re9 Leon Kennedy x female reader | MDNI!! 18+ | dead dove do not eat, fauxcest, smut, female reader, age gap(reader is in 20s, Leon is 48), failed sugar daddy-sugar baby relationship, car sex, cowgirl, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, implied alcoholism, nipple play, teasing, petnames, dirty talk
summary: Finding a sugar baby felt natural for Leon, less responsibility, less stress about future of relationship. It is as much natural as to be confused as your dad, and as much natural as to get boner because of that for him.
notes: this was supposed to be a short one tbh, but I’m incapable of shutting up so #yea I hope it is still enjoyable lol!! Also while writing this I had two ideas that I cut out, but let me know if i should write drabbles these ideas <3 it feels like a mess to me tbh, so sorry for this, i was writing this while a lot of stuff was happening and i was really confused how to…. write this lol!!! not really proofread too, sorry. reblogs, asks or comments and any kind of interactions are really appreciated.
tags: @melanchol1cs @nekkiotine
It felt weird but here you are, in the middle of the street, farther from your house; no, you won't send him your address, what if he is a creep? He is, per definition, no normal man would look for a younger girlfriend to spoil. It feels unnatural, the skirt doesn't warm your body, the coat does a shitty job too and Leon is late.
Nothing really changes in his life.
He is still the same, only blonde color changed to darker, that is natural he heard, at his age there are no blondes and sincerely, he doesn't care. The inability of keeping a relationship stays there too; Leon tries his best, but nothing works out. First? His girlfriend dumped him before his first day on the job, partially he is thankful for that; if not the night full of alcohol, he wouldn't be alive now. A woman his age? He tried, but all her mouth was talking about is kids and family — he can't give that. Incapable, not in infertile way, Leon just doesn't think he is suitable for this life. At the same time the last thing he wants to discover about himself is his sperm being dead too, the whiskey dick is not an awful fate, it can be reanimated any time; viagra is the best AED.
So finding a sugar baby felt natural, less responsibility, less stress about future and relationship — all he is supposed to do is spoil you in exchange for company, sex and brief illusion of normality. You'd flap your eyelashes prettily, finger twirls hair strand, maybe hug his arm and this would be enough to make his day. Well, no strings attached, in the end this looks like it won't work out too, something lacks, perhaps he is overthinking, perhaps he got too attached, but since first meeting one was clear — if it won't work out, then the only way is to shoot his brain out. Just jabbing the corpse, hoping it is alive.
And he is late, again. You don't even give him time to come out, to blurt a quick sorry, to kiss your temple, and give the sweet promise — it is the last time, next week I'm going to be on time, I promise you, sweetheart — there are too many next weeks and in every of them he was late. Bang! You are not kind to his car, slamming the door shut, with a heavy heart he lets you sulk, Leon's position is not the best, you can always jab at him about his failed promises, about his lack of punctuality at his big age. And if his conscience wasn't so dear to him, he'd keep the count of promises too; it would bring him worse anxiety than utility metre, not so different from digging into a fresh wound with a knife, expecting a treasure and this would only bring him to grave sooner than DSO missions.
"You look nice." He says, his hand squeezes your thigh briefly before you could even protest.
"Well, thank you." It is short, curt almost, but you still look at him from the corner of your eyes, the eyelashes shadows your irises softly like curtains — pretending to not be affected. Well, at least not everything is just plain bad.
The engine keeps roaring softly as the landscape of the cars and traffic light for the whole ride doesn't change a lot nor does it last long enough, cities all look the same after one gets used to it. Engine noise shifts to the loud chattering with clinking sound of plates, the smell of the city and streets is now a mix of food and perfumes from the visitors.
The tone in your voice lacks the usual eagerness and cheerfulness, tracing your traits that are tense keeping mouth shut and curt answers; keeping everything to yourself, eye contact established with the food, not with him, so it won't fire at him. For the best, everything is for the best and nothing hides your anger at him. It sickens him, it pushes him almost to the point of dropping down in the middle of the restaurant; I'm sorry, next time I won't be so late. At the same time he is 48 years old and you'd expect more maturity from him, so he doesn't bother you.
There will be no sex today, there will be barely sweet words other than silence and company. It passes quickly, your figure moves and is replaced with the outline of the person in the register. This is about to end and Leon knows he will go back home to his beloved bottle of whiskey, the one he bought the other day, drowning in the alcohol that feels like an ex wife he can't let go. But better, at least it cradles him until the morning.
"Your daughter is so sweet," Leon nods. "you raised her so well, so cute."
Leon nods again, passing his card to pay for the dinner. "Thank you, she is." Words blurt out easily before he even realizes, his eyes dart to you. Probably didn't hear him or the cashier, standing next to the exit, scrolling through your phone, the blue light of the screen illuminates your features so softly, it makes him sick, nostalgic like your distance is comparable to long distances. As if being besides him would ruin your mood more, today Leon is grateful for your temper.
You are not his daughter. He doesn't even have one, the closest possible daughter is Sherry.
A right thing would be to correct the person, to deny it but his mind is empty, the blood rushed down; his cock throbs heavily in his pants.
A daughter.
Leon doesn't remember how he got in the car, all he sees is you, unbothered in your seat, thigh on thigh, your mouth moves so sweetly, almost in slow motion like in some movie. Something eagerly telling him, the temper seems to calm down. He keeps glaring at you once in a while like you are some sort of a ghost in the seat.
Leon can't really see anything of his, his eyes keep drilling into you at every red light. What if you heard the dialogue? Then you want him dead, perhaps you will block him and never see him again, and if that's the case your hypothetical discomfort is unnoticeable. Maybe you are, but for different reasons; he clearly looks like he is going to kill you after this date. His eyes darted away.
No, you don't look like him. But that's not mandatory for kids to be a parent's copy, still he adjusts his boner which is getting suffocated in his jeans.
Finally, the drive comes to an end with the engine dying; your lips move softly, telling something that his mind is not registering, but there is no need; this is like a routine at this point. He leans in, closer so you'd kiss him on the cheek (like a daughter would do, he believes), on rare occasions when everything doesn't suck that bad, you'd pull him in the back to have sex. Or in the hotel, in this case it depends how busy he is.
“Do you have a dad?” Leon spits out, his thoughts were fast, but not enough to reach his brain and stop him from saying this nonsense. And you aren't kissing his cheek, you don't even consider kissing his lips, staring at him like he belongs in the asylum. When will I see you next time? That's what he was supposed to say, it was a delayed thought.
“What?” Confusion plasters on your face, while shame clings to his entire being like fresh paint from the bench. "What is this about? Were you even listening to me?"
Leon stays silent, rubbing his face just to calm himself, maybe covering his mouth in case something slips out again. Your eyes settle on him, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Leon, my eyes are up here," you mutter. "They are not on the wheel."
"Sorry, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean it like that." He starts, meeting your eyes finally. Next words don't come out, lingering on the tip of the tongue, but never materializing, what was he even supposed to say?
"Leon." You sound so disappointed in him, like a mother disappointed with her child, he just wants his lips to embrace the cold barrel and pull the trigger.
"I…aren't you bothered? Disgusted?"
"About what?" You raise your eyebrows.
"Well," Leon's hand waves at himself; look at me! A glimpse in your eyes, probably a realization comes upon you; a disgust would be suitable, but your lips curl up gleefully, never giving him the answer, urging him to continue, to embarrass himself further. "I can be your dad." He pauses, this sounds wrong again. "I am old, I could be confused with your dad." Now it should be correct.
"Wait, wait, you were brooding over that whole ride?" A rhetorical question, probably, because you know the answer — yes, he was.
It is ridiculous, the way he feels like a school boy with a crush right now, but his situation is worse than unrequited love could ever be; it is the lack of understanding and one of the most unexpected, such a simple thing to cause rock hard boner in his jeans.
"I think that's the hottest part about you, " you shrug your shoulders, observing his face like trying to catch a slip of shame. Or desire maybe. "Your age, and even if you can be confused with my dad, you are not, soo—" Pause, raising an eyebrow. "What's the issue?"
The issue, simply saying, is his boner. He wanted to say that, but swallowed those words like a bitter pill. "There is no issue, forget it. I hope I see you soon."
Your glance runs over him again, glints of amusement dance in your eyes before your lips press against his scratchy cheek, a long mwah, hand sweetly caressing his neck where his stubble scratches lovingly the soft flesh of your palm. Unexpectedly. "No more thinking for you," you tease him, you are right; his mind is focused on your face, the outside light shines through your hair, giving a divine look. Why was he even bothered by this? Leon squeezes your hand for the last time, while he can. "Less overthinking, handsome, I'll see you this weekend."
