to catch up on pop culture.”
His lips quirk up, and for a moment, he looks like the twenty-one year old man he is and not the more worn version of himself you’ve become acquainted with through months of working alongside him at the station. “Maybe.”
“Anyway, I feel like I should’ve brought a flashlight with me,” you say, ducking around him. “Feels kinda stupid that I didn’t in retrospect.”
He shines the light on the next set of stairs. “Well, in your defense, it’s not like you could’ve known we would’ve gotten stuck down here when you got into my backseat. Hard to prepare for that kind of thing.”
Your laugh rings around the otherwise empty halls, and the two of you settle into an easy conversation as you go round and round, losing count of how many steps you’ve descended.
It’s always been easy being around Steve, ever since the day that he and Robin showed up at the Squawk and announced that they were there to work at the station. You hadn’t argued — honestly, it was kind of nice to have someone else helping you out — and Steve is the kind of person who can make hours melt by in seconds. Whether he was cracking a joke to try and make you laugh, sliding a sandwich across across your desk when you forget your lunch, or seeking you out by the coffee machine for a chat between sets, time always passed a little too quickly when you were with him.
It’s, like, the one normal part of my day, he’d admitted to you once, his fingers brushing against your own as he passed over a mug. I love Rob, but her head’s in the clouds most of the time.
By the time you touch down on the bottom floor, your sweater is sticking uncomfortably to your chest and Steve, panting, says, “Jesus, that was way too many stairs.”
“What the hell even is this place?” you ask, because despite getting inadvertently roped into the group’s tenuously illegal activities, no one ever really bothered to fill you in on the finer details.
You turn in time to find Steve grimacing, face shining from sweat, and he says, “To be honest, no one’s ever really told memuch, but they were doing a bunch of experiments on kids here. It’s where El was raised, actually.”
“Oh.”
You think back to the quiet girl you’d only met a handful of times — always under the watchful eye of the former police chief, always hand in hand with Mike Wheeler — and take in your environment just a bit more closely.
It’s dreary, honestly. No windows, no way of getting natural light in at any point, and the electronic locks affixed to every door leaves no room for doubt as to how little freedom El and the other kids were given when moving about.
You take a few steps forward, pushing open a set of double doors to your left and immediately freeze at the sight in front of you.
Steve crashes into your back, his hands immediately finding your waist to steady you, muttering, “What the hell is this place?”
Because surrounding the two of you is the starkest playroom you’ve ever seen: All white, with a rather unnerving rainbow painted across the wall. Toys are organized and put away neatly, and you can imagine that the real life version of this place smelled of harsh antiseptics.
In short, no place a kid should be raised in.
“This is creepy,” you whisper. “Like…”
“I get what you mean,” Steve says. “It’s like the set of a horror movie in here.”
You nod in agreement, reaching back until your hand makes contact with the hem of his coat. For all of your bravado and confidence walking into this situation, it’s definitely reassuring to have someone else with you as you explore this place.
Carefully, he leads the two of you around the room, shining his flashlight in every which direction as you search for…
Something.
(A shield generator? Whatever the hell that is?)
Steve’s starting to glance towards the entrance, clearly ready to search other rooms in the basement, when your eyes catch on the open window along the back wall. More specifically, an odd bump in the wall, one that has you moving to climb through the window before you can think twice about it, ignoring Steve’s protests.
“There’s something back here,” you call out, feeling your way along the wall as he grunts behind you, the sound of his feet slipping along the floor as he catches up echoing through the room. “It’s like—”
A hidden latch pops, and the wall beneath your hands opening up enough to reveal an office tucked neatly behind it. You frown at the grime left on your hand and quickly wipe it against your jeans.
“That’s creepy as hell,” Steve comments, turning the light inside and gently stepping around you to go inside first.
“I bet that hole in the wall was, like, one-way glass or something,” you say, creeping inside. “So whoever could observe the kids.”
“Like I said,” he replies. “Creepy.”
He sets the flashlight down on the desk, dropping the walkie down next to it, and letting the glow illuminate the room as you separate. Steve goes to inspect the wall as you leaf through the sprawl of papers and notebooks on the desk, carefully setting aside anything that looks vaguely important to carry back upstairs.
“This map looks exactly like Henderson’s,” Steve announces. “That’s weird, right? And this — this diagram thing. It’s, like…”
But before he can finish his thought, you lean down to open a drawer, seeing if you can find anything else of import, when it happens.
Something explodes in your face — some sort of dust, maybe? — and you stagger away, wheezing and coughing and choking as it settles across your skin, infiltrates your lungs, and within seconds Steve makes his way through the cloud, his hands hovering over your body as he asks, “Holy shit, are you okay?”
You hunch over, bracing your hands against your knees as you force out, “Fuck — just — breathed all that in—”
He thumps your back, which does little to help the aching in your chest, but the heat emanating from his hand feels nice even through the thick sweater draped across your torso.
“Just get it out,” he murmurs gently. “There you go, get it all out.”
“Fuck,” you say again, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. “Fuck, that was awful. What was that stuff anyway?”
“Not sure,” he says, helping you stand back up. His fingers linger on your arms just a little longer than they ever have, and he looks almost… pained when he finally pulls away, turning back to inspect the open drawer. “I’ve seen a lot of floating dust and shit down here, but never anything like that. Whatever, it’s gone now and there’s nothing inside here.”
“Great,” you say, leaning against the wall, rubbing your chest as an odd warmth settles in your lungs. “I probably just got lung cancer or something.”
“It didn’t look like asbestos,” he says. “Though it did kind of just… disappear. So who knows.”
You draw in a shaky lungful of air. “How do you know what asbestos looks like?”
“My dad’s work — he owns some construction company,” Steve explains. “So when all those studies about asbestos came out in the seventies, I saw a bunch of pamphlets at home about what it looks like and what to avoid. Dad had to distribute them to the guys building houses.”
You blink in surprise. Steve’s never talked much about his parents, not in the year you’ve known him. You don’t think there’s really any tragic backstory hiding around the corner or anything; You’ve heard him on the phone with his mother, soft and affectionate in a way that an only child can be with the person who raised him, but he’s always seemed like the kind of person who grew out of the need for his parents’ involvement in his life far younger than other people. Independent in a way you’re not quite sure you’ve ever managed.
And clearly not, because your lungs are still burning from whatever it was you inhaled (and you’re not quite sure that you believe it wasn’t asbestos, even with Steve’s expert opinion) and the burning is quickly morphing into something else. Something more, something you can’t quite put your finger on as you watch Steve hop up on the desk, legs swinging.
“So—” you begin, grasping at anything to fill the silence, to distract you from the heaviness tugging at your bones. “Your dad owns a company?”
“Oh, yeah.” There’s an odd note to Steve’s tone, one you can’t quite parse out. “My grandpa owned this, like, pet grooming business after the war. Successful as hell, and Dad went to Kelley down in Bloomington, got an MBA, started a construction business. I think originally he owned some realty thing, but there was more money in building or whatever.”
“That’s nice,” you say. “And your mom?”
“She stayed at home. Did a bunch of volunteer work around Hawkins, and, uh…”
He trails off, and you jump onto the next question. “Where are they now?”
“North Carolina,” he says. “They own a beach house there. Told them to evacuate Hawkins before lockdown, and they’ve been there ever since.”
Sweat beads at your temples, slipping down your face, and you can feel moisture gathering on the back of your neck as well. “Oh, wow, uh… and—”
“No offense, but,” he interrupts, strained. “Not sure I want to talk about my parents right now.”
You nod and continue to rub the space just above your breasts, feeling rather lightheaded over the lack of oxygen from your coughing fit. You press your eyelids shut, willing the dizziness to pass, but it only molds, intensifying.
It crawls down your spine, a heaviness you’ve never felt before, a heat creeping slowly through your body, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. Honestly, you must’ve spent longer coughing than you’d thought, because you’ve never felt like this before, never felt anything like this grip all your senses to firmly, swirling around your tummy as the warmth turns up, up, up—
An uncomfortable noise echoes through the room, and it takes a moment for you to parse out that it came from Steve.
You force your eyes open, noting in an almost detached manner just how sweaty he looks. Which is odd, because it was really, really cold when the two of you descended into the basement, but now that you think about it, you’re also feeling rather flushed, aren’t you?
His gaze meets yours, and the heat inside of you feels like it explodes, and you realize, startled, that it’s not warmth, per se, but—
“Steve.” Your voice is hoarser than you intended. “Do you feel weird?”
“Weird how?”
You swallow once, heavily, suddenly woozy from just how overpowering the feeling burning through your veins is. A feeling that you’re now able to identify with an uncomfortable clarity. “Did that dust make you unrelentingly horny too?”
There’s a sound that escapes his chest — something between a whimper and a groan, the noise of a man who prides himself on self-restraint beginning to fracture — and you blink blearily at him to find him still sitting on the desk, fingers digging into his thighs, looking just as wrecked as you feel. You glance down, unbidden, to see a rather obvious bulge in his jeans.
“Don’t ask me that,” he croaks pathetically.
“Steve,” you say. “I think we might’ve — I think we might have to—”
“No.” It comes out firm despite everything, despite the fact that the cotton bra against your breasts feels so restricting that you think you might suffocate. “I don’t care that what that shit did, I’m not — I won’t—”
“But you feel it too, right?” you ask, suddenly desperate to know. “It’s not just me, right?”
“I — yes, but—”
“Then shouldn’t we do something—?”
“No!” Sweat glistens across his forehead, and you watch with fascination as a droplet slides down his cheek, dripping onto his sweater. “I’m not going to — to take advantage of you, not like this, not when—”
“Steve.” It comes out pathetic, a whimper you can’t help as the feeling swells inside you, becoming too much for you to not do something. “Please.”
“Absolutely not,” he says, though it comes out less certain than you’re sure he intends it to.
“Fine then,” you say, fumbling with the button of your jeans. “You won’t mind if I take care of myself, will you?”
He chokes. “What?”
You don’t bother responding though, and there’s no time for embarrassment as you shove your jeans down just far enough that you can slip a hand into your panties, finding yourself already drenched. Your heart is pounding erratically against your ribcage at the first swipe against your clit, and your knees buckle from how overwhelmingly good it feels, and you know for a fact that if you were in a more solid state of mind — if every conscious thought in your brain wasn’t slowly being eroded by the heady pressure of arousal — you’d be more concerned by how quickly the pleasure is building up in your core with only the lightest touch.
But you’re not in that state of mind. You’re here, burning up from the inside out, the fire of desperation and debauchery consuming you until it’s almost painful, as you circle your fingers faster, faster, faster until—
And as abruptly as your orgasm built, it stops dead in its tracks.
“No, no, no, no, no.” Your breath catches as your fingers slip against your clit to no avail. The pleasure refuses to grow, refuses to tip over into what you want most, refuses to let you into the sweet embrace of your orgasm. It dances teasingly just far enough out of reach to keep you on the precipice, to drive you mad with want. To drive you mad with need.
You tilt your head up, finding Steve’s gaze searing into your body, his hands still gripping his thighs tightly, and another heaving cry billows from your lips as you utter, “Please.”
He goes very, very still.
“Please, Steve,” you beg, uncaring of how you sound — not when he looks just as wrecked as you feel, not when he still hasn’t moved a single muscle. “Please, please, please help me, please — it hurts so much, I can’t — I can’t—”
Slowly, he slips from the desk and makes his way to you with controlled, even steps, and you watch as he sinks to his knees before you, his voice completely torn with need as he murmurs, “Let’s get your shoes off, yeah?”
“Steve,” you plead again. “I need you to touch me.”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, hands shaking as they find their way to the laces of your tennis shoes. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”
The sentiment rings hollow in your ears.
“You’re not taking advantage of me,” you insist, tears spilling from your eyes. “I want this, I want you—”
“Whatever we breathed in, that’s making you feel this way,” he insists, and you don’t understand. You don’t understand how he’s still so in control when you’re ready to burst at the seams, ready to fall apart into a million pieces at the feeling of his breath on your thighs. “But I can — I’ll help.”
He slips one of your shoes off, then the next, stacking them neatly somewhere you don’t bother to look, and with a firm grasp, he slides the denim down your legs, helping you step out. Your panties are tugged down next, and you watch somewhat deliriously as he tucks them into his back pocket. Your brain struggles to catch up as he draws your leg up and over his shoulder, tilting his head up to meet your gaze, his fingers tracing through the thatch of hair on your mound.
His eyes burn into yours when he says, "I need to hear it."
You whimper. “Please, Steve. I need you.”
Seconds later, you're roughly pulled down on to his face.
And as it turns out, truly all you needed was him. His nose brushing against your clit is all it takes before you clench around nothing, waves of pleasure crashing into you as you come harder than you ever have in your life. Your chest heaves as you grip onto Steve, shaking and trembling and crying until your knees buckle.
He’s quick to catch you before you fall to the ground, grabbing your hips as he slowly lowers you down onto his lap. “Did that help?” he asks, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweater.
“Yes — no,” you whimper, your head so full of everything that you can’t think straight. “It hurts so bad, Steve, I need — need more — not enough, it’s not enough—”
“Okay, okay,” he soothes, even if he sounds a little broken as he says it. “Let me put my jacket down for you, yeah?”
You shake your head because you need it now, but Steve ignores it — ignores you — and groans loudly when you grind down into his erection, desperate and chasing any form of relief you can get as he slides his jacket off. You don’t care though, burying your face into his shoulder and breathing in the intoxicating scent of some woodsy cologne and human musk underneath, the smell of a man who has worked hard to be where he’s at right in this moment, and you roll your clit against the zipper on his jeans even harder, not paying attention when Steve lowers you to the ground, your back hitting his coat that he laid out without your notice.
It feels like it takes ages for him to settle between your legs, spreading your pussy open carefully, as if it were made of something precious, and you twitch up pathetically as his breath ghosting against where you ache the most.
“Steve,” you whine, your own hands sliding up under your sweater and beneath your bra, rolling your nipples between your fingers.
“Don’t worry, honey,” he murmurs. You meet his eyes and your arousal grows at just how big his pupils are, wide with desire as a flush spreads across his cheeks. “I’ll take care of you.”
That’s all the warning you get before he dives in once more, lapping up your wetness like a starving man. You squirm, and his grip against your thighs is bruising as he holds you in place. It’s an exhilarating dichotomy: Commanding yet so at odds with how soft he speaks to you, gentle in every word.
And when he presses his fingers into your skin just a bit deeper, you know for a fact that his composure is cracking the tiniest bit more.
Just like with your first orgasm, it doesn’t take long for the second one to build, cresting until it washes over you with an urgency. But instead of relief, the only thing you feel is a hungry need for more — more of his tongue against your clit, more of his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling up until they hit the spongy spot that makes you feel stars, more of him — and you cry out, not bothering to wipe the tears spilling down your face as you twist your nipples, trying to extend your orgasm a little longer.
And yet, somehow, the need that has taken over every one of your sense, the fire of arousal caused by whatever it was you stumbled into, it only grows hotter, burns brighter, and within seconds after your orgasm abates you’re reaching down, winding your fingers into his hair and begging, “More.”
Steve glances up at you, his nose still firmly pressed into the seam of your pussy, and the only response you get is one long, languid lick from your entrance up to your clit.
A shiver runs down your spine at just how ravished he looks with his hair askew and eyes blown wide. Fucked out of his mind, even, despite the fact he's been so entirely focused on your own pleasure that you're pretty sure he's ignoring just how much the pollen's affected him.
(How does he manage to do that?)
You moan raggedly, louder than any sound you’re sure you’ve ever made before, and within seconds his head lifts from your core. A pathetic sound escapes you at the loss of touch, but he doesn’t leave you wanting long. One big hand comes up to grip the hem of your sweater, tugging it up and shoving the fabric into your mouth, hoarsely saying, “They’re going to hear you upstairs if you don’t quiet down.”
Privately, you think that you don’t actually care who hears you, but clearly Steve is still managing a level of sense that completely abandoned, because he only tucks the sweater more firmly against your tongue. Your teeth scrape against his fingers and he groans, wanton but quiet.
“Bite down,” he tells you as his hand retreats, commanding but in a way that doesn’t feel like a demand. Your pussy clenches at the tone, and you're pretty sure you'd do anything as long as he keeps looking at you like that.
So you do as told, and his throat bobs as your mouth closes around the woven yarn, his gaze lingering on your lips. He's trembling with barely restrained desire, and just as you get the bright idea to try and convince him to do something about it, your bra gets roughly yanked down, your breasts spilling into the cold air. Your nipples peak, and Steve’s mouth is on them before you can even blink, sucking one into his mouth while his hand dips back down to your pussy, gathering wetness on his fingers before dipping inside where you ache the most.
The effect is instantaneous. Fireworks explode under your skin, growing bigger and brighter when he slips a third finger inside. He moves at a slow and methodical rhythm, and entirely at odds with how he ravishes your chest, and you can’t help the pathetic mewl that escapes your throat, tears slipping down the side of your face.
He releases your nipple with a wet pop, and immediately delves into the valley of your breasts, sucking spots into your skin that should be painful, but the only thing you can think is that you want the marks to be tattooed into your skin forever, a permanent mark of the pleasure he’s giving you.
Spit trails from his mouth as he makes his way to your other breast, giving it the same ministrations. Sucking, teasing, biting until you yelp through the cloth in your mouth, and you can feel rather than hear the vibration of his laughter, even as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.
The third orgasm doesn’t sneak up on you as much as it consumes you, forcing more tears from your eyes as you shake and shake and shake, clenching down on Steve’s fingers as he works you through it, low, soothing noises murmured into your skin as he makes his way down.
If you were in a more coherent state, you’d recognize his actions for what they were: The further fraying of carefully kept control, because he doesn’t skip a beat as his mouth makes contact with your pussy once more, not bothering to stop and check in, to make sure you still want this.
At this point, you’re both completely aware of what you want, even if he’s still refusing to fully give into the lewdness of the situation.
You, on the other hand, let the fever consume you entirely as he sucks your clit into his mouth, cheeks hollowing, fingers pumping in and out at a steady pace, driving you completely and utterly insane.
You wonder, in a vague, abstract way, if he’s this good even without the added effects of whatever it was that infected the two of you, and you know instinctively that you’d give anything to find out. Especially when his teeth graze across your clit in a way that should be painful but just has your hips jerking against the arm wrapped around your leg.
“So good for me, honey,” he murmurs into your pussy, twisting his hand to find that sweet spot inside you once more. “Come on, come for me, honey — come for—”
Your fourth orgasm leaves you thrashing against his hold.
Stars burst behind your eyelids as waves of pleasure crash over you, ebbing and flowing but never quite stopping, and somehow — somehow — the heat only builds, consuming the very essence of your being until you’re sobbing in earnest. You scrabble to pull Steve up, up, up until he’s hovering over you. His chin glistens with your arousal, and your chest cracks open as you weep, “Don’t you want me?”
His face cracks at your words, and all at once, you’re able to see everything that he’s been holding back: Fear, confusion, and without a doubt, complete and unadulterated desire.
“It doesn’t matter what I want, honey, I don’t—”
He cuts himself off by burying his face into your neck, the scratchy feeling of his wool sweater against your pebbled nipples doing nothing to tame the arousal burning inside you. And you realize, suddenly, that you asking for it isn’t enough, because it’s Steve — sweet, understanding Steve — who never fails to make you laugh, who always makes sure you’re safely inside after a crawl before going in himself, who has shown up time and time again in such small ways for the duration of your friendship that you know, without a doubt, that asking for it will never convince him of what you want, of your feelings.
“Steve,” you whisper, capturing his face beneath your palms and forcing him to look you in the eye. “I’m glad this was you.”
His brows furrow and his eyes tighten — once, small, pain seeping through his expression — and he throatily says, “What?”
“I’m glad it’s you here and not anyone else,” you say. “If I had to be in this situation with anyone, I’d want it to be you.”
He licks his lips, and his expression blooms into something more hopeful. “Do you really mean that?”
“Steve,” you say softly, full of affection. “I would’ve done this without the crazy dust. Just, you know, maybe not in a random office.”
He searches your face for a moment before finally breathing out, “Okay.”
You freeze, not sure you're hearing him correctly. “Okay?”
He nods, and you watch the feeling swell in him, his composure finally disintegrating in the sureness of your fingers skimming down your side, sliding under your knee to press you open just a bit more. “If you’re — are you sure that you want this? You’re completely—?”
“I want this,” you say again, firm in your conviction. “I want this with you, and I’ll want this with you even once we’re out of here, Steve.”
