THE SUN WAS BLAZING, heat burning every semblance of sanity in your cute brain—frying it deeply to the point that you soft-launched yourself into Athens. But wait—why was everything… digital?
“ENTER THE STAGE, INDULGE IN THE GOSSIP”
what a weird motto—sure, why the fuck not?
MEET THE SOLE PUBLISHER!!
bringing you the latest gossip—straight from the source!
APHRODITE — imported straight from the island where Filos reside, at your service!
holy shit, you've opened my eyes to the tony stark eater agenda 🧎♀️🧎♀️🧎♀️ 'cause now that i think abt it, that guy is a total MUNCH—imagine coating his beard w juices OUUUUU
bro YES. he loves it. he LIVES for it.
he’ll set you down on bed and kneel in between your legs. he likes pretense, sure, but not as much as getting you to squirm from him hurriedly kissing up your legs and ripping the panties straight off your hips. you complain, like always, but he whispers half-assed apologies and continues, like always.
even when he’s not yandere, tony stark likes to get down and get messy with it. it makes him feel so sensual and all, putting his mouth there, making you start losing it without him even saying a word. yeah, it’s like getting drunk to him, but better because you get more and more blank-minded while he gets to watch you spiral away in the pleasure.
when he’s a yandere??? CMON. this man is literally made to make you feel safe, happy, and pleasured.
the thing with tony is, he doesn’t even view eating you out as like real sex (woah there), and to him, he can’t possibly see why you get so exhausted from it. he’s putting you through 3 or 5 orgasms before hes finally hm maybe this is exhausting for you.
i think there’s a certain part of like feeding you. and then eating you out in return that gets him off. He likes to hand feed you little pastries, fruit, or anything else bit sized, piece by piece. and then once you’re done, he wants to lift you onto the table and eat you out in return.
something about watching you eat from his hand, your lips closing around each new bite, makes him so fucking horny he can’t think straight. it’s him, feeding you. providing for you. it’s him making sure you’re well fed, you’re taken care of, and you being docile about it because you’re his.
he takes care of you. him.
it’s only fair that he gets a piece of desert after feeding you, right? you’re settled onto the table, full after he gets you to clear the plate. he distracts you by leaning up to kiss your lips before he tugs down your panties in one go, and lowers himself back down like a straight right across your thigh. you know what it means. you know what you’re in for now.
he likes kissing up and down your thighs and torso. gets innnnnn it. nose all up in your business like that, clit overstimulated, walls quaking. you stand no chance.
a certain part of me entertains a super sexual tony, eating you out during breakfast and dinner most days (you get a break for lunch), and during movies, during any time he’s free, in the lab, the bathroom, the bedroom, kitchen island, dinner table, spread out and quivering about it.
he also likes how vulnerable it leaves you. he can keep on every piece of clothing and just use his mouth while you’re forced to strip off your pants of any kind, take off your panties (except when he’s feeling especially nasty and wants you to keep them on while he pulls them to the side), you’re bare in front of him, and that’s the whole point. he can reduce you to a pile of nothing, and you can’t stop him.
(believe him, you’ve tried. the first time he tries to eat you off, you’re crying, kicking and screaming until he has you pinned with your back against the bedframe, nanotech holding your wrists behind your back and his shoulders forcing your legs wide open despite your protests. Sometimes, he lets your hands go free so he can full your soft fingertips tugging on his hair in panic and overstimulation. he wants to hear the way you break into tears during your orgasm because you can’t fucking believe that it ended up feeling so good you nearly blacked out for a moment.)
sometimes you indulge him. let him do it, and usually, that makes him stop once you start whining about it. but it’s not a guarantee. he is a rich man after all— you give them an inch, and they’ll take a mile.
that’s tony. you give him an inch, and he’ll take a mile.
hello, please don't do this. i appreciate the enthusiasm and love tcofidc is getting, and trust me, i am more than grateful for that. but please don't use this kind of approach. it feels like it's demanding more than requesting, which i find a bit off-putting, especially since i've written this fic as a way to be absurd and fun and something to do in my break. the comment was already deleted by the time of posting this, but again, respectfully, please do not do this. thank you!
on a completely different note, any guesses on who'll be the next accident? hmm
𓂃 ࣪⋆✩˚ ༘ [ike eveland]: “I see the galaxies when I look in your eyes.”
— in which! someone is irrevocably in love & it's painfully obvious.
OR some blue guy knew it was game over the moment you slipped and fell down your ass, accidentally making eye contact in the process.
word count: 1.3K
content! mild swearing, idiots in love, a bit cliché, f! reader (but i think it could be gender neutral if you squint), student council! au
loosely inspired by: aphrodite by the ridleys
“You gave me one look, and now I can't get my mind off of you,” he muttered, gently grazing his fingers through your hair and adoring your sleeping figure. The café seemed to become silent as if time ceased between the two of you— the project you were working on long forgotten as you chase and catch your sweet slumber, leaving him to ponder.
Ike is a simple guy, really. The moment your eyes met one another, albeit accidentally, he knew he was done for. Like really fucking done for, abso-fucking-lutely done for— seriously, it’s like one of those shit that he once wrote in his novel. Like, how was he supposed to know he’ll fall in love with someone at first glance?? But you were flawless in every way. Hell, even your dazzling smile enchants the crowd— but you didn’t know that.
You never seem to know when you unknowingly captivate the masses. You don’t even know how much you make him act up— entirely different from the picture-perfect Vice President, who’s usually dripping with unequivocal eloquence, be rendered speechless. To the point that he’s not sure whether you truly are oblivious or just playing pretend to fuck with him the whole time.
Yet he can’t seem to admit that your sweet laughter was like the melody he had been missing his entire life.
The worst part was that he didn’t just fall— he splattered. Not just that, razed towards an amazingly malignant entity (for him) named you. He doesn’t regret it, no. He just wished he did so gracefully instead of bulldozing straight down— like a fucking meteor. OR like a feral bull going straight to the red ass towel, which was weird considering he’s the literal embodiment of the color blue.
It’s cute— adorable, even. How he stumbles all over when you’re around. How he stammers and gets a little dopey when you speak, as if his knowledge were forcefully ripped away from his brain— never to be seen again (read: until you leave him alone, apparently). How his head short-circuits when he gets even just a whiff of your scent. For goodness’ sake, he’s literally called “the man of sex,” (as a joke before, but c’mon) however, when it comes to you, when he’s anywhere near you, all of that just vanishes into thin air— as if it never was there in the first place.
To everyone else, he’s the epitome of refinement in every way possible. The ever-so-elegant Vice President of [insert academy name here], Ike Eveland, who captures hearts through compassion and can sway any scenario into his favor, had fallen completely & hopelessly in love with someone he’s not even sure remembers his name.
It's laughable how he, literally someone who the Gods bless, quickly becomes akin to a fucking timid bunny in mere seconds the moment you step inside the same room. Hell, even a simple “hi” would send him stumbling down his knees, kneeling just to hear you say more, even just to hear you more.
And lately, he finds himself reading about romances, which is weird considering that he favors horror more. Fucking hell, he finds himself writing romance— writing about you and him, in a fucking cabin, in the woods with a damn farm while raising two— maybe even three fucking kids! It's tearing bits and pieces through his sanity, and he doesn't even know if he minds it yet. But then, considering his predicament, he doesn't even think he does. If anything, he welcomes it. Bathes in it, even.
Then suddenly, all his tinkering halts as he finds you stirring awake. His “coolness” is taken once more as he notices you blinking your sleepiness away. It tugs at his heartstrings seeing you stretch, as he tries not to coo at your yawn. A familiar “fuck! she's so damn cute” chants at the tippy top of his head, praying to every god above that he appears normal. Utterly normal.
He leans away, even if all he wants to do is the opposite.
“How was the nap?” He asked, noting the little tilt in his voice covered amusement, borderline teasing. “Absolutely hilarious, Eveland. It makes me wanna ditch this stupid project. Why didn't you wake me up??” You replied, each word dripping in heavy sarcasm.
‘You looked too pretty to be disturbed,’ is what his tongue itches to say, but then he settles for a simple, “You looked peaceful, and I was afraid you might bite my hand away if I do so,” instead.
With that, you couldn't help but roll your eyes with a small, almost discreet smile covering your pink lips. But he notices. He catches every fucking thing about you— the way your eyes contain the entire galaxy when you gets excited over the smallest little things, the way your cheeks flush a hue of baby pink almost entirely, or even how you're ever so clumsy— knocking things over frequently while hurting yourself in the process, leaving you with cuts or bruises you don't even notice, let alone remember where you got them.
He would rather be hit by a fucking bus than to concede he started bringing extra bandages on his first aid kit because of you. (That's a big fat lie; he’d admit to anything if you do so much as act curious about whatever that is.). Okay, so maybe he is more than whipped. Pfft, it's cool. He's cool. He can handle it (NOT).
“Helloo?? Earth to Blue??” You wave your flimsy hand in his face, trying to get him out of his stupor. Huffing, you made another attempt by squeezing his left cheek, the one closest to you. But he’s still in a daze, for whatever odd reason. So you decided to get closer, leaning until you’re only centimeters apart. That seems to do the trick, though. It feels like he’s staring at you, carefully engraving your soul into memory.
He’s hooked. And, well, maybe a bit screwed as well. For whatever reason, you were like a siren beckoning— bewitching him to just come closer. Closer to his demise. Closer to you.
And he can’t seem to find it in himself to care.
Oh well.
Turns out, from the split second he was contemplating whatever the fuck happened to his life, you also somehow got lost in his awaiting olive eyes. For whatever reason, you can’t seem to look away, as if he’s trapping you in place, effectively keeping you in a trance.
And fuck, when his fishnet-covered hand slowly comes up to tuck your fringe off your face, you think you might as well just combust right then and there. Time never seems to resume when he’s near, as his hands slowly travel up, caressing your hair as if you were something so delicate. It was soft— the way he pats your head, ruffling your hair just a tad bit.
“I kind of zoned out, didn’t I?” He whispered, afraid that if he spoke an octave higher, the bubble both of you unknowingly created would burst so suddenly. He’s always so damn gentle with you. You’re his soft spot. Because somehow, someway, you climbed into his guarded heart, making a hole in it to live inside indefinitely— possibly forever. He doesn’t think you’re even aware of it.
“Let’s continue? I’m sure you wanted to sleep some more,” he pulls away, but not without letting his hand slightly linger on the spot on the top of your head. Gosh, you make him insane. “Yeah—… Mhm, yeah. I… I think we should.” You stumble through your words, still quite not comprehending what the fuck happened just a few seconds ago, with a light flush dusting your cheeks.
“Are you alright? You seem quite feverish.” And he even has the fucking audacity to look smug. You forgot that the asshole likes to tease you just as much as the others. “Okay, yeah. That’s enough, Smurfette. I think it’s because of that damn berry you fed me earlier,” you quickly fib, snapping out of the spell he put you in earlier.