———
There is something wrong with him.
And it is not the all consuming guilt that sucks on his blood like a tick, he just doesn't have enough strength to flick it off. It is not another glass of whiskey in his hand on a random evening, Claire says he has an issue with alcohol — he doesn't have it and she doesn't know anything.
Something is wrong.
He still feels like shit. Your daughter is so sweet — those words come back like a ghost, like a snake in his intestines, torturing him. It was supposed to be a quick, weird thing that would pass and he'd forget about it, Leon can't. There was no premise either, after all Leon's taste in porn is mediocre, if one should be nice about it; mostly lesbian porn, pretty, gorgeous women making out, like dolls that jumped off raunchy magazines he had in his 21. Polished to a T, almost alien to the glance, you won't see that level of polishness on the street, pressing and grinding against each other's pussies. Once Leon asked Claire if that's possible, she suggested watching less porn. That's not an answer.
And your pussy looks nice even just pressed against his dick, slick gushes across the flesh, droplets of his own precum rolls down to mix with yours, your hips buck up needily to rub on his dick. He likes how your jaw tenses as his tip bumps against your clit, your whole body shivers and arches into him.
"Mmm… right here, oh! Daddy."
Daddy rolls right on your tongue, it brushes against the back of your teeth before gasping for air, just for them to sink onto your lower lip so many times it is full of blood. Warm, throbbing with it. Leon leans down to kiss the bite away every time, feeling the rushed blood throbing on tortured lip.
Daddy sounds nice, it always sounds good, not a new word to hear to fall from women's lips, but from yours it gives a weak jolt to his dick and a new, guilty need weeps in his heart. Every time you call him daddy his cock throbs inside you, with your legs lifted up in his hold while he'd pound into you with deep, splitting thrusts.
D-a-d-d-y. Dad. You never brought this up, he never tried to bring it up again. And how is it supposed to be? Hey, can you call me dad? Oh, why? My dick gets harder by being called one, that's it. There are no right words for this, so Leon decided to put this fantasy on the shelf and admire it on special moments, such as today.
He wishes you would call him dad. The word comes back in his head like a curse, the way it tortures him every time your pussy squeezes his dick, every time your mouth opens just to call him with the wrong word. And every time it falls from your lips, he learned to ignore the last two letters; -dy falls down, baring the word to what Leon needs to hear, the right word, the right word is dad.
And it makes him harder. Nothing is wrong, because everything just feels right.
Dad. Dad. Dad. Oh, dad, dad will show you.
"You like that? Let dad take care of this," Leon grunts, throwing his head back. "Dad knows this pussy best."
This feels right. A simple word, naturally melting on his tongue, not noticing his slip, only the way your inner walls clench harder around his dick. Gripping like a vice, gushing more than he could even remember, maybe he is that good, but you are lost deep in your mind. Dad, huh, dad knows the best. Your arms coil around his neck to pull him down for a kiss. Only then he realized the slip, made his face burn with embarrassment, even though you didn't seem disgusted (you should, oh lord, you have to).
From that day it started, you told him; it is okay, this is actually hot, you don't mind and good lord stop overthinking, we are not related! You are right, Leon doesn't feel ready for a new step, afraid he'd shoot in his foot. But your kisses on his temple, gentle embrace vanished any thoughts of his Matilda, he won't kill himself. And from the same day, you become his curse. At the same time he is spellbound to you; you are natural, twirling your hair before letting your pretty, with lipstick, chatterbox go freely about how your dad is cool (he saved the president's daughter after all!), how much you love him and miss him every time he is at work.
Somehow he is early today.
Leon is not your dad, but you keep dragging this like a torture; are you free? Will you give me a ride? Yea-yea, my uni, of course, what? Don't hide in the corner, what, are you ashamed? With the sweetest tone, enjoying yourself. And torturing him, he can't touch you how he wants in public; frankly, his hands just hang on his sides, while his gaze stays on your lips like they are smeared with honey. You don't try to veil anything, you don't act appropriately around other people with him; hanging on his arm like the pendant on your new bag, giving kisses too close to his lips and putting his hands on your hips. Your friends stare at him like he is a piece of meat sometimes, like a poor man with too spoilt daughter, perhaps Leon is overthinking, perhaps he is tired, perhaps he gives too much meaning into something nonexistent, but those doubts fall off as he hears you chatting with one of them.
"Is your dad single?"
"Why?" you sound disinterested, almost offended at the question; even though your back is turned but your face is vivid in his mind, tensed lips, a divot between your eyebrows and your narrowed eyes, so lively.
"Just asking, he looks too good to be single, but…" She tilts her head, there is a long pause, it drips on his nerves, like a worn out sink on the lonely night: drip— pause — drop, that would keep him awake the whole night. "Never saw a ring on his finger, you know."
"I don't think the ring is mandatory for marriage." Your curt answer, he doesn't want to hear more.
The car's door opens, enough for him to stand and appear in your friend's view, enough to finally stop this bone polishing chit-chat about him. Her hand pokes your shoulder, before nodding in his direction; hey, isn't that him? Just for you to turn and lit up at his face, quick goodbyes, leaving your friend so embarrassed, like she was aware of him hearing your dialogue. That's the last thing he is worried about, because oh god, he wants to pull you closer and kiss you right here, squeeze your ass before with a pat, pushing you in the car.
"You okay?" Leon asks, his hand reaches to pinch your cheek, enough for his thumb to linger on your lower lip. You nod, brightened up like a Christmas tree, almost opening your mouth to catch it.
"Tired." So simple, his eyebrows furrow together, deepening the slot his frown has created over years.
"Tired?" he echoes, urging to add more than just a word. Instead, you nod again. "You went to sleep late again?"
You don't answer, just look at him like it is obvious. After all you were spamming his phone with messages almost all night, that's his weakest trait but you don't seem to mind his short, simple answers, on the contrary, Leon suspects it turns you on even more. You get inside the car, slipping from his hold like the sand and he already misses you. As quick as he can, he follows you, with a grunt sitting down in the driver seat.
"Who does she think she is? For God's sake can't she leave me fucking alone?—"
Blah-blah, Leon leans in, the moment your mouth opens just to keep talking, his own covers yours. The cologne with herbal notes envelops your senses, evoking a gentle winter's embrace which is impossibly warm and welcoming to your heart. He doesn't need to grip you, his smell, presence are so addicting and hold a leash, not tighter than the government gave him, you barely have strength to pull away, to prolong the feeling of his lips moving in unison with yours. The beloved by you stubble scratches your skin, just deepening a need to pull impossibly closer. His eyelashes flutter like butterfly's wings, moving his lips that are full of hunger, need, not shying to rest his hand on your waist, a warm reminder to you he is here, at the same time it serves as one to him too; you are here, you are his and you are kissing him. You sink your teeth onto his lower lip, coaxing a groan out of him with the grip tightening slightly now.
A low grunt, full of displeasure, comes out of him as you pull away, your back is pressed against the car's door panel and the space feels too small for both of you, regardless of how big the car is actually.
"So affectionate for a father," you say, lips are burning and your gaze lowers to his own out of habit; his mouth is parted, reddened like he doesn't want to let go of the kiss that just got abrupt. "You look stupid." Leon chuckles at your words, squeezing your waist, about to retort back, but you are faster, not giving a space to talk. He wouldn't talk over you, he is a gentleman. "That's a big show you are putting for my friends. How would I explain this to them?"
"Say your dad needed a little bit of relaxation, kiddo," Leon says, a quick answer, like he has prepared it, shaking his head in disbelief. "Something like that. Windows are tinted anyway, and…" You know this. His hand doesn't shy to creep lower, with zero patience unzipping your jeans to slip his fingers beneath the fabric, with so much less space. Leon is not in a different position now, blood rushes down to harden his dick. "I wish I could do more than kiss you right now."
You are already wet, just enough to run his fingers on your underwear to feel a dripping patch slowly forming. A disbelief, every time like a first discovery, how easy it is for both of you to get aroused, this bats any remaining doubts away like annoying flies. He is not alone to get his blood rush every time you call him dad in front of other people, your eyes lit up every time he says he is with his daughter on the phone to his colleagues, devouring him like there is a five star meal in his crotch. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, they spread your slick folds by delving in them and applying a pressure on your clit, rubbing clockwise motions as he stares at your face just to catch any slip; your parted lips, trembling lower one.