You watch as your confession hits him: First quietly, then all at once. He looks at you with so much affection that for the first time since you opened that drawer, your chest aches with something other than arousal. Through the haze of pleasure, he looks down at you tenderly, brushing your hair plastered to your face away and, with more regret than you expected, “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
But he doesn’t give you any time to question what he means before he’s surging forward, self-restraint in tatters around the two of you as his mouth crashes into yours. You taste yourself on his tongue, and as his forearms bracket your head, you reach down, scrambling to unbutton his jeans and shove them as far down as you can reach. They barely make it to the top of his thighs before you’re taking him in hand, gasping with pleasure at how big and heavy and warm he feels in your fingers and give a few, lazy pumps. He shudders against your hold but doesn’t fight when you line him up against your entrance and look up at him through hooded eyes, asking one more time, “Please, Steve? I need you.”
This is all he needs to finally snap.
You can feel the last remnants of sense leave his body as his hips thrust forward, his cock pressing entirely inside you in one swift, fluid motion, punching the air from your lungs. He doesn’t give you any time to recover before he’s dragging himself out slowly before pushing back in, and he sets a brutal pace that has any last coherent thought driven from your head as he tends to the fire that’s been coursing throughout your veins.
And that fire — it changes. Whereas every orgasm he’d drawn out of you with his mouth and fingers had only left you aching, left you wanting for more, with his cock bullying its way in and out of your cunt, you can only feel the fuzzy pleasure of contentment, like there’s been a piece of you missing your entire life that’s finally found its way home.
You think he feels the same when he gazes at you with such adoration, such fondness as he presses your leg even higher, hitting a new, deeper spot within you that has you gasping for more, more, more.
If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Steve throughout this whole thing, is that he is nothing if not a giving lover.
He snakes a hand back down to your core, fingers slipping over your sensitive core as he breathes, “One more for me, honey?”
(Could you ever deny a request made so lovingly?)
Despite how he pounds into your pussy with reckless abandon, he’s effervescently gentle in how he circles your clit, like he’s aware of just how sore you’re absolutely going to be when all of this is said and done.
His teeth scrape down your neck as he continues his ministrations, fingers flexing over your most sensitive spot, and it’s as he sucks a hickey into your skin that he coaxes one final orgasm from your worn body.
Your cries come out quieter this time, more exhausted as you clench down on his cock, and within seconds his hips stutter as he spills warmth inside you, and finally, finally, the fever inside you dissipates.
Steve practically collapses on top of you, only just cognizant enough to keep the worst of his weight off of your body as the remnants of whatever infected you both tapers off until the flame is extinguished entirely, leaving you sweaty and spent yet somehow feeling better than you’ve ever felt in your entire life.
The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, chests heaving as you catch your breath. You stroke a hand down his back, watching his face carefully as his eyes flutter open, exhausted but happy as he meets your gaze.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay? That was…”
Intense.
It doesn’t need to be said though. You nod, dragging your hand up to his face to push his bangs from his eyes. “I’m fine. How about you? You held out super long.”
He huffs out a laugh and presses his cheek a little firmer unto your palm. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Promise. Better than I’ve felt in a long while.”
You open your mouth to say something — to confess something — though what, you aren’t quite sure, then the walkie across the room crackles to life, and Dustin Henderson’s panicked voice comes through. “Steve? Steve, are you there? We found something and it’s—”
Steve pushes off of your prone body in seconds, and you’re left achingly empty as he stumbles over to the walkie, snatching it off the table it’s rested on next to the flashlight, calling into it, “Henderson, what’s going on?”
Sticky come slips from your core, wetting your thighs.
“Don’t touch anything!” Dustin demands through the walkie. “It isn’t a shield generator, and Nancy wanted to shoot it—”
“Hey!”
“Have you found anything?” Dustin asks, ignoring Nancy’s protest.
Steve sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and spares you a sidelong glance as you sit up, righting your bra and sweater. “Yeah, I think we found Brenner’s office. Don’t come down here, though. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Dustin calls his confirmation, and Steve’s quick to drop the walkie back on top of the table. He makes his way back to you in two, long strides, and kneels down.
“Let me do it,” he says, batting you away and replacing them with your own as he tucks your breasts back into the cups of your bra, gently pulling your sweater down.
You don’t quite manage to choke down a laugh when he helps you stand up and frowns at the cum dripping down your thighs, looking around to find something to clean it up and coming up short.
“It’s okay,” you say, and Steve nods as he’s forced to accept the situation.
He doesn’t bother giving you your panties back as he draws your jeans back up your legs, holding you steady as you step into each of your shoes that he insists on tying.
He’s quiet, and it takes you a few minutes too long to realize that he’s embarrassed, like you caught him doing something that he wasn’t meant to do. It doesn’t sit well with you.
But he pushes forward with methodical ease, gathering his coat and all of the notebooks that you picked out before the two of you got into this mess, and leads you from the office with the stride of a man used to performing confidence.
Except—
You know it’s an act. You’ve seen him soft, you’ve seen him pushed to the edge, and you now know the way it feels to be the center of his universe, even if only for a singular moment, and you know that you want more.
You jog forward to catch up to him just as he hits the staircase, grasping his arm and force him to look at you.
“Steve,” you gently say. “When all of this is done — when we’re back in Hawkins and — whatever — would you go on a date with me?”
He freezes, but hope still blooms on his face. “I — what?”
“Would you go on a date with me?” you ask again, firmer this time. “Maybe you can show me Star Wars and I can finally see what I’ve been missing this whole time.”
“Really?” You can tell that the question slips out without him meaning to by how quickly his face flushes, but he barrels forward. “You’d really want to go on a date with me?”
“Of course I would,” you say with a smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I wanted this when we were out of here. And I didn’t just mean sex, I — I want everything, if you’ll have me.”
“Oh, honey.” It comes out breathless, and in the next second he’s leaning down, pressing the softest kiss against your swollen lips. “Of course I’ll have you. I just didn’t want to assume…”
“You can assume,” you reassure. “With me, you can assume.”
And the smile he gives you will leave you burning brightly for many, many more days to come.
You tell Steve that you don't think you're capable of orgasming with a guy. He's determined to prove you wrong.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 4.2k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) mutual masturbation, porn with very little plot, hint of friends to lovers, pet names, steve is packing, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: request by @djobriens | this is inspired by that scene from off campus!! recently watched it and i am forever changed. this was yet another request that started as a blurb and ended up being way too long.
Telling one of your closest friends that a guy had never made you come had seemed like an okay idea at first. Unless that guy was Steve Harrington who took the news like it was a personal insult.
"What?" He asked, a look of horror on his face as he stared at you as though he was waiting for some sort of punchline. "Never? You're kidding right? This is some sort of sick joke—"
Your face feels hot as you look away from Steve, suddenly regretting telling him about your disappointing date from Saturday night. Suddenly regretting being too honest with him, about the lack of orgasms that you had received from men over the years. You would usually talk about this sort of stuff with Robin but she was on vacation with her family and you needed someone to vent to. And so, you had showed up to Steve’s under the guise of a movie night and general catch up.
But maybe venting to Steve had been a bad idea.
"Forget I said anything," you say quickly, leaning over to grab the large bowl of popcorn that had been sitting on Steve's lap and stuffing a large handful into your mouth just to avoid answering any further questions.
But of course—Steve wasn't going to let you off that easily.
"I'm serious!" Steve says, snatching the popcorn back and placing it on the coffee table before shifting on the sofa to look at you properly. "This is—this is abhorrent. Do you exclusively date selfish assholes or something?"
If you hadn't had a mouthful of popcorn, you would have probably argued with him. But instead you settle for sending him a glare as you chew what was left of the salty popcorn in your mouth.
"Do you finish when you touch yourself?"
You nearly choke on a popcorn kernel.
"Jesus Christ, Harrington!" you gasp out, your face now so hot you were surprised that steam wasn’t rising from your skin. “You can’t just ask me that—”
“—what?” Steve asks, seemingly confused why you were so taken aback by his question. “I’m trying to help—”
“—by asking me about masturbation?”
“I’m just trying to understand the situation!”
You huff because you knew deep down Steve had good intentions. You knew he wasn’t asking to be a creep—he was asking because he genuinely cared about you and wanted to help you with the situation. But talking about something so intimate with Steve made you feel a lot of things that you weren’t quite sure what to do with.
“Yes,” you say finally, determinedly not looking at Steve as you answer. “Yes, I um, I finish when I—you know—”
“—touch yourself?” Steve finishes for you and the words send heat coursing through your entire body. You shift on the couch beside him, eyes on his TV that was currently playing some sitcom you were no longer paying attention to. “C’mon, don’t be coy about it! Masturbation is normal! I do it at least three times a—”
“—Steve!” You scold him, your face somehow even hotter as you turn to glare at him. “I don’t need to know about how many times a week you jerk off—”
“—actually, I was going to say that I do it three times a day.”
You look at him and suddenly, any intelligent thought you had disappears. Because now all you could think about was Steve and what he’d look like fucking his fist with his cock. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about Steve in that way before. He may be a good friend of yours but he was also stupidly attractive and wore jeans that hugged his lower half a little too well. Sometimes, if you had a chance to look at him for long enough, you could see the imprint of his thick cock over the denim. And his ass—
“You know I’m kidding right?” Steve asks you, seeming to take your lack of response as disgust—when in reality it was anything but. “I don’t—that’s just excessive. Few times a week is enough for me—”
“—okay, okay! I get it!” You interrupt, wanting him to stop talking because his words were going straight to your core and you didn’t want your traitorous eyes to shift down to his lap. “I don’t need to know your…schedule.”
Steve smiles a little before nudging you with his elbow. “It’s pretty rigorous, I’ll tell you that—”
“—Steven—”
“—sorry,” Steve grins at you before he finally looks away from you. You pray that he drops the entire conversation, that he doesn’t ask anymore questions so that you could finally take moment to relax—
“So, it’s not you—it’s just the guys that you’re seeing?”
“Steve, can’t we just—”
“—no, we can’t,” Steve says, sitting up and looking at you with a careful expression. “Listen—I know you feel awkward talking about this with me but—I just—I care about you and I care about the way guys treat you. And if they’re not making you come, not taking the time to work out what you want, then they’re not treating you right. I—I just want to make sure that you know it’s not you that’s the problem here. It’s them.”
You swallow because, god, why did he have to be so caring? Why did he know the exact right thing to say? And why did you have the sudden urge to press your thighs together?
“I dunno,” you say finally, your throat a little dry for reasons that had everything to do with the man sitting right beside you. “What if—what if guys just can’t make me come? Like I’m too complicated down there or—”
“—stop right there,” Steve interrupts, not unkindly but in a firm sort of way that shuts you up almost instantly. “What did I just say? It’s not you. You said you can make yourself come so I promise you—you’re not the problem. They are. They’re being selfish. They need to—they need to take the time to learn what your body needs. Ask you what you like, how you respond to what they’re doing to you.”
It was good advice, genuinely. But all you could think about as you listened to Steve was what he’d be like in bed. If he would take the time to learn what your body needed, if he would ask you what you liked, if he’d watch—lips parted and eyes wide—as your body writhed beneath him, as your plushy walls squeezed around his—
“I don’t know Steve,” you say quietly, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you try not to think too hard about the image you had of Steve’s head between your thighs, of his lips wet with your slick dripping down to his chin. “I don’t know if it’s just that. I mean—it’s not like what they’re doing is really bad because I get close, I—it’s like right before I get there—I just seize up or something.”
Steve listens carefully, his attention solely on you as you try your best to explain the issue and when you’re done, he takes a few seconds to mull over what you had just told him.
“These guys,” Steve begins, hazel eyes flickering between yours as he studies your expression. “Do you trust them?”
“What?” You ask, a little confused at the question. “I don’t know what you—”
“—do you trust them?” Steve repeats the question, not elaboration or clarification—just a small quirk of his brow as he waits for you to respond. “Do you trust them enough to let yourself go completely?”
The question takes you by surprise and you want to say yes—but the word dies on your tongue and the lack of a response was enough of an answer for Steve. He looks at you for a moment too long, hazel eyes studying you as though he was trying to look inside your brain.
“Do you trust me?”
You don’t even think as you nod—because of course you trusted Steve. You trusted him with your life. After everything that had happened in Hawkins, it was hard not to.
“Of course I—”
“—then make yourself come in front of me.”
The silence that greeted Steve’s words was deafening. You stare at him, eyes wide as you let his words truly sink in. You let yourself come to terms with the fact that you weren’t having some strange sex dream. That your good friend and guy you occasionally had inappropriate thoughts had just asked you to make yourself come in front of him.
“Why?” You ask him finally because though you were shocked—there was a large part of you that didn’t want to say no to his offer.
“I just—I think it might help,” Steve shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you notice the way the tips of his ears redden. “I mean sex is pretty fucking vulnerable so you might just need an experience with someone you trust who cares about you. So you know it’s okay to—to let go in front of someone.”
The way he says it—with so much care in his voice that it almost makes you forget about the whole making yourself come in front of him thing. He makes it sound so sweet that you find yourself lost for words again.
“You think it’s weird,” Steve says, shifting away an inch or so away from you on the couch—in your state of shock you had barely noticed that he had begun to inch closer to you. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t have—”
“—n-no, no, no,” you stutter out before you could stop yourself with a subtle shake of your head. “I mean—yeah, it’s weird but—as you said I-I trust you.”
Steve blinks and then—seems to realise that you weren’t completely disgusted by his proposal and sits up a little straighter on the couch.
“Really? You—you’d want to try and—”
“—yes,” you say before he could finish his sentence because you were feeling incredibly turned on by the thought of Steve watching you touch yourself and you didn’t want to let rational thought creep in now. “It could help and if it doesn’t then—”
“—then we just forget it ever happened,” he finishes with a quick nod. “Yeah, totally. Like it never happened.”
You look at each other then, apparently both waiting for the other to back out. But when neither of you do, Steve visibly swallows as he stands up from his couch, holding out his hand out for you to take..
“You wanna—go somewhere more comfortable?”
Steve’s bedroom was surprisingly tidy considering the fact he hadn’t been expecting company. Still, there’s some clothes strewn across his bed that Steve makes quick work of tidying up.
“Sorry,” he mutters as he dumps the clothes onto his desk before gesturing towards his bed for you to sit down.
You glance down at his bed before you look back at him. Because now you felt nervous—now you were thinking about lying on his sheets and fingering yourself in front of him. And perhaps you were just starting to realise how insane that would be and—
“Hey.”
You feel one of Steve’s large hands on your arm and it pulls you back to reality. You hadn’t even realised that you had been staring blankly down at his plaid sheets, already too in your own head about what was about to happen. Steve’s gentle touch, his fingertips brushing over your skin help to ground you—remind you that this wasn’t a stranger you had met at a bar or someone you had been set up with by a mutual friend. This was Steve. Your good, totally platonic friend, Steve.
“You’re okay,” he says gently, thumb rubbing gentle circles in your skin and unknowingly turning your insides into goo. “I’m gonna put on some music, okay? Help you relax a bit. Just take a seat.”
You listen because you did not know what else to do, sitting on the very edge of his bed and watching as he walks over to his vinyl player perched on top of a chest of drawers. You continue to watch him from the back as he sorts through the small stack of vinyls he had, apparently trying to find the perfect record.
A few moments later, the sound of Baby Now That I’ve Found You by the Foundations starts to play and you feel your shoulders visibly relax before Steve turns around to look at you.
“Really?” You ask him with a faint smile. “Is this you trying to set the mood?”
“That obvious, huh?” Steve asks you as he steps towards the bed—towards you.
You watch him, your lips parting as he stands a foot or so away from you now. The room feels five times smaller as Steve’s eyes are on you.
“What if it doesn’t work?” You ask Steve suddenly. “What if there’s something wrong if me or—”
Steve cuts you off by saying your name and the way he says it steals the air from your lungs.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” Steve says firmly, as though he believed every syllable. “Absoluetly nothing.”
You nod, choosing to believe him as you look at his face, the smooth voices of the Foundations putting you a little more at ease. “Okay so—we’re doing this. Okay. Are you just going to watch me or—”
You stop when you see Steve shaking his head. Your body suddenly feels hot, as though all the blood in your body had been replaced by fire. It was almost as though it seemed to know what Steve was going to say before he said it.
“No,” Steve says in a low voice that goes straight to your aching centre. “You’re going to show me. And I’ll show you.”
Everything became very still after that. The both of you just looked at each other—your chest heaving and his eyes flickering over your face as though trying to find any hint of uncertainty. You wanted to be the one to make the first move and you almost do, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you as you build up the courage to do so. But before you could find the hem of your t-shirt, Steve begins to lift up his top.
The first flash of his soft stomach, of his happy trail and you seemed to forget how to breathe. God, he was gorgeous. Moles and freckles were dotted over his skin, there was a generous smattering of hair over his chest that made your thighs press together and you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through it. In truth, you could have looked at him for hours.
But instead, you take a deep breath before you very slowly get to your feet.
Steve is watching you carefully as you begin to lift up your own shirt. His eyes on you should have made you feel self conscious, should have made you think twice of the very unsexy bra you were wearing, should have made you think of all the parts of yourself you didn’t like. But there was something about the way he was looking at you as you let your shirt fall to the floor that made you feel the very opposite of self conscious.
And so, before you could second guess yourself—you made the next move before him.
Your fingers fiddle momentarily with the button of your jeans before you unzip them, the sound making Steve’s eyes widen slightly. And when you begin to tug your jeans down over your hips and then your thighs, leaving you in just your mismatched underwear, you watch in fascination as a faint blush creeps up Steve’s neck.
You step out of your jeans, not looking away from Steve for even a second so you didn’t miss a single facial expression. So that you didn’t miss the way the flush had crept up his cheeks and right up to the very tips of his ears, how his breathing had started to become shallow.
“You look—”
“—don’t,” you say, surprised to find that your voice was barely a whisper.
“Why not?” He asks gently, head tilting to the side as he begins to unbuckle his belt.
You lick your lips, eyes still on his face but desperately wanting to shift lower to watch as he unzips his jeans.
“Becuase I might think that you’re just saying it to make me feel better,” you say. “Considering what we’re about to do.”
“I would never lie about how beautiful I think you are,” Steve says simply, his eyes still on you as he finally pulls his jeans down.
You barely have a moment to comprehend Steve calling you beautiful before you catch sight of him in only his boxers. He was—shit, he was perfect. You let your eyes dip down to feast on his delicious thighs, his boxers that had a large, noticeable tent in them that made your core throb.
Your throat felt dry, you didn't quite know what to do. All you knew is that Steve Harrington was hard just by looking at you. The thought sends a hot surge through your body, as though every damn nerve was suddenly burning beneath your skin. And perhaps it was that thought—the idea that you had made Steve hard without really doing anything—that you reached carefully behind you to unclip your bra.
Steve visibly swallows as your breasts spill out, finally seeing your hardened peaks as you let your bra fall to the floor alongside your t-shirt and jeans.
There was a beat and then—
He begins to tug down his boxers.
You had imagined what Steve Harrignton’s cock would look like more times than you cared to admit. But every mental image you had conjured up was nothing—nothing—compared to what was standing to attention right in front of you. His cock was long, thick and heavy, so heavy in fact it had made an audible sound when it had slapped against his soft tummy. His cock was beautiful—he was beautiful. Slightly curved in a way that you knew was made for hitting that spot inside of you just right. The ruddy tip of his cock was already leaking precum, which you shamelessly watch drool along a vein bulging along his length. Your mouth felt incredibly dry as you ogled the sheer size of him, imagining what it would be like for his thick cock to split you open—
You come to your senses just enough to discard your panties. They stick to your cunt briefly due to how fucking drenched you already were and Steve notices—his bottom lip between his teeth as he marvels at how your lips cling to the fabric before giving way, his cock twitching when he sees the damp patch your wetness had caused.
And there you both were, both finally completely bare in front of one another for the first time. Both looking shamelessly at the other’s body, both clearly desperate to touch the other but not dare to do so.
And then, without a word to each other, you sink back down onto his bed while Steve reaches blindly behind him to pull out his desk chair.
It was only now beginning to feel real, as you look at Steve’s face at the same time he looks at you.
“Still with me?” He asks you breathlessly.
You take your time to answer, spreading your legs a little wider and watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes flicker down to your soaked pussy. Another surge of something hot like molten lava surges through you as you notice the way his hand twitches towards his cock.
“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Still with you.”
You could have looked at each other for hours, days even. But your pussy was clenching around nothing and more precum dribbled out of Steve’s cock and you both knew you couldn’t wait any longer.