“My god, quill. Strawberries are not berries. I told you that already!” He poked, chuckling at your antics.
“Whatever.”
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.
. ˚ ✭ * ✦ . . ✦ ˚ ˚ .˚ ✭ . . ˚ . ✦
uhm, hi! how was that for a formal introduction? (i still have no idea for the school name btw)
𓂃 ࣪ ࣪⋆✩˚ ༘ [thee avengers]: The Concept of ‘Fucked’ in Different Contexts
— in which! you somehow found yourself in the middle of chaos in debris-filled NYC with no recollection of how you got there in the first place.
OR soulmates exist and you were the lucky egg tethered to the Earth's Mightiest Heroes (but here's the catch: you have zero fucking idea).
word count: 1.2k
content! cliché, very crackfic-adjacent, NO DEFINITE TIMELINE YET, idiots being idiots, reader's dealing with an existential crisis, mildly improper use of research & mathematics terminologies (tho i'm pretty sure it's not, but just in case), SOULMATES AU!, questionably executed poly bcuz i'm greedy n i want them all to fall for you, not beta'ed we die like my will to live when my goat sacrificed himself, eng not my first lang, ass at updates so slow af updates be warned (i'm sorry i have zero concept of time), f! reader in mind but you can switch it up, no use of y/n (petnames as substitute tho),
“I COULD’VE GOTTEN THAT.” The Captain grumbled, but the small smile decorating his cut lips made it clear he was just jesting. “Thanks, though.”
It made the God chuckle in mirth, eyes twinkling in poorly concealed amusement. “Aye, no problem, Captain.” Thor replied, “Though I don’t think the lady would appreciate that.” Nodding his head in your direction, prompting Steve to take a glance.
The lady in question—you—was fucking curled inwards, begging your lunch not to resurface and your liquids to stay exactly where they were a few minutes prior. You were negotiating a losing court case.
And as if feeling the combined weight of their stares burning the back of your skull, you turned your head slightly, agonizingly slowly, catching the gentle blue eyes of a certain thunder god.
Thor smiled reassuringly, his hand slightly raised in your direction, palm facing upward as if inviting you to take it. “Are you alright?” Repeating his unanswered question from before, his head tilted a fraction to his left, a brief hint of concern flickering in those ceruleans.
You were stunned. Your mind did a poof! then it’s gone, hidden away in the tiny crevices of your skull. “yEs—!” You squeaked, voice embarrassingly cracking like a stale breadstick before clearing your throat, trying again. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am.”
Okay, presentable. Hardly. But the efforts were seen.
“… I see.” Thor couldn’t help but let his smile widen, amusement shining through. “Getting quite cozy in the captain’s arms, too, I suppose?” Of course he couldn’t help but tease, his outstretched hand lowering.
You raised your brow in judgment, then looked down—where you were still held like a damsel in distress. You were no damsel, just distressed. Steve also looked down, as if forgetting that he was still, in fact, carrying you. Your weight had become comfortable in his hold, feeling exactly like something he had been missing from eons ago he didn’t know he wanted. (Granddaddy who?)
“Uhm.” You replied, smartly. “I think I can walk now, thank you.” You can't. Sense of touch had returned, yes, but sense of feeling in your legs hadn't. Your knees still felt weak like someone stole your nico-nico-kneecaps and ran like the thief that they were.
Also, was it just you or was it suddenly hotter in here? Like woah, can the sun chill out—oh, it’s… slightly raining? Cool, cool.
Steve didn't trust your words, soulmate instincts flaring in lie detection and whatnot. But he gently moved as told, lowering you carefully like one would to an injured fox—well, if the injured fox’s injury was a concussion, then immediately hovering—not touching—over your arms to act as a guide when you stumbled, quick to catch if ever an imaginary pebble decided it was your time to trip (he’s not gonna let that go).
It was then he decided to admit he was already missing your warmth—with god as his only witness, and his traitorous heart vomiting confessions his mind would think twice before registering.
Meanwhile, you thank the stars for not tripping, but the itch burning on your right shoulder blade is slowly starting to bother you. It almost feels like an invisible pencil was sketching something vaguely reminiscent of a symbol you don’t have the patience to identify.
“Thank you for that, uhm, Captain?” You raised your hand in an awkward attempt at a handshake. Steve—albeit confusedly—gently placed his calloused hand in yours, engulfing it completely with how large his hand was, shaking it once, twice, thrice as if he couldn’t let go. But you did, ‘cause it’s embarrassing how clammy your hand had gotten. You swear it’s not always like that; you blame the NYC air.
Then you pivoted, looking up at the scrumptious giant. “And God.” You raised your other hand this time, waiting for him to take it. Thor did, not even a second later. His hand felt warm—safe. That's the only way to describe it. Your hand was completely covered, and foreign, tiny zaps of electricity slightly tickled your palm. It was strange, yes—you don’t quite remember Thor radiating lightning when touching someone, but maybe this was a forgotten detail in the movies. Maybe it was in the comics, but you really don’t give a fuck, not as if you remembered anyway—you watched the movies for visuals. And maybe for the story and character analysis to procrastinate, but it really doesn’t matter, does it? Besides, it’s not your fault they did a really good job with the cast.
It isn’t. This wasn’t normal. Thor would know; it’s literally his power.
Adding the fact that his well-concealed soul-mark was pulsing in his wrist, he might have an idea why.
You were poking his hand the moment he regained the ability to think coherent thoughts, looking as curious as ever. “…Name?” Thor mumbled, mind apparently still not completely there. Who could blame him? The myth he hardly believed in was currently biting him in the ass. After all, finding a soulmate as a god was something akin to finding a white fox in the middle of a summer heat. Damn near impossible.
But, what do you know, like most antibacterial shit on the market, there’s still a 0.01% chance of finding the germ—gem, he meant gem.
“Huh?” You halted your curious exploration of his bulging dorsal metacarpal veins, choosing to dumbly stare at him instead—those three (3) ridiculous hypotheses still clouding your pretty brain (and the not-so-PG-13 things that include, but are not limited to: bulging biceps, muscular thighs, defined backs, and something about open-mindedness—but that’s like something you aren’t ready to publicly disclose yet).
It made Steve’s lips curl upwards, because surprise surprise, he too wants your name. “He asked for your name, Miss—uh—Miss Stranger.” He stammered, a beautiful pink hue covering the tippy top of his ears as his golden locks gently swayed with the air. It’s like those Head & Shoulders ads you can’t seem to fucking skip ‘cause YouTube is a capitalist asshole, just like that. Except this time, you’d actually, wholeheartedly watch it with zero complaints.
You thought it was cute. Before registering the statement.
“It’s—uhm…” ooh, your name! What to dooo, you forgot your name! Maybe instead of creating visual diagrams backed by research papers and citing Zhang. et al., you should’ve tried to remember the most important part of your identity as a barely functioning human being. Just a thought.
Then, suddenly, as if blessed by the gods who had smitten you less than an hour earlier, you heard a loud whirl of a machine’s firepower briefly shutting down, landing directly on your left.
“Ooookay, glad you’re socializing. Really. But had’ta drop in—I feel like you’re forgetting you’re—you know—in the middle of a battle. Just a hunch.”
Oh, that cocky motherfucking tone—you’d recognize that from anywhere (now that you’ve got your brain intact).
It made shivers involuntarily run down your spine, the hairs on your arms standing to no end as you tried to stomp down the giddy feeling in your chest, your mind easily registering who that person could be.
i have zero thots, all i can say is that everyone, i meant EVERYONE will fall. so yes, tony is not your father figure because, as the title suggests, he will be FUCKED. alsooo, check the tags veeeeeery closely; you'll see the love interests. ALSO, SHOUTOUT TO THE ANON WHO SAID I SHOULD WATCH THE AA CARTOON WHEN THEY SAW MY VERY VISIBLE CRASH OUT. THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!!
and i knoooooowwww, i promised a leon fic but i'm polishing it okayyyy. 7k words in and i'm quite literally shocking myself with things i'm discovering abt me, it's crazy. it's the LSK effect, i swear.
anywhoooo, hope you like this one! i'm honestly, positively shocked by the love the first part of this fic has received, as i'm preeeetttty sure this doesn't get done anymore (or i'm just not looking hard enuff ouu please rec me one to prove me wrong plsplsplspls). SO THANK YOU, FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART, I'M GRATEFUL! (as always, rbs n comms for kisses—i read every single one!)
If you’re trying to find a timeline where they’re all in the tower together, I want to suggest the cartoon “Avengers assemble” it’s based off the MCU but it was made before a lot of the MCU movies came out so the canon ends up being pretty different. Like Sam is 16 at the start because he wasn’t in the MCU yet.
ouuuu okay, i'll check this out. thank you, anon!! 🫡✨
𓂃 ࣪ ࣪⋆✩˚ ༘ [thee avengers]: The Concept of ‘Fucked’ in Different Contexts
— in which! you somehow found yourself in the middle of chaos in debris-filled NYC with no recollection of how you got there in the first place.
OR soulmates exist and you were the lucky egg tethered to the Earth's Mightiest Heroes (but here's the catch: you have zero fucking idea).
word count: 1.3k
content! cliché, very crackfic-adjacent, NO DEFINITE TIMELINE YET, idiots being idiots, reader's dealing with an existential crisis, reader judging alien's guts, maybe mildly improper use of research & mathematics terminologies (tho i'm pretty sure it's not, but just in case), SOULMATES AU!, questionably executed poly bcuz i'm greedy n i want them all to fall for you, not beta'ed we die like my will to live when my goat sacrificed himself, eng not my first lang, did i write this while high? feels like a fever dream
“WHAT IN THE EVER-LOVING FUCK..?” You whispered to yourself, mildly incoherent. Your head throbbed, and you could barely feel your damn body—it felt like the plug connecting your brain to your physicality was damn near severed, with the way that your body refused to cooperate. Abhorrently so.
All you could remember was falling, and the vague feeling of crashing into a nearby ten-story building. Which—in theory—is fucking impossible considering you were just rawdogging your solo thesis and overdosing on caffeine less than ten minutes ago. Fuck chatgpt, you have a fully functioning brain (that you intend to use to the full extent, even if it’s barely cooperating) and a spanish latte addiction—you can do everything.
Your eyes opened due to sheer willpower, because, apparently, nothing truly works until you put your whole mind into it. No, you don't think that's quite how the quote goes, but yes, you'll take what you can get.
And, well, if waking up to chaos, destruction, and friendly fire was what you’d get, you’d gladly demand a refund. Even if, hypothetically, you have social anxiety—you’d even do it with a smile. Because seriously, what the fuck?
“Cap, civilian on your six o’clock.”
“Impossible. There was no one there two minutes ago.”
“Yeah, well, check again. I can see her still as a statue.”
Now, you were about to resign to your poor, unfortunate fate. You saw something faintly reminiscent of an alien with a sword-thing bulldozing straight towards you, aiming for your untimely demise, and you thought oh! great, i wouldn’t have to embarrass myself in front of the panelists.