"Pussy is all wet. Dripping while talking about me with your friend. This cunt missed me so bad already?" Leon teases, a corner of his lips curl up in a lazy smirk. "Maybe I should have kissed you in front of her, would quite satisfy her questions. Is your dad married?"
"Yeah…" you roll your eyes. "— quasi-married to me, " your annoyance at the reminder of earlier leaks through your voice, impossible to hide regardless of your attempts. If you even tried, frankly. Even in your breathless voice, even while your hips roll against his fingers.
"Or maybe I should leash you, with a dog tag," you pause, a soft gasp as his fingers speed up, before continuing with a mocking tone. "Belong to me, return him and contact this number in case he gets lost."
The thought of him not belonging to you is comparable to the bitterness of overbrewed black tea on your tongue. Your fingers tug on the collar of his shirt before they decide to join in fun too — slipping lower, to tug on his belt like one would do with a dog on a leash. Clicking metallic sounds in the car as your hands impatiently unbuckle the first obstacle, tightly sitting on his hips, making your pussy gush more. And Leon can feel it, as his fingers keep the pressure, clockwise motion on your clit, not delving yet in your hole — playing with you, your shaky and uncontrollable hands are hell to you, while his cock is already dripping in his boxers. As the pants are unzipped with the belt, his hips roll agaisnt your palm, only slotting the dripping swell right in it.
"But you are my dad, you are not allowed to leave me." You add eventually with a cloying voice, every note in your tone sounds like music to his ears. Your hand attempts to creep underneath the boxers, to palm his dick and pump it, to feel it throb in your grip, smearing the pre-cum along the flesh and the most important — his face, you like his expressions, always easy for him to let them slip unconsciously, parted lips, bucking up to get them most of the touch, half lidded and lost all thanks to you.
Not today.
"I don't plan to," Leon says, before a soft kiss on your jaw, patting your thigh. "Get on top of me, be a good girl today."
Your body shifts after he settles back in his driver seat with a light displeasure, like he took a candy from you. It didn't take a lot of time to remove your jeans, now straddling him and settling on top of him, your hips press against his; slick folds invitingly rub, at your every little movements, against his leaking with pre-cum cock. He doesn't stop you, your slicked and wet pussy glides across his painfully hard dick, just giving the future taste; a torturuous, it feels so slow, like you are taking your time to make him ache even more for your hole. And more droplets of precum form on his blood rushed cockhead, your eyes, your pussy feel every change; the throb, the droplets that form just for them to fall down on his abdomen. His blue eyes inspects you with the turbulent softness, like a warm air of the summer night before the wind raises with droplets of rain; the curve of your nose, of your mouth and face, imprinting in his memory the image of you (as if it is not living in his mind every day, every hour).
His hand squeezes your thigh, this time harder, to imprint your flesh into his own. "Are you going to give me what I want?" Leon asks, before pausing. Considering, because you won't give it so easily. "Please." You smile, impossible to hide it.
"What?"
His arm snakes around your waist, to pull you closer to him, so your tits would be closer to his face too. "I want my daughter's pussy." Leon utters, his tip nestles in your hole, barely in, stretching it around the thick head which is enough for him to feel your pussy clench.
You exhale, shaky, slowly nudging his cock with your spread hole. "Can't you wait until home?"
"If you cockwarm me in the seat, sure." Leon teases, before bucking up, almost savoring the full thrust but ending up in disappointment — you are playing with him, you pull your hips higher.
"I'm not suicidal enough for that." You mutter before his hand pushes your hips lower, returning to the earlier. "Fuck…Leon!"
"Language, I taught you better." He teases, with a shaky exhale his cock nudges your hole. "Stay still." And you do, letting him sink into you with a slow buck.
A push is enough, his cock slides inside, stretching you more and more. Leon lets out a low grunt, warm, wetter and so right, like it was made just for his cock; feeling how your pussy swallows his cock slowly inch by inch. Velvety walls squeezing him with engulfing warmth that evokes more choked noises out of him, breathlessly, mindlessly uttering oh right here, good girl, taking me so well. Leon bucks up more, to bury himself deeper until the tip knocks to the hilt, filling you suffocatingly, forcing more soft mewls out of you while you stay still — any movement would only overwhelm you more and it is barely anything right now. He doesn't move yet, just letting your walls clench around him in the tight grip, adjusting for you, but savoring the feeling for him. But it is enough, enough to make you throb; you can feel every curve of his cock inside, its uneveness pressing on the g-spot just in the right way, your walls cling to the prominent vein of his cock, the one that pulses hard before cumming inside you almost every rendez-vous.
After he bottoms out, before slowly dragging his dick out and sinking back into your heat. Smoothly, nicely and your wet walls are sucking him back every time he drags his dick out; begging to be inside, to bully your hole until your brain can't comprehend anything. Only him, only Leon, only dad. His hips rhythmically rut in you, settling the pace, every slam is accompanied with the wet skin slapping, as your hole gushes every time his balls nestles flat just briefly, dragging his cock out to thrust it back deep into your spasming walls.
Leon paws on your top, enough to tug it down to spill your boob out, regardless how messy it is right now, slightly digging into your skin and only pressing your chest up as it urges to come back and hide it from him; your nipple stiffens with the contact of the air, chiller than the fabric of your top soaked in sweat, before his mouth covers it, making your body jolt towards him, pressing harder as if trying to suffocate him.
His cheeks hollow, suckling on the hardened nub, not forgetting to brush it with his tongue, the nipple rolls across it, hardening and messy nibbles only enhances your body's sensitivity to his thrusts, to his mouth, to his touch. Your pussy flutters around his dick more.
"D—dad, fuck." A shaky moan escapes, body almost buckles forwards as your hole only gushes harder around him, while his cock ruts deeper into the slick walls just to fill the car with the sounds of your moans. Every time your hips meet, after deep and quick thrust, your clit grinds against his pubic bone just to coax more moans out of you.
"Dad's here," Leon coos, biting on the side of your boob. The pain is soothed with his mouth, licking it away and leaving only a blooming mark. "Dad's going to fuck you dumb."
He shushes you softly every time you whimper, your nails digging into his skin just to leave half-moon marks for later. Leon doesn't care, he encourages you as his own grunts turn into taking me so well, my sweet girl, right here, harder baby, you can do it. Because he knows it, you can leave a bruise on his face and it would work better than a viagra ever could.
"You like this?" You nod with a whimper, fuck, his hips jerk up and you jolt together as it hits your g-spot. "You like your dad's dick? Fuck, you are squeezing me so tight, what a greedy girl." He can feel his balls tighten easily, slapping against your ass as you both keep chasing and melting in each other.
"Baby, fuck, I'm so close." he exhales, keeping rutting into you, even though his pace becomes messier, quicker. You manage to whimper something like uh-huh, Leon deciphers it as you are in the same boat.
And Leon is so close, both to you, both close to cum inside you; he is trying to keep you as close as possible, flesh-to-flesh, burning and suffocating each other. Frankly, it is not hard to tell you are about to cum too, your pussy spasms around him, like electricity running through your body and making it jolt as he slides in and out. His dick throbs heavily inside you, always on the edge. His hips buck up to meet yours, keeping the messy pace as everything becomes hazier. With a final thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, giving last and soft kisses to your chest; his cock throbbed for the last time, before, finally, spurting ropes of cum into you.
Your body shudders eventually too, your walls spasm harder around him as the crushing wave of orgasm hits you, pleasant shockwaves dumb every possible thought in the head, falling down on him, letting him to embrace you as you both pant heavily.
"So good," Leon smooches your cheek, while your mind is still drowning in pleasure. "So good for me," Another smooch, this time on the corner of your mouth. "So sweet, you took me so well," His lips shift lower, kissing your jaw. Then return to kiss your cheek, lips in quick succession. Peppering you in it, like a cat in the morning full of love for its owner. "I'm so proud of you. Dad is proud of you."
You frown softly, like his affection is unneeded right now, trying to pull away but he only brings you back against him. "I wanna go home."
"We will go home," Leon promises, finally letting you pull away, with a wet pop his softened dick slips out of your hole, now watching you sit back in the seat with trembling legs, ready to help you. Just in case. His hands come to adjust his pants. "We'll bathe too, clean you up."
The sound of metallic clicking as his belt on pants tightens, finally returning to a more presentable look. He leans over to fasten your belt, as your eyes follow his hands. Pretty, long and slightly roughened — all blame to the field of his work. the white crescents on every his nail peek, not too overgrown, not too short, just elegant enough. Safe enough to suck on, safe enough to finger you. A kiss on your temple pulls you out of admiration, now you are secure; safe passenger, easier to keep promise! "Now we are going home."