Steve moved first, one of his large hands wrapping around his thick cock before giving himself one, two gentle strokes. The sound of his own precum wetting his cock was obscene and it was that noise that made you trail your fingers delicately over the skin of your inner thigh before making contact with the soaked, sensitive flesh between your legs.
The relief was instant. You felt your entire body relax, your eyelids flutter for a brief moment before you made sure to look back at Steve. He was already watching you and for a moment you just smile at each other—almost shyly despite the situation—before you both focus back on pleasuring yourselves.
Your fingers glide easily through your folds, your slick allowing you to plunge two fingers inside of yourself. A breathy moan left your lips before you could stop it. You were almost embarrassed by it but then you notice the way Steve’s jaw clenches at the sound, the way he squeezes his cock a little bit tighter.
His words—his filthy fucking words—go right through you. Your cunt clenches around your fingers and you briefly wonder if you had died and gone to heaven, if Steve Harrington was really dirty talking to you right now.
“C’mon pretty girl,” Steve grits out as he pumps his dick that little bit faster, eyes not leaving yours. “Don’t hold back. Please, baby. Don’t you dare hold back on me.”
You could barely believe it, the words that were falling from his lips, the pet names he had just called you. But you didn’t question it—too busy fucking yourself with your slick fingers as you let out another soft, almost pornographic moan.
“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, the schlick, schlick, schlick of him fucking his fist filling the room as he watching your soaked fingers move in and out of your needy hole like it was the best damn thing he had ever seen. “Soak your fingers f’me. That’s so fucking hot.”
You let out a whimper at that, his words having such an impact on you that your hips buck upwards to meet your fingers, your eyes fluttering again as pleasure floods into every pore over your skin.
“Steve,” you mewl out as your fingers pump in and out of your hole, your breasts bouncing with each and every thrust. “Fuck, Steve. Feels so fucking good.”
Steve hadn’t been expecting you to dirty talk but god, had it been the most welcome surprise.
“Yeah? Gonna make yourself come for me, sweet girl?” Steve asks you, now pumping his dick frantically as he watches you roll your hips against his bed—your slick soaking his sheets. “Gonna get my bed all wet? Make me smell you on my sheets for days?”
You whimper and nod desperately as you curl your fingers, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that had you mewling out yet again.
“Gonna touch your clit for me?” Steve asks you, breathing heavily as he tries to hold back as the sight of you pleasuring yourself on his bed was suddenly becoming too much for him. “C’mon, please. Wanna see you lose it, baby.”
It was like Steve knew exactly what you needed, almost as though he knew your body better than you did without even touching it.
Your other hand—the one that had been curled into the sheets beneath you—journeys to between your legs. And that first brush of your fingertip over your swollen, arching clit had you seeing stars. You’re pretty sure you moan out Steve’s name but it also could have been nonsense. All you could focus on was Steve’s own pleasure dancing across his face and the dual sensation of your fingers plunging in and out of your soaked cunt and the other that was circling around your clit.
Pleasure was consuming you—it was white hot and you could feel it pulsing in every nerve in your body. You could feel the blood in your veins burning as the coil in your gut was pulled tighter and tighter while you played with your swollen clit.
“That’s it,” Steve gasps out, his eyes only on you as you neared the edge. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come for me. You can do it, I know you can.”
You wish that you could have held on, that you could have prolonged your pleasure by a few more seconds. But your orgasm had snuck up on you—crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook, your toes curled and Steve’s name fell from your lips as you came all over your fingers, your juices soaking Steve’s bed.
And it was that—watching you finally trusting him enough to let yourself go completely that made Steve follow along right behind you. You watch in awe as his toes curl, as his stomach clenches and how his head tilts back against the back of the chair in ecstasy, his release spilling all over that soft tummy of his. Steve lets out a loud groan, followed by your name and you swear, you could have come for a second time from that sound alone.
You withdraw your fingers as you catch your breath, your chest heaving and body still buzzing after the intensity of your orgasm.
Finally, after taking a moment or two to prepare yourself, you finally look at Steve’s face. He was already looking at you and smiling.
“See,” he breathes out. “Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s all about trust.”
“Steve Harrington being right for once?” You say, smiling. “It must be a miracle.”
You both laugh and though you both clean up, get dressed and promise each other nothing will change between you—deep down you both knew that after tonight? Things would never be the same again.
summary: watching other girls think they have a chance with steve hits a nerve inside of you that you thought you buried. looks like you’ll just have to remind him who he belongs to.
warnings: smut, p in v sex, public sex, getting caught during sex, finger sucking, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex, tiniest bit of sub!steve - actually maybe just switch!steve, jealousy, cursing, probably more!
word count: 4k
from jen: longer than i hoped but i really love this one and i hope you guys do too. as always, with love <3
The bar was lit up by multi colored flashes. It almost felt like the walls were banging from the loud bass coming from the live band. The floor was full of people dancing, drinking and laughing. There was a smell in the air – cheap vodka, twelve different kinds of perfume and shitty bar food. It was overstimulation thrown into one building.
But it was so much fucking fun.
You, Robin and Nancy were dancing – well, attempting to – in the middle of the dance floor. Eddie and his buddies were to thank for the volume of the music as they played their cover of Enter Sandman.
The three of you were three drinks and two shots into the night and it was obvious Robin was already drunk, Nancy was teetering the line, and you were in a state of blissful tipsy.
It was a three day weekend and for the first time in months, the whole groups schedule managed to align perfectly. While you and the girls danced, Steve and Jonathan were ordering more drinks at the bar.
Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve
As soon as your brain reminded itself of your boyfriend, your eyes began to scan the crowd. You were a clingy girl on a regular day, but adding alcohol into the mix? You were about five seconds from sewing your skin to his.
Nancy and Robin continued to dance together as you stood on the tips of your toes to look for him. He was basically a damn tree, it shouldn’t be hard to find him!
Finally, your eyes graze over the far right side of the bar and you see his beautiful floppy hair. His back is to you on the dance floor, and he stands shoulder to shoulder with Jonathan as they wait for the drinks.
A dopey smile breaks onto your face at the sight of him, your feet are tingling to run to him. Quickly, you turn to the girls and grab their arms.
“C’mon! Steve’s at the bar!“ You urge them and make it a point to ignore the way they playfully roll their eyes. You don’t wait before you’re making your way to him, practically skipping the whole way.
You kept your eyes on him as you approached him. He still hasn’t turned around but with the view of his back, you were not complaining. Steve and Eddie had grown even closer this last year and he wanted to support Eddie so much that he’d bought a brand new outfit for tonight.
He still didn’t quite capture Eddie’s metal style but he tried. He went with an all black outfit: a nicer pair of new black jeans, a plain black shirt – a fitted one. One that clung to his skin so nicely you could see every ridge of muscle he had in his abdomen – and a new leather jacket thrown over it.
Truth be told, you were about five seconds away from devouring him. But tonight was about being with friends and you wanted to spend time with them, even if your boyfriend looked like that.
You were only a few feet away from reaching him when a girl slid into the chair next where he stood. The movement was so slick, effortless – like she fit right next to him. She rested both her elbows atop of the bar, swirling the barstool so her legs were only a few inches from his waist.
She had a look in her eye and you recognized it immediately, because it was the exact one you had. Hunger, desire, want. All aimed at your boyfriend.
Easily, she raised her hand and slid it up his bicep. Steve looked at her then, expecting it to be you but when he saw it wasn’t, his eyes flickered down to her palm on his arm.
Immediately, he dropped his arm from where it leaned on the bar and turned away. He was still looking at her but he pushed himself backwards, almost until his back was fully leaning into Jonathan’s chest. It might have been funny if it wasn’t for the girl touching him.
Still, it didn’t seem to deter her. She smiled up at him, the gloss on her lips glistening under the flashing red lights. You couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying from where you stood and a few seconds later, Robin and Nancy barreled into your back.
Their confusion quickly dissipated when they realized why you had stopped. The girl had leaned even closer into Steve’s spaced, her chin resting in one of her palms. She was still smiling up at him – not a friendly smile, a sultry one. She was a beautiful girl, there was no denying it and you wondered if Steve also noticed.
Jealousy bubbled in your chest. You weren’t worried about him or his loyalty, but there was no reasoning with a drunk version of yourself seeing another girl flirt with him.
Without much thinking, you resumed your walk towards him – Nancy and Robin hot on your tail. Now, you were able to hear the conversation.
“Uh yeah, I’m not sure,” Steve’s voice rang in your ears first. “My girlfriend picked the spot,”
Good. He mentioned me. She’ll get the hint, you think.
“Girlfriend?” The girl echoed, her fingers tapping against the counter top. “Is she here?”
“Yep,” Steve replied. You could tell he was uncomfortable and he was being as dry as he could be without coming off as an asshole. From behind him, you noticed the way Jonathan also seemed to look uncomfortable.
“Hmm,” She hummed. Her eyes raked down his body before looking back up at him. The same hand he shrugged off only a few minutes earlier came back up and landed on him again, her fingers curling around his elbow. Finally, you were right next to Steve, but neither of them noticed yet. “I don’t see her anywhere,”
Before Steve could respond, your own hand raised and you easily grabbed hers and pushed it off him again. You barely glanced at her as you wrapped your own arms around his neck, pushing your chest into his own.
When Steve looked down at you in his arms, you felt his entire body relax. He didn’t spare another glance at the girl before his arms wrapped around your waist and tugged you closer to him.
“Hi baby,” You smiled, leaning on the tips of your toes to kiss him. He smiled into it and you could feel the girls eyes burning into the back of your head. Steve murmured a greeting back against your mouth, but before he could deepen in, you maneuvered your body to lean your back to his chest.
The girl looked at you now, almost glaring at you, but you smirked back at her.
“Thanks for keeping my seat warm. You can go now,” Your voice was syrupy sweet but it was more than clear how little kindness it carried.
Her eyes narrowed just a bit. “I was actually pretty comfortable,”
You sent her a fake sympathetic pout. “I’m sure you were – not anymore though,”
Even if there was a part of you that could have felt even remotely threatened by her, the warmth of Steve’s body behind you and one of his hands holding onto your hips and the other arm wrapped around the front of your shoulders, silenced those feelings immediately.
Her eyes glanced down and she seemed to also notice the way he was holding onto you. She scoffed before reaching over the bar, quickly plucking a pen and a napkin before scribbling over it. When she finished, she hopped off the stool and stood directly in front of you, the napkin in hand.
She looked back at Steve behind you and slid the napkin towards him. You could feel it now – the way you were glaring at her and from beside you, you saw the way Nancy and Robin also were. “Here’s my number,” She glanced back down at you. “For when you get bored tonight,”
The words landed exactly where she intended them to and if it weren’t for Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, you would’ve pounced on her. He felt the way your body tensed and held you closer to his chest.
Before you could react, Steve raised the napkin. Still looking at her, he crumpled the flimsy paper into a ball and threw it over the other side of the bar. You watched the way her expression pinched, and a look you clearly recognized as embarrassment covered her features. “I’m good.” He said simply, both hands sliding down your sides to land on your hips. Easily, he spun your body around so you were facing him again.
Oh, he was so fucking hot.
Neither of you paid any attention to where the girl wandered off to. Steve was smiling down at you and that was enough for you to feel like you were going insane.
The smile on his face, his rejection of that girl, his hair, his fucking outfit. Nope, you were done restraining yourself.
You grabbed Steve’s hand and glanced over at Nancy, Robin and Jonathan. The three of them were looking at you expectantly but you didn’t give them a chance for questions.
“Be right back,” You rushed, tugging Steve along with you. You heard a small surprised sound come from him as you pulled him along.
“Wait! Where are you guys going?” Nancy asked, and Robin snicked beside her. You didn’t respond as you pulled Steve further into the crowd and towards the other side of the bar. But you were able to catch Robin’s last comment.
“Twenty bucks says they’re gonna bone in the bathroom,”
Hopefully no one takes that bet – because she’s right.
Still holding onto Steve’s hand, you approach the women’s bathroom and swing the door open. When you let go of his hand, he stands directly in front of the doorway, still not entering, and you quickly wander through the stalls to make sure it’s empty.
Once you’re sure it is, you turn back to Steve and you twist the front of his shirt in your hand and drag him into the bathroom.
“Woah baby, wh-what are you doing?” He laughs nervously, quickly catching his balance against the porcelain sink. You lock the door behind him and within seconds, your hands are tugging at his leather jacket and shoving it off his shoulders.
Breathlessly, Steve murmurs your name. First and last.
“Hey, this is the women’s bathroom, all of our friends are outside and anybody could walk in right now,”
He’s so damn cute when he tries to be so serious.
Without his help, you’ve managed to strip his jacket off his shoulders and your fingers are working at unbuckling his belt. As you pull the metal away from the buckle, you look back up at him.
“The doors locked. You’re right, our friends are outside and if anybody walks in,” You pause for a moment and pull his belt from the loops of his jeans, dropping it to the ground. “Then they can watch.”
Something in Steve’s eyes switch and within seconds, his mouth is on yours. It’s messy and desperate, and you’re moaning into his mouth immediately. His hands raise, both palms holding your cheeks as he deepens the kiss.
The sound of your lips sloppily meeting his fills the room and the sound of the band playing begins to fade away as he kisses you. Between your bodies, your hands slip beneath his black shirt and trace the skin of his stomach. You can feel the way his muscles twitch under your touch and he begins to walk forward, until your back his pressed against the wall of the stall.
Steve pulls his mouth away from yours and his lips begin a trail from your lips to your jaw and down your throat. He lands on that patch of skin where your neck and shoulder meet and bites.
You whine into the air, palms sliding up his sides and curling around his biceps. His teeth graze against your skin again, but this time his tongue swipes over it right away to soothe it and then he’s sucking that piece of skin into his mouth.
You can feel the mark already beginning to form and your stomach flips. You bring your hand back up to his face and you pull him away from your neck to kiss him again.
One hand continues to cradle his jaw and the other tangles itself in his hair. All the while, Steve brings his hands between your bodies and shoves your skirt up, all the way until it’s bunched around your waist.
Without breaking the kiss, his large hand splays across your thigh, gripping the skin and hikes your leg up until it’s resting over his hip. His other hand curls around your throat, not to squeeze but to keep you grounded to him.
Steve pushes you further back into the wall and grinds his hips forward. You moan is muffled against his mouth when you can feel the clothes outline of his cock grinding into your core. The denim of his jeans slides perfectly against the cotton of your panties, feeding you a delicious feeling of friction.
Your eyes squeeze shut at the way his hips rut into yours and you’re both whining against each others mouths. His hand slips from its place on your thigh and trails up, up, up until the tips of his fingers graze against the wet spot of your panties.
At this point, you’re not even kissing anymore. The rock of his hips and the touch of his fingers knocks all common sense out of you and you’re left breathing against his mouth. His fingers continue to tease you. He runs them up and down your clothed pussy, still not giving you any skin to skin contact.
“Steve-Steve please,” You’re mindlessly begging for more and you can feel the way he smirks against your lips.
“What is it, baby? Tell me what you need,” He murmurs, carefully tracing the hem of your panties. When his thumb pressed against your clit, you break.
“I just – I just want you Steve, please,” You cry out, hands tugging at the ends of his hair.
To your surprise, he doesn’t tease anymore. Two fingers curl around the side of your panties, sliding them over and finally, they sink into the warm heat of your pussy.
Steve’s reflexes are quick – his hand flies to cradle the back of your head when you throw it back with a moan, making sure you don’t slam it against the wall.
Your head thuds against his palm and you’re whining into the air as his fingers thrust in and out of you. While you keep your eyes squeezed shut, Steve keeps his eyes on the way his fingers disappear in and out of you.
The air is filled with the sounds of his uneven breathing, your moaning and the sounds of your slick drenching his fingers. Your wetness leaks down his fingers, all the way down to his wrist.
“Fuck baby, you’re soaking me,” He groans, resting his forehead against yours. You whine incoherently and he feels the way you clench around his fingers at his praise.
It’s almost embarrassing how quick he can get you off but your mind finally came back to you. Steve was always the dominant one and he could so easily turn you into putty in his hands, but you came in here with one purpose – and that was reminding him who he belonged to.
With every bit of strength you had left, you opened your eyes back up and look up at him. He was still so lost in the way you were sucking his fingers in that he didn’t notice the mischievous look in you eyes.
Almost reluctantly, you wrapped one of your hands around his wrist and halted his movements. His gaze flicked up to yours, confusion and concern swirling in his expression.
“Why’d you stop me?”
Wordlessly, you drop your thigh from where it rested over his hip and the clack of your heel slamming back onto the floor echoed in the room. Keeping your eyes locked onto his, your fingers worked fast to pop the button of his jeans and the sound of you pulling his zipper down bounces off the walls.
“What was that girls name?” You asked softly, hand slipping into his jeans. Your palm gently grazed his length, but still not touching - teasing him the same way he did you.
“What?” Steve asked breathlessly. He kept his eyes trained on you and the movement of your hands.
“From the bar. What’s her name?”
“I don’t know baby,” He shook his head, groaning when you tightened your grip on him.
“No? Do you think she’s pretty?” Without waiting for a response, your hand slid beneath his boxers and finally, the skin of your palm met his.
He let out a shuddered breath but quickly shook his head again.
“No! No, f’course not. Barely – barely even looked at her,” He promised, mouth dropping open as your squeezed his length in your hand.
You hummed, leaning up to leave open mouthed kisses across his neck. He smelled so fucking good – a mix of sandalwood, your own perfume and something inherently him. It was intoxicating.
“I believe you baby,” You promised and you felt him physically relax. You smiled against his throat. It was nice to be reminded that even though he could turn you into a mindless mess, you did the same to him. Still, you tsked softly and pulled your face from his shoulder. “But she looked so damn comfortable around you. Touching you,”
You pulled your hand from his jeans and rested them against your own thighs, pulling away all contact from him. He whined softly, pushing his hips into yours but you push your palm back into his chest.
“I don’t care,” He said. “Didn’t matter to me. Only you do, baby. Please let me touch you,”
Maybe if you weren’t in public, you would have prolonged the agony but you knew there was a ticking clock before someone came knocking.
And you just really wanted him to fuck you.
Your hands found his jeans again, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He groaned as the air hit his skin and his forehead settled against yours.
“Prove it to me baby,” You demanded, voice still soft.
Steve didn’t need to be told twice before his own hands were reaching back under your skirt, yanking your panties all the way down until they were wrapped around one ankle. Within seconds, his palms slid to the back of your thighs and lifted you effortlessly.
His cock slid between your soaked pussy and you both moaned at the first feeling of real contact of the night. Steve seemed to share the same sense of working on borrowed time and without words, he wrapped one arm around your waist to hold you up while the other gripped his cock in his hand and lined himself up.
You felt that delicious burn you craved all night the moment he began to push in. No matter how many times he fucked you, it almost always felt like the first time. His hand gripped your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks as he pressed his lips to yours.
Steve groaned against your mouth as he bottomed out, and you whined against his when he started his brutal pace. He felt the way you squeezed around his cock and his free hand squeezed your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Were you jealous?” Steve asks suddenly. His mouth was turned up into a smirk now, his hips still thrusting harshly.
“Yeah, I was fucking jealous,” You didn’t hesitate in your response and your forwardness seemed to take him by surprise. Steve reared his head backwards just a bit, careful enough to not lose his pace and let you continue. “Because that girl thought she could have what’s mine,”
Somehow, you find the strength to drop your hips down, meeting each of Steve’s brutal thrusts. He whines aloud at the way you match his speed, his cock twitching inside you.
“Can they?”
The words fall on deaf ears as Steve keeps his gaze locked on the way your pussy stretches to suck him in. His brows are pinched, cheeks flushed and strands of his hair hang over his forehead messily. As sexy as he looks, you’re dissatisfied with his lack of response. Almost meanly, your hand grips onto his jaw, nails digging into his cheeks to regain his attention.
“Can they?” You repeat when his gaze meets yours again.
“N-No!” He says quickly.
You grin and lean down, you hover your mouth over his – not quite a kiss yet. “Good. You’re mine, Steve. Nobody else gets to have you like this.”
It’s not a question, it’s a statement and you both know it.
He nods feverishly and you can feel the way his thrusts begin to get sloppy. He’s close, and you’re right behind him. His fingers dig into the bare skin of your thighs as he pushes his cock deeper into you.
“Nobody else. Just you baby, just - just you,” He blubbers and you’re quickly whining into his mouth again. He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, one hand sliding between you two to rub circles into your clit.
Your orgasm is fast approaching – you’re almost across the finish line when you suddenly hear the sound of a key sliding into the lock and the door swings open.