Well that would’ve been the plan, if not for a certain super-soldier-serum-infused captain sliding over to save your ass and a lone arrow whirling straight to the alien-thing’s brain—blowing it cleanly off with a loud baam!
You saw guts. Purpley, goey, guts.
Were those intestines?
Oh my god, why the fuck was it chunky?
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
“Do not ask me the color of anything.” You whispered, brain still too pretty to function, staring at the person carrying you into… safety? You don’t know anymore. At some point, you thought cyan and turquoise were the same thing—and you used to be very particular with colors. Like five minutes ago, when you hadn’t seen an alien’s flying guts in 4k resolution.
Then your eyes drifted to your—for lack of better terms—now-unmasked-carrier.
Damn, why does he look like that—in a good way, but like why?
He looked insanely familiar, too. Mhmn…
It wasn’t until a debris-filled road made him slightly trip, almost loosening his grasp on you—shaking your insides. Not the good kind. “Oh god, I think I’ll hurl my dinner.” Whispering, your grip involuntarily tightened on his neck, heart immediately dropping to your ass as it pounded heavily in your eardrums. Hey, at least you got your senses back. Barely. But a win is a win.
It was afternoon. 2:54 pm, to be exact.
Meanwhile Steve Rogers just thinks he (unfortunately) picked up a mildly pathetic chick. And he would’ve brushed it off, if not for his soul-mark—coincidentally placed below your frozen-in-fear hand—burning like a bitch. It’s the only reason why he tripped; after all, nothing could deter the captain when he’s saving lives. Not even a lone pebble deliberately placed to screw him over (the pebble did nothing, it was innocent).
“You’re safe, don’t worry.” Steve couldn’t help but reassure the stranger. His instincts automatically made his mouth spew the words without thinking of the consequences—if there were even consequences. It’s normal to comfort strangers, he thinks. More so if the stranger was his soulmate, he thi—no, he backtracks. “I got you.”
“I mean, I would hope so.” You replied without thinking, eyes trailing to stare ahead of you, blinking once, twice—then whimpered involuntarily when you caught a glimpse of a heinous-looking gigantic alien that looked exactly like it was pulled from your worst nightmares. “Okay, no matter what you do, do not look back. Please.”
Normally, he would’ve listened. Because Steve treats warnings with careful precaution—he’d learnt that from his military days. But he hadn’t been doing things as he normally would for the past ten minutes. You’re the anomaly. He’s actively choosing to blame you.
“What?” Steve momentarily stopped, confusion coating his features as he subtly tried to turn.
When he did, what he saw was an ugly fucking alien beelining straight to where he was currently standing—all towering and fucking ugly. “What the fuck.” He whispered, staring at the god-awful centipede-like creature. Well, if the centipede was 10x angry and 10000x bigger. Did he mention ugly?
Subtlety be damned, you still felt the light shift—and, swear to god—you felt him freeze. “Do not look ba—I told you not to look back!” You panicked. And panicked was an understatement as your painted nails dug into his soft flesh.
And then he’s sprinting. Oh god, he’s sprinting.
Not away, no. Oh no, you would’ve fallen for that handsome, bulky stranger if he was.
He was sprinting towards it. With the sole intention of killing it off with his well-painted shield and brute force.
You think he had forgotten the fact that he was still carrying you—the quote-unquote innocent civilian he was supposed to rescue. He didn’t. He very clearly whispered a hold on tight—I’ll make this quick, while shifting you securely in his hold. And then you thought you met god.
Not that god, the other god. The one who screams another! while breaking a mug-god. The one who preaches those who are worthy could lift the hammer-god. The one who—yeah, you get the gist. It’s damn Thor Odinson, the God of Thunder-god.
You were hammered, but not hammered enough to the point that you’d forgotten Chris Hemsworth gorgeously portrayed that handsome male specimen—that’s, well, currently standing in front of you, striking that god-awful fuck-ass creature-thing. “Are you alright?”
You would’ve swooned. Really, you would’ve. If only you weren’t—you know—creating impossible hypotheses you never thought would’ve been created, due to the sheer absurdity of ever thinking about it, like, at all.
Great, now you don’t even know what the absolute fuck you were thinking.
At least now you’re assured that you aren’t made by A.I. Because if you don’t even know what you’re thinking, what makes you think a chatbot would?
But to simplify:
The one carrying you + painted shield + reassuring phrases + very captivating plump ass = Captain-America-slash-Steve-Motherfucking-Rogers
The one who bitch-slapped a creature + gorgeous long blond locks + hammer god = God-of-Thunder-slash-Thor-choke-me-with-those-bulky-biceps-Odinson
(America’s Ass + Golden Retriever God) + Chaos n’ Destruction + n = The Avengers
Now this leads to three utterly substantial statements of the problem—with their mind-fucking, corresponding hypotheses. Let’s delve deeper, shall we?
01. You had gone clinically insane, hyper-realistically imagining impossible scenarios from ypur severe lack of sleep.
Ha₁: You don’t need to defend your research no more; you’re insane.
Ho₁: You’re more prone to being admitted to the mental asylum, saying goodbye to your family and the friends you’ve made along the way.
02. You had somehow been transported into a parallel-slash-alternate reality due to the sudden clockwise shifting of the Earth’s axis.
Ha₂: The professors who laughed at you for proposing this as your research title can now suck your juicy fuckin’ ass.
Ho₂: They literally can’t; you (accidentally) altered a timeline (or universe, rather) you weren’t supposed to be in.
03. You died, finally biting the dust after an umpteen number of all-nighters and caffeine-induced psychosis.
Ha₃: You died. In theory.
Ho₃: You died. In practice.
With those written (in your head) SoPs, you arrived at approximately three (3) conclusions. Either you’ve gone insane (unlikely), or Earth said fuck you in tagalog then spun in reverse (maybe likely), or you’ve died from caffeine-induced overdose (please don’t be likely).
Either way, one thing’s for certain: you’re fucked.
okay hear me out, in my defense, i got lazy editing my masterlist okay. making banners (although satisfying) sucks the soul outta me (like how i wish leon would). so then i started writing like a drabble, then the drabble became a story, then the story became a chapter, then i started making a banner, then the next thing i knew, this post was already drafted lololol. Leon will be making a comeback soon, i have like *checks notes* 10 wips of that guy he's not going ANYWHERE.
anywhoo, i truly do miss these guys so i thought, why not make a classic avengers polyfic? rbs & comments for kisses, as always, ily
heyyy so idk if you like give a fuck but i'll be writing for valko (i had already, still not finished lololol) AND the other Lis soooo if you divas enjoy lads content AND you like how i write thennnnnn you js marry me idfk 😔😔
𓂃 ࣪ ࣪⋆✩˚ ༘ [leon kennedy]: three times you tried to end your situationship with Leon + the one time you actually succeeded
— in which! you were overthinking your relationship with leon and he was doing the same as you—just not for the same reason.
wordcount! 4.1k (even I'm shocked)
warning! cliché, idiots in love, drunk-driving (DONT BE LIKE THEM), mild depictions of gunshots and crashes, allusions to sexual intercourse, f! reader in mind but it's really not specified i think, HEAVY SUGGESTIVE STUFF, not beta'ed we die like my mans ethan, eng not my first language, wrote this in under 48 hrs are u proud of me
loosely inspired by: don't wanna break up again by ariana grande
The first time it happened, it was a casual hook-up. A one-night stand.
You met him in a local bar, drinking his sorrows away—you guessed. But he was pretty, and you were (admittedly) weak for pretty guys, so when temptation goes hand in hand with stupidity and bad decisions? It was a no-brainer that equates to disaster.
You sat beside him, equipped with nothing but liquid courage and a thirst for biceps. That should’ve raised red flags in his mind, but he doesn’t seem to care; that works to your favor.
“What’s a pretty guy doing here, all alone?” You played coy, flagging the bartender for a drink while (not-so-subtly) looking at him to see if he'll take the bait.
“…” No response. It seemed as if he was stuck in his own lonely world.
“Goldilocks?” You tried again, deadset on getting his attention, even if he's straight up refusing to give you a crumble.
“…Me?” He gruffed. Oh? That got a reaction out of him.
The stranger took another shot, stubbornly refusing to glance at you—refusing to give the attention you craved.
“Of course, you.” You chuckled, refusing to give up.
“Sorry, didn’t know.” He grunts. What a broody man.
“Girlfriend dumped you?”
Hook, line, and sinker. That made him pause. Must've hit a nerve.
“That's your way of asking if I have one?” He replied with a scoff, a petty smirk making itself known.
“You’re cute. Got me already.” You hummed, aiming to catch him off guard.
That got him to finally look at you. His eyes widen a fraction—barely even noticeable—as a light flush dusts his cheeks.
“How would I get you if I don’t even know your name?” He countered, finally having the courage to respond.
“Damn, you’re smooth.” You whistled, giving your name with a grin. Fuck, he was finally interested.
“Hm? What a pretty name,” he mumbled your name, a slight quirk lifting his lips. “Sounds like your mother loves you.”
Now that… kinda made your heart speed up. As if you unknowingly signed a bound-for-life contract with a person whose name you don’t even know, no less. You talked for hours; the conversation fell into a mad, easy rhythm. He looked familiar—as if you’ve seen him somewhere before. You don’t know when or where, but gosh, something about him felt unbearably enchanting. Like he bewitched you—letting him carve a hole in your heart with a sign that says ‘I live here now lol’.
Well, that’s a one-way ticket to enter his home.
No, seriously, he did take you to his apartment—sorry, penthouse. It was nearby, and neither of you was hammered enough to drive—it was relatively safe.
What happened after wasn’t safe at all, though.
After his front door opened, lust resumed to cloud your minds. You felt his presence looming behind you, his hands steady on your waist. The moment the door closed? He’s pouncing on you like an animal starved for weeks. Lips on lips, tongue to tongue, rough hands exploring the canvases of your bodies. His hand snuck on the back of your head, pulling you impossibly closer and angling his wet appendage even deeper—sweet sounds involuntarily leaving your throat, and he swallows it down like a champ. He tastes like a hint of mint and strong whiskey. God, you hoped the walls were thick.
Your hands slide inside his shirt with feather-like precision, moving from his soft pectorals (now hardened as you felt him flex) to his defined abdominal muscles. Six packs, you counted. You felt him shiver as your hands moved dangerously lower to where he needed you most.
He slowly, begrudgingly pulled away, panting as a string of saliva connected you. The erotic display made your head fuzzy with need, forgetting the fact that you literally didn’t know his name. He could be a serial killer for all you care, but it doesn’t matter as long as he’s giving you a taste of ecstasy.
“Leon.” He groaned, and your brain lagged, leaving you momentarily frozen. A small ‘huh?’ was all you could conjure.
“Leon Kennedy, the name you’ll be screaming later, gorgeous.” He grunts, and a wide predatory grin settles on his face as he kisses you with the same—if not more—vigour as before.