Summary: In this soft modern AU, you are Leon Kennedy’s gentle sweetheart, filling his large house with warmth and care.
The first time Leon calls you that, it slips out by accident.
“Thank you, Sweetheart.”
You freeze in the middle of setting his coffee down.
He freezes too.
There is a moment of silence in the kitchen of his large, painfully clean house.
He looks almost boyish like this, not like a government agent who has seen too much.
“You don’t have to call me that,” you say softly.
His ears turn slightly pink.
“Didn’t mean to.”
But he does not take it back.
And from then on, you are sweetheart.
You wake before him on most days.
The house is too big to feel empty, but you fill it anyway. Some music from your phone. The scent of butter in a pan. Fresh coffee brewing. You walk around in one of his oversized shirts, hair still messy, humming quietly to yourself.
You cook like you love.
Eggs just how he likes them. Toast golden. Fruit cut neatly. Bacon crisp. You set everything out carefully, even when he insists you do not have to.
You like taking care of him.
When he finally appears in the doorway, hair tousled, shirt slightly wrinkled, he stops.
“You don’t have to do all this,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.
You smile at him.
“I know, but I want to.”
That is what makes it different.
He walks over and wraps his arms around you from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder. He inhales slowly, as if he is grounding himself.
“You’re spoiling me,” he murmurs.
“You deserve to be spoiled, old man.”
He snorts softly at that.
“Old man, huh?”
You turn in his arms and cup his face.
“My old man.”
His expression changes at that.
Soft.
He kisses your forehead instead of your lips.
You moving into his house happens gradually.
A toothbrush.
A drawer.
Then your favourite blanket draped over the couch.
Then your shoes by the door.
You start rearranging little things.
Putting flowers on the dining table. Swapping out the harsh white bulbs in the lamps for warmer ones. Leaving handwritten grocery lists on the fridge.
He never tells you to stop.
In fact, one evening when you apologise for “taking over,” he looks genuinely confused.
“It’s your house too,” he says simply.
Your chest tightens.
“You never said that.”
“I didn’t have to.”
He is not good with big speeches. He shows it instead.
A closet was cleared out without you asking.
A spare key is placed in your hand.
Your favourite tea stocked in the cabinet without comment.
The quiet evenings are your favourite ones.
Leon sits in the armchair by the window, a book in his hand. One leg crossed over the other. Glasses low on his nose.
You swear he looks unfairly handsome like that.
You pad into the room with a tray. Two cups of tea.
“For you, old man,” you say gently.
He looks up immediately, eyes softening.
“C’mere, Sweetheart.”
You set the tray down and climb into his lap like you have done a hundred times before. His free hand settles automatically on your waist.
You fit there like you were made to.
He kisses your temple.
“You’re gonna make me soft.”
“You already are,” you reply, resting your head against his shoulder.
He hums under his breath, pretending to read again. But his thumb starts tracing circles against your hip.
Possessive in the gentlest way.
You lift his tea to his lips for him. He takes a sip without looking away from the page.
“Good?” you ask.
“Perfect,” he answers.
He does not mean the tea.
-
You know he loves you.
He does not say it often.
The words get stuck somewhere between his scars and his pride. But he looks at you like you hung the moon. He relaxes in a way he never does with anyone else. He sleeps through the night when you are curled against him.
That is enough.
“Leon?” you whisper.
“Yeah, Sweetheart?”
“Are you happy?”
He does not hesitate this time. He closes the book and sets it aside. Both arms wrap around you fully now, pulling you closer until there is no space left between you.
“With you?” he says quietly. “Yeah. I am.”
You press your face into his neck and smile.
He might be your old man.
But you are his heart.
And every morning you wake up in that big house, every cup of tea you bring him, every time you curl into his lap while he reads, you know the truth.
cw: cnc • gun kink • spit • piss, belt play • facefucking creampie • humiliation • no aftercare • heavy dubcon
“money talks, dirty cash, i want you..💸”
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you don’t sleep anymore. not really. you just lie there in that rotting little apartment that smells like warm dust and dried sweat and the leftover scent of men who don’t come back. the kind of place that holds onto everything. cheap walls, peeling paint, floorboards that creak even when you’re not moving. you lie on that stained mattress in nothing but a tank top and cotton panties that keep riding up your ass, thighs damp from the heat, sticking together every time you shift. the fan broke two weeks ago. the window doesn’t open all the way. you sweat through your sheets every night, and you don’t even know if it’s the weather or the dread anymore. it’s been three days since you stepped outside. four since you checked your bank account. five since you made that second payment you couldn’t afford. your phone buzzes on silent, tucked somewhere under the blanket, screen cracked, notifications piling up from numbers that never leave voicemails. not even a single word. just the occasional call. blocked. no caller ID. breathing. always breathing. low, like a man watching you from the dark, one hand already wrapped around his cock and the other curled in a fist.
you owe him. and you don’t know how much anymore.
it started small. your cousin told you about him at a bar, half-drunk and laughing, said he helped her once when she needed quick money for her kid’s hospital bills. no questions, no paperwork, just fast cash. she told you his name like it meant something. toji fushiguro.
you met him the next night. you wore makeup to hide the stress, a little skirt you thought might help, heart pounding the whole way there like you were already in trouble. he took one look at you and smirked like he could smell the desperation. and you hated how hot he was. how tall. how calm. the way he spoke slow and deep, never raising his voice, like he didn’t need to. like everyone always ended up on their knees anyway. he gave you the cash. tucked it into your purse himself. brushed his hand against your hip just enough to make your breath catch. he didn’t even tell you when it was due. just lit a cigarette, blew the smoke toward your mouth, and told you not to fuck him over.
but you did.
you fucked up. again and again. begged for a little more. said you’d pay soon. said you were waiting on a deposit. said you’d figure it out. and each time, his voice got a little quieter. a little slower. and you could hear it that little pause before he hung up. like he was smiling. like he already knew how this was gonna end.
and now, tonight, you lie there in the dark, eyes wide open, legs spread slightly from the heat, stomach turning with the weight of it all. you haven’t eaten. haven’t showered. your pussy’s sticky with old sweat and stress, panties damp between your folds, and your nipples keep brushing the fabric of your tank top every time you roll over. everything feels raw. too sensitive. like your body’s betraying you, getting ready for something your mind keeps pretending won’t happen. you locked the door. you double-bolted it. you shoved the dresser in front of it just in case. but it doesn’t matter. because toji doesn’t knock. he doesn’t text. he doesn’t wait.
he’s not coming to talk.
he’s coming to collect.
you hear it before you believe it.
the sound of the lock turning. not forcing. not breaking. just turning, soft and casual like it was his place all along. you sit up too fast and your vision tilts. your thighs are damp. your mouth is dry. the dresser you shoved in front of the door doesn’t move, but the door still opens. slow. sure. steady.
he had a key.
your throat closes up.
you scramble off the mattress, bare feet slapping against the floor, heart hammering too loud in your ears to think. you don’t have a weapon. not a real one. there’s a fork on the counter, a bottle in the sink, but nothing that would stop a man like him. you remember the rock outside your building from the night before, the one you nearly used on a stray dog when it came too close. too late now.
his shadow moves first. then the silhouette of his body filling the doorframe. big. wide. calm. not a word, not even a breath. he steps over the threshold like he’s walking into a fucking store. like this is just a transaction.
your mouth moves before your brain does. you try to say his name, but it comes out small and wrong and scared.
he shuts the door.
then he kicks the dresser. not out of anger. just to move it. wood scrapes across the floor, shrieking like it’s screaming for you.
you back up, fast, toward the corner, hands trembling. he’s wearing a black tee that sticks to his chest like it’s painted on, jeans slung low, belt unbuckled already like he planned this before even getting in the car.
he hasn’t spoken yet. that’s what makes it worse.
then, slowly, one hand goes to the back of his waistband.
he pulls out a gun.
not flashy. not shiny. just matte black and heavy in his hand. he doesn’t point it. not yet. he just holds it like a warning, like punctuation.
you freeze. arms half-raised. legs shaking. throat thick with a scream you’re too smart to let out.
he licks his teeth and finally speaks. low. slow. smooth enough to make your stomach drop.
told you not to fuck me over.
you freeze.