But instead of feeling embarrassed or worried, you feel so fucking smug.
Because standing in the doorway is the girl from the bar, a customer key to the restroom in her hand, and her eyes locked on the way Steve fucks you into the wall.
Heat rushes to her face and a blush to intense, her entire face is red. She looks something like embarrassed, mortified and humbled all in one.
Thankfully, Steve hasn’t noticed – or doesn’t care – her interruption and continues fucking you until you’re both teetering the edge of release.
Your arms wrap tightly around Steve’s back and you pull him close to your chest. As you look into her eyes, you give her one final smirk – one that reads: Good. Look at what you’ll never have.
Just as quickly as she entered, she stumbles backwards and slams the door shut.
You let yourself get lost in the feeling of Steve again.
“Fuck I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna – fuck,” Steve curses, teeth sinking into the skin of your throat and spills inside you. He keeps his pace as even as possible with the movement of his thumb over your clit and only seconds later, he pulls you over the edge with him.
“SteveSteveSteveSteve,” You whine. His thumb continues moving over your swollen bud, helping you ride out your orgasm entirely.
Once you reach the point of overstimulation, you gently push his hand away from between your thighs. Steve watches the way your head lolls to the side and despite the fact that you had damn near all the power barely five minutes ago, you’ve effectively turned into jell-o.
With a smirk on his face, he raises his two wet fingers and brings them to your mouth. Instinctively, you part your lips when he taps them and he easily slides them into your mouth. You moan around his fingers, the taste of yourself filling your senses.
He groans quietly, gently thrusting them in and out of your mouth. “That prove it to you, baby?”
With your mouth full from his fingers, you give him a nod.
“scientists don’t want you know” is a phrase that always cracks me up because if you actually meet a scientist they will be shaking and crying like an overstimulated chihuahua with the need to let you know
Summary: A new house, a moving van, and a very heavy box all lead to your introduction to your older neighbor, Leon. Brooding, burdened, and somewhat reclusive, you find a way to worm yourself into his life and knock down his defenses until he finally lets you in(to his bed).
Word Count: 15.6k
Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI
Tags:
Protective Leon S. KennedyLeon S. Kennedy is Bad at FeelingsGame: Resident Evil 9 | RequiemPost-Resident Evil 9 | RequiemNeighborsslowish burnFluff and AngstDomestic FluffAngst with a Happy EndingEventual RomanceAge DifferenceOlder Man/Younger WomanMentioned Chris Redfield (Resident Evil)Mentioned Claire RedfieldLeon S. Kennedy is your neighborThigh RidingOral SexDrunk SexMultiple OrgasmsRidingPathetic Leon S. KennedyBroodingLeon S. Kennedy Needs a HugPorn With Plot
Part Two
“‘I have led a toothless life’, he thought. ‘A toothless life. I have never bitten into anything. I was waiting. I was reserving myself for later on—and I have just noticed that my teeth have gone’.”
-Jean-Paul Sartre, The Age of Reason
July
Leon. That's the name he gives you as he jogs across his yard and half of yours to relieve you of the heavy box balancing on your forearms. Its stiff cardboard had been digging into your skin since you picked it up from the metal floor of the truck, and it left behind deep, red divots in your flesh. Such sweet reprieve to have it removed from your grasp.
“Oh, thank you,” you say, your breath returning to its normal rhythm. “That was getting a bit heavy.”
He does a few mock reps with the box to test its weight, curling it into his chest, flexing the muscles of his arms beneath his henley. “I’m sure. What’s in this thing anyway? Bricks?”
You chuckle, following him up the front steps, the wood planks softened by the humidity squishy beneath your sneakers. The weather is hot and sticky. Sweat drips down your back, gluing the fabric of the tank top you’re wearing to your burning skin. You thought you were smart in choosing the thinnest, tiniest clothes you own—a tank and cheeky cutoffs—to move around in the suffocating summer heat, but the humidity has you by the throat and perspiration has soaked through even the starchy, raw denim of your shorts.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” You shrug. “I gave up labeling them half-way through.”
When you first got the call from your realtor, and you finagled your way out of your twelve month lease, you made a very detailed, very organized plan to move. You purchased the boxes, the storage containers, the tape, and the packing peanuts, and made a list of what items were going where, planning to label each one with a strip of blue painter’s tape and a thick sharpie. You made it through two of your kitchen cabinets, gingerly wrapping each dish and mug, branding the side of each box with the details of its contents. Then, you gave up and decided that if the stuff ends up in a box, it’s a win. That’s how you got here, carrying loads of junk into your new home, without any idea where to put them.
You justified your laziness by thinking it will be like opening presents on Christmas morning.
He chuckles, the sound deep and baritone. “Just through here, then?” He nudges the box like it weighs nothing, gesturing to the front door, propped open by a plastic storage container filled to the brim with random household articles. You really should have labeled them.
“I’m (Y/N), by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, (Y/N),” he says, scanning the empty living room, eyes trickling down from the bare walls to the polished hardwood planks. “Where would you like me to put this?”
“On the floor is fine…with the other hundred boxes,” you say, pointing to the sea of beige cardboard littering the otherwise sparse floor. “You never realize just how much crap you have until it’s time to move.”
He doesn’t respond to your comment, just stares past you, through the open front door.
“How much is left in the truck?”
Your old place was by no means big, just a two-bedroom you shared with an old college friend, but in the last year, you had taken up a penchant for antique shopping, fueled by the home improvement channel and your new Pinterest account. In planning and saving up for this next step, you started collecting pieces for your new home, having to rent an external unit to store it all in because you ran out of square footage in your apartment.
Crazy enough, you didn’t think to pick up any actual furniture, just decorations that go on top of furniture.
“Nothing crazy. Just a bunch of boxes. My old place was already furnished when I got it so I don’t have any big pieces to move.”
He nods, placing his hands on his hips, taking a look around the space. The house beside his hadn’t been on the market for very long, and with the charm it holds in its historic walls, he knew it would get snatched up quickly. He expected a newly married couple or a small family to move in, maybe even a single guy with a dog. Not…you.
Your new home was one of the smaller houses in the neighborhood: a one-story cottage with whitewashed wood siding and a pillared front porch with a bench swing. It was cozy and within your price range. You don’t care that it is completely smurfed by the other homes that sprawl up and down the avenue, especially Leon’s old colonial next door. It’s tiny and perfect and yours. No more roommates. No more bad landlords.
“I’ll help you bring the rest inside.”
“No, you don’t have to do that, Leon. There’s not that much left, I swear. I can do it. Thank you, though.”
The man shakes his head, dismissing your bashful refusal of his assistance, and grins. “Come on, show me what I’m up against.”
“Fine. If you insist.”
“I insist.”
He follows you out to the moving truck parked in your driveway, the metal wall at the back slid all the way up to reveal a cab nearly full of boxes. You bite your lip as Leon’s eyes grow wide.
How much crap did this chick have, he thinks to himself.
“Not that much left, huh?”
The buttery afternoon slowly simmered into night before you knew it, and you and Leon had unloaded the entirety of the boxes left in the truck, until your living room resembled the back room of a post office, cardboard stacked from floor to ceiling.
Leon was sitting on one of the larger boxes, his legs stretched out before him, dark wash denim clinging to thick quads. His shoulders are sunken, previously impeccable posture now faltering. The man is probably worn out. You know you are.
“I should really treat you to a drink or something,” you say, sliding your hands into the back pockets of your cutoffs. “Thank you for helping, I really appreciate it.”
He nods one and the corner of his mouth twitches as he presses himself up to standing. “You’re welcome. Is it just you?”
“Yep, just me.”
“ It would have taken twice as long if not longer if you did all that by yourself. Aren't you glad you let me help?”
“Yes, I’m glad I let you help. Thank you again.”
“Don’t mention it.”
As he moves toward the door, your eyes can’t help but fall across his wide back, the shoulders so large they almost seem inhuman, more like the concoction of a sculpture chiseling the ideal man into marble. Your chest tightens and you feel an impending flush threatening to rise to your cheeks.
“I owe you a drink,” you say, taking a few steps in his tracks toward the door, not totally ready for him to leave you alone in your home yet. You’ve never lived on your own before, and as excited and ready as you thought you were, the reality that you will be by yourself once Leon shuts that door is a little daunting.
Over one of those massive shoulders, Leon steals a glance at you. He tries to keep his eyes locked on yours, not wanting to come across as the pervy, old neighbor who stares at your body, but fuck, if he doesn’t want to, especially when it is so visible to him.
You seem so kind, so genuine. So eager.
“I said don’t mention it.”
There’s a little more heat to his voice as he shuts down your proposal. “Oh, okay. Sure,” is all you’re able to muster.
He stalls by the door, giving you a moment to think about what to say next, if anything at all. That moment is cut short by Leon’s voice, taking over the conversation for you.
"Do you have a security system?" He asks, turning around to study your face as your head tilts to the side. "Like an alarm, or a camera you could put on your front door?"
"No, but I have pepper spray in my purse."
He shakes his head as a deep huff is pushed from his chest. You watch it rise and fall, the taut muscles stretching the fabric pulled tight over them.
"What? It’s a safe neighborhood,” you say, shrugging your shoulders.
“You should get one.”
“I wouldn’t know how to install it if I did.”
“I’ll do it.”
September
The last time you saw Leon was last month, when he came over to set up the security alarm, a little speck of metal that he drilled into the threshold that chirps every time you open the door. A sensor connected to a keypad installed on the wall beside the frame. He told you to pick out a four-digit code that you had to enter into it every night to activate the alarm, every morning to deactivate.
“(MM/YY).” You told him your birthday, the month and year, and he made a face, nose crinkling, eyes narrowed. He told you to pick another one, not tell him, and enter it into the keypad. He looked away when you did.
His car wasn’t in his driveway when you woke up this morning. You would assume he went to work, like you were getting ready to do, but you saw him load it up with a black duffel bag last night. It wasn’t like you were looking out for him, necessarily. It just so happens that your living room window looks out to his driveway, and while you were folding your laundry, eyes unfocused on the television playing in front of you, you heard a card door open. Right after that is when you saw him, a dark figure chopped up by the wooden slats of the blinds, putting a bag into the backseat of his SUV. He slammed the door shut and sulked back into his house.
His car didn’t return for days after that.
But when it did, wheels turning over gravel, you peered through that same window, and studied the figure behind the tinted driver’s side window as it stalled long after the ignition cut out, just waiting and waiting. He tipped his neck back until his head hit the headrest, the shadowy silhouette of his profile stagnant as he waited and waited.
Your eyes flicker to the kitchen counter, where a batch of freshly baked cookies rests beneath a glass cloche. Hands moving without any conscious direction, you place the cookies in a plastic container, slip into your sandals, and make a break for the front door. As it closes behind you, Leon’s car door slams shut, the two sounds creating a symphony loud enough to alert you of one another’s presence.
“Hi there,” he says with a wave. You hold up the container of cookies, stepping toward his house, an old Georgian.
“A thank-you. For helping me…stay safe, I guess.”
“It hasn’t been giving you any trouble, has it?”
As you draw closer to him, still standing by his car door, bag in hand, you notice the exhaustion awash across his face. Lines seem deeper. The purple moons under his eyes have darkened.
“No sir.”
The look on your face. Those words coming from your mouth. Leon’s jaw tenses as he looks down at you, wearing cotton pajama shorts and a ratty t-shirt, holding a box of treats.
“Thank you, again, really. It’s made me feel a lot better about living alone.”
“Anytime. I’ll–uh–see you around.” He flashes you a quick smile, taking the tupperware from the hands that offered them, and turns around to walk toward his front door.
October
The doorbell rang twice and your stupid hairdryer was too damn loud in your ear for you to have heard it. It was only when you switched it off that the lingering echo of the twinkling sound bounced off the hallway walls and into your ears.
Leon?
It’s not always Leon. Sometimes it’s the mailman, asking for a signature. Other times, it’s a salesperson asking if you’re interested in a new air conditioning unit. But you always, always hope it’s Leon.
Freshly-showered body clad in nothing but a haphazardly tied robe, you pad down the hall and into the living room, opening the front door just in time to see Leon’s black SUV pull out of his driveway and head down the road, passing right in front of your house. You barely have time to raise your arm, let alone wave your hand at him.
The tupperware container you gave him the cookies in, now empty and clean, rests on your doormat. Stuck to it, a note with a smiling doodle and Leon’s name in black ink.
November
For the past two months, you and Leon found yourselves talking more. Sometimes, in the warmth of your own home. Other times, standing in his driveway or yours, until he bitches about his back or his knee and the two of you move to your front porch, sitting on the swing or the steps.
He would ask about your job, your friends, your family, and you would happily tell him stories about college and your crazy, old roommate who you still keep in touch with, and silly reiterations of your younger brother’s shenanigans. He still lives at home, not yet graduated from high school, and takes every opportunity to drive your parents crazy.
“He sounds like a handful,” Leon confesses with a laugh. Gosh, you love his laugh, it’s addictive. If you could, you would bottle it up and huff it to get high. That along with his scent. What a rush you would get if you could grind it into a powder and snort it up your nose.
Good grief.
“He is. They’re counting down the days until he moves out for his first year of school. Geez,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose at the thought of Ethan going off to college. Does he even know how to turn on the dishwasher? “I can’t believe he’ll be a freshman in college. I worry about him. The kid is such a mess.”
“He’ll be fine. If he’s anything like his…like you, I’m sure he’ll be fine. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders.”
“Ha,” you huff, flattered. The two of you are sitting on the brick step of his stoop, feet flat on the blacktop driveway. It’s warm outside, even for a late autumn afternoon in the DMV. Seventy degrees and still bright. Sunlight wanes, the butterball dipping behind near-naked trees.
It casts you in a glow that Leon cannot deny. You’re breathtaking, practically disheveled from a hectic day in the office. Your hair tousled, makeup nearly worn off, lips swollen from constant torture at the hands of your two front teeth. Strands billow down the back of your jacket as you lean to place your folded arms over bent knees, hugging yourself. He wishes he was the one with his arms around your legs. He could hit himself for letting that thought slip past the guard in his mind that guns down any inappropriate thought about his young neighbor. He’s distracted, eyelids heavy from weeks of interrupted sleep, body sore from eighty hours of back-breaking work.
“You seem to know a lot about me,” you say, your soft voice luring Leon back into the conversation, away from his mental self-flaggelation. “But I don't know that much about you.”
“Really?” He scoffs. “I’m an open book.”
That’s funny. “No you’re not,” you quip back and he nods beneath the fair assessment.
“So, can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“What do you do for work?”
It’s a simple enough question, right?
“Why that question?”
“I don’t know. You said you travel for work a lot and you always seem…” What’s the word you’re searching for? Different? Sad? Burdened? “...distracted when you come back.”
He hates that you’ve noticed that. “I work for the government. Security work.”
“Are you a spy or something?”
He chuckles, his baritone laugh filling the car and you with a warm buzz. “No, nothing like that. I work for the DSO.”
“Never heard of it.”
Good. That’s good.
“Like I said, security work.”
“Do you like it?”
Does he like it? What a loaded question spoken in so few words. He wishes you had asked him his favorite color instead. He had a much simpler, cut-and-dry response to give.
“No. Sometimes.”
“No? Sometimes?” You parrot him in the hope that he will hear the duplicity in his words and will elaborate further.
“I can’t give you a straight answer to that, I’m sorry. You’ll just have to believe me when I say that it’s complicated.” He sucks in a breath, then leans back to recline on his palms. The dark blue quarter-zip he’s sporting looks as though it’s just one size too small and the seams might rip beneath the tension of his bulging muscles. “I like saving lives,” he continues. “That’s why I got into this mess in the first place. But it’s tough work and it hasn’t left me with much room to do anything else with my life.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” He does know. “Having a family, hobbies, traveling.”
“Really? I feel like you’re always gone somewhere.”
“I should have clarified. Traveling, not for work purposes.”
“If you could go anywhere–not for work–where would you go?”
He takes a moment to really ponder your question. “I wouldn’t want to go anywhere I’ve had to go for work, that’s for sure.” Your eyebrows crease as you look up at him. You make a mental note to research what exactly employees of the DSO do when you get back home. “How about Japan? Or Greece? I think I’d like Greece. All those blue and white buildings overlooking the Mediterranean.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Greece, too,” you squeak, face aglow. “You’ll have to let me tag along when you go.”
January
“He’s taking you to a ballet?”
“Yep,” you chirp into the receiver, placing the phone between your cheek and your shoulder so your two hands are free to hold up the dresses to your frame. Option one is a strong contender, a black tea-length fit-and-flare with an Old Hollywood silhouette à la Audrey Hepburn that shows off your waist. Option two is a bit edgier. Strapless with a square neckline that doesn’t give too much away, the red satin clings to your waist, your hips, all the way down to your calves. The only con is you can barely walk in it, the skirt is so restricted, straight as a pencil. But it looks great.
Standing in front of the mirror in just your bra and panties as a blank slate, you hold up the first option against your body. It’s pretty and conservative. The shiny taffeta can easily be paired with your mother’s strand of pearls and a pair of kitten heels. But option two is sexy. It’s provocative.
Would Jackson like it? He seems so reserved and straightlaced, you think it might scare him off.
But he is a man…
“I didn’t know people still went to those,” Diana huffs on the other end. Poor thing thinks guys only take girls out to sports bars and football games. She needs to get out of your hometown. “Is he old?”
“People do still go to those, especially in D.C. The company here is incredible, or so I’ve heard.”
“The company? He’s got you talking like an old person. Wait. Is he old?”
You giggle. “No, he’s my age.”
“Is he rich?”
“Who?”
“The man who’s taking you out on a date, tonight. Who else would we be talking about?”
“Oh, right, duh. Um, getting there. He’s still just a junior associate at the firm. His parents are, though. They have, like, two houses.”
“Ah,” she clicks her tongue. “That’ll do it. Well, in that case, you have my approval.”
“Heads or tails?” You ask, changing the subject, heads being option one.
“Eenie meenie–”
“Just pick one,” you groan.
“Okay, fine. Tails.”
Of course the dress Diane psychically picked is the more daring of the two.
“Okay, thanks for picking out a dress for me. I’ll send you a pic when I’m all dressed up.”
“Wait, I didn’t know that’s what I was choosing for you. I want to see the options. Not fair.”
“Perfectly fair, that’s kind of the point of flipping a coin. Plus, I don’t have time. He’s picking me up in T-minus…” you glance at the glowing alarm clock on your bedside table. “Ten minutes.”
She groans dramatically. “Okay, fine, but I want to see the fit and you’ll have to tell me all the details after, okay? And I mean all the details, you hear me? Not the PG version either. Got it? Got it?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Photo and details. Copy that. Now, I really do have to go.”
The two of you spit out rushed “goodbyes” and “I love you’s” and you hang up the call and throw option one onto your bed, shimmying option two’s hanger straps off the wooden arms of the hanger, and toss that aside too.
It takes you a minute to shimmy into the unforgiving satin, but once you do, you begin the fight with the zipper. You get the tiny metal piece pulled all the way up your hips and half-way up your spine until it begins to rub a blister on the pads of your fingers and you feel yourself start to sweat.
And the doorbell rings. Ten minutes before he’s supposed to get here and he’s already at the door.
You hiss out a swear, slide into the heels you bought especially for the occasion, and grab the clutch that barely holds your phone and a tube of lipstick.
Swinging the door open, you whole-heartedly expect to see Jackson standing, a bouquet of flowers in tow, with the big, toothy grin he always wears warming up his face.
“You’re ear—”
It’s not your date, but your next door neighbor. Leon stands on your front porch, hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans, sporting the orthopedic sneakers he always has on, along with a sweet grin that slowly melts off his face once he sees you.
He can’t control it. His jaw went completely slack when he saw you standing in the doorway, illuminated by the dim backlight of the glowing kitchen behind you. You’re wearing a dress that is far too flattering, looking like a Barbie doll behind the plastic sheen of a display case.
“Oh, Leon,” you say, not expecting to see him on your doorstep. “Hi. What are you doing here?”
He was there to ask you to go out to dinner with him, but it looks like someone already beat him to the chase. You certainly aren’t wearing a dress like that to lounge around in your living room. You didn’t spend all that time tying up your hair just to get pizza with a friend.
“I–uh–came by to–uh–”
“Oh wait, hold that thought. Do you mind zipping me up all the way? I can’t reach.” You turn around and put your hands on your hips, not giving him time to refuse.
He wants to say “no”. A sick, jealous part of him wants to refuse having any part in readying you for another man, helping you into a dress he would never get the chance to take off. But, the hero in him wants to save the day, to come to your rescue.