His arm wandered behind your legs, effortlessly lifting you. You yelped, scrambling to hold him tighter. All that bastard did was laugh, nosing and playfully biting your stomach. Hard to be annoyed when he quite literally rocked your world moments after. You couldn’t leave immediately after, even if you tried—you felt like a fish walking in the sand for the first time with the way that your legs. just. won’t. work.
So you let him romance you with aftercare. Soft, fleeting kisses and gentle hands tidying you up.
The next day was far from different. Now, the reason why you couldn’t walk away wasn't just because of your out-of-commission legs. You couldn’t walk away simply because a man—Leon, as you've learnt—has you locked in his strong arms and hulking muscles. Every time you shift, his hold would get even tighter. And you couldn’t even pry his hands off your waist; you tried it, and it was useless.
So, what did you do?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but placing your hand on his cheek while admiring him close up. His soft jawline, his disheveled hair perfectly framing his face, his soft, inviting lips—anything, really. It was as if he was sculpted by the Goddess of beauty herself.
But then, you felt him shift. You were startled, quickly trying to pull your hand away. Keyword: trying. Because just as quickly, his large hand shot up to hold your smaller one—interwining—keeping it from trying to move. You squirmed; his other arm (from below your waist) trapped you in place. It was all too sudden—your eyes widen a fraction as you feel him nuzzle into your warm palm, a soft sigh escaping him.
“Hi,” Leon mumbled, locking eyes with you. His voice was rough, given that he had just woken up, but his eyes. His eyes held affection. Utterly devastating affection, just for you.
Now that made your insufferable heart ache.
And that, was the start of your situationship with a broody, corny, infuriatingly handsome man named Leon (Ass) Kennedy.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
“Hey, Lee?”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“Let’s end this—whatever this is.”
“Huh, wha—”
You ended the call, not even bothering to let him finish.
It’s been months of this fuckass cat-and-fish game you didn’t even know you were playing. Months of this on-and-off, months of this disappearing game, and gosh, you’re tired. Tired of him treating whatever you two have as nothing but a mere plaything; tired of your stupid, traitorous heart for always beating faster because of him; tired of yourself for letting him use you just as he pleases.
So yeah, you’re done. You’ve exhausted yourself, and it’s time to get your life back together.
That’s what you would say if you didn’t hear a car pull out in your driveway and the bell ringing incessantly immediately right after.
When you opened the door (because admit it, you were kinda curious—and maybe wanna play round two), all you saw were flowers—a bunch of them. A gorgeous floral arrangement, boxes of chocolates, and a puppy-eyed Leon Kennedy begging you to reconsider.
Safe to say, you were one big dumb down-bad idiot and did something more than just get back together (unofficially).
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The third time was… admittedly kinda different.
He’s in one of his disappearing games again, dodging the topic of whatever it is that he’s doing for a living. You were honestly convinced that he was part of the mafia or something at some point, given the way he acted.
He said no, and you digress. The look of his offended face was something to coo over, blue-boba eyes staring at you like you have five foreheads and an antenna. You would’ve smacked him if he weren’t handsome.
But that’s not the point, no.
The point is that when you inevitably call him (because you missed his clingy ass), a lady with a very pretty voice answers.
“Lee, oh my god, where the fuck have you been?! It’s been what, like five weeks with no—”
“Hi! Sorry, not Leon. He’s kinda busy at the moment, call back later. Bye!”
“…”
“That fucking bastard hung up!” You screamed in frustration, throwing your phone to god-knows-where.
You were livid.
Because of course, a pretty girl (you assume) will come running into his arms the moment you're out of the picture (and babe, girls still swarm him even if you’re in the picture—who are we kidding).
And because you’re kinda fucking crazy and maaaybe a stalker at birth, you checked the location of where the call was connected. Turns out it came from freaking Spain. That fucker was on vacation, in Spain, with a pretty girl (again, you assumed). Forgetting the fact that there was background noise—which seemed eerily familiar with multiple gunshots and a crash, you really contemplated blocking him.
Like, okay, your thingy wasn’t official-official, but c’mon! You fucked, eat together, cuddle while watching sad-sappy dramas you know he hates, but sucks it up because you like it! Hell, he wipes your tears off, is your unpaid therapist, and ties your shoes for you! Both of you had a written agreement that signifies you, and he won’t be hooking up with anyone other than yourselves.
Have you, perhaps, misjudged the situation again?!
You spent five hours retrieving your phone from underneath the cabinet just to send a ‘we’re done, enjoy your next pretty lady’ text. You don’t even know how it got there, and you refuse to talk about how you got it out.
Leon responded with: ‘Hey, pretty lady. I miss your pretty smile. Quit being pissy, yeah? Dinner on me?’ after a week of deadbeat silence.
You’d rather be caught dead wearing a potato sack than admit you sent a ‘when’ text back.
Waiting for a month to pass before you hit send, of course. You weren’t that desperate.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
This time was on Valentine's Day.
Yeah, real sappy.
In each corner you take, it looked like red and pink hearts were thrown up on the streets. And everywhere you looked, all you saw were couples eating each other’s faces off. It’s disgusting, really. Hated it, actually. Totally not thinking of Leon bringing you flowers and letting you decorate him with lipstick and bite marks. Totally.
So you clocked in at work.
As a barista who’s in love with her job, one of your favorite things to do is those rare specials. As a person who’s emotionally constipated and bitter, you hated doing hearts this very specific day.
It wasn’t until you saw a very familiar blond from across the street that you stopped and stared for a few moments. Now, it wasn’t unusual for him to wander around where you worked, but what’s unusual is the fact that he’s talking to a lady with a small, infuriating smile on his face. You saw him—very carefully—receiving a bouquet from her, treating it just as delicately. You saw the lady nudge him, and he chuckled in response before walking away.
Your eye twitched as your smile turned into a grimace, almost scaring the customer who had been trying to get your attention to order.
Your shift ended with you making wonky hearts and fake smiles throughout.
While you were exiting, you saw a familiar car parked along the pavement, and a familiar face half-asleep in the driver's seat. He was cute. That, you’ll admit. You sneakily snapped a photo, forgetting the very cute fact that your flash was on. That woke Leon up, clumsily unlocking the door and stumbling out.
“Nice nap?” you teased, a smile easily making its way to your face.
“Yeah, waiting for you, actually.” He tried to be smooth. He really did. But the slight tremor in his voice revealed that he was nervous. He faked a cough, choosing instead to open his backseat—beckoning you to come closer.
And when you did, the scene almost made your eyes tear up.
Because in his backseat was a huge fox stuffed toy holding a ‘will you let me be your valentine?’ sign propped with a very familiar arrangement of your favorite flowers, snacks, chocolates, and the like.
“So… will you?” whispered Leon from behind you. You turned around and, god, he was so close you practically felt his breath fan your flushed face. You snaked your arms around his neck, pulling him to your height, and stared at his twinkling baby blues with nothing but adoration.
Then, you leaned to close the distance.
Your lips moved in sync, falling into a dance both of you unknowingly memorized as your glassy eyes fluttered shut. You felt him nip your bottom lip, making it part. His warm tongue explored your mouth, as if it were the first time he had the honor of doing so. Your tongues locked, meeting halfway. You felt him suck, swallowing your noises as he backed you to his car.
His hands wander to your waist, pulling you even closer. And the worst part? He was gentle. He was gentle all throughout. As if what you had were real—labels be damned. You didn’t even remember when you parted, just the warmth of his calloused hand that caressed your cheek with hearts in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips. He looked ethereal, with his blown-out pupils and golden hair that swayed with the wind.
“Does that answer your question, Kennedy?” You asked, just as softly, afraid of dampening the surreal mood.
He laughed softly, and god, it was beautiful. You don’t even think there was an ounce of ugliness in that man. Sure, he has his broody act, but god, it just makes him all the more endearing.
“I got you flowers.” Leon started, brushing your hair behind your ear, which felt out of place. “From across the café. You’ve mentioned how much you loved how they arranged their bouquets. Jesus, the lady recognized me from buying there all the time.” He finished with a breathless—shy—laugh, a hint of red slowly blooming through his face.
“Lee, you didn’t have to.” You drawled, your voice fading into a whisper. “Just your presence is enough.”
“I want to. Your smile makes it worth it,” he stated with enough conviction that made your heart bubble with love. Utterly devastating love. All for him. All for the mysterious man you walked up to in the bar that had too much love to give with no one to give it to.
“God, you're sappy.” You shook your head, turning away from him to hide your rapidly blooming cheeks.
“You love it.” Leon chuckled, turning your head back.
“Debatable.”
“What a pretty, pissy girlfriend you are.” He grinned, purposely letting the word linger.
Now that made you freeze, the gears of your head refusing to turn. “Girlfriend..?”
And that made Leon confused, slightly stepping back to give you space, but his hands were still firmly planted around you. “Of course, girlfriend. You don’t think I’ll do this to someone I’m not exclusive to, right?”
“Huh? Since when?!” You exclaimed, gripping the two openings of his jacket.
“Baby, I literally take you out on dates—we’re dating. The fuck you mean ‘when’??” He looked at you, incredulously—as if you were the one making zero sense.
“I—wha—you never asked?!” You tugged, shaking him back and forth.
“We talked about being exclusive!”
“Yeah—exclusively fucking!”
“We literally had thee talk.” He deadpanned, amusement lingering in his eyes.
“That’s not how it works??!”
“Wait, so—the whole time—you don’t think I’m fucking yours?” The bastard had the audacity to laugh at you, making your blood flare up.
“Fuck—yes??”
“Baby, that’s insane. Are you okay?”
“I—you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“So much.” That earned him multiple smacks on the head and a shit ton of kisses that peppered all over his face right after.
Yeah, turns out, in the very deep and concerning mind of Leon S. Kennedy, the two of you were in a very much real, loving, and committed relationship. You just didn’t know it yet.
He thinks it started the very first time you slept together.
He knew you as the pretty lady who works in a cozy café downtown. The cute barista who serves sweet drinks with a matching sweet smile. He was with Claire that time, grabbing a long-overdue lunch. It was the closest café in the vicinity, and like the gentleman that he is, he offered to order and pay for her as well.
He caught a glimpse of you while he was ordering.
And damn, it felt like Cupid’s arrow went straight to his heart and hit the bullseye.
Because from then on, he vowed to visit—at least maybe once a month. Y’know, just to… observe—order, drinks and pastries are good. Totally. Totally not because he was too much of a pussy to talk to you. For sure.
That’s also the reason why he felt as if Cupid came for round 2 when he saw you at the bar.
You were literally talking to him—giving him attention—and he didn’t even notice that it was you, of all people. It’s the whiskey, he swears, that made him undeniably bold. On any normal day, he wouldn’t have the courage to talk to you—more or less, flirt with you! He’s a dangerous man living a dangerous life and working a dangerous job, for godssake! You could be in danger, and fuck, he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you.