you’ve never seen a gun this close before. not outside of a movie. not outside of the screen glow and staged screaming and fake blood. this one’s real. heavy and matte and worn around the handle like it’s been held too many times by someone who never hesitated. he doesn’t even raise it. he just lets it sit loose in his grip like it doesn’t weigh a thing, like it’s an extension of his hand. your knees buckle before your brain catches up, your body folding in on itself, sliding down the wall with a choked gasp as your palms hit the cold floor.
please don’t kill me.
your voice breaks halfway through, thin and shaking like a child’s. your chest is heaving and your stomach twists so fast it feels like you’re gonna throw up. your arms go up, limp and trembling like that’ll somehow protect you. like you even matter.
i was gonna pay. i swear. tomorrow. i was gonna borrow from my dad. i just needed one more day. please i wasn’t trying to run i just—
your mouth won’t stop. your voice turns to sobs, not dramatic ones, not staged ugly, wet, real. the kind of crying that cracks open your ribs and squeezes your lungs tight until nothing comes out but high, desperate gasps. you don’t even know if he’s listening. you can’t look at him. all you see is the floor, the gun, your shaking legs spread just enough to feel air where it shouldn’t be. you don’t think he came to talk. you think this is it. this is how you go. some dumb broke girl in a sweat-soaked tank top with her pussy damp and thighs sticky and nothing to show for it but bounced checks and lies.
you try to keep talking, anything that might delay it.
i was gonna call. i had the money almost ready. i swear i was gonna get it tonight. please i didn’t know it was serious i thought i had more time.
you say it like time was ever yours to begin with.
and the worst part is, he still hasn’t spoken.
he watches.
his boots step forward once and you flinch hard enough your shoulder hits the wall. you whimper. it’s not a scream. it’s not strong. it’s a sound you didn’t know your throat could make, raw and small and pathetic.
the gun is still in his hand.
his eyes trail over your body slowly, like he’s looking through you, not at you. like he’s studying something already dead, just figuring out what to do with the leftovers.
he doesn’t blink.
doesn’t sigh.
doesn’t threaten.
just looks.
like he’s done this before.
like he’s trying to decide whether to waste the bullet or not.
and it hits you, all at once, like a punch in the ribs. you’re not special. you’re not his exception. you’re not a girl with a soft voice and a good reason. you’re just another one who didn’t pay. and you’ve heard the stories. about girls who vanish. about the bodies that show up later if they show up at all.
you’re shaking so bad your teeth knock against each other. your legs won’t move. your mouth is dry and your lips taste like salt. you want to scream. you want to beg. but your voice is wrecked, hoarse and cracked and small, and all you can do is look up at him with your cheeks wet and your thighs trembling.
you don’t even realize your panties are soaked until you feel the cold press of fabric between your folds, the heavy heat of your body giving itself away.
he notices.
his eyes dip for a second. a twitch in his jaw. a shift in his grip. not on the gun on himself. something changes.
and that’s when you know.
he didn’t come here to kill you.
not yet.
he doesn’t say anything at first, just kneels in front of you with the kind of ease that makes your heart seize up, one hand dragging the gun down lazily between your brows until the cold barrel kisses your skin. he doesn’t need to push. just rests it there while your knees dig into the floor and your body hunches low like an animal, breathing shallow, chest twitching, mouth already parting in helpless, trained panic. your lips brush the metal and he watches your doe eyes go wide, lashes wet and trembling, tears starting to smear down the sides of your nose while your throat clicks on a sob. he finally speaks then, voice so low it scrapes against your bones, calling you a stupid little bitch with a wet mouth and no fucking sense. tells you if you’d paid him back, he wouldn’t be here like this, wouldn’t have to waste his time, wouldn’t be hard right now looking at you on your knees like a fucktoy someone dropped in a gutter.
you feel him shift, jeans unzipped, belt clinking heavy like chains sliding down a butcher hook, the thick sound of it dragging through the loops while he keeps the gun in place against your forehead, wrist loose, relaxed, like he’s done this before, like there’s no rush. your eyes flick down by instinct and your stomach lurches at the sight of his cock slapping out, thick and heavy, not fat but long and mean and veiny, a dark swollen head already leaking and smeared with sweat, shaft half-covered in hair that curls dense at the base and spreads up his stomach. he smells like skin and metal and heat, his thighs tense under your gaze, rough and strong, quads thick under his pants, stomach not shredded but solid, built like a man who doesn’t give a fuck what he eats because nobody would dare say a word. his voice cuts back in sharp, telling you to open wide before he cracks your teeth on the barrel, saying you’ve got one job now, and it ain’t talking, so you better fucking choke on it like it’s your last meal.
your lips part without thinking, throat bobbing, hands shaking as you grab the base to steady yourself and he hisses through his teeth, fist tightening on the grip of the gun. the first slap of his cock against your cheek is loud and wet, smearing precum and the sweat off his shaft right across your face, a second one cracking against your lips like punishment, a third dragging slow against your tear-streaked skin before he finally guides the tip into your mouth. he groans, deep and cruel, not because you feel good but because you look pathetic, mouth stretched, tongue flattened under the weight of him, your eyes rolled up just enough to catch the glint of metal shaking slightly above your face. the pressure at your forehead doesn’t ease. he keeps the gun there, keeps whispering things you don’t want to hear, calling you his little cum wallet, his late-fee whore, the dumb slut who thought she could hide behind daddy’s money and now gets to swallow instead of sign.
his cock fills your mouth fast, pushing in deep while your jaw aches and your throat gags and your spit starts dripping down your chin, but you don’t stop, not once, not even when your eyes blur from the pressure, because he hasn’t told you to. because the gun is still right there. because you don’t know if this is just a warning or a fucking execution and if this is the last thing you ever do, you want him to leave hard and leaking, not satisfied. you suck like it’s survival, mouth choking and lips raw, hands clinging to his thighs while he rocks his hips slow, fucking your face like it’s a payment plan, cock slapping against the back of your throat and pulling out only to slap your cheek again, cum trailing the skin like a filthy signature. he laughs once, rough and breathless, says you’re better use than he expected, and maybe he won’t kill you after all. maybe he’ll just ruin you instead.
he doesn’t stop once your mouth opens, doesn’t let you catch your breath or find a rhythm. he wants it messy. wants you ruined. the way he pulls back after a few deep strokes and lets his cock fall heavy across your cheek again, it’s not random it’s deliberate. the sound is obscene, a thick, wet thwap against your flushed skin that makes your whole face jolt sideways. you gasp, lips still open, spit and precum stringing from the corner of your mouth like drool, your cheeks red and raw and shining now. he does it again. thwap. again. thwap. the shaft smearing wet heat across your skin, hot and sticky, the veiny length dragging under your eye, over your nose, across your lips like a whip. you blink through tears and the weight of it, every slap a reminder that you don’t matter right now your mouth does.
you try to flinch but his hand grabs your hair, yanks your head back into place so the next slap lands with even more force, his cock bouncing off the curve of your cheek with a slick slap that echoes in the apartment like it’s mocking you. the texture of it is sickening. slick, soft skin stretched over something so solid and veined, ridged like a fuckin weapon, soaked in your spit now and smeared with his own precum. you can taste it even when your lips are closed. salty, bitter, thick. the smell of him is in your nose, deep and primal and hot like skin left too long in the sun. the base of him is hairy, untrimmed, the scent darker there, his balls heavy and tight, slapping softly against your chin each time he slides back into your throat.
he clicks his tongue and calls you names like he’s reading from a fucking receipt cock-dumb, broke bitch, debt-ridden mouthwhore, pathetic fucking slut. he says your face was made for this, that he should take a picture and send it to your dad along with your balance, let him know what his little girl’s been doing to scrape the money together. you sob again but it only makes him harder. he sees the tears and pushes deeper. your nose hits his pelvis. his balls tighten. he holds you there, mouth stuffed, throat stretched, drool pouring down your chin while your lungs scream for air. then he pulls out just to slap you again, this time across both cheeks, dragging the tip along your wet lips before spitting straight into your face.
you’re dripping now. spit, tears, precum. all of it smeared together across your cheeks, down your neck, sticky in the hollow of your collarbone. your mouth opens again without thinking. he doesn’t even have to ask. you want to live. that’s the only reason. you suck because the alternative is cold metal and silence and blood on your own floor. you suck because it’s the only thing that keeps him talking, and you’d rather hear his voice call you worthless than not hear it at all. every time he pulls out, it slaps against your cheek with a nasty squelch and bounce, fat and wet and loud, the sound sharp enough to make your pussy clench in shame. he feels it. he sees it. and he starts laughing.
you’re fuckin wet from this huh. you like bein slapped with my cock like a paycheck you can’t cash.