“Going out?” He asks shortly, the timbre of his voice reaching a new low as he steps toward you. The top half of the dress is open, revealing a soft swatch of skin beneath the gaping fabric. With the grip of a man whose job description is to be dexterous with small, moving parts like the ribbed safety of a handgun or the inner walls of a rifle, he locates the coated metal of the zipper. As he pulls it upward, the knuckle of his pointer finger grazes the warmth of your back, the patch just across your spine. He pretends not to notice the bumps that rise across your skin, and you pretend not to feel the heat stirring in your lower belly.
How can the feather-light touch of a man you hardly know bring on such a strong physical reaction? You feel as if your limbs might turn to jelly, your heart being so fast you can hear it reverberating against the cavern of your ear canal.
“Thank you,” you squeak, turning around so Leon can take in the sight of you once more.
“Anytime.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted before. Did you say you needed something?”
“No.” He doesn’t even bother to spin a lie or make up an excuse, just wanting to get out before your date shows up and he has to come face-to-face with the man who will reflect all of his own shortcomings. He’s probably your age, still sprite and wide-eyed like you. Enthusiastic with a lust for life Leon lost a long time ago. “Have fun tonight. You look great.”
That’s all he says before he dips out of your door and you don’t see him for weeks.
March
“What in the world are you doing out there? It’s raining cats and dogs.” His voice is nearly shouting, carried across the few feet of grass between the sides of your homes, through the wet slosh of the downpour, and onto your porch.
You shudder, wholly unsure if it was from the giggle in your throat or the shiver creeping up across your skin. Either way, you’re practically buzzing, watching as Leon peers down at you from beneath the cover of his own porch. The concern on his face is borderline amusing. He’s looking at you from beneath furrowed brows, frowning with such worry as though you’re caught in the crossfire of a battlefield, not curled up, taking refuge from a thunderstorm.
“I like the sound of the rain,” you lie. “Just came out—to hear it—better.” Your teeth are chattering, and you didn’t realize just how cold you were until you needed to muster up enough warmth to oil up your pipes.
Before you know it, you hear footsteps sinking into the soggy grass of your front yard. Leon has walked over, in the rain, to your front porch. He was tired of yelling through the downpour, and decided it wasn’t going to let up any time soon so why wait? Plus your well-being is worth getting drenched.
Blonde strands, streaked with gray, cling to his temples, and with them are raindrops that trail down the skin there.
“You’re completely soaked.”
You blush only because you imagine him saying that under different circumstances. His hand down your pants, for example.
He’s right. Your dress is drenched through, the thin chiffon clinging to your goose-pimpled skin, sopping wet and—you look down at the black fabric molded to your thighs—incredibly sheer. If only you could dip into your house and grab your robe.
“And you’re shivering.” He holds out two open palms for you to take. You do, and he pulls you up to meet him, realizing how close he brought you to his own face, and he takes a step back, not sure he could control himself if he was so close to you.
Maybe having you farther away was a mistake, because now he can see the entirety of your body, clad in what he assumes was once a flowy dress, now completely soaked through and clinging to your every dip and curve. He can tell that you’re not wearing a bra, maybe one without much padding…or any underwear? No, you’re definitely wearing underwear because he sees the outline of the fabric jutting beneath your dress. It must be very thin, however, because it doesn’t do much to hide the outline of your—
Stop, Leon, he says internally. Do not look at her…there.
“Was the date so bad you had to wash it off in the rain?” He asks to distract himself, clearing his throat. It’s a futile attempt because the idea of you having dinner with another man does little to calm his nerves. The boy picked you up earlier, gave you his elbow as he walked you down from your front porch to his car, a sporty BMW. The kid held the door open as you sunk down into the seat, and he made sure the skirt of your dress was out of the way before he gently shut you inside.
He knows you went on a date. That means he saw you with Jackson, either when he picked you up, when the sky was still clear of the rumbling clouds that made an appearance during dinner. Or when he dropped you off, sheets of rain already tumbling down, when he spun you around in his arms and kissed you in the middle of the torrential deluge. At that moment, you thought it was romantic. Kissing the boy you like as the rain soaked you both, tangled in a wet embrace. It was romantic. Jackson was romantic. But he sure as hell wasn’t Leon, who saw the bookends of your night out on the town with another man. Now the memory makes your stomach sour.
“No, nothing like that,” you say with a sigh, holding up the small beaded clutch in your hand for him to see. “I changed out my purse for tonight, and forgot my keys in my other bag like an idiot.” You shake your head again. “Didn’t forget three different tubes of lipgloss though. Priorities, I guess.”
You even open up the lips of the bag to show Leon your collection of shimmering makeup products. He doesn’t quite know what he’s looking at but he chuckles anyway because you find it amusing. It snaps to a close and you place it under your arm. An arm glistening with crystal droplets.
Damp strands that once fell loose from your low bun now stick to your temples. One thick clump worms its way to the corner of your mouth. You use the tip of your tongue to push it away in an obscenely childish maneuver. What are you going to do next? Rub your runny nose with your sleeve? As much as you want to chide yourself for such a grossly immature act, Leon finds it utterly endearing. He doesn’t comment on it, though, compliment or not, because he sees the look in your eyes as you realize what you did and the immediate flush of your cheeks that followed. He’d rather not cause you any further embarrassment.
“You didn’t want to call your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you answer quickly, chomping at the bit to shut down Leon’s accusation.
“Ah.” He looks past you to the doormat shedding scratchy fibers onto the terracotta tiles beneath it. Then to the potted plants on either side of the door, the dry leaves soaking up the mist that the wind thrusts at them. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare key hidden somewhere, would you?”
“No,” you say, and he looks at you before shaking his head in disappointment. “But I gave one to my friend when I moved in. I called her thirty minutes ago and she said she’ll be by in the next hour or two when she gets off work.”
“So you just plan on waiting out here?”
“I guess,” you say, uncommitted to an answer.
He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Come on, you can dry off at my place.”
Your arm brushes against his once on the short walk over to his front door, and your skin is still burning when he opens it, letting you in for the first time.
The space is a lot cozier than you imagined it would be. You’re not sure why, but you pictured Leon living in a more sterile environment, void of warmth and comfort—something utilitarian, shred of all the frills so that only the absolute necessities remain. He seems very Spartan in that way. But this—his home puts all of those prejudiced assumptions to shame, showing you a completely different side of the man.
Across from the crackling fireplace, there is an overstuffed couch, upholstered in a smooth linen fabric that peeks out beneath a couple blankets thrown haphazardly over the back. It looks inviting and for a moment, the image of you and Leon curled up on the seat cushions flashes across your mind. Your knees are tucked into your chest, his body is turned toward yours, close enough for him to read out and touch your knee. The still is so vivid that you can almost feel the warmth of his palm on your flesh.
The image disappears, leaving you, once again, to take in the details of the room around you. Tucked into a corner of two tall bookcases, is a brown leather wing-back chair that looks well-loved, worn at the arms and the seat. It stands regally, tucked between the fireplace and a wooden side table that holds a tall lamp and a stack of paperback books.
“Nice place,” you say sweetly, kicking off your shoes by the door. He smirks down at you, suddenly shorter than the man without your heels on to bolster you up to his height. He’s not spectacularly tall by any means, standing at five-foot-eleven.
“Thanks,” is all he says as he shuts the front door behind you, turning not one but three different locks. The metal of each one clinks. If he were any other man, that might be creepy, but after you heard snippets about his work, the paranoia makes sense. “Let me go get you a towel.”
Your eyes follow his gaze down to the hem of your dress. It’s dripping. Actual drops fall from the fabric onto the floor, pooling around your bare feet.
“Oh, Leon, I’m sorry. I’m dripping everywhere.”
He’s not looking at the puddle now dampening his floor. No, he’s looking at the dress. The one that is so damp, it clings to your thighs. Your pretty, fleshy thighs. Yeah, you’re dripping alright.
Get a grip, Leon.
“Do you want to change? I’ll get you some clothes and you can get ready in the guest bedroom. I can even hang up your dress in the shower, so it’ll dry.”
“Sure,” you oblige, and you follow him up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway, careful not to drip too much onto the polished hardwood. “Your house is really nice. Kind of big for just a single guy.” Why did you say that? You idiot freak. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”
He just shrugs, stopping you in front of a closed door before taking a few more steps down the hall. “I’ll be back,” he promises, opening the door to what you assume is his bedroom, giving you just a peek into the suite before shutting it behind him. All you were able to see is a headboard and an unmade bed. Crisp, white sheets crumpled across the mattress. A grey comforter sliding off the foot of the bed. He must thrash in his sleep for the dressings to be strewn about like that. Or he’s had someone over.
You imagine sleeping there with him, your naked bodies tangled together, twisted up in those sheets. His hands roaming your bare flesh, kneading and grabbing your hips as he had his way with you.
He returns quickly and you avert your gaze from the door, hoping he isn’t a vampire or alien that can read your mind and learns that you’ve been fantasizing about him.
“Here,” he says, holding a stack of folded clothing: black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. It seems to be his uniform.
Both of you linger silently in the hallway, just standing opposite of one another. Leon’s hands are in the pockets of his lounge pants, the t-shirt he’s wearing doing all but hiding the muscles of his chest and abdomen, not to mention the veiny biceps outstretched from the sleeves. You’re just standing there, dumb, waiting on him to say something.
He’s just so handsome, you’re completely caught up in the beauty of his face, his form. Those eyes that stare so intently. The dimple of his chin. The softness of his jaw, marked with stubble that is patchy in some places, gray in most. You want to kiss him there, feel the hair tickling your lips. You need to stop thinking about him in that way. It’s not going to happen.
“The guest bedroom is behind you.” He cuts his eyes to the side, then immediately back to you, waiting.
Duh.
“Oh, right,” you cough up a nervous breath. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll change in here.” You just keep pumping out weightless words to combat the awkwardness of the last few seconds. You hope you weren’t staring or doing anything weird with your face.
“Hand me your dress when you're changed and I can hang it up, like I said.”
“Yeah, of course,” you repeat, as if it’s the only phrase you know.
The guest bedroom is small and neat, but relatively unadorned, housing only a queen-sized mattress, two nightstands on either side of the made bed, and a dresser opposing the wooden headboard. In the corner, there is a standing mirror, also wooden, definitely old.
Your fingers struggle with the zipper, huffing and puffing until you find the right angle and grab onto the miniscule metal tongue with one hand, yanking it down with the other. Sliding the sleeves down your arms, the fabric unglued itself from your body. The tiny bra you were wearing is damp in some spots, but you’d rather not pass that on to Leon for him to hang up in his bathroom, so you keep it on, alongside the lace panties on your hips. With the towel he gave you, you dry off, starting with your neck, shuffling the cloth down to your feet, drying off every inch of skin.
Before redressing, you patter toward the door with your dress in hand and open it just a crack.
Leon turns around at the sound of the door creaking open, and he approaches to grab the garment from you as you slide it through the opening. He notices the bra strap on your shoulder and behind that, the mirror angled toward the door, giving him a perfectly good view of your bare thighs, and lace-clad cheeks.
He nearly chokes on air.
“You okay?” You ask.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I’ll go hang this up.” he skidattles before you can notice the erection straining the thin pajama pants he’s wearing.
Back in the guest room, you throw on the t-shirt and pants he provided, pattering to the hallway.
“Leon?”
He hears your voice through the bathroom door, busying himself with an empty hanger he grabbed from his closet, sliding the capped sleeves of your dress onto the wood before hanging it on the curtain rod.
“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, looking down to see how stiff he had gotten. He didn’t think he had it in him anymore, and if it were any other time, he would be pleasantly surprised to see that his body still somewhat functions in that department. But now? He needs it to go away.
His hand reaches into his pants. He palms the stiff shaft, praying the touch brings him some relief.
“I’ll just wait in the living room.” Your voice clears as he opens the door half-way through the sentence that comes from those pretty lips. Don’t think about her pretty lips, Leon, he commands himself.
“Hi,” you chirp as Leon’s bare feet bring him down the stairs and into the living room. You’re standing near the fireplace.
“Hey. Do you want anything to drink?” He asks, lingering in the portal between the living room and the kitchen, his hand resting on the painted wood frame. “I have water and whiskey, and maybe a beer or two, but that’s about it.”
There is an unidentifiable tone in his voice that weakens it. He sounds disappointed or ashamed of himself.
“Water is fine, thank you, Leon.”
You’re such a sweet girl, he thinks before dipping into the kitchen, leaving you to your own devices in his living room. You take the opportunity to give yourself a tour of the space, padding onto a red oriental rug that spans nearly the entirety of the hardwood slats making up the floor. Each vibrant, colored thread is woven into geometric shapes and motifs beneath your bare feet.
You turn back around to the fireplace. The mantle is dripping with mis-matched frames, each one filled with pictures of Leon of all different ages, of scenic landscapes that portray him as a well-traveled man.
One photo in particular stands out to you. A younger version of your neighbor in his late twenties, early thirties at most, stands between a girl around the same age and a man with similar features to hers. Their arms are all interwoven behind each other’s backs, all flashing bright, genuine smiles at the camera. He looks less…burdened here.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Leon standing once more in the doorway, watching you intently. His piercing blue eyes scan your body, stopping at the photo in your hands. He smirks when he realizes which picture rests inside the painted wood frame.
“Those are the Redfields.” Leon’s voice draws closer as he meets you at the fireplace. His footsteps are light, graceful, which is funny considering they belong to a man with such an obscene amount of muscle. A glass of ice water in his hand, he looks again at the frame in yours. “Claire and Chris. I met Claire when I was a rookie cop in Racoon City. She was there when everything went to shit.” He waits to see the look of recognition come across your face, but it never does. God, you are young, he thinks. Sweet summer child, so innocent and unaware of the kinds of horrors he has seen. “Before your time, I guess,” he shuckles deeply. “And that’s Chris, her brother. We go way back.” He points to the brunette man beside him.
“You look so young in this picture.” It’s just an observation on your part, nothing more, and Leon knows that, but the remark hits him where it hurts. He was probably your age, maybe a little bit older, when that photo was taken. It was captured during a time when he truly thought his life would amount to something, that among the smoke and blood and gunpowder, he would still be able to have it all, despite the job, despite the world he was so hastily thrown into. Oh, how wrong he was. You still get to have what he couldn’t. Maybe you’ll get married one day and have a family. Maybe you’ll get a dog. Maybe, in ten years, you’ll still be living in that house next door and he’ll get to watch you enjoy the life you created for yourself.
He’s not sure he could stick around and see you build the life he never got to have with someone else. He’d have to move if he even lived long enough to see the day.
If only he met you then, maybe things could have worked out for him. He shakes that thought out of his head, distracting himself from the idea of being with you by reverting back to the photo.
“We took a trip up to the mountains one summer with a couple other friends.”
You nod, still looking at the picture. “You never told me that you were so handsome.”
He has the same haircut, the same dimple in his chin. He just looks more weathered now, fine lines across his forehead, around his eyes and mouth. Deeper ones cut across the pebbled skin of his neck. He’s still breathtakingly beautiful.
“Maybe I forgot. That was a long time ago.”
“Sorry,” you apologize quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re still very handsome.”
You blush, so pretty and pink beneath the low light. “Sorry,” you repeat. “Was that a weird thing to say?”
Is she flirting with me, he thinks. No, of course not, he’s too old. She’s just being polite because she thought he had offended him.
“No, not weird at all.” He smirks and it goes straight to your clit, now throbbing so hard you have to cinch your thighs together to keep yourself from becoming a pile of jelly on the floor.
You’re not sure how to fill the silence that falls over the room. Leon’s smile falters and he’s just staring down at you, the rise and fall of his chest struggling to keep up with his now labored breath.
“You know you’re good-looking.” Fuel to the fire. “Not sure why you look so surprised.”
You’ve caught him off guard. He doesn’t know how to respond to that assessment.
“Maybe I just haven’t heard it in a while. Not from a beautiful woman like you.”
Now it’s your turn to be speechless. You regroup, finding your bearings again. You need to sit down before your knees give out and you melt into a puddle of nerves on the floor, staining his run. Stepping over toward the couch, Leon follows you, taking a seat on the cushion at the opposite end of the one you chose to settle on, criss-crossing your legs.
Gosh, he’s so gorgeous. Rugged and weathered, sure, that comes with his age, but gorgeous is still the first word you’d use to describe him. The slight bump at the bridge of his knows. Pretty lips that part slightly whenever you’re in his presence.
He could say the same thing about you, the absolutely stunning woman who can’t seem to leave him alone no matter how awkward, tense, or avoidant he seems. You’re always there with a smile or an offering of beer or cookies, trying to drag him out of the hole he’s created for himself.
“Can I ask you a question, Leon?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you have such a big house if it’s just you living here?”
You’re not accusing him of anything, you just want to know why a single, older man lives in such a large home all by himself. Heavy-lidded and low, his eyes flicker upward from the comfort of his lap to meet yours. The contact sends a tittering chill down your spine and lightning bolts between your thighs.
As soon as you think he’s about to answer through parted lips, Leon closes his mouth and chooses a physical response instead of a verbal one. He shrugs the shoulder not dug into the back of the sofa.
“I bought it a couple years back, thinking I might get married and have a family. Never happened.”
What do you say to that?
Oh, damn.
Woof, that sucks.
Sorry for the loss of your imaginary family.
“You still have time,” is what you settle on instead, instantly regretting it. Leon is obviously not getting any younger, and you might have just stuck the knife in deeper with that comment. He really doesn’t still have time, and he knows it.
“No,” is all he says, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t. ‘Ts why I’m selling the place.”
Like a slap to the face. Saliva pools beneath your stupefied tongue as your jaw drops open in awe.
“What? You’re moving?”
“Yeah, ‘gonna put it on the market soon. Just need to talk to a realtor.”
“Wha—where are you going to go? Are you leaving town?”
“Oh, no,” he chuckles deeply. “I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. My job is here. I just want to close this chapter and get something smaller, less work to keep up. I don’t need all this space and I’m getting older. I don’t want to have to maintain it all. Plus, someone else will need it more than I do anyway.” Someone else with a family to care for, a dog that can run around in the backyard, children that can fill the rooms with toys and laughter.
He wanted to have that more than anything. He wanted colorful letter magnets on the fridge, ballet lessons, soccer practices. He wanted to trip over toy cars left out on the floor, and begrudgingly (but not really) play house with dolls. He wanted to be chased around with sticky, syrup-coated fingers and attend school plays.
Maybe if he was twenty-eight again, just like he was in that photo, and if you were his neighbor, as sweet and willing as you are now, he would have asked you to do it all with him.
Okay, he’s not leaving town. That knowledge calms your nerves, but the pit in your stomach is still gaping wide like a canyon.
“I’m going to miss seeing you, though,” he admits quietly, regretting the words as soon as they come out of his mouth, especially when he sees the look on your face beneath them. You’re wearing an expression he can’t quite decipher. Did he frighten you? Did he disgust you by saying such a perverse thing?
It’s borderline uncomfortable being in Leon’s presence. He’s older and stronger and could easily pounce and have his way with you in a split second. That idea should probably scare you, but no, the discomfort comes from the desire you feel pooling in your belly, the rope you feel pulling you to him as your seat comes unglued from the sofa cushion. You raise yourself slowly so as not to scare him off, and before his reflexes can react and tug him away, you move into his space and plant a kiss on his cheek.
His face is warm and soft under your pursed lips as they linger for a second too long. In those moments, you debate cupping his face, running your fingers through his hair, planting a palm or two on his chest. He backs up an inch, pulling himself from your touch before you can do any of those things.
“Leon, I’m sorry. Was that too much?”
He closes his eyes, putting up a hand between the two of you.
“You–I–we can’t do this, (Y/N).” The words feel like a kick in the face. The flame of embarrassment rises to the apples of your cheeks, lighting them up with a fierce blush. “My job is dangerous. It takes me away all the time, and I rarely know how long I’ll be gone or if I’m coming back. Sometimes, I don’t think I will. It’s part of the reason why I’m selling this place, why I never got to share it with anyone. I’m not going to drag you into that.”
Throat dry and scratchy, you swallow the lump stuck behind your tongue. “You’re not dragging me into anything, Leon.”
He gives you a weak smile and huffs. “You say that now, kid.” They all do. When the courtship is still in its beginning phases, Leon introduces the woman to his lifestyle, piece by piece, softly bringing up the intricacies of his job. While she’s still entranced by his heroic position or his good looks or the money or the car, she’s all on board. She promises to stay with him, come hell or high water, but once the threads are worn thin and she’s tired of the waiting, the worrying, she leaves. He hasn’t known you for very long, so he trusts that you will be no different. Plus, you’re young and naive. Even if you seemed one-hundred percent confident in what you wanted, Leon doubts he’d believe you enough to open up his heart to destruction again.