But as hours passed by, he just couldn’t help but indulge in a dangerous drug named you. The way your voice lifts when you talk about something that interests you, the way you unconsciously scrunch your nose when you catch a whiff of something strong, and Christ, the way you sweep your hair back so you can see clearly. It irks him. The way you do shit to him, and you. don’t. even. notice.
He didn’t even know what happened. One second, he’s learning about you in the bar, and the next, you’re in his sheets—reeling from satisfaction: bathing in the afterglow. Leon couldn’t let you go, even if he tried. You got him madly hooked. And he’s right where he wants to be. With you wrapped in his arms. With you tracing his scars, kissing him lovingly as if he deserved only the best in this godforsaken world.
“Hi.” He nuzzled into your soft, inviting palm.
“You’re awake? Sorry, I woke you up.” You were so damn warm. Your voice, a little gruff from sleep, makes his blood run in a different direction.
“It’s fine, knew you couldn’t resist me. Not a bad way to wake up.” He teased, disguising his real, incoherent thoughts.
“Hush, you look like a bad decision.”
“One you’re willing to indulge in, yeah?”
“Debatable.”
He laughed, pecking the tip of your nose and pulling you even closer—his head now resting on the top of yours, wishing for the moment to last forever.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Leon was with Sherry this time, on one of his off days. He wanted to visit his kid— checked to see if everything was alright.
“Leon? Who was that?” Sherry asked, a bit curious. For her, it was weird seeing Leon look lovingly at his phone. It was weird seeing him on his phone in general, more so that he’s smiling as if someone hung the moon for him. As strange as it is, she’s just glad that someone is making Leon act like an otter seeing the water for the very first time.
“My girlfriend. She’s probably bored.” He replied, a small smile involuntarily appearing on his face. He can’t help it; that’s just your effect on him.
“You have a girlfriend? Who? Since when??” She almost squealed, excitement flickering in her bright eyes.
“I know. Shocker, right?”
He picked up the call, expecting a barrage of ‘I miss you, come over?’ or some rant about your ass netflix shows you couldn’t help but watch, or maybe even that annoying regular that picks up fights with literally anyone.
What he didn’t expect was an abrupt breakup call.
“… that was awkward,” Sherry faked a cough. “Are you… okay, though?” She winced, voice gradually becoming more of a whisper.
After a few beats of silence.
“…Yeah, she just—does that—I’m okay. Yup… I’ll just—… I’ll see you later, kid?”
He doesn’t know why or what compelled you to break up with him over a damn twenty-three-second phone call, but he sure as hell won’t be losing the absolute love of his life over some fucking boredom.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Spain was crazy. Insane—criminal, actually.
His mission was to save the President’s daughter, Ashley Graham. Jesus, he’s glad she’s already by his side—he can’t fucking wait for the mission to be over.
The absurd call happened when he was literally fighting for his life. His phone might’ve fallen during whatever the fuck he was doing to survive (he’s kinda reckless, okay—but valid), because all he saw was Ashley picking it up and talking to someone before quickly handing it back to him.
“Someone called you. I guess they were worried.”
“…There’s a reception here..?” He was more confused because how the fuck did a normal call connect easily when the comms with Hunnigan were choppy?
It wasn’t until he felt a chill run down his back that he asked the dreaded, “Who was it?”
“Ah, I didn’t check. But it sounds like a girl—wait, do you have a girlfriend?” Ashley asked, a bit incredulously—and he couldn’t stop the involuntary ‘shit’ that fell out of his mouth.
Oh. Oh fuck. He’s fucked.
Because of course, your call would connect; that’s just your effect.
If you knew he was basically kidnapped, would he be forgiven? Who was he kidding, he knew he wouldn’t be telling you any of this when he got home. Not because it’s confidential as fuck, but because he can’t bring himself to tell you all the ugly parts of his job. He can’t bring you down with him—and if that meant forever keeping you in the dark with the horror he regularly goes through? Then so be it.
He’d rather wait for a month than explain—recall—he almost got killed for the umpteenth amount of time in Spain, and not experience the getaway you thought he had. He’d rather whisper sweet nothings in your ear and have you in his arms than tell the tale that he got infected by a freaking parasite that ought to make him a mindless subordinate.
He’d rather take you to a fancy dinner and be enamored by you once again, grovel at your feet, and give you a good time than to admit that he was forcefully employed by the government to keep his mouth shut about the horrors of bioweapons.
Yeah, he’d rather take the burn of your anger than have you worry if he’ll live the next time he disappears again.
He might be selfish, but Jesus, what can he do if you unknowingly became his only salvation?
If becoming official meant going to court to pledge your undying devotion? Then so be it. Leon’s already got a beautiful ring in mind.
hey hey hey!! it's been a while, hasn't it? i'm afraid leon ass kennedy got me in a cage rn fighting for my life, apparently getting tagged-team w chris bulkfield as we speak. this was my third wip for this man n it's the first one to be published. i'm actually shocked bcuz this is like the longest anything i've ever fucking written, and it's also, BY FAR, the most suggestive one i've ever published. my mans been rotting my mind for a month now and gosh, i literally can't get out. hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as i've enjoyed writing it! also btw, no ai was used in this self-indulgent fic, i'm just an em dash warrior. as always, rbs are appreciated lmao ily
— in which! you could name a few facts about leon on the tippy top of your head, but, well, maaaaaaaybe there were some exceptions.
wordcount! 4.7k (what)
warning! hey so i lied, MDNI, explicit smut (first time writing c'mon give me a chance), cliché, idiots in love, childhood best friends trope, absolute teeth-rotting stuff, very and i mean very LIGHT ANGST like i swear it's just a dabble, LEON IS AN EATER (oral, f-receiving), fingering, p in v, dirty talk, heavy make-out sesh, light praise kink, light degradation kink, light condescending praise, size kink if you squint, sumn sumn leon being leon, snowballing if you squint, possessive f! reader, cockdrunk f!reader, dom! leon, pussydrunk! leon, leon whimpering, one mention of bleeding (not while fucking), bro i swear this was NOT supposed to be a smut i was js thinking w my phantom 13-inch dick okay? OKAY!
loosely inspired by: please by bts (and my thirteen-inch phantom dick)
LEON S. KENNEDY IS A MAN OF FEW WORDS. He likes to keep things simple. Minimal. Straight to the point. That’s just the kind of man he is. He likes his coffee black and his pastries with less sugar.
“Great day, welcome to Annie’s Café. What can I get you?” It was early, and the employee’s tone sounded fake—which, honestly, okay, valid—it’s the crack ass of dawn and the birds still haven’t sung to their heart’s content. No shit the employee sounded ready to clock out, even if they just arrived. Drive-thrus included.
“I’d like two iced Spanish lattes in large with a box of macarons, please,” Leon replied, politely, as if nothing could rain on his parade. He’d been feeling quite peckish, as of late, and he thinks it’s because he’s been hanging out with you too much after each grueling mission.
Now who was he fooling? Himself, obviously. Mission or not, he’s still banging on your door. Too much, unfortunately, to the point that you—begrudgingly—shoved him your spare key the next day so you could actually experience shitting in peace again, and he could just waltz in as he pleases.
“Okay, anything else?” The tired voice of the server blaring from the speaker wrenched him out of his reverie. He shook his head once, twice, then, as if remembering something, he answered, “Make that three boxes. And add that Mango Rose Tart Special, thanks.”
“Okay, please proceed to the next window to claim and have a nice day ahead. Hope to see you next time at Annie’s!” The voice from the speaker sounded tired—dripping with faux cheeriness, but nonetheless, moving to serve his ridiculous order of freshly baked boxes of macarons and a tart, with cold-brewed lattes.
Nodding to himself, mentally patting his back as a job well done, he drove towards the next window, picking up his (rather bulky) order with a dashing half-smile that made the servers thank the gods that pretty people with huge biceps exist. If that was their reward for baking at 3:00 am, they’d gladly make some more.
Jesus, he can’t wait to return to you.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
LEON S. KENNEDY DISLIKES NOISY MORNINGS. He likes to keep things quiet. Peaceful. Alone. Moping around and wagging his imaginary tail to see you—wait, what?
“Sweets! I bought sweets.” Leon nuzzled at your peacefully sleeping form after carefully putting the boxes on your dining table and shoving the lattes into your fridge. His arms automatically hooked into your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest, greedily taking your warmth for himself. He felt you moving, settling quite nicely, and making yourself comfortable in his hold.
“You’re noisy.” He heard you mumble in his chest, but he couldn’t care less. Hooking his chin at the top of your head, he breathes in your scent, inhaling the fragrance of your shampoo and your detergent, utterly content with being suffocated by—well—you.
“You act as if I care.” He hummed, taming your messy bedhead with soft pats, gently weaving his fingers through your hair as if patting an incredibly sleepy chinchilla.
Christ, he could melt just by looking at you. You looked adorable. Your naturally pouty lips jutted as your eyes remained closed, looking utterly at peace. Blissfully unaware of your effect on him. He thinks it’s unfair. How you just breathe, and he’s already at your beck and call. How the sun peeks through your windows perfectly frames your figure, making you look utterly devastating. How your hair just cascades perfectly on your shoulders, looking like messy waves that just fit.
How he thinks he wanted to be a little more than just a best friend.
“Mhm, stay.” He felt arms slowly snaking around his body, and he swore his heart rate sped up. He’s sure you heard it, too—with how your face was pressed into his chest. And he would’ve been embarrassed if he hadn’t felt you nuzzle—burying your nose in between his soft pectorals. Each puff of breath was hot, rendering his brain pathetically useless—a putty in your embrace.
“F-for breakfast?” Yeah, real smooth, Leon. What a stuttering sweet-talker you are. Proud of you, son.
“Forever.”
Then you were awake, staring at those huge cerulean eyes that reminded you of the vast seas. Gods, he was beautiful. Would it be too greedy to wish to wake up every morning with this sight? With Leon’s flushed cheeks and soft eyes that scream longing and affection?
Oh wait, maybe you’re projecting.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
LEON S. KENNEDY HATES BEING TIED DOWN. He despises commitments with passion. Almost pukes at the mere mention of it, actually. He doesn’t do all that lovey-dovey shit. He isn’t clingy—hates to be that person, in fact. He likes being alone, surrounded by his thoughts. That’s his favorite pastime, actually. He—okay, what the fuck. Who wrote this? This script is wrong. Someone is getting fired.
The air in the dining room feels light. Comfortable. The rays of the sun softly peeking through, the birds by the windows singing their hearty tune, and Leon taking care of you, just as usual. You like this routine: drinking coffee while chatting with your favorite person, just as the sun rises like a beautiful backdrop.
“Let’s make us official.”
You almost spat your coffee, heart suddenly—violently—hammering inside your ribcage, begging to be let out. You think it’s palpitations. The iced Spanish latte does its job at roughhousing your nervous system to the point that you think you’re hallucinating shit at like 7:46 am in the morning. You’re not equipped with the right knowledge for this conversation. It feels like your cells just burst.