he presses the barrel harder to your head, not enough to bruise, just enough to remind you it’s there. he tells you to show some gratitude. to lick it clean. to use your tongue like you mean it. and you do, mouth stretching wide, licking along the shaft, tasting the sweat, dragging your tongue up the underside where the veins throb and twitch. you can feel every ridge. every pulse. every beat of his cock like a threat against your lips.
and then he slaps it again, just because.
he drags you by the hair. not fast, not brutal, just enough to make your scalp scream while your knees scramble across the floor, your mouth still open and smeared and leaking. you trip once, try to grab the edge of the coffee table, and he kicks it out of the way with one heel, gun still in his hand like a natural extension of him. he yanks you onto the couch face-first, shoves your head into the cushions, the fabric damp from old sweat and heat, your breath catching in it, lungs folding from the pressure. you feel his knee wedge between your thighs, forcing them apart until your panties pull tight against your cunt, the damp fabric digging into your puffy lips and splitting them through the cotton. the air touches everything your thighs sticky, your labia swollen and sore already, pressed against the cushion like he wants to make you feel every part of yourself. he lifts the gun and rests it across the back of your neck, not pushing, not threatening, just there. metal against hot skin. weight and warning.
then the first slap lands. not with the palm. with his fingers. four of them, stiff, snapping straight across the center of your cunt through your panties. the sound is sharp less a smack, more a dry, flat clap like knuckles against flesh and your body jerks hard as the sting radiates across your clit, lips, everything. you cry out and it’s muffled by the cushion. he does it again. harder this time. then again. each one lands right across your puffy folds, dragging your panties tighter against you like he’s using them as a fucking percussion instrument. by the fifth hit, you’re gasping, twitching, pushing your hips forward like you can crawl out of it, but his hand grabs the back of your neck and pushes you down again, voice low and quiet near your ear.
yeah, that’s what i thought. not even a dollar to your name but you got this wet little cunt bouncing on old men’s money.
he pulls your panties to the side like they’re nothing, bunching the fabric at your hip, and stares down at your exposed slit. puffy. flushed. glistening from shame and spit and sweat. your inner lips stick out slightly, too soft and too swollen from the heat and friction, trembling as the cool air hits them. his thumb spreads you lazily, not even to look just to make you feel how wide you are, how easy it would be to slip in and fill you with something you didn’t ask for. then another slap, this time right against your bare labia. it snaps so sharp you let out a sob. your hips kick, legs shaking, but he presses the gun barrel flat against the top of your head to hold you still.
you think loans are jokes? think guys like me give money to dumb little girls just because they’re cute? you thought you could run off with it, maybe suck some dick later and pay half back, maybe call daddy and bat your lashes?
another slap. this one lands right under your cunt, right at the spot where thigh meets mound, your whole pussy jiggling slightly from the impact, your hole twitching open and wet under the tension. he slaps again. and again. each hit cruel, targeted, not fast but hard. punishing. he doesn’t even have to grunt when he does it. just breathes steady, controlled, like he’s counting the rhythm of your education.
nah. this is what happens. this right here. you borrow from men like me, you end up face down with your pussy beat raw until you remember the value of a fucking dollar.
your tears are soaking into the cushion now. your thighs ache. your cunt is hot, stinging, burning, wet, everything at once. and still he doesn’t stop. doesn’t soften. he grabs your ass now, spreads it, stares at your folds again, slaps between them so hard it forces a choked moan out of your throat and he hums low not a laugh, not joy. just interest. patience. hunger. like he hasn’t even started.
he lets go of your neck only to reach for the belt. you hear the buckle before you see it metal clinking slow, a dry rasp of leather sliding through loops. that heavy, real kind of belt, thick and cracked at the edges, worn from years of pulling tight across someone’s waist, now curled in his hand like a leash. he loops it around your throat without warning, slips it under your jaw, cinches it with a single practiced tug. not choking, not yet, just pressure just enough to let you feel the edge of it digging into your windpipe when you breathe wrong. he pulls it back, anchors it over your shoulder, and uses it to hold your head still while he shifts behind you again, spreading your legs wider until your knees are slipping on the couch cushions.
he spits.
a thick drop lands between your folds, warm and slimy, trailing down your inner lips and sinking into your raw, slapped skin like oil into an open wound. you twitch, whimper, try to squirm, but the belt tugs harder and the gun shifts again laid back across the couch now, still within reach, still watching you like a second set of eyes.
he pushes two fingers into your cunt, slow and deep, no warning. you jolt forward, breath stuttering from the sudden stretch. your pussy is soaked now shame, fear, the spit he smeared on you all mixing into a slippery mess that lets him slide in too easy. his fingers curl. hook. spread. he starts pulling you open from the inside, no rhythm, just force. like he’s trying to see how wide you get. how far you stretch. how deep the debt goes.
yeah, look at that. soft little pussy all fat and leaking, spreading like it wants to get ruined. and you were crying about dying two minutes ago.
he leans forward, presses his chest against your back, breath against your ear while his fingers scissor you open and your thighs shake under the strain.
you owe me. not just money. time. body. this hole. you made it collateral the moment you took my fucking cash. now i’m collecting.
he yanks the belt tighter. your throat squeezes, not enough to black out, but enough to panic. enough to feel your pulse throb against leather. enough to make your cunt clench around his fingers, hot and dripping, fluttering under the grip of something you can’t escape.
he fucks you with his hand like he owns it. pushes deeper, pumps harder, drags your inner walls until you cry out again, voice cracking. every sob makes him groan low in his chest, like he’s getting off on how helpless you sound. how obedient. how open.
this pussy was probably born for debt. look at it. fucking swallowing me like it owes me rent. gonna fuck it like a receipt.
he spits again. right onto your asshole this time. lets it drip down into the spread mess below while his fingers slow down, drag out, and press against your rim just to make you twitch. not to enter. just to remind you he could.
you’ll pay it all off. with your mouth. your cunt. your fucking guts.
he pulls his fingers out slow, dragging slick strings from your cunt that stretch and snap across your thighs as he stands. the belt stays tight around your neck, leather biting into the skin, holding your head down against the cushion while he spits in his hand and strokes his cock once long, slow, watching it glisten from base to tip with the mix of your juices still coating him. you feel the heat of him between your legs before he even touches you. the slap of his cock against your puffy lips is sharp, fast, wet now not like before. each smack lands heavy between your folds, skin sticking to skin, the tip of him smashing against your clit and dragging down your opening until your hips jerk without permission. you’re whining already, face buried in the cushion, heat in your cheeks from the shame of how wet you sound when he slaps you again and again and again. your cunt is swollen now, lips parted and trembling, too open to hide anything. he slaps once more and growls.
act slutty for it baby. you wanted this, didn’t you. now take it like a fucking slut.
he pushes in slow at first, but it doesn’t stay slow. not when your pussy opens for him that easy. not when you start moaning like you’re losing your mind, every inch making your back arch and your nails claw into the cushion. he sinks into you deep, hips grinding against your ass as his cock fills every twitching inch of your cunt, the stretch so brutal and thick it feels like he’s forcing your body to change shape around him. the belt tugs your throat back just enough to keep your spine bent and your moans open-mouthed, desperate, animal. he thrusts once, hard, and the sound of your soaked flesh taking it echoes off the walls. your breath catches. he does it again. and again. wet skin slamming into wet skin, the slap of your cunt leaking with every thrust, your thighs trembling, stomach clenching. the cushion under you is soaked now, your slick and his spit and your tears all blending together into a dark wet patch that spreads under your hips.
moan louder. let the whole fucking building hear what a broke slut sounds like when she gets treated better than his wife.
his voice is tight, panting, raw now. sweat drips from his temple. he lets go of the belt just long enough to yank his shirt off over his head, muscle flexing under the dim light, chest covered in faded scars and sweat that shines across his shoulders. he drops down over you, skin to skin, his chest pressing into your back as he grinds in deep, cock twitching inside you, hands gripping your waist so hard you know it’ll bruise. the weight of him crushes you into the couch, stomach squished, tits mashed against the cushion, every breath a struggle under the heat of him pounding into you.
you try to scream, to moan louder like he said, but it comes out broken, like your lungs forgot how. his hand slips between your legs from behind, fingers smacking your pussy from below, palm grinding your clit as he fucks into you hard and steady, the sound of it filthy now pure slop, every thrust forcing another wave of slick out of you, down your thighs, into the cushion.
then it happens.
you lose it.