“I mean it–”
“No, stop. Shh,” he says, tilting his head, eyes squinted as he cuts them around the sofa. “Is that your phone vibrating?”
You almost missed it beneath the ringing in your ears, but sure enough, Cecilia is calling.
“It’s the friend I have my key to,” is all you have time to say before picking up the phone and answering. The conversation doesn’t last long. She’s parked outside, in your driveway.
“She’s here to unlock my door.” Your voice trails off into a hum as you stand up and collect your purse from the table behind the sofa. His bright blue eyes look up at you, awash with an expression you can’t quite name. “Can we finish this conversation tomorrow?”
He nods, bringing himself to standing so he can walk you to the door. Though he led you to believe tomorrow’s planned conversation would be possible, Leon knew he would be long gone to Rio before you woke up.
That night, when he’s lying in bed, on the second hour of trying to force himself to sleep, Leon thinks about you. He thinks about what you’re doing. He wonders if you’re awake like he is, if you’re thinking about him like he’s thinking about you. Of course, you’re not awake. You’re normal, probably fast asleep for hours by now. Maybe you’re dreaming about him. He wants to dream about you.
That photo. Why did you have to look at that photo?
He pictures himself at twenty-eight, around your age. His skin, smooth and mostly unscarred, untainted by twenty years of fighting. He isn’t graying. No wrinkles or joint pain. His back doesn’t yell out at him when he bends the wrong way, or lifts something heavy without first laying into his knees. You said he was handsome, so maybe you would have accepted the proposition of a date if he had asked. He would have made a reservation at a fancy restaurant and put on a suit, slicked his hair back so it didn’t flop in your face when he tried to kiss you. Would you have let him kiss you then? Would you let him now? The old, wrinkled, tired version of the boy you saw in that picture?
Leon knows the answer to that already. You tried to kiss him tonight and he didn’t let you. Why was he so stupid as to not let you kiss him? It’s one of the only things he’s been able to think about when he has a spare moment to himself. The smooth curve of your lips on his.
He hasn’t gotten hard in a while. He hasn’t tried. But the images his brain is conjuring up right now send a twinge between his thighs and he feels the fabric of his briefs stretch across his growing arousal.
“Stop it,” he berates himself aloud, rolling over to stuff his face in the pillow. He shouldn’t think of you in that way. He has to let you go.
May
The doorbell rings, and there’s only one person you hope to see on your doorstep. You say a quick prayer that it’s not Jackson, come to try and convince you to take him back after your break-up. It wasn’t messy, per se, but it was your idea, and Jackson isn’t the type of guy who just gives up on things he wants. Hopefully he doesn’t want you badly enough to show up unsolicited at your front door.
Thankfully, your prayer was answered and then some. Leon is on your front porch, standing with his shoulders rolled back, his hands clasped behind him.
“Hi,” is all he says when you swing open the door and lay eyes on him. He never fails to steep your breath, whether it’s his face or the mass of muscle that seems to be one flex away from bursting out of his clothing. The way his chest presses against the fabric of his compression shirt is enough to make your vision go blurry. “I’ve been holding your dress hostage, apparently. Totally forgot I had it.”
Both of those things are technically true. Once the dress had somewhat dried hanging up in his bathroom, the night before he left for South America, Leon had held it in his arms as he tried to go to sleep. He also might have smelled it. A few times.
After he returned from the mission, he did forget about it, the dress just hanging in his closet to only be remembered when he was looking for that shirt you once said looked good on him. He wanted to wear it when he randomly stopped by your house today, and then, to his surprise, he found the dress and a perfectly good excuse to see you along with it.
He brings an arm forward, a folded square of chiffon in his grasp. Leon’s large hand makes the dress look like a handkerchief. The sight of the thick, blue veins beneath his knuckles makes your knees weak.
“Oh right,” is all you say, the smile plastered on your face not allowing for any other words to be formed. “Thanks, Leon.”
He nearly groans when he hears his name so sweet on your lips. A quick clearing of his throat covers it up. “Yeah, of course.”
“Would you like to come in? I made cookies earlier, if you’d like one.” You open the door slightly, gesturing for him to come inside.
He saunters inside, a large arm brushing past yours as he walks past you.
“I give you permission to shoot me if I ever say ‘no’ to that invitation.”
That makes you giggle. Either the goofy quips he constantly pulls out of his pocket are actually funny, or he’s just so ridiculously handsome that anything he says can make you laugh. The latter is probably true.
He’s just so damn handsome. Is he even real? Maybe you should reach out and touch him just to make sure.
You grab a plate from the cabinet and serve Leon one of your signature chocolate chip cookies, just shy of fresh from the oven.
“Seriously, I think you put crack in these, they’re so good.” He takes another bite. You’re both leaning over your kitchen counter, across from one another.
His wide smile dwindles slightly, but he’s still looking at you with those sharp blue eyes as they flicker to each feature on your face, lingering on your mouth, your cheeks, your eyes.
“Thank you. Glad to know I’ve perfected the recipe. My grandmother would be very proud.”
June
Leon had been gone for over a month. He left the morning after he returned your dress to you. The one you wore the night you tried to lunge at him and plant your mouth all over his face. The night after he told you things would never work between you both. When he stopped by, he didn’t mention it once, which somehow made it worse.
You gave him one hour between hearing his car pull into his driveway and stomping across the patch of grass separating your homes to knock on his door. Apparently, that was more than enough time for him to clean up and start drinking.
“You’re back.” Then, “What happened?”
He’s fresh from a shower, still somewhat damp and smelling like the soap he uses, citrus and pine. The scent radiates from the warm skin exposed beneath his black v-neck t-shirt: strong, pale arms and a collarbone peppered with hair. He holds himself up with a crooked arm resting on the door frame, displaying a bulging bicep and shallow cuts across his skin. In his other hand, a sweating beer.
Staying silent, Leon just glares at you before backing out of the doorway to step aside, gesturing for you to enter his home. You kick off your shoes and pad into the living room. He follows sluggishly, catching up with you.
You hiss when the cold bottle is pressed to the bare flesh of your upper arm, snapping around to see Leon smirking down at you. He just wanted to hear you squeal. He regretted the act as soon as he did it, but your little yelp was gratifying nonetheless.
“Want a drink?” That’s all he says. You’ve been worried out of your mind for the past month and all he does is ask if you want some alcohol. Truly, you want to be mad at him, but you can’t find the anger under the relief you feel. The sight of him, living and breathing, glides over your skin like a salve.
“No, thanks. I’m so sorry to intrude.” You look around the living room, eyes immediately finding a gaggle of empty beer bottles at the foot of his chair. “I just–I saw your car in the driveway. I figured you got back from work finally, and thought I’d come by to check up on you.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” he says, stepping across you to the leather wingback chain in the corner of the living room. He sinks into it, groaning on his way down, stretching out his legs onto the rug. Bare feet splay across the geometric pattern.
You wait, still only a couple feet from the door where he left you, watching as he does nothing but drink his beer and gaze back at you.
“So how was it?” You just want to hear his voice. You want to know that he’s alright. A month is a long time for things to go awry, and from what little information you were able to glean about the work the DSO does, you’re sure a month is far too long for him to have gotten away without taking some sort of damage. Whether it’s above or below the surface, you’d like to find out so you can make it better.
“Fine.” He grunts at you. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You were gone for a long–”
“I’m fine. If you’re going to keep asking silly questions, you can go.”
His heartless words are like suckerpunch to the gut, leaving your stomach contorting itself into a knot–a raggedy nest made from twine and rags and discarded trash. You’re not even sure which emotion is at the forefront of the battle marching on inside of you. Maybe it’s sorrow for the mean, old man in front of you. Regret for ever putting your lips on him and letting him feel the softness you have for him through your skin. Shame for mentally labeling him as “mean” and “old”, because he truly is neither. Sympathy for a human being who is obviously being worked to death, the life milked out of him by the greedy fist of a vengeful, uncaring government. Maybe it’s a concoction of all those ugly, festering diseases. Or maybe it’s something altogether more primal and unwavering, something that has clawed its way into your skin like a tick, burrowing deeper and deeper until it latches itself to you, its host, and never lets go.
You might love the man. Why else would a perfectly rational grown woman have worried herself sick over her neighbor who she has spent a collective twenty hours in the presence of?
“What? I wanted to see if you were alright–”
“I said you can go. I don’t need a nurse or some woman hovering over me right now. Just leave me alone.”
You must love him. Why else would you let yourself be spoken to with such disgust and condescension and still want to kiss and caress and take care of the inductor of the pain now simmering in your chest?
Eyes stinging and tears threatening to fall, you bite your lip to keep the messy emotions at bay, fully confident that a wet tantrum would not help your case. Some woman.
He sees your face fall and sighs deeply, his shoulders drooping. “Shit, I’m sorry, (Y/N). My assignment was shitty and I’m tired and I’ve had too much to drink. I’m sorry. Don’t let me be an ass to you, okay?” He sets his beer down on the table beside him.
“It’s okay, really. I get it. I should have waited until you settled in–I shouldn’t have–”
Even though he has already apologized, the tears come anyway, welling up on your lashes, stringing as they drip down your cheeks ruthlessly. He jumps up like the seat is on fire, lunging toward you, tugging your body into his arms. Booze and wood strong on his neck as he pulls you closer, rocking you gently from side to side.
“Fuck,” he swears with a bite, moving to lock his jaw on the crown of your head. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I don’t feel like myself today.”
Baby. He just called you ‘baby’. He doesn’t notice, but you do.
You cry out into his chest, wrapping your arms around his torso, hiccuping. Gosh, you probably look so pathetic and childish right now, sobbing into this man’s shirt, but you can’t help it.
“I’m just glad you’re alive, Leon. You scared me. You said you might not come back one day, and I was so worried when I didn’t see you for so long.”
“I know, I’m so sorry. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
But he is. He’s moving, and soon at that. One day in the near future, you’ll be separated by a lot more than a patch of grass and a retaining wall that does nothing but help you step into his yard.
Maybe you can convince him to stay. Maybe your love will convince him that he is worthy of a home, of space, of beauty in his life. That’s why you kiss him, because you think your touch will keep him here.
His lips are softer than you had imagined, and his mouth tastes like the bitter tang of liquor. The touch riles up a swarm of butterflies in your stomach.
He pulls away, hands coming up to your upper arms.
“I’ve had a few drinks.”
August
“Leon, is that you?”
You know it is.
The sound of his sneaker-clad feet–the sound you have practically memorized–cut through the late summer sounds of chirping crickets and heat waves. The hot day melted into a swarthy evening, a bright yellow sun slowly dipping into the horizon, painting the sky with pink and purple clouds. The streetlamps have already turned on, and children have returned from dinner to continue their outdoor activities. A couple of kids from across the street play hopscotch on the sidewalk they painted with chalk earlier.
“Hey.” He doesn’t say anything more as he takes a seat next to you on the porch swing, the wood creaking beneath the additional weight. It swings back and forth an inch.
“It’s been a while,” you admit, already blushing beneath his gaze. Regret blooms in your chest. You really could have gone without divulging to him that you’ve practically been marking the time he’s been gone like a prisoner counting down the days until his release by scratching chalky lines into the walls of his cell.
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is low and rough, like he’s been sick or coughing a lot, at least. “I was gone for work.”
“I assumed so.”
The two of you share an understanding glance and he smirks at you. It’s a small tug at the corner of his lips, but you feel as though the ground has shifted beneath you. A tectonic shift.
You’ve gotten used to Leon’s schedule. It’s predictably unpredictable. By now, you know that if you don’t see him for days–or weeks–on end, he’s saving the world from some nasty beast, and you will be at home, on your knees, praying to whichever god will listen that he returns home safely. Sometimes, he tells you. Sometimes, you just have to wait for his car to return by nightfall and if it doesn’t, you know he’s away.
“Are you okay?” He looks particularly tortured today, shoulders heavy, the bags under his eyes more purple than normal
He nods. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Where were you this time?” You shouldn’t have even said it, but it just slips out before you can stop yourself, knowing good and well he can rarely divulge details like where he was or what he did.
“Classified,” you both say in unison, and that earns you a chuckle.
“Right. I know better than to ask.”
Pivoting on the swing until your back meets the armrest, you bend your knees to bring your legs up to the wooden slats. Leon looks down at your bare feet, slender and soft, your toenails painted a pretty pink color. And then your shins, shiny. Smooth. You have a scar on your right knee, a translucent crescent in the skin just below the cap.
“I missed you while you were gone. I had to start taking cookies over to the Anderson kids across the street.”
“Bet they loved that.”
“Yeah. Not sure their parents did, though. I put a lot of sugar in those things. They were probably bouncing off the walls.”
He just smiles, flashing a set of imperfect teeth. Crows’ feet deepen, the lines around his mouth crease. You love how real he is, even if he seems damaged or burdened, even if he sometimes only gives you one-word responses, or sulks off when you feel like he’s starting to let you in, he’s real.
“I want to be straight forward for a sec.”
He crooks a brow, turning his face toward you, and clears his throat. “Okay.” He says it like it’s a question.
“What are we doing here?”
A smile appears on his face, and you brace yourself for some joke to come slithering off his tongue.
“We’re sitting on your porch, talking about you poisoning Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s kids with sugar.”
You can tell he thought he’d get a laugh out of you, but you’re sorry to disappoint when your face stays still.
“I’m serious.” You swing your legs around so you’re sitting up straight, toes grazing the clay tiles beneath you. He swallows, watching you adjust your hips on the wooden slats, the hips not covered nearly enough by your cotton shorts. “You’re so nice to me, and forgive me if I’m wrong and…I don’t know, maybe I’ll seem stupid and immature for saying this, but I thought you wanted something to come from this. I know I did. I–”
He shuts you up with a kiss. A real one this time. Not on the cheek. Not blurred by the fuzz of liquor or sadness in need of comfort. His hands are on your upper arms, pulling you closer to him. He tastes even better than you imagined. His lips feel better. Everything is better because it’s actually happening.
Leon Kennedy, your neighbor, the man you have been pining over like a schoolgirl for the past year, is kissing you, finally, and it’s electric. Shocks buzz beneath your skin, butterflies flutter in your low belly. Hot plasma runs through your veins. Nerve endings fire off on all cylinders.
It’s magic, and as quickly as it happened, it ends.
“Miss (Y/N)?”
You and Leon pull away from each other at the sound of Richy Anderson approaching your porch with his little sister in tow not far behind him. One of Leon’s hands falls down until it’s flush to your back as you turn to look at the pair of hooligans. Richy’s shirt is covered in what you hope is chocolate ice cream. Mia’s white-blonde hair is sticking up in all directions, loose from the braid trailing down her back. Oh to be a child drinking up the last days of summer vacation.
“Hi there,” is all you say, a fat smile plastered on your face.
“The chalk washed off and we don’t know how to draw it again.”
You glance over at Leon, still touching the small of your back as you lean forward slightly to talk to the kids. His thumb draws circles there, felt through the thin fabric of your tank top. Warmth blossoms in your chest and your stomach wobbles.
“Sure thing. Do you still have the chalk?”
“Yes ma’am,” Richy says. Mia nods in agreement behind him, the flesh beneath her jaw more pronounced as she tucks her chin into her neck, lips pressed into a pucker like she just took a bite out of a lemon wedge.
“I’m being summoned,” you say, glancing back at Leon.
He smiles wide, removing his hand from the small of your back to place both palms on his knees. “Look, I have a meeting tomorrow that might run late, but the day after, I’m going to take you out for dinner. How does that sound?”
You nod enthusiastically. “Sounds amazing.”
With a kiss to your temple, Leon retreats back into his house, leaving you with the Anderson kids as they drag you by the hand to their side of the street, leading you toward a patch of concrete left soaked by a nearby sprinkler. The phantom whisper of your mouth still tingles on his lips as he watches you through his living room window while you play hopscotch with the children, jumping from one sneaker-clad foot to the other, closing your legs then parting them as you make your way down the line of numbers you helped them redraw with chalk.
The sight makes his heart swell with desire, his chest tighten with fear. For the first time in a while, Leon Kennedy is really, truly afraid. Before, he felt comfortable admiring you from a distance. He would catch himself daydreaming about you when he was stuck in the office, writing reports under buzzing fluorescence.
He would think about the warmth of the cozy home you made yours with decorative lamps and artwork clung to the walls, the warmth of your smile, your hands. In meetings, when the lights were turned down low and the hum of the projector harmonized with the drone of whoever was presenting, he would let his mind drift to make-believe images of you in his bed next to him or sitting in his chair, on his lap as he read out loud to you from whichever book was first on the rotation. He could conjure up the smell of your hair if he focused hard enough. Jasmine and honeysuckle, like the first day of spring after a dry, decrepit winter. You smelled like the break of dawn and hope and the promise of a rainbow after a storm.
When on missions, when faced with death and all sorts of rotten things, he would picture your face–a pinprick of beauty amid the tumult and destruction–and it reinvigorated in him the desire to keep pressing forward. Your eyes, your lips, the little bump of your nose, all the light at the end of the dark, lonely tunnel that has been his life.
But now? Now, he has touched you. Even worse, he has kissed you. He felt the same electricity you did when your mouths finally collided, a testament to the chemistry between you both. He’s tried so hard to ignore it, to distance himself from the feelings that keep scratching their way to the surface, because for things to work out leaves him a lot more vulnerable to hurt than if nothing came of it, than if the kiss meant nothing.
You’ve changed him. Even Sherry had noticed a difference. She had heard him humming in his office one day. It stopped her in the tracks of her clicky high heels, but she didn’t prod or poke at him. She didn’t have to ask. She just knew. Leon was happy. Happier.
But he was also scared out of his mind. It had happened so many times before. He would find someone, open his heart to them, build with them a trust that they wouldn’t abandon him, even if things got hard. Even if he had to leave for an indefinite amount of time. Even if he got hurt. Even if he retreated so far within himself it was hard to crawl back up to the surface. They would promise him patience, promise him undying affection, long-enduring love. But those promises always ended up broken, shattered, and it would leave him hollow once more.
That’s why he has given up. That’s why he’s selling his house. That’s why he’s been taking on more missions, fully prepared for one to be his last, waiting for the final blow. That is, before he met you. Now, he’s counting down the days until he can retire. He’d do that for you. They probably won’t let him, not for another ten years, but he’d try. For you.
Leon thinks about you for the rest of the evening as he scurries around, a newfound pep in his step, as he showers, as he cracks open a chilled beer, as he settles into his chair and opens the next book in his queue.
He’s barely two pages in when there’s a knock at his door. God, he hopes it’s you.
“Leon,” you say as he opens the door, letting in a warm swath of air. It smells sweet, or maybe that’s just you.
“Hi.” Your heart is racing. You can practically hear it thumping in your ears. It only speeds up when you see Leon, shirtless, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants low on his hips. There’s a pair of wiry reading glasses sitting on the straight line of his nose. His hair is damp.
If you weren’t originally planning on jumping him when he opened the door, you definitely are now.
He is perfectly sculpted, nothing to hide the peaks and valleys of his abdomen, feathered with a light dusting of hair. Scars run up and down his chest, some translucent, blending into the shimmering paleness of his skin. Others are red and angry, fresh. Your fingertips ache to touch them, to run up and down the vein that bulges beneath the skin of his arm, his broad chest and even broader shoulders. You’ve always been a tactile being, but seeing so much of Leon’s uncharted body has you chomping at the bit to get your hands on him.
He can see that you’re flustered. Inflamed cheeks. Your hands are shaking. Breath unsteady.
“Hey. Everything alright?” He looks out at the street behind you, eyes surveilling the darkness that had fallen over the neighborhood since he lips had last been on yours.
He’s so sweet. You’re so horny your skin is itching and your ears are ringing and he’s asking if you’re okay. Fuck, you might actually love the man. No, you’re sure you do. Head over heels type of love. That’s what you feel, all the way from your feet to the top of your head.
“Yeah, I–I’m okay,” you choke. You’re tweaking like an addict on the side of the road waiting for the next hit. Withdrawal. You’re going through withdrawal. “I just…you kissed me earlier and we didn’t really get to talk about it, and I–I–we didn’t get to finish…I wanna finish–ugh, not like that. Geez, I’m so sorry. I sound like such a pervert, but I…” Leon just smiles down at you, chuckling, amused at the blubbering girl in front of him. “I just want you to kiss me again. Please.”