“W-what?” You replied, with all the neurons and brain cells working overtime. They’re like three combined, so it’s not really that hard of a job when all you could think about was Katseye’s Gnarly chorus on loop. And maybe your hot-fucking-childhood-best-friend-that-acts-more-like-a-boyfriend-than-best-friend-but-you-digress.
“I mean, we’re not blind. As much as we’d like to deny it, we can’t run away from this conversation forever.” If there was hesitation in Leon’s voice, you couldn’t pinpoint it. And if his hands were mildly trembling beneath the surface of the table, you couldn’t see it. But you’d be damned if you couldn’t feel the tension rapidly resurfacing while the conversation continued.
“I can run away right now.”
“Sweets.”
“Lee.”
Leon sighed, as if he could already feel a headache coming. “I can catch you.”
“I’ll run even faster.” See, your tongue is your greatest enemy here.
“You talk too much.”
“You can shut me up.”
You knew someday that your sharp tongue would be the death of you. You got into so much trouble as a child because of it. Your aunties and uncles often get offended by your blunt words, while your little cousins seem to enjoy it. Your parents often scolded you, urging you to school your sharp tongue and witty replies, specifying it’ll bite you in the ass in the future. You didn’t give a fuck. Little you know who you were from a very young age.
You knew, and you were well-aware.
You just didn’t expect to be bitten right now.
Not that you would complain—oh god, no. You’d die happily.
“What?”
“What?”
Leon was staring at you as if he’d like to do exactly that. You don’t blame him—you’d like to do exactly that, too. You’re just… scared.
Scared to lose him.
Scared to lose the sacred friendship you built since you were in literal diapers.
Scared to mess it up so bad, you’d break up.
Scared to fuck it up, he’d end up lea—
“Whatever you’re thinking of, stop. It won’t happen.” Leon suddenly spoke up, looking at you, even if you avoided it. You hate how he knows you like the back of his hand.
Then, he sighed. Leaning closer towards you, hovering his hand over yours. He doesn’t touch, no. He waits. Patiently. “I won’t let it.” He said, barely a breath louder.
Oh, how you hate how easily he makes your resolve crumble.
You’d pity yourself if only you weren’t exactly where you want to be.
You took a deep breath, looking at his eyes after, letting your fears swirl in your irises and baring your emotions in front of him. It’s just… you weren’t used to being vulnerable, okay? Not when you’ve forced yourself into accepting whatever the fuck life throws in your way, simply choosing to laugh it off rather than to mope somewhere all day.
But this? This sudden vulnerability? This sudden confession—no, it never really was sudden. It had been subtle, yes, but you really shouldn’t have been surprised. You’ve been tiptoeing around—crossed, even—the friendship boundary roughly about a few years ago, after that incident in damned Raccoon City.
Now for the record, choosing to go with Leon to venture to that place was on you. You knew he’d be fucked up, being blacked out drunk the night prior—you would know, you were with him at the bar. You get it, the night he just wanted to forget being dumped by his asshole ex. And well, maybe you just wanted to go to RC because you were curious about his workplace, okay? Sue you for being nosy.
You just haven’t expected it to be, for lack of better terms, infested with rotting undead corpses who wanted you for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert.
That definitely wasn’t how you wanted to start your Monday.
“Leon, I…” You felt your nails digging through your palm, leaving crescent indents. It grounded you. “I want to, I really fucking do. I don’t think I have to confess when I’ve always been obvious.” Something dripped, maybe it was crimson from your hands or clear from your eyes. “I’m just scared. So fucking scared.”
You couldn’t face him, swallowed by your cowardly brain, and yet, you couldn’t stop your mouth from speaking every unsaid thought that plagued you. It has a mind of its own.
“I’m scared. What if you wake up one day and realize that I wasn’t the one you’d like to spend your future with? What if you realize that you just settled for the safest option? Because I’m not her, I will never be her—god, fuck! I wanted to be her, but fuck my life, I’m not. I could never do the things she could—I’m basically useless without you. What if I fuck this up? Fuck it up so bad, I’d lose you?”
You were spiraling. Your mind was clouded, as if the dam had been broken and every word was just falling out uncontrollably.
“I like you. No, fucking hell, that’s lackluster. I’m fucking in love with you, and I hate that my stupid brain keeps spewing nonsense and my mouth couldn’t fucking shut up and it’s exposing me!”
And finally, god, finally. Your eyes finally darted at him.
He didn’t look surprised. God, no. It’s so much worse.
He looked soft. As if something unbelievable finally happened. As if he were just waiting for those words to come out of your damn mouth.
“You’re in love with… me?” Leon uttered—no, it was barely a whisper. It was disbelief and relief, all at once. Packaged like a buy-one-get-me-free sale. His soft cerulean eyes were shining with something suspiciously akin to unshed tears. It was apparent, even if he was looking far from you, staring at his now-empty cup and leftover ice.
“Was that all you’ve heard?” While you, you were puzzled. You knew he was a little fucked up, but damn, all those ramblings and that’s all he registered?
As if finally collected his bearings, Leon looked at you, fighting that watery smile that didn’t seem to get off, no matter how hard he tried. “It was all that mattered.” He choked out, biting his lip as a tear finally dropped.
And another.
Then another.
Until it flowed freely like a beautiful waterfall.
“I couldn’t care less. Shit, I just wanted you.” Leon rasped, “Fucking hell, all I’ve ever wanted—no, needed was you.” Trembling, his hands grasped yours, engulfing them whole. He traced little shaky hearts, his fingers still absentmindedly trembling as he stared at your skin, shying away from your gaze.
“All you, Sweets. Always you.” He lifted your hand, prompting it to cup his cheek. With his eyes closed, he melted into your warmth, exhaling a stuttered breath before looking into your eyes. “Always had been, always will be.”
It was whispered.
The promise.
Barely above a whisper.
But the devotion was loud.
Too fucking loud, it echoed through your heart, silencing your stupid brain’s unnecessary provocations.
“You dumb fuck.” You croaked. Before swiftly crossing the table to suffocate in his embrace. You hugged him like he was your lifeline, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his stupefying scent.
Leon did the same, nosing your hair and pulling you to his lap. His head was filled with nothing but you, his arms wrapped in you like a warm cocoon. Peppering light kisses, while his hands fiddled with the ends of your hair, tracing feather-light patterns on your clothed skin. “Your dumb fuck, I suppose?”
“Mine.” You replied, cheekily pecking his neck, feeling the goosebumps run through his spine. “You learn fast.”
“Mhm, shut up.”
Then suddenly, his hand was on your cheek, guiding you towards his plush lips. And damn, you fucking melted, your lips moved as if you were already accustomed to his, moving in sync, like a mad rhythm waiting to be played. The kiss was tender, full of longing and secret devotion shared. It felt like whiskey, something strong, harsh yet addicting. It was heavy with regret—regret of why you haven’t done this much sooner, how you’ve lasted this long without each other’s constant touch, when you’ve realized all you needed was each other, and what’s stopping you from fully destroying the quote-unquote bounder-less boundaries you’ve been too afraid to fully cross.
And was quickly replaced by need—full hunger that aches to restore time that was lost. There was heat when he parted your mouth with his tongue, curling around yours like a waltz that seeks to devour you whole. Your throat bubbles with whines you don’t even bother suppressing, because he drank it with vigor. He kisses you like he was starved, tongue fondling with yours, curling and stroking until your head was fucked and air was a foreign concept for losers.
You felt his large hands grope your ass, snaking down to grab a hold of your thighs, manhandling you so you’re straddling him, clothed drenched cunt to clothed hard cock. It made you whimper, embarrassing sounds escaping your lips while he rolled his hips, catching your clit. Writhing in his hold, your mouth left his as you tugged his shirt, signaling that you want it gone.
He obliged with a husky chuckle, “Impatient, aren’t you? My needy baby.” Leon’s voice dropped an octave lower, swiftly pulling his shirt off to reveal his muscular build. Before your head could catch a fraction of what you were doing, your hands were already tracing his sculptured lines. Nimble hands flying from the sides of his neck, lightly circling his pebbled nipples (which made him stutter a breathless gasp), dropping lower to his chiseled abs, feeling the deep ridges and subtly grinding on his hard cock.
“F-fuck, sweets. Like what you see?”
“Very.”
Oh, maybe you shouldn’t have done that.
Because suddenly, you’re very afraid of what will happen next.
Maybe your legs would cease to work.
Maybe your voice would refuse to come out.
Maybe his cock would be wrung dry.
And maybe you’d like that.
Leon groaned in response, hauling you up with one arm while his other arm busied itself gripping the back of your scalp, under your soft hair, pulling you closer as his tongue bullied yours yet again. Your arms flew to his neck, inching yourself even closer as you felt him move—walking to what you would assume to be your bedroom.
Plopping you down on your bed, you bounced twice—twice too long for Leon, apparently, as he found himself in between your thighs, rip, rip, ripping your clothes to shreds. His hand found purchase in your bra, swiftly unhooking it with a snap. It would’ve been impressive if not for his tongue immediately lapping your pebbled nipple, calloused hand playing and massaging the other one.
“Fuck, baby,” he panted, sucking lazy kisses that would for sure bruise. “Y’taste too sweet. Shit, you really are my sweets.” Then, you felt a hazy, sharp pain, looking down to see a bite mark right before your areola—all red and new as he stares at you with hooded eyes. Cerulean eyes that seemed to deepen with each passing second, pupils all blown out and dilated as if you were the only drug he’s willing to indulge in.
Then, he switched to your other nipple, slobbering and giving it the same attention as the other one. Little zigzags as his tongue traced your areola to your hardened nipple. Fuck, it was a mess of spit and bites as he sucked wet kisses down your stomach, fiddling the strings of your sleep shorts and tugging them down with the patience of a saint—well, if the saint was being chased by a rather aggressive wolf in a two-by-two world build.
“Fuckin’ look amazing, gorgeous.” Leon huffed, kissing the side seams of your panties and lifting your thigh, placing it on his broad shoulder, his face lightly pressing your inner thighs as he scattered wet kisses—his light stubble scratching you involuntarily, arching your back with light whines.
His warm puffs of breath tickled you, moaning as your fingers travel to his scalp. “S-stop teasing m—” You stuttered, before a sharp whine catches on the back of your throat.
Fuck, it was hot. His warm tongue lapped the gusset of your drenched panties, tasting you just from the fabric. Desperate licks as he sucked, blunt nails digging through your thighs as your arousal seeps through the ruined cloth. Then, his lips found purchase on your clothed (almost transparent) clit, sucking and sucking with the scratchy—wet—fabric adding the stupefying sensations.
The room was filled with your ah-ah-ah!’s while Leon was having the time of his life in between your legs. It wasn’t until you heard a small rip-rip-rip until ypu realized that oh! you’re fucked.
Leon groaned, immediately devouring your fucking pussy. “Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Y’ve been keeping t’is from me?” He slurred, tracing your folds with his tongue, fucking you with zigzags that ranged from lazy to vigorous spurts of energy. He eats you out like he was starved and you were the only meal he needed to survive. He flicked his tongue on your clit, swirlin’ and sucking, then going back to your drippy hole where he collects your sweet fuckin’ sap. “Shit—haah—so fuckin’ wet for me—juuuust for me, sweets?”