your body clenches, cunt spasming, and you can’t hold it anymore. your pussy gushes wet heat, too much, too fast, a sudden stream of piss leaking out around his cock while your whole body convulses. it hits his thighs, his balls, drips down both of you in a shameful splash that soaks the couch and stains your thighs. your mouth opens in a sob and he groans loud, hips bucking as the sensation makes him twitch deep inside you, cock jerking, not pulling out.
fuck, you just pissed on my dick. dirty little slut.
his voice is wrecked. not disgusted turned on. beyond it. he pulls back just enough to watch the mess, both hands gripping your ass now, slapping your cheeks hard, one after the other, while his cock slides in and out of the soaked heat like a goddamn piston. you’re leaking everywhere, sobbing, moaning, choking on air, his name tangled in your throat and forgotten. he presses his palm flat against your lower back and fucks you faster, slapping your pussy again from below as it twitches and leaks around him.
yeah, cry for it. make me feel it. you’re not leaving this couch till i break this pussy in.
his mouth is at your ear now, breath hot, one hand tangled in your hair, the other spanking your pussy again and again, your whole body jerking from the impact. your clit is swollen and screaming, your walls clenching around him like a fist every time his hips slam into you. the wet slap of skin on skin sounds like violence now. like a warning. like ownership. he’s not even close to done.
he leans in heavier, full weight pressing down on you now, chest sticking to your back, his skin hot and slick with sweat, every thrust driving the air out of your lungs. the belt slips loose, tossed aside now, not needed anymore. he doesn’t need it to choke you not when his hand wraps around the front of your throat and pulls your head back against his shoulder, his fingers digging into the pulse point under your jaw, thumb pressing under your tongue from the outside like he’s testing how much breath you’re allowed to take. your mouth opens without choice, drooling down your chin, your voice gone to wet gasps and helpless whines.
the smell is everywhere. your piss soaked into the cushion, his sweat dripping off his chest, your cunt leaking around his cock with every slam of his hips. the squelch of it is loud, sharp, embarrassing your pussy clapping back around him every time he bottoms out, your labia raw from friction, stretched and battered and fluttering around the thick base of his cock. he never pulls out more than halfway now, just keeps grinding in deep and circling his hips, like he’s stirring you up from the inside.
he moves his hand again slides two fingers into your open mouth, presses down on your tongue and groans when you suck them without thinking. his other hand slips under your stomach, palm dragging over your clit, not to play with it. to press. to control. to trap you between pain and pleasure so tight it all blends together until you’re crying into the cushion. he doesn’t slow down. his thrusts are steady, brutal, hips slapping your soaked ass so hard the sound bounces off the walls like applause.
you feel it start to build again, your body twitching uncontrollably. your hole clenching. your stomach tightening. everything tingling from your scalp to your toes. he feels it too. pulls out for one second, just long enough to slap your cunt from behind with the thick, slippery head of his cock, watching it bounce off your puffy lips, watching your thighs shake, then rams back in with a growl that rips out of his chest like a fucking animal.
you want it again, don’t you. want me to pump you full. want this cock to stay so deep your pussy doesn’t close right after.
his voice is low, breath hot in your ear, and then he bites. not soft. hard. his teeth sink into the space between your shoulder and neck as his hips jerk and thrust faster, deeper, like something’s snapping inside him. he’s moaning now, real, low in his throat, not because it feels good but because of what it means. because your cunt is sucking him in like it wants it. because you’re still here. wet. broken. and leaking. he says it again, louder, slapping your ass and burying himself all the way in.
gonna fuck this hole till it milks me dry.
your whole body shakes when it hits. when his cock jerks inside you, when the first thick shot of cum spills deep, hot and slow, flooding your insides like punishment. he doesn’t pull out. he doesn’t ask. he just presses his hand flat against your lower back, grinds into you hard enough you see stars behind your eyes, and groans with his face buried in your hair while he spills everything. the heat of it spreads up through your stomach, down your thighs, slick already dripping out around him before he’s even done. your body gives out beneath him, twitching, crying, your cunt still clenching on instinct like it’s trying to keep it all inside.
yeah. keep that shit in. let it fuckin soak.
his voice is slurred now, drunk on the high of it, his hips slowing only slightly as he stays deep, cock twitching in the mess he’s made, sweat running down your sides, one of his hands still on your throat like a collar, the other cupping your cunt from behind and slapping it one last time, firm, loud, a single crack that makes you cry out against the cushion.
this hole’s mine now. debt paid in full.
he pulls out slow, letting his cock drag through your soaked cunt one more time, fat head nudging your entrance on the way out, dragging thick strings of cum with it. it leaks instantly. no resistance left in your body. no control. your hole twitches and flexes, trying to close, but it can’t not around the mess he’s left in you, not with how raw and stretched and used you are. it oozes out in lazy trails, down your slit, over your thighs, sinking into the ruined couch cushion beneath you. you can feel it, hot and slippery and wrong, dripping off you like spit.
he steps back without a word, his breath still heavy, cock still out, half-hard and shiny with slick and piss and cum. he picks up the gun from the edge of the cushion and sets it down on the table like it’s just another tool. something he didn’t need in the end. he grabs a cigarette from his back pocket, lights it with one hand, flicks the lighter shut with a sharp metallic clack, and leans back in your shitty kitchen chair like he owns the whole place. the smoke curls around his face slow, his eyes never leaving you.
open your ass.
his voice is hoarse, deep, half-spent but still cold. you’re laying on your stomach, face pressed to the wet cushion, legs trembling, cunt leaking, brain empty but he says it again. slower. meaner.
part that shit and show me what i left you with.
your hands move without thinking. you reach back with shaking fingers and spread yourself, thighs twitching, fingertips sliding over your own skin still tacky with sweat and spit. you can feel the cum leaking between your cheeks, down over your entrance, warm and thick and humiliating. your pussy’s swollen, sore, ugly. he doesn’t care. he watches like he’s judging the quality of meat. like this is the final check before a return policy expires.
play with it. show me how much you fuckin liked it.
your fingers slide down slow, brushing through the mess, catching on his cum. it’s sticky, clinging to your knuckles, wet and warm against your thighs. you drag your fingers through it again, rubbing the mess over your folds, your rim, your raw clit, hips jerking when the touch hits too sharp. your legs shake. your hole clenches. your face burns.
say it.
you hesitate.
he exhales smoke. taps the ash off the end of the cigarette onto your floor like he owns it.
say it or i start filming. and next time i collect, you’ll be working off a bigger bill.
you choke on your breath and lift your head. you turn, slowly, eyes wet, chin shiny with drool, face streaked with sweat and filth. your fingers are still between your thighs, dragging cum through the mess he made, leaking down your hand, thighs spread, ass up. he watches, eyes half-lidded, mouth set. the gun glints next to him, the belt hanging off the table.
i’m your dirty slut.. i’m toji’s slut.
your voice cracks.
and i like sucking your cock. and getting fucked.
his eyebrow lifts slightly. another pull from the cigarette.
fuckin finally.
he grins around the filter, watching you stroke the mess between your legs like it’s natural now. like you were always meant to end up like this. like you’re not even done. and maybe you aren’t. maybe this is the part where he puts the cigarette out and gets back on top. or maybe he just watches you fall apart for another hour. either way you’re not getting up.
☆〜（ゝ。∂）thank you for reading babes, this is one of the filthiest things i’ve written in a while. it was requested, it was nasty, it was exactly the kind of deranged energy i needed. hope it made you clench <3 feel free to reblog, scream, or sit in silence and question everything. all reactions welcome.
you’re all filthy. stay that way, tagging system’s open if you wanna be on my wildest shit list🎀
I know I'm a few hours late to the party here but I had a situation I had to deal with so I saw the trailer drop live, and then immediately had to dip but I have successfully bought a temporary hot spot so that I could download the trailer and make this post!
First reactions out of the way I'm... not really sure how I feel about this. It's so far removed from everything else in the series that I deadass didn't even know it was an RE game until I saw the destroyed RPD, and neither did a lot of people, judging by the live stream comments. And with that out of the way, here's my breakdown (including the tease with Village since that's part of this.)
I'm gonna start with the title: Requiem. As with a lot of Leon things, we get religious references right off the bat. The game is called "Requiem" which is a term for a special Catholic Mass for funerals. Christian theology and especially Catholic imagery has been something that's been very present in Leon's storyline but has mostly been buried in the novelizations, so I think it's very interesting that they're bringing this up in a huge way now. I think it's also important to acknowledge that "requiem" itself is a way of honoring the dead, and for Leon specifically, the survivor's guilt he carries from Raccoon City is something that effects him deeply, it's the crux of his character... and now we're going back to where it all began, a requiem for the people who died in Raccoon City, and Leon is seemingly going to pay for his sins (not being able to save everyone).