Leon has always been good at following orders. He pulls you into the house by your wrist, gently closing the door behind you until it clicks shut. His hands come to cup your cheeks and he presses you against the wall, but he doesn’t make a move yet. He just looks at you.
“Can I?”
You open your mouth to speak but no sound comes out, and the only response you’re able to muster is a nod. A very eager nod. With his finger still crooked beneath your chin, Leon pulls your lips up to his and the instant your mouths collide, your world is thrown upside down. It’s a chaste kiss, but it rocked you regardless. When he pulls away, you feel empty, needy for his lips to return to yours.
“I–I want—”
“What is it you want? Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything,” he promises in a whisper that tickles the sensitive skin at your ear.
“I want you, Leon, in any way you’ll give yourself to me. I just want you.” Your palm presses against his bare chest, his skin hot to the touch. Fingertips trail down his abdomen, to the waistband of his sweatpants. He grabs your wrist, stopping your hand in its tracks. “I want you to make love to me.”
Not fuck. Not screw. You want him to make love to you. And suddenly, this seems like less of a hook-up and more of…a promise of something more. He wants something more than taking you up against the wall of his foyer.
He pulls away, hands retreating from your body. Your hips scream at the sudden withdrawal of his touch. “We should stop. I should take you out on a proper date before we do this.”
“Leon?”
He sobers up at his name short and curt on your tongue, looking down at you with wide eyes.
“Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about this?” You don’t give him time to answer that question, taking his hands in yours, leading them back to your body where they belong. “Since you helped me move in last year. It’s been that long, I am not stopping now. And I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about being too young for you or too happy or innocent. I know what I’m doing.”
Leon sighs, relenting. It isn’t hard to convince him to take things further with the girl he has been dreaming about…also for a year. “But not here. Let’s go to the bedroom.” He takes your hand in his and guides you toward the stairs, glancing back to take a look at you every couple of steps as if he’s scared you’ll disappear or run away from him.
His bedroom.
You pull off your tank top and tug down your shorts, leaving yourself in nothing but a pair of white lace panties and a matching bra. He nearly chokes on air, bringing a cupped hand to his mouth as he takes in the sight of you. The sight of his beautiful, sweet, young neighbor who is standing two steps from bare in front of him—in front of the bed the two of you are about to share.
With your hair tied up at the nape of your neck, your lacquered lips, the white lingerie hugging your body…you look almost bridal and the thought of you as his wife steals the breath from his lungs.
“Please take them off,” you say in a low, hushed voice, taking a step back until the backs of your knees meet the edge of the mattress. “I wore them for you, but I want them off now.”
“You wore these for me?” His eyes are sharp with incredulity. He can’t believe that you wore these for him, that you thought ahead. That you thought about doing this with him and you dressed up for it. That you want him as badly as he wants you.
“Yes,” you say with a shy nod, taking your lower lip between your teeth. “I changed into them before I came over. I thought you might like them.”
“Fuck,” he hisses, sinking down to his knees right before you without a second thought. For a moment, you worry about his poor joints on the wood planks, but from the very few details he has told you about his job, you’re sure it requires him to go up against bigger enemies than a hard floor. “I do. I really do.”
“Good.”
“Can I taste you?” He looks up into your eyes with such yearning, you could never refuse him. He could ask you to bite your own hand off and you sink your teeth in, eagerly.
“You don’t have to ask, Leon. Take whatever you want from me. It’s yours to have.”
He mewls deep in his throat, eyes flickering back down to your panties. His fingers stay drilled into your thighs. Thick, calloused pads dig into your flesh, holding you still as he presses his nose into the drenched crotch of the garment, inhaling the scent of your arousal. A groan reverberates against your clit, sending shock waves through your veins. His lips begin kissing you through the lace. Your name is repeated on his tongue like a holy prayer.
“Will you lie back for me, baby?” He pats your thighs like a jockey giving a horse a command. You shouldn’t find that as hot as you do, but you’ll have to reschedule that psychoanalysis for another time. “And lift your hips.”
You happily oblige under his command, scooting your seat onto the mattress until you’re in the perfect position for him to guide the scratchy lace underwear down your thighs. The sudden chill of the air conditioned room slaps your wet, bare clit and it makes you shiver.
“Can I have these?” He asks, holding up the crumpled lump of lace in his fist, sincerity glassy in his eyes. No man has ever asked to keep your panties before. Then again, no other man has been like Leon. “I’ll buy you more.”
“Um, sure,” you reply with a stifled giggle and he just nods, once, with all the seriousness in the world, and stuffs the underwear into the pocket of his sweatpants before flickering his eyes back up at you.
“Thank you.” He has a ravenous look in his eyes as he stares at the flesh between your legs. “Beautiful,” he murmurs to himself before gazing back up at you. “You’re perfect, you know that? Absolutely perfect.”
He begins by kissing your clit sweetly, gradually building the tempo, licking and lapping up your wetness like he’s been wandering in the desert for days, starved and thirsty, and you’re a well of water with his name carved into it. The tip of his tongue enters you and it sends your back off the mattress as if you’ve been possessed. You instinctively try to close your legs, but the heels of his palms keep them open.
“Leon,” you whine, digging your fingers in his hair, then working your way down to his clothed shoulders.
He grins smugly against your pussy, continuing his movements in the same combination and rhythm that elicited that sound from you. If he ever fell deaf, that is the only sound he would miss, that moan and the way you say his name, so sweet and sincere. Like the song of a heavenly being.
“Don’t stop,” you beg with the most strength you can muster. It still comes out weakly, carried by a hitched breath.
He wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, he is so caught up in the way you feel on his face, your pussy wet and warm on his chin, that he doesn’t think he could stop if the house was burning around him.
“Leon, I’m so close. Please.”
You peel yourself off the mattress, pushing up onto your elbows to get a better view at the man between your thighs. His dark blonde hair, streaked with a few strands of sand and salt, flops down his temples as he worships your clit with his tongue, licking and sucking. The sounds coming from below are disgustingly explicit. Your fingers find his hair, pressing his head further into your pussy. He groans beneath the commanding touch, the vibration pushing you closer toward the edge.
A coil tightens in your belly. The muscles of your abdomen begin to tense and release. The walls of your cunt pulsate, contracting around nothing.
“I–I’m–fuck.”
The sound of his muffled groans harmonizes with your obscene cries as you huff and puff and yelp through your orgasm.
He leans back from between your legs, wiping your glistening arousal off his mouth and chin before he jumps up onto the bed, pulling you further onto the mattress on his way to you.
The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, the taste of you still pungent on his tongue, sweet and wet. His hand dances down between your bodies to cup your sullied cunt, to grab what he has now branded as his.
“You want me here?” His eyes flicker down to where his hand has latched onto his cock as he strokes himself to fill stiffness, then glances back up at you. “Tell me if you don’t, and I’ll stop.”
You want him everywhere, but you don’t say that aloud. You don’t say anything, too dumb to speak.
“Tell me if this is okay.”
Finding the strength to speak, you finally mumble a confirmation. “Yes, yes, it’s okay, Leon. Please. I want to feel you inside.” You sound so desperate. It’s jarring hearing your own voice bending into such an indecent prayer.
He lines himself up with your entrance, which is now throbbing in anticipation of the impending stretch, and with your additional permission, this time in the form of a gasping plea, he trusts inside, not wasting another moment of not feeling you around him. Cursing under his breath, he pulls out just an inch before pumping back into you, the sound of your sappy arousal sloshing against him with every slap of his pelvis against yours, is lewd and borderline pornographic against the walls of his bedroom.
“I’ve wanted this—fuck—for so long, you have no idea,” he growls into the crook of your neck, labored breath hot on your skin. “Ever since you came over to my house that night you got locked—mhm—you got locked out—” Another bellow. “When you kissed me on the cheek.”
He continues. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that. Honestly–mhm–I was thinking about you before that. Fuck.”
“I know, Leon,” you gasp as he bottoms out, filling you with the complete length of his cock. You didn’t even know he wasn’t fully inside you yet. The stretch is earth-shattering. You fist the sheets beneath you, and when that isn’t enough release, you grab onto Leon’s lats, burying your fingers into the thick planks of muscle there, digging your nails into his skin until they leave half-moon indentations. “I’ve–I’ve been wanting this too. For so, so long.” You’re stuttering, voice cracking each time he thrusts himself inside.
“Use me, Leon. Use me to feel good. I want you to feel good.”
He mewls at the sound of every single honeyed word dripping from your tongue, and you mean each one with your whole heart. You want to lighten the burden that weighs down on him in any way you can, whether it’s cookies or company, or your wet pussy squeezing his cock. Anything. You would do anything to make him feel better.
“So good, baby,” he mumbles in your ear, breath foggy on the skin of your neck. “You’re so good to me, always so good. You take care of me. I don’t deserve you.”
Tears stream down your cheeks and into your hairline. You almost didn’t realize you were crying at first. You have wanted him since the day you met him, since he lifted that box off your arms and helped you move into your home. You want to do the same for him. You want to take away all the heavy things in his life, or at least help carry them.
As you wrap your legs tighter around his hips to pull him further into you, he bellows out your name. “I’m not gonna last long at this rate, sweetheart.” His breath is labored.
“That’s okay, go ahead,” you whisper. Then, “I’m safe. I want you to cum inside me.”
He retreats just an inch to look into your eyes, and you give him an assuring nod in return. Leon picks up the pace. With a final few thrusts, he reaches his climax, filling you to the brim with the gush of his orgasm, before collapsing on top of you, your name cascading from his lips on the way down.
A sliver of pale moonlight seeps through the windows, reflecting off the sheen of slick sweat coating Leon’s chest as he rolls over. He pants, his chest rising and falling. As he regains his strength, his palm comes up to your thigh, and he looks over at you. The tears you shed earlier have since dried down into sticky patches of salt beneath your eyes and at your temples. Your hair is messy, strands falling into your face. Lips, blushed and plump.
You roll over at the touch, lying on your side to get a better look at him, locking his palm between your legs. His hair is also messy. Dark blonde strands stick up at the crown of his head, at his temples, anywhere your fingers had mussed it during the act. Funny enough, he almost looks younger. The wrinkles at his forehead, between his brows, the fine lines beneath his eyes. They’re smoother. The whites of his eyes have won the battle against the purple circles beneath them–the bitter crescents born from stress and poor sleep hygiene.
He looks over at you and grins a big, toothless grin that climbs all the way up to his eyes–eyes that, for the first time since you’ve known him, look completely full of light.
Summary: Leon wants to have a daughter more than anything, but it seems that the cards aren't in his favor.
Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Nipple Play, Lactation Kink, Breeding Kink, Creampie
He knows it’s wrong to have a preference, but Leon wants a daughter more than anything. Since the moment he found out you were expecting, he’s been praying to some divine power for a daughter. For what feels like his whole life, he’s been preparing to be the best girl dad to his little girl.
But the universe has a funny way of doing things. The one thing Leon desires more than anything is the one thing he can’t obtain. It feels nearly impossible as he tries to get his third son to fall asleep.
“Boys! The baby needs to sleep, be quiet!” Leon yells, though his voice is not loud enough to overshadow the screaming boys. They’re probably beating each other up but Leon doesn’t even have the energy to stop that anymore. If anything the little shits might drag the baby into the fight as well.
Leon’s tired eyes look down at the teething baby who finds comfort in chewing on his tiny hand. The man bought an absurd amount of toy to help the baby’s sore gums, yet one of the little gremlins found them and is holding it for ramson. Oh, Leon wants a girl so bad but he’s completely finished. Leon’s bouncing him, trying to get the baby to go down for his nap, but it’s to no avail.
“For how long are you going to stay this adorable, James?” Leon asks as if the baby could answer. Leon knows it’s only a matter of time before James joins them. He’ll be completely overpowered by his three boys in no time. Oh Leon already feels that headache incoming– Worst part is that he still loves the little shits, even with all the chaos they cause.
“Hey! Stop that you two!” Leon hears the yelling, a subtle smile coming to Leon’s lips when he hears the noise from the boys stop. At least they fear you, that’s better than nothing. He can only picture you dragging them by their ears and scolding them. It’s the only way the boys listen nowadays.
“You better behave, James, or else your mommy will drag you by your ear too.” Leon hopes that instilling some fear in the baby will make sure that he’s a little less rowdy than his brothers, but he doubts it’ll work in his favor. The baby barely sleeps, Leon knows he’s in for a wild ride with this one too.
“He’s still not asleep?” You startle the man when you enter the living room. The baby’s eyes are wide open, and you’d laugh. If this wasn’t your third baby, you’d laugh. You sigh. “Make him a bottle.”
“Why don’t you just pull out a tit?” he asks as he hands you the baby. You glare at him, and he chuckles as he raises his hands defensively. He stands up to do what you’ve asked of him.
“I’ve pumped enough, he can take a bottle,” you answer before cooing at your baby. He’s drooling, making a mess all over his clothes. Poor little thing is probably so uncomfortable, lately he’s been so fussy.
“How do you get those two under control so fast?” your husband asks as he begins preparing his son’s bottle.
“A magician never reveals their secret,” you say with a half-smile. Before Leon can jokingly protest, your baby lets out a shrill cry. You pout, bouncing him before asking, “Are you hungry, my love? Daddy is making your bottle.”
“Mom, Matt took my game!” your eldest, Leo, yells from his room. You roll your eyes, knowing that you’ll have to mediate the situation between them yet again. As if a crying baby wasn’t enough.
“Matt, give Leo his game back! Don’t make me go up there!” you shout back as you rock James back and forth, hoping to soothe the cries even though there’s only one way to calm him down. “Leon, hurry up!”
“Doing the best I can, sweetheart,” he answers, rushing to prepare the perfect bottle. The thing with James is that if the bottle isn’t damn near perfect, he won’t even attempt to drink it. Either he drinks straight from the source or the bottle is just right. “Scratch him, maybe he’s itchy.”
“That’s not and I’m itchy cry, but I’ll try,” you say, trying to scratch the wailing baby. “Didn’t work! Hurry!”
“Mommmmm! Leo is trying to steal my games!”
“Wait a minute your brother is crying!” you yell back before shushing the baby. “I know love, daddy is almost done.”
“Here.” Leon hands you the bottle, and you immediately put it in the baby’s mouth. The crying subsides, replaced by yelling from the boys.
“Leon, go.” You motion with your head, and he sighs.
“Do I have to?” he asks, and when you glare at him, he turns around to do just what you expect him to do. “Boys! Stop it before mommy gets mad!”
“If I walk by and you two are awake, you’ll be in so much trouble,” Leon threatens as he tucks in his boys. Back in their toddlerhood days, they’d at least be tired at this hour– That doesn’t happen anymore. The boys’ eyes are wide open as they stare at their father. They share a mischievous look, and Leon catches it before they can even begin to plot. “Don’t even think about it.”
“We weren’t going to do anything,” Leo claims, and Leon pinches the bridge of his nose. They couldn’t make it any more obvious either.
“Keep it that way, or else mom is going to get really mad.” The threat always works, and Leon is not going to change that system. Leon kisses the top of their heads before walking out of the room.
Leon walks back to the bedroom, eyes landing on you as you put the baby in his bassinet. He smirks as he watches you. He sneakily walks up to you before hugging you from behind, and placing a kiss on your temple.
“Leon.” You put your hand over your heart as your husband surprises you. He lets out a low laugh at your reaction. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“How about we send James back to his nursery?” he suggests, whispering to not poke the sleeping bear that’s in the room.
“I don’t know how you still have the energy for sex,” you chuckle before carefully scooping up the baby and handing him to your husband. He walks as carefully as possible to not ruin his chances tonight. The man nearly tiptoes out of the room and to the nursery, watching his every step to not upset the ticking time bomb.
“We’ll come get you later,” Leon whispers when he finally puts the baby down in his crib. He exits the room as carefully as he entered.
Leon enters the room, immediately taking off his shirt as you sit on your side of the bed. He makes sure to lock the door, ensuring there are no interruptions tonight. You chuckle watching your husband rush to your side, making sure to seize the moment before someone gets the idea to ruin it.
Leon gets on top of you, lips engulfing yours in a hungry kiss. Your hands waste no time in roaming his body, feeling every inch of him as if you haven’t gotten that opportunity before. His tongue enters your mouth, pressing against your own while your hands get riskier.
His hands go under your shirt, burning up your body with every touch. Leon pulls away, lips kissing your neck while his hands go to your breasts. He squeezes your tits, and you let out a subtle moan before telling him, “Fuck, be careful. I might leak.”
He doesn’t stop playing with your tits, instead his head goes under your shirt, mouth wrapping around your nipple and sucking. You’re caught off-guard by his actions but you let him be as he sucks on your tits.
“Are you actually drinking–” you ask before a whimper leaves your lips. He hums against your nipple before he unlatches. You lift up the oversized shirt to watch as your husband kisses your tits.
This isn’t your typical foreplay, but for some reason you’re extremely turned on. Leon's lips wrap around your puffy nipple again. You softly moan his name, shutting your eyes as he greedily sucks on your tits.
“You’re so sweet,” he mutters when he unlatches. His hand goes between your legs, rubbing on your clothed cunt to incite some sort of reaction in you which he quickly gets. He begins to take off your pants, a task that he seems to struggle with as he grows desperate. “Fuck, help me, baby.”
You finally take off your pants, and he wastes no time in pushing your panties to the side. Two fingers run through your folded, gathering your slick before they focus on playing with your clit. Leon wastes no time in occupying his mouth, latching around the nipple that he hasn’t paid much attention to.
“Fuck, do you like it or what?” you ask as he drinks your milk. He hums against your nipple again while he slips one finger into your pussy.
He fills you with pleasure, building up your climax. He slips another finger in, curving them so they brush against your sweet spot. His mouth detaches for a second, kissing your breasts before indulging again. He won’t stop until he’s satiated.
You hold your breath as the feeling becomes too much. Your hands hold onto his shoulders, nails digging into the flesh for support. Your back arches, pleasure becoming overpowering and completely washing over you as you reach your climax.
He continues pumping his fingers in and out of you, finally taking them out when he finally unlatches. He looks up at you with dark eyes, completely filled with lust. He brings up the fingers that were just inside of you and puts them in his mouth, licking them clean.
“God, you taste so perfect,” he says as he pulls down his pants, revealing his hard cock. He spits on his hand, quickly stroking his cock before running the tip through your folds. He makes eye contact with you, teasing your entrance but not slipping it in.
“Put it in, Leon, I need you,” you tell him when he takes his sweet time to give you what you need.
“I need to knock you up, baby.” Leon slips inside of you, not giving you a second to protest before a moan escapes your lips. He gives you a second to adjust before giving slow gentle thrusts. “Fuck, I need to knock up your tight little pussy again.”
“Leon,” you moan, back arching as he hits the right spot. You shut your eyes, nearly seeing white at just how good he makes you feel. His words go ignored by your ears even though you can very clearly comprehend what he asks of you. Right now you’re too lost in the moment to care.
“Will you give me my baby girl, my love? Please,” he whispers into your ears, nibbling on your earlobe as his thrusts become harder. Your hand goes down to play with your oversensitive clit, heightening your pleasure.
You’re making a mess all over him, one that he’s more than happy to clean up. You’re chanting his name, trying to be as quiet as you can to not wake anyone up– The task feels nearly impossible but you persevere.
“Shit, I’m gonna come–” you moan. You’re squeezing around his cock, ready to milk him for all he’s got. “Fuck, Leon.”
“God, you’re so perfect for me, baby. I need to knock you up again.” His words go unheard by your fucked out brain, reaching your climax for the second time. “Please let me knock you up, baby, I need my baby girl.”
“Fuck a baby into me, Leon.” You give in just for the moment as his thrusts slowly get sloppy. He’s slowly losing control of himself as he approaches his release.
“That’s it, baby. This is it. This is our girl.” Leon bites down on your shoulder, suppressing any sound he makes as his cock twitches inside of you and fills you up with his seed. He gives a couple more gentle thrusts before leaving his softening cock buried inside of you. He’ll make sure not a single drop of his precious seed goes to waste– Not this time. This time he’s getting his girl.
He engulfs you in another kiss, this time more loving and soft compared to earlier. He pulls away, kissing the tip of your nose and telling you, “I love you.”
“I love you too.” You peck his lips. He finally pulls out, laying down on his side of the bed as you get up to clean up.
“What are you going to do? Get into that weird position you get–”
“Leon, if I end up with another boy I will literally cut your balls off,” you cut him off and he chuckles. He can’t argue with it. You both love your sons more than anything, but you’ll lose your mind if you add another one into the mix.
He can’t say he isn’t a bit disappointed but he nods in response. “You’re right. You win.”