“C’mon, baby. Gimme more, yeah? Fuuuuuck, y’can gimme more.” Leon rasped, greedily sucking your twitchy, engorged clit, then switching to tongue-fuck your drippy hole, curling and stroking your stretchy walls. While you? You were (s)creaming, throat scratchy with strings of curses, with drool collecting on the corner of your lips—precisely why you barely registered his thick finger entering you, stretching your poor pussy out while his tongue continued to abuse your poor clit. “P-please.”
The burn was insane—insanely fucking delicious, your head was swarming with dizzying pleasure. “F—s-shit, m-more—mhmn—a-aah!” You don't even remember what you were doing, barely even remembering your name. All you could think about was Leon, Leon, Leon.
You felt another finger, scissoring, curling inside your gummy walls. Reaching into the depths of your spongy weakness—making you scream, thrashing into his hold to the point that he has no choice but to wrap his strong arm around your abdomen to halt your involuntary actions.
And then another.
Three fingers, knuckles deep, assaulting your insides—hammering into your fucking g-spot, while his tongue continues to suck the living soul out of your poor hypersensitive nub.
“S-shit, ‘m close—fuuuuuck—‘m close!” You rasped, tugging Leon’s soft locks as your body convulsed—unravelling, coming undone. Eyes rolling back to the back of your skull until all you could see was white, and the coil on your abdomen violently snapping as liquids flew like a damn waterfall.
And Leon? Yeah, he wasn’t done. Still lapping your juices as you spill it all out. Even after your high was released, his mouth was still moving, still making out with your oversensitive pussy, still greedily sucking your juices, even if you tried to pull away, running from his strong embrace. God, no. He just pulls you back even closer, burying his nose in your clit while his tongue circles your hole.
He’s determined to fuck your brains out so good, you’d stop thinking of pointless possibilities that would never fucking happen as long as he’s alive. Why would he think about other women when he’s got you splayed out for him like a fucking five-course meal, just his for taking? Why would he think about the irrelevant fucking future when his past and present were spent with you? All you, baby. All fucking you.
“Oh, fuck—Leon—!!”
Did he say that out loud? Because by the look of it, he did. Your glassy, heart eyes say it so.
“Like that, sweets? That I’m aaaaaall yours? Yeah?” Leon grunts, standing up so he could hover over you, kissing you, all spit, come, and tongue. His tongue—god, his tongue, you love his fucking tongue—coiled around yours. Fucking your mouth while his hand unbuckled his belt, tugging off his pants in a swift motion. You caught sight of his drenched boxers, spurts of wetness visible through the grey fabric. It made you whine on his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as you basked in the sensation.
“Bet you fuckin’ loved that, didn’t you, sweetheart? Loved the fact that I came untouched by eating you out, mhm?” He whispered on your lips, slightly pulling away as his lips reattached to your neck, sucking and kissing deep reds and purples once more. “Didn't even need to grind, fuck, y’r cunt’s allll I need, baby. Drives me fuckin’ insane.”
Just as quickly, you felt something hard and hot pulsing on your fluttering cunt. Blinking—willing your eyes to open, you saw his massive cock—long, pretty, veiny and fucking girthy as you swallowed dry. Shivers traveled down your spine, suddenly very fuckin’ afraid if it’ll even fit.
Leon chuckled, as if sensing your hesitation. His hand moved to cup your cheek while his other traced circles in your hips, grounding you. “It’ll fit, baby. I’ll make it fit.” His tone was soft, his thumb caressing your cheek as he wills you to look at his eyes—but damn, his words were nasty. “Gonna make sure y’r head’s full of my cock, my pretty baby. Y’like that?”
See, you would’ve responded. All sweet and high-pitchy. Instead, moans were the only thing that left your lips when you felt his cock nudge your outer lips, teasing your cunt as you felt Leon spreading your legs further, bullying your cunt until his tip finally fuckin’ entered your stretchy hole.
“F-fuhck! Mhmnn—!!” You stuttered, already feelin’ fucking full. Still too hypersensitive from your earlier release. “S’jus the t-tip?”
It made Leon puff out a breathy chuckle, moving his hips little by little, small thrusts to fit snugly inside you. “Y-yeah, baby. Still jus’ the tip. ‘m sure y’can fit more inches here, yeah?” He drawled out, his fingers tracing to what he would assume to be where his dick would fit. “J-jus’ tell me if y’need a break, ‘kay?”
Then he thrusts, parting your gummy walls, impaling you with his thick, veiny cock fully. And you did nothing but take it, enjoying every second of being fucked dumb by Leon and hearing his damn cute whines. He wasn't afraid to be vocal, oh god no. He was loud. Groaning with each mean thrust on your cunt—whining as he repeatedly pounds your g-spot, making you drool on your sheets.
“Y-yeah? L-like that, baby? Oh fuuck—” Cutting himself off with a groan, he felt you clench—squeezing his damn cock so tight, he had to will himself not to cum that fast. “Sweet girl, you're—ngh—y’r fuckin’ suffocatin’ me.”
You did nothin’ but whimper, and he did nothin’ but take you to pound town.
Leon’s stamina was more than fucking impressive; his unrelenting thrusts were constant and damn consistent, roughly loving and disrespecting you all at the same time. You felt stuffed to the brim with his thick shaft, his calloused thumb traveling to rub mean circles on your clit as you moaned for mercy. The repeated plap-plap-plap of his skin slapping yours was nasty, and his erratic ministrations of your body felt like heaven. You think you could stay like this forever.
“Yeah, b-baby? Fuuuuuuckin’ think you could stay like t’is for—nghh!—forever?” He groaned at the shell of your ear, darting his tongue to flick at the sensitive lobe. “Think ‘m doin’ somethin’ wrong, y’shouldn’t be thinkin’ at alllll.” He croons, tone deep and mocking, manhandling your thighs, folding you in half.
“Wha—Lee!! Oh fuck, Leoooooon—!!” All you could do was squeak, your voice going an octave higher—something you didn’t even know you were capable of, as he jackhammers into your cunt. Fucking you senseless and so utterly stupid, abusing your spongy g-spot with precise thrusts. And you could only retaliate by fucking up his back, scratching while your back gives out.
You swore you heard him whimper in delight.
Your five senses consist of staring at Leon’s fucked out face, smelling Leon’s heady scent, tasting your cum and Leon’s saliva still on your lips, hearing Leon’s sharp grunts and gasps—occasionally his small whimpers as he hits a rather deep spot, and—fuck—feeling Leon’s thick cock spearheading your tight cunt, feeling him twitch as his veins tickled your insides.
Yeah, you won’t be walking, alright.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
LEON S. KENNEDY IS ALL OF THOSE THINGS, BUT MAYBE THERE MIGHT BE EXCEPTIONS (YOU).
“Fuck you, Kennedy. Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou!” You groaned, the feeling of your legs still not returning after a day and a half of full bed rest.
The person charged guilty was found chuckling, eating ice cream, and faaaaaar away from where your wrath could grasp him in the neck (he’d like that). “Ouch, babe. Kennedy? Seriously? Who’s that?”
Aaaaaand then ducking, as if he could already feel the pillow heading toward his head without directly looking at it.
“Fuck you and your stupid fucking stamina and your stupid fucking words—ugh! I am never sleeping with you ever again!”
“You kiss your boyfie with that potty mouth?” He whistled, “Damn.”
“Oh, you dick!” You threw him your plushy, the same thing he gave a few years ago—all purpley and stupid. Cute, but stupid.
“Nine inches, baby. And a grower—hey! Not my child.” Leon pouted, catching the plushy with both hands, then patting in the head as if it truly had feelings.
“Fuckin’ suffocate!”
“In those thighs? Bet.”
“Asshole—!!”
“We could try that, too.”
“Urgh!” You threw your hands up, huffing, as you slumped back in your (thank god wasn’t broken) bed.
imsorryimsorryimsorryiwantmore holy fuck i don't know what i wrote and in my defense, my hands started typing shit before i even realized what i was doing okay okay. (did u enjoy it tho? teehee) rbs and comms are greatly appreciated! i work well with praise wink wink wink
— in which! a hot lady suddenly moved in next door and got your life utterly fucked.
OR Ada Wong is your not-so-typical unfriendly neighborhood tattoo artist, and you own a coffee shop beside her.
word count! 2.5k
content! cliché, idiots in love, MDNI HEAVY MAKEOUT SESH, f!reader (wuhluhwuh), eng not my first lang, this was s'pposed to be posted with my anniv special but i got hit w writer's block soooo i couldn't finish some of 'em, this is my sacrifice. HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!! not beta-ed we die like my wips
loosely inspired by: kaba by tootsie guevarra
Your day started with you banging on your newly moved-in neighbor’s door.
Why? Because who the fuck would think that it’s a good idea to blast metal rock at the crack-ass of dawn? Your neighbor, apparently.
See, it would’ve been fine if it were the first time they did it. But nooo. Since the lot became occupied, your mornings have never been quite the same. If KISS’s I Was Made For Lovin’ You wasn’t playing on loop, you’d think the person next door had been kidnapped.
So, yes, while terribly endearing (haha), you really, really want to sleep in. Maybe a peaceful day where you won’t hear any 70’s rock metal, preferably. God forbid a girl just wants her peaceful mornings listening to birds singing while making coffee.
“What is it, Karen?” Someone grumbled, madly annoyed, just from her tone.
You would’ve been lying if you said that didn’t pissed you off.
But you also would’ve been lying even harder if you said that the drop-dead fucking gorgeous woman didn’t make your tongue twist in a pretty bow.
God, fuck. Why were you always so damn pathetically weak for hot women?
“Hello? Are you just gonna stand there ogling or what?” The pretty woman snapped her finger in your face, just as sassy as her tone. Shit, you were too obvious, weren’t you?
As if snapping out of a trance, you shook your head, a polite smile forcing its return to your face, as you returned her eye contact. Rude and hot. Of-fucking-course.
“I’m sorry, that was quite rude of me, wasn’t it?” You started, kinda sheepish. “Would you mind lowering the volume of your… wake-up call? It’s disturbing some people’s sleep.”
“Are you implying that I’m a nuisance?” She scoffed, already turning her heels and closing the door before even letting you speak. Your polite smile vanished, turning into a bitter scowl. You really would’ve liked her if not for her shitty attitude.
Deciding to be the bigger person, you walked away, disregarding the interaction for the sake of your mental health. But you did notice the dramatic decrease in volume from her bass speaker. Maybe the pretty neighbor was just horseshit at social interactions, after all.
That, ladies and gentlemen, queers and non-binaries, is your very first interaction with your suspicious, drop-dead gorgeous, loud next-door neighbor, Ms. Wong (yes, you still don’t know her first name; her porch did not exactly come with a birth certificate attached to it, y’know).