Maggie (VA for Lady D) singing happy birthday is definitely a reference to the franchise's 30th birthday, which happens in March of 2026... but it also seems to be a theme of the game as well. Like I said before, we're going back to where it all began. In that scene, we can also see a typewriter with the RPD logo on it detailing the outbreak and a map of the city as well.
The trailer itself opens at some FBI base-- which is particularly interesting to me 'cause we see a lot of fiction government agencies in the series but not a whole lot of real agencies, so it seems like we might finally see the DSO and FBI interact... which hasn't happened before. We know Leon briefly worked with the FBI for the Pittsburgh bombing & outbreak incident from the Infinite Darkness prequel, but that's pretty much all the info we got there. So now we're seeing the FBI in action, and seeing how they handle the BOW incidents too. I tried to see if I could zoom in and see where this base is, but it's too blurry to tell. Maybe if a 4K version of the trailer gets released, I can zoom-enhance it a little.
And then we meet Grace Ashcroft, daughter of the reporter Alyssa Ashcroft. Now this is particularly interesting because not only did it re-confirm that Outbreak was canon (which realistically we've known for a while 'cause of RE7, but it was still a tough pill for some to swallow) but it introduces the daughter of a Raccoon City survivor. Alyssa was an investigative reporter who went to the Arklay Mountains with a guy named Kurt to start looking into one of Umbrella's abandoned hospitals that was running illegal testing. This kicks off a series of events that becomes the plot of Outbreak, but the main point here is that Alyssa survived RC and went on to be one of the people fighting to expose what Umbrella had done. She used her position as a journalist to try to spread the truth, but the government continued to sweep it all under the rug. In the files of RE7, we learn that she wrote an article for the Dulvey Daily about the series of weird deaths that we know eventually transpired into the plot of RE7. But above all else, I think the most important thing to note here is that her article was written in 2016 meaning that, according to the trailer, it's been 8 years since Alyssa died. That would mean RE9 is set in at least 2024.
We learn that Grace was writing some report about another string of deaths and the FBI has another body come in that matches the same pathology of the others (meaning that they likely died of the same virus or whatever it ends up being in this game). Nathan then slides her the file for the Wrenwood Hotel Incident where her mother was murdered... fucked up but so completely on bar for the government, especially in RE lmfao.
We learn Alyssa went to the hotel-- which has a bad reputation for people dying in mysterious ways-- to attempt to solve and unsolved murder but she ended up meeting the same fate as the other victims. And during what looks to be a very Silent Hill type sequence, we also see some guy in a hood-- presumably her killer-- who looks an awful lot like fucked up dying Vergil in DMC5 lmfaooo. Now who this guy is? Your guess is as good as mine. I didn't notice anything in the trailer that points to any specific guy, I'm just hoping that Capcom doesn't pull some fuckass "somehow Wesker returned" bullshit since we're taking the series back to the beginning. Although since they left out Claire, Becca, Chris, and pretty much every other character that was important to the start of the series sans Leon (and another character, but read the spoiler section at the end for that 'cause I don't wanna ruin the surprise for people), we might be in the clear...
And next up we get a very RE4R-esque scene of Grace's eye opening and we learn she's strapped on a table that's held upside down, and it seems clear she's being held captive and likely being experimented on.
We get some quick shots of a house or building or something, but nothing really identifiable. We do get this shot of a bunch of missing posters, however. Perhaps people that went missing during the Raccoon City Incident? The people who died/went missing at the Wrenwood Hotel? It gets zoomed in on too, so it seems like this will be part of the plot.
And then we get a creepy voice over about searching for a "special one, a chosen one" which sounds very reminiscent of the Los Illumindos cult in 4... so it's clear we've got some witchy culty bullshit happening too. The guy calls "Ashcroft" by name, some maybe the guy talking is the same Dying Vergil guy from earlier?
And finally we get to my favorite part of the trailer: the destruction of Raccoon City. We know from previous games that the government, with the help of Benford who voted in favor of this, decided to bomb the fuck out of Raccoon City without trying to rescue anyone both to contain the virus and to bury all evidence of their involvement with Umbrella and, therefore, involvement in what happened. The city is in ruins, and we see the toppled RPD building. While the montage of the destroyed city plays, we here a conversation exchange between a man and a woman. A man says "Investigating all these strange deaths, huh?" and that sounds like Leon too me. It's been leaked already that he's going to be in the game and not only does the voice sound like him, but that speech pattern sounds like him too. The woman (presumably Grace) says "we need to keep our voices down." I'm not sure if they're talking to each other or if those lines are from the same scene since Leon's definitely has an echo and Grace's does not, but I have a few theories about that later on. We also hear a man say "Have you seen the same shit I've seen?!" which I don't think is Leon?? It sounds noticeably different than the first guy-- a lot more gruff and his voice is deeper-- so I don't think they're the same person.
There's more strange voices, someone who says "please know that you are my hope!" (I'm gonna theorize maybe Grace finds a recording of Alyssa as she was investigating the hotel, Alyssa gets captured and she's speaking to Grace in the recording in hopes of surviving) and one that says "everyone's gone" somewhat longingly, but creepily.
And then the outbreak begins. A guy lying bleeding on the floor yells "stay away from [here?]" and then we get this real fuckass shot of something crawling on the ceiling a la The Shining.
Not Vergil from earlier is back and tries to suffocate who I'm going to assume is a politician, based on the way he's dressed. A few more shots of buildings and such and a woman walking and that's it!
The trailer itself kinda tells us fuck all about what's actually happening in this game, which I personally find frustrating. I get that they don't want to spoil everything (including Leon's appearance) in the trailer, but come onnnn I wanna at least know what we're in for. The media reports are saying the game is going to blend the series survival horror with elements of action and psychological horror as well-- but I think the psychological horror element is especially going to come into play for Leon and his likely return to RC.
So, if I had a guess for what's going on, I think we might be dealing with a cult in the ruins of Raccoon City. It was bombed to hell, but there's still buildings standing, so perhaps once the dust cleared, people returned. The cult might be operating out of the Wrenwood Hotel, and Not Vergil may be the leader. It sounds like Not Vergil if not the cult itself are potentially trying to get revenge on the government for what they did to RC, but going about it in a very "what the actual fuck" way and taking down others with them. Grace gets tasked to the mission and the DSO sends Leon to investigate, it triggers both of their traumas since Grace is revisiting the death of her mother and Leon is revisiting one of the worst days of his entire life. They bump into each other along the way since Leon is the expert and Grace is probably "in over her head" and they have a sort of Helena-Leon Ashley-Leon combo vibe happening. She'll be like Helena in the way that they bump into each other in the field and they both work for the government and are on separate missions, but Ashley-like in the way that she's obviously been kidnapped by the cult (or whoever this ends up being) and is a bit out of her element. I think they're likely going to play the "Grace is used to her desk job," angle which... sigh... but I hope they let her fight and actually let her do things. The game is said to take inspiration from Se7en, although I can't find a source for that, but I can definitely see the inspiration in the trailer. All in all, it seems like less of a Resident Evil game and more of some Silent Hill Se7en crossover.
In other news, I want to go back in time and kick myself because I came up with a whole. fucking. list. of potential RE9 titles and I literally had requiem on the list but I didn't put it in my top 4 post about it 'cause I thought it was one of the less-likely things...
LEAK SECTION
I also want to tie in some info that's been passed around from the guy that leaked that the trailer was dropping today and some of the plot elements, so consider this your potential spoiler warning:
Based on the way this trailer played out, it does look like the rumors about this being Leon's "last game" that ties his story back to the beginning might actually be true. This is also where the confirmation of Leon being in the game comes from, but I didn't feel the need to spoiler-warning that since most people seem to have already figured out that it's him based on the voice over hehe.
With that said, it sounds like Grace and Leon will be the 2 playable characters. Jill is supposed to show up at some point as well (thank fucking god), but how much of a role she plays in the game hasn't really been leaked or hinted at yet.
oh you wanted T as in testosterone. i thought you meant T as in T-virus resident evil. well the good news is that you're still gonna transform at least
Everyone deserves a little outlet today, grab a yummy snack, skirt a responsibility, play a cozy game - but no one is allowed to punish themselves on behalf of other’s ignorance. No one is allowed to keel over. Be a thorn in their side every day, and most importantly, be your own advocator. We live in spite of these people.