Thinking about spnAU!Dean Winchester being reader's bf who wants her literally all the time, no matter where!
Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it up), car sex, quickie, semi-public, penetrative sex, creampies<3 BOTTOM DEAN!
(wc: ≈ 1.4k) (genre: smut)
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
| It could be everywhere; after a long day in a motel room, during a hunt in an abandoned house, or at a gas station in some disgusting bathroom.
Today was one of those days again. Dean found himself worked up after a—way too long—drive across the country. Not only haven’t they reached the motel where they were supposed to stay at, but the weather was absolutely unbearable too. Mid July, the hottest of all the months.
Sam was complaining. You were complaining. Dean was already in a grumpy mood to begin with! He refused wearing shorts since he insisted they weren’t manly enough and the Impala he loved so much didn’t really have any sort of AC.
With the windows down and his dad-rock playing from the cassettes he kept in the glovebox, you three eventually did reach some lonely-looking diner. It wasn’t exactly luxury, but hunting didn’t come with a paycheck. In other words; you were too broke for any fancy restaurants.
————————————————————
"Sam, you go and check what’s on the menu— Get me extra fries while you’re at it." Dean called over his shoulder to his brother.
Sam glanced between the two of you from the front seat, catching the shift in Dean's mood.
"I’m just gonna… go order food before I see something I don't wanna see.." He mumbled, as he slammed the car door shut.
"Take your time, Sammy! No need to hurry—" Dean shouted after him, looking way too smug.
As soon as Sam was gone, Dean turned to his girlfriend; you.
Currently, you were sitting in the backseat, trying to get your shoes back on, in order to get out of the car and stretch your limbs. Maybe get some ice cream yourself.
"What're you doin', babe?" Dean's voice was raspy, a twinge of that boyish tone still shining through, despite his best efforts to sound composed.
"What does it look like, De? I'm starving—" You'd complain. He expected nothing less.
"You really wanna go in there with Sammy? C'mon, can’t the food wait? For a moment? Don’t you wanna spend time with your boyfriend?"
"Dean, what—" You'd look up from your shoe laces, only to meet his green eyes, his sickly long lashes, looking at you like he’s starving too. Just.. not for food.
"Baby, please— Sammy’s gone. He’ll be gone for at least twenty minutes. I've been.. I couldn’t stop thinking about you today. Don’t be cruel.." He pleaded. Actually. His voice turned much whinier than before, still slightly cocky nonetheless.
"Seriously?! We fucked last night—" You were cut off by his frame already climbing into the backseat, already pressed against you.
"C'mon, please.. Whatever you want. Let me taste you— Or.. use your mouth on me. Your hands. Ride me, I don’t care—" The way he said it made you feel pretty sure he was about to cry if you didn’t give in.
"You’re such a loser, Dean, like.. you’re worse than a teenager!" You’d laugh, while simultaneously climbing on top of his lap, your arms lazily wrapped around his neck, before you press your lips against his plush ones.
The kiss quickly turned into a makeout session, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip, claiming it’s way into your month, just to intertwine with yours. It was a moment full of tongue and teeth, his hands roaming all over your body, already pulling your tank top over your head, leaving your in your bra.
When he unclasped it single-handedly, his lips were still glued to yours. You could feel the sliver ring he wore, cold metal against your searing skin, leaving goosebumps in it's wake.
You were forced to be the one breaking away from the kiss, since Dean was ready to asphyxiate on your lips and die a happy man. You could tell by his panting, his parted, wet lips, as you looked over his flushed, freckled face.
At this point, neither of you really cared about the people that may walk by and catch a glimpse of the heated moment anymore. The diner's parking lot was pretty much empty anyway.
"Please, baby.. don’t make me wait. I can’t—" He begged. His eyes looking up at you, as you smile to yourself and trail your hands down his chest.
"Patience, De.." You'd scold, although his hands were already palming at your tits, squishing the soft flesh, and trying to drink in the sight. His cock was already hard and leaking in his pants, pleading to be noticed.
His shirt was lost soon enough too. Leaving his amulet to dangle across his freckled muscles. It was a delicious sight, made you almost forget that Sam would be back in ten minutes. That said, you quickly lost your shorts as well.
With this new determination to finish before you got caught, you undid his belt, unzipped his jeans, pulling the fabric down to his meaty thighs, revealing his ratty, grey boxers.
"Can’t wait— wanna taste.. wanna look at you all day.. every day—" Dean had to stop himself from drooling over you, when you finally pulled his precum-stained boxers down and freed his aching cock.
The tip was already flushed in a deep shade of pink, clear pre running down the veins along his shaft, soaking his dark blonde pubes.
Usually, you’d give him a blowjob first, but honestly? You weren’t sure if he could handle that right now, given that he almost came untouched.
You moved your lace panties aside, revealing your already glistening cunt, as your grabbed a hold of his cock, sliding him along your slit to gather the mixed lube of both of your arousal.
Once you finally slid down his length, his eyes fluttered shut and his head tipped back, sweat already beading at his short dirty blonde spikes of hair. His mouth fell slightly open, breathy moans leaving his throat immediately.
"Oh— fuck, Dean.. It’s big—" You should be used to it by now.. but every now and then, you still need a moment to get used to his size.
"You got it, baby— It’s okay. It’s fine— Just move. C'mon.." He urged you on, his hands squeezing and pulling at the flesh of your hips.
Dean was entirely blinded by the pleasure of your warm walls around him, dismissing the fact that you might have needed some time to adjust, because he was just that desperate.
When you did begin riding his cock with a steady rhythm, his face buried against your shoulder, his forehead tipping onto your collarbones, as his arms hugged tightly around your body.
The lewd sounds of skin on skin and the slick between your bodies now started to combine with Dean's whines. He was no longer moaning, no, his sounds bordered on whimpers.
"Baby— I'm not gonna last— I can’t.. feels too good—" He forced those words out, while his body was unconsciously trying to merge with you, his face now smooshed against your chest. His mouth was left slightly agape, his eyes squeezed shut, and his eyebrows furrowed.
He clumsily tried to slide one of his hands down towards your clit, giving it uncoordinated circles. Though, he missed the spot with his thumb about five times, before he gave up and just wrapped both his arms around you.
"Come, De— Fuck, just— come inside." You'd moan, as your hands were clawing at his chiseled shoulders and the back of his head. Fingers tugging at hair that was too short to really pull at.
The scratching of your fingertips against his scalp and the warm, wet pleasure of your walls tightening and pulsing around his swollen cock eventually overwhelmed him, pushing him to a mind-blowing orgasm, that had him moaning and whining high pitched gasps against your damp skin.
His cock pulsed thick hot ropes of cum inside you, leaving your cunt so full, it caused the sticky mess to drip down against his own lap, soaking his thighs.
"Oh— shit, that was—" He breathed out, trying to regain his consciousness, even though he was still seeing stars from the orgasm.
Then it washed over him like cold sweat; Sammy was about to come back! His eyes shot wide, as he looked at you.
"Fuck, baby. You gotta clean up. You’re dripping—"
"Yeah, and whose fault is that, smartass?" You laughed, before quickly pulling both your panties and your shorts back up, not minding the literal cum that was leaking out of you.
"Can’t blame a man for wanting his girl, baby.." There was that cocky attitude seeping back into his tone, as if he hadn’t just whimpered and pleaded for you.
With surprising efficiency, he was dressed again, climbing back behind the wheel, as he made sure to open the doors to his beloved car, wanting to get rid of the smell of sex before his brother suspected anything.
As for the dubious stains on the leather seats; he just threw his jacket over them, hoping he wouldn’t forget to clean the car tomorrow.
You were in the bathroom of the diner, trying to freshen up, as Sammy finally came back with the food. Greasy fries and burgers.
Weirdly enough, Dean was flushed, trying to look unbothered, as his brother got back into the car.
"Dean, you okay? Where’s reader?" Sam asked innocently, frowning in confusion.
"Yeah— sure. Just fine. She’s— she said she had to freshen up. Heat must be getting to her."
Dean was such a liar. His dick was still twitching in his boxers from his earlier high.
ᥫ᭡ writers note: I'm literally so sorry for disappearing for like a month omg ! There was so much shit going on in my life. But anyway, here’s this! If you guys have any other requests or ideas, lmk! xoxo —ℳ ᥫ᭡
The thing is!!!! It's like. Destiel has the most fuckass romcom plotline even is the thing. That's the most infuriating part. You're making me defend this fuckass romance with a fuckass Chetan bhagat two states ass arc I'm going to KILL myself. It's literally basic bitch #1 in love with Love Interest™ who is super interesting but also will always be Love Interest™ (fight over who's who!! Do it!! Don't ask me!!!). I will actually kill myself. Oooh Destiel love story is soooooo unbelievable ooooh like it's literally Romeo & Juliet are you fucking STUPID
⤷ 𝓷𝓼𝓯𝔀. 𝟏𝟖+. age gap. reader is of age. p in v. 𝟸.𝟽𝓀
large hands grab at your body and yank you into the bathroom, greedy and groping, as a gasp hitches in your throat. you knew that it was going to happen, that it was coming, and yet, you still gasp. thankfully though, the noise that escapes past your lips isn’t loud enough to get you caught
“fuck sweetheart—been killin’ me up here,” leon grumbles while he locks the door but before you have a proper chance to defend yourself, he’s pressing into you. his hand slides loosely around your neck and your fingers twist into his shirt as he crushes his lips onto yours
he tastes like beer and the fresh lemonade that you made for your dad’s barbeque. it’s sweet, which is a stark contrast to the filthiness of the kiss. it’s messy and sloppy and his teeth knock against your own before he nips gently over your bottom lip, eliciting soft moans that get muffled between your mouths
leon walks you backwards towards the counter until the edge of it is digging into your hips, “c’mon, we haven’t got long,” he huffs after he kisses you one last time and then, he spins you around and leaves you staring at him in the mirror with your face flushed pink and your chest heaving in short pants
“long for what?” you ask in a whisper and your answer comes in the form of leon bending you over with a hand planted on your spine while the other rucks the skirt of your dress up and over your ass, “leon, my dads outside—everyone’s outside,” you hiss and flail your arm in an attempt to swat his hand away from your body
your eyes flicker towards the frosted glass window that’s cracked open and overlooks the backyard where your dad is hosting his annual barbecue. there’s several people outside, friends and coworkers plus all of their families. it’s beyond risky but you don’t really seem to care when leon is grinding up against you
he’s hard and straining along the zipper on his jeans, bulging and squishing into the swell of your ass with every shift of his hips that knocks you off balance. you accidentally stand on leon's boots as your thighs clench but you manage to steady yourself by gripping onto the edge of the counter for leverage
“that’s why we haven’t got long,” leon mumbles eventually and then smooths his hand over your ass cheek until his fingers are teasing underneath the hem of your panties. you whine as he pulls them away from your body and the thin fabric separates from your wet pussy, “fuck—you’re already soaked,”
“have been all day—since you got here,” you sigh whilst his knuckle drags along the length of your cunt, from your hole down to your clit where his touch ghosts. it makes you whimper and try to push back against him but as you do, he pulls his hand away and slides your panties to the side in a rush
cool air fans over your warm skin and raises tiny pinprick bumps that tickle down your arms and over your thighs, causing you to shiver, regardless of the fact that it’s a warm, sunny, day—the perfect kind of day for your dad to host a party while his best friend fucks you senseless in the bathroom
“shit, me too—been hard this whole time ‘cos of your fuckin’ dress,” leon drawls while he undoes his belt with his free hand and then works the zipper on his jeans down without looking because he’s too busy ogling you and your—very short— ditsy dress in the mirror
truthfully, your dress isn’t anything special. it’s flowy and airy, perfect for the nice weather but it has thin little straps and contours around your tits nicely and you know for a fact that it always drives leon crazy. which, might have been the reason you reached for it when you were getting ready
“it’s my favo—oh,” you trail off into a quiet moan when the blunt head of leon’s cock nudges against your clit. he slips down the center of your pussy slowly, collecting and smearing slick over himself until there’s an easy glide between your skin and his before he presses against your dripping hole
“yeah, mine too,” leon breathes before he pushes into you. the sudden stretch is intense but it's everything that you’ve been needing all day and it causes your pussy to clamp down around him instantly, feeling every part of him and preventing him from going any further like he so desperately wants to
his hand slides over your hip, squeezing softly and bunching up fabric from your dress as he goes while you whimper and clench around him. eventually though, you reach back to loop your fingers around his wrist, scratching your nails over tanned skin, and that’s enough for him
leon sinks into you slowly, pushing in and then pulling out a little bit before he does it all over again. he’s thick and it forces your legs to part further than they already are to take him but, leon does you one better than that and grabs at the back of your thigh to manhandle your leg up until your knee is resting on the counter
“oh fuck,” you groan into your palm in an attempt to stay quiet as the new angle quickly drops him deeper into you, forcing him to bottom out and bump his heavy balls against your clit. you can feel him everywhere, deep inside of you, in your stomach and knocking the air out of your lungs, all at once
you watch in the mirror as leon traps his bottom lip between his teeth and stares down at where your bodies join, eyeing the fluttering of your cunt around the base of his cock and the thin sheen of slick that you’re coating his skin with and then, just as slowly as he sunk into you, he pulls back out
it’s a dizzying feeling, the drag of his length against the walls of your pussy, that are crushing him in a desperate bid to keep him trapped inside of you forever. if you had it your way, he’d be there all day, every day, but that—unfortunately—can’t happen since your dad has no idea that you and leon have been fucking for months
that’s what makes it more special though, you suppose. the fact that moments are stolen and kept secret, they’re rushed and not often planned and sometimes, it can be a long while before they happen again. so, you’ve started to make a conscious effort to savour whatever you can, when you can
“ready angel? m’not gonna be able to be nice about this,” leon asks, sounding genuinely apologetic. he likes to take his time with you normally, pulling you apart and putting you back together with his tongue or his fingers, always with his cock, but right now, time isn’t on your side
“yeah—yeah, it’s okay,” you whisper before you get caught in a silent moan as leon fucks into you in a single but harsh roll of his hips. you go from devastatingly empty to completely full to the brim in the blink of an eye and as much as you want to, you can’t make a sound
leon does though. he grunts against his will and hangs his head while he picks up his pace. his cock plunges into your cunt on every thrust, from the tip to the base in long strokes that makes your clit throb and cause a burn to spread throughout your stomach like a wildfire
outside, in the yard, people laugh loudly and it makes you tense up inadvertently while your eyes flicker back and forth between the window and leon’s reflection but, his eyes are lustful and there isn’t even a hint of care or worry in them as his pace doesn’t break for even a second
“focus here, not there,” he mumbles and gives both of your hips a reassuring squeeze before he leans over you. his chest rumbles against your back with every silenced groan and his lips ghost over your shoulder, prompting you to relax underneath him almost immediately, “yeah, just like that,”
his low mumbles pair with one of his hands sliding up and over your ribs to your tits. he yanks your dress down and your tit practically falls out and into his awaiting palm where his fingers dimple into your soft skin as he gropes and swipes his calloused fingertips over your perky little nipple
“god—leon,” you gasp and jerk with pleasure that’s being shared equally between his cock splitting you open, his wandering hands and the brush of his lips. it’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before, dancing along a thin line that’s somewhere around too much and simultaneously not enough
but, before leon can do anything more or answer you with something deep and—not doubt—wildly attractive, his phone starts to buzz on the edge of the counter. you didn’t even notice it earlier but you do now because the contact information that brightens his screen is for your dad
once again, you tense and if you weren’t sandwiched between leon and the counter, you would dart out of the bathroom in a hurry, “what the fuck do we do—what does he want?” you hiss in a panic even though your cunt is still fluttering and clenching around leon’s length
“i don’t know, let’s find out,” leon says in a deadpan tone as he reaches for his phone and doesn’t give you a chance to protest before he’s swiping his thumb across the screen to answer the call and putting his phone up to his ear, “yeah? what’s up?” he asks plainly
thankfully, you can’t hear what your father wants and whatever it is has the snap of leon’s hips slowing right down until he’s fully seated inside of you and starting to grind, which you wouldn’t mind if the tip of his cock wasn’t rubbing right over your cervix with the shift of his hips
“nah, i’m upstairs,” leon mumbles, his voice sounding oddly normal considering that you can feel him twitching inside of you. he must be asked another question because his eyebrows raise and then, “your kid? haven’t seen her, man” he lies through his teeth easily and smirks something filthy at you in the mirror
you should be terrified—disgusted even—but instead, your stomach flips and the dirty kiss of his cock against your cervix starts to do more for you than when he was properly fucking into you. leon watches you as your eyes roll back and your reddening cheeks puff outwards and...
the realisation hits you and him at the same time. you’re going to come whilst he’s talking to your dad—who’s literally just downstairs—and there’s nothing that can be done to stop it now
one of your hands slaps over your mouth as noises start to escape while the other shoves its way between your body and the counter to swirl your fingertips in furious circles over your throbbing clit. you’re too far gone and chasing a high that you shouldn’t be and all leon can do is witness it
if he’s still talking, you don’t hear it over the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears but you just simply don’t care as leon’s eyes sharpen in his reflection. his brows furrow and his jaw tightens and his hips start to buck quicker, making the grind of your bodies speed up too
tears prick along your waterlines and spill down your cheeks in fat drips, your ass bounces back against leon to meet his half assed thrusts and the coil in your stomach twists until it hurts. you’re right there and blinking at leon with wet lashes and a silent plead for him to push you over the edge—and he does
he slides in deep, slamming the head of his cock against your cervix while he tilts his phone away from his ear and then tips his head to one side and simply mouths, “come,” and your body is more than happy to oblige
searing heat courses through your veins and makes you sweat in an instant as your body shakes. your knee drops off of the edge of the counter and you trample over leon’s boots again while your knees buckle, prompting him to wrap an arm around your waist to keep you mostly upright and on his cock
you’re not sure if you make a sound, the whooshing in your ears is far too loud but your thighs tremble and your teeth grate together—that much you do know. you’re clamping around leon like a vice and his cock is jerking in time with your uneven clenches which means that he has to be close too
the coolness of the countertop soothes your damp forehead as you rest against it and ride out your orgasm with the help of leon’s hips rocking gently. except, your bliss gets interrupted when leon discards his phone onto the counter with a thud
“good girl,” he growls and clutches at your hips one last time. you're pliant from your orgasm and easy for him to control while he pounds into you like an animal, “so fucking good—god, wonder what your daddy would say if he knew you were up here—shit—coming around my cock,” he rambles
a sob rips out of your chest as leon spears his full length into your sensitive cunt. it aches in a dull way that makes your thighs snap shut and your fingers flex and bend until your knuckles are white, “he’d kill you,” you sniffle amidst the sound of leon’s skin colliding with yours
“yeah well, it’d be worth it,” leon grumbles deeply as his thrusts start to become uneven and sloppy, a telltale sign, “fuck—m’gonna come—c’mere, can’t make a mess of you yet,” he slurs his words and pulls out of you too quickly, eliciting your gasped yelp while he turns you around and shoves you down onto your knees
your tongue lolls out of your mouth when leon reaches down to hold your jaw. his other hand is sliding over his cock frantically, leaving his palm covered in a sheen of your slick. he jerks, once, twice, three times and then feeds the head of his cock past your lips, just in time for his length to kick
leon grunts above you, not nearly as loud as he usually does but still loud enough for it to be suspicious if anyone overheard it. neither of you appear to mind though as thick ropes of his come splash across your tongue and drip down your throat, coating it with the taste of him
his fingers stroke softly over your jaw while you hum and swallow around him lazily until he’s got nothing left to give you and his cock starts to soften. you pull off of him with a little pop, lick over your lips and then stand up while wincing over the pain darting though your kneecaps as you straighten your legs
there’s a moment of silence where leon traps you between him and the counter again but this time his arms wrap tightly around your body and his lips press softly against your hairline. it won’t last for long—it can’t—but you enjoy it for the few seconds that it does last
“m’sorry but one of us has to go out there, now,” he murmurs when he steps back and tucks himself back into his pants. he looks far more put together than you are, you’re sweaty and your dress needs rearranging and truthfully you just need a minute to breathe and hopefully stop your legs from shaking
“go, i’ll come out afterwards,” you whisper and slide the strap to your dress up your arm and back over your shoulder. leon just nods, kisses you properly, only a peck but it’ll do, and shoves his phone into his back pocket while he reaches for the door handle, “wait—what did you mean you can’t make a mess of me yet?”
leon just winks and then he’s gone
thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!
a/n once again edited terribly but i wanted to get it out tonight x