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
You should’ve known the universe has been wanting to fuck you up in the ass. It’s been giving you signs, and you just. like. ignoring. it.
First, it was that hot neighbor and her loud-ass bass. Second, there were your unbearably warm pillows that put lava to shame. Third, your brand new fucking espresso machine that—for the love of everything holy and unholy—refused to turn the fuck on.
Fourth, is—well—how could you say this in a… less offensive tone?
Right.
Fourth, your fuckass, incredibly rude (& hot) house neighbor is also your neighbor here. At your freaking job.
She’s the owner of the newly bought tattoo parlor, right. next. to. yours.
Fuck your life, man.
“Hey, are you stalking me?” You barely registered her saying. Matter of fact, you barely fuckin’ registered her walking up to you—with a nasty smirk.
“No, I—… I work here!” You sputtered, pink dusting your flushed cheeks. You heard her chuckle—god, it was a fucking experience. It was light and airy, amusement dancing in her features. You actually cannot do this right now—
“Whatever you say, weirdo. You own that cute cafe, yeah?”
“Yeah? What about it?”
“Say, if I order, will there be a discount?”
“And for what? Being my neighbor doesn’t guarantee you a—”
“For, you know, letting you stare down for free. Don’t bother denying; I saw where your eyes were earlier—it’s not exactly in my eyes.”
…
The fuck could you even respond to that?!
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
You gave one for free.
Out of spite.
“Don’t ever talk about this to anyone, ever again. In fact, don’t even come near my shop. You’re getting banned.” You stood in front of her, slamming the large cup on a nearby table with a glare that could rival a dinosaur. She thinks you look like a noisy kitten.
She then proceeded to stare at you with a twinkle in her eyes that meant you’d definitely see her again. Like, okay, of course you will. You’re damn neighbors freaking everywhere—but that’s not the point!
“Name’s Ada Wong, doll. Y’know, in case you wanna stalk me some more.”
Now that made you storm off in frustration. Loudly stomping your feet and slamming the door like a toddler having a tantrum.
And if you hear a soft, airy chuckle that makes your heart skip several beats for a minute? Well, that’s not the pandora’s box you wanna open.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Days bled to weeks, and weeks sped by to months; you know what became a constant? Your banter with the one and only, your unfriendly neighborhood tattoo artist, Miss Ma’am Ada Wong.
Well, more like she’s bantering, and you’re stubbornly refusing to lose—exactly like an angry kitten being poked like a hundred times (her exact words, not yours).
It’s annoying; it’s hot. Oftentimes, you rub one out to release your (sexual) frustration. And when the post-nut clarity hits? Fuck, you keep on wondering what the hell fucking happened, and why the hell were you not shoving your tongues in each other’s throats? Because holy fuck, there’s tension. That’s a fact. You know that as a fact. Because why else does she stare at your lips while royally pissing you off, looking utterly pleased with herself?
“Hey,” Ada called your name, rousing you out of your reverie. Fuck, you really gotta stop doing that.
“The hell you want, Bobcut?”
“Oh? That’s new. What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“You—I mean, your loud-ass music. It’s deafening my ears.” That got her brow raised. She never really turned up her music today—not at home, not at her shop.
“Okay, weirdo. Do you always—”
“Sweets! Hey!” Ada heard a man shout, calling your attention. If she felt her eye twitch, she refused to talk about that. You were on your break, for godssake! And break meant you spending your time being pissy in her parlor while eating lunch. Fucking hell.
“Oh? Hey!” She saw your eyes brighten up, making hers dim. Not that god-awful man again. She walked away without saying anything, and if you saw her roll her eyes in annoyance? Well, all she’s gonna be doing is to deny, deny, deny.
“Oh my gosh—I told you to stop touching me like that!” Your sudden, distressed shout made Ada still, her hands clenched into a fist. She turned back, again, intervening against her better judgment.
“Doll? What’re you still doing here? Thought we’d leave early.” She said sweetly, as if you literally weren’t arguing about penguin tattoos moments prior.
“Must’ve slipped my mind, ‘m sorry.” You whispered, trembling while looking at her like she was your salvation. God, you hated the fact that her effects on you were still so fucking strong—even if you’re annoyed out of your mind with some fuckwit regular being a little too touchy.
“Naughty. I’ve reminded you that al—” her airy chuckles permeate the air before she is rudely cut off. By a man, no less. That got your eye twitch.
“Sorry, who are you?” The man bitterly said, sizing her up. Ada didn’t spare him a single glance. She just leaned to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, smoothly tracing her fingers to pinch your cheek. You felt like you had suddenly entered an alternate universe.
“Let’s get the hell out, yeah?” She whispered with a secret smile, beckoning you to stand up and holding your hand. Just as you did, you felt the man roughly grab your arm, leading you to almost stumble—if not for Ada’s support, gently steadying you.
“Hey, I’m still talking to you!” The man grunted, his grip tightening painfully, making you wince.
“Let go!—the fuck is wrong with you?!” You tried yanking your arm away, but it was futile. Fucking hell, you could already feel a nasty handprint-bruise forming.
While Ada? Ada is fucking livid; she could see flames. How dare he touch you? A god-awful, filthy stain in a shoe, man fucking touched you.
“Get your hands off, ‘else you want it gone.” She spat, jaw clenched with a matching glare that could shoot him dead. An icy chill ran down the pathetic man’s spine, making his grip slightly falter. But he couldn’t let go—not yet. He refused to. His ego’s way too big for that.
Listen, if you weren’t—quite literally—stuck being manhandled by an asshole, you would’ve kissed her by now. Like, seriously, she looks so fucking cute protecting you. Your head is becoming concerningly jumbled, and it wasn’t because of the asshole or the situation—well, okay, maybe if the situation was named Ada Wong, theeeeen you’ll bite.
“How about a no—” Before anything could be said or heard, a loud smack! rang in the silent room. One moment, the man was standing beside you (roughly gripping your poor, unfortunate arm), then the next, he was down to the ground, clutching his face with tears in his eyes, sporting a nasty bruise and an ugly lip cut.
“My girlfriend is not yours to touch—more or less, hurt.” She hissed, standing in front of you protectively. You don’t know how she got there, but you do know one thing for certain: something dripped, and it’s not tears nor sweat.
She stomped at the man one last time before facing you, silently scanning where you’ve been hurt. Her eyes zeroed in on your arm; splotches of red and purple in place of fingerprints were visible. “You’re hurt.” Her words soften as she places her hand on the small of your back, leading you further inside.
If you heard her employees (and customers) whisper and whistle in congratulations, well, you grinned in pride (Ada just looked mad defeated, but the smile she was fighting off speaks a LOT).
She guided you to her private booth, closing the door for privacy.
“Hey, I’m sorry for ca—”
“Did you mean it?” You breathe, looking at her with glistening eyes.
“Were you uncomfortable? Sorry, I—”
“No, I don’t give a shit. Did you mean it?” You persisted, gently holding her hands, tracing absent circles—either to comfort her or yourself, you weren’t quite sure.
Ada took a deep breath, her grip on you slightly tightening subconsciously before loosening.
“I do.” She whispered as if it were the first breath of fresh air. “From the moment you bitched about my loud bass, I knew I was done for.”
You didn’t speak, letting her finish. You continued to stare at her in the same fond manner you’ve always had. You continued to admire her raven locks and her bob cut that always manages to frame her face perfectly. You continued to look at her twinkling eyes, which always seemed to bring sarcasm and wit. You continued to gaze at her soft, kissable, pink lips—you’ve never once seen them chapped. Fuck, you’re in this deep, aren’t you?
“I never said anything because, well, I don’t know if you even like women that way—fuck, if you even like me that way.” Even if she couldn’t hold back the self-deprecating laugh she let out, she continued. “I just—I was just content with being whatever we are ‘cause I’d rather have that… than not have you at all.” Her voice gradually faded into a whisper, a testament to how much the ruthless yet graceful lady exterior earlier crumbled in the face of an uncertain variable called love.
Specifically loving a woman you didn’t know loves you back, and is currently clenching her fist to calm herself down, leaving her palm with mini crescents because—holy fucking shit, what do you mean my long-time crush-slash-enemy-ish just confessed to me aaaaaaaaaaahhh—but it’s whatever.
“I—… Fuck, it’s about time.” You threw your arms around her neck, grip slightly tightening with joy. “Thought you were never gonna say something.” You whispered in her ear—catching her off guard.
“I—”
“I like you. So much.” With your voice that only whispers the truth, Ada felt as if this godforsaken world finally did her right.
You leaned close, noses touching as you waited for her permission to continue. She closed the gap, not even a second later.
Her lips were soft, languidly moving in yours like a waltz. Her hand cupped the back of your head, while her other hand traced your back before settling on the curve of your waist—pulling you impossibly closer. You couldn't help but melt into her arms, parting your lips with a gasp. She took that opportunity to swirl her tongue in yours, greedily exploring the crevices of your mouth. Mewls and whimpers bubbled in your throat as she took it with a grin—lightly sucking your tongue.
You didn't know when she pulled away, just the fact that after she did, warm, wet kisses trailed to the column of your neck.
“F-fuck, babe.” You whimpered, mind barely functioning, as she was the only one keeping you anchored.
Ada chuckled, her hand trailing from the back of your neck down to your collarbone. She tugged the neckline of your blouse before popping open a button.
“Can't let other people think you're up for grabs, Doll. Gotta fix that, don't you think?” She mumbled to your skin, expertly finding your sweet spot. She licked a stripe before making marks with a vigour you didn't think she had. It wasn't long until she had you putty on her hold.
You were a mess. A whimpering, moaning mess. Ada thinks she could print out the sight from just her memory. Fuck, you look too pretty with lipstick smudges decorating your lips and her marks that littered your neck—with your brows furrowed in pleasure, and the unsteady rise and fall of your chest.
You're a masterpiece she wanted to be framed on her walls to spend hours worshipping.
“My needy Doll. You’re already this worked out after a bit of kissing? Haven’t even tasted you yet.” She hummed, tucking the stray strands of your hair behind your ear.
She then leaned close to your ear, her teeth grazing the tips, as her warm breathy whisper made you shiver. “Bet my needy doll’s already dripping for me, hm?”
ME NEXT ADA ME NEXT!! also i have to get real formal for a bit, i saw some minors interacting my sttnshp! leon fic and as much as i love love LOVE my readers, i would prefer if you don't interact w my fics w heavy suggestive shit—esp if it has allusions to SEXUAL INTERCOURSE!!! internet safety or whatnot. anywhooooo, did you enjoy this one? i struggled with proofreading this 'cuz ada just makes me crumble into a ball and giggle like a maniac. i really hope i freaking finish my wips like i SWEAR, i have a lot planned but it's hindering meeeeeeeeee!!! i was abt to publish a vanta fic too smh. as always, rbs are appreciated, inbox is open if u wanna send smexy ideas to get me out of my slump and hehhe ily mwah! see u on the next post!
