Content: smut, p in v, fingering, squirting, alcohol consumption, hookup culture lol
Masterlist❤︎
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There is nothing better than being fucked completely senseless.
Arguably the best remedy for a chronically overactive mind.
After five straight days of managing passive-aggressive emails and smiling through situations that tested the absolute limits of human sanity, you decided the only cure for this impending mental breakdown was a stiff drink and zero inhibitions on this lovely weekend.
Two shots of whatever was closest, and the company of a man who looked just as desperately in need of a distraction as you, if not more so.
Beautiful was what you initially pegged him as, eyes sweeping along the striking lines of an exhausted face and the stubborn swoop of hair spilling carelessly over his brow. Then you decided he was just prematurely aged. The silver threads catching at his temples and the aggressive shadow of a stubble made him look worn down by a decade of exceptionally bad sleep and even worse stress.
He looked like a man who could fuck good. Looked like he approached sex the exact same way he approached the rest of his miserable life, with unrelenting stamina and a terrifyingly methodical focus designed to dismantle whatever stood before him.
He also looked like an easy target, staring into the amber depths of his glass with a level of sad depression that practically radiated off his shoulders. All it took was you stepping directly into his line of sight, ordering another shot with a dramatic sigh, and offering him a painfully cynical comment about the state of the world (while deliberately showing off your cleavage).
The guarded set of his jaw twitched into the faintest ghost of a smirk.
You offered your name, he offered his (Leon—was it short for Leonard? Leonel?), and he leaned in when you laughed at his terrible attempt at a joke. A genuine chortled laugh because you hadn't expected a dad joke from a man who looked as brooding as he did.
You licked your lips, he followed your tongue.
Hook, line, sinker.
Which explains how you now find yourself trapped in a mating press on a mattress that probably costs more per night than your rent. A dingy, cheap motel would have been your practical choice, but you had noted the expensive gleam of the watch on his wrist within five minutes of sitting next to him. Freaking Hamilton that looked distinctly like a limited edition, judging by the brushed steel and intricate dial.
Frankly, you shouldn't be surprised he carried that much net worth. He’s handsome, weathered beautifully into his age (Late forties? Early fifties?), and clearly paid an exorbitant amount of money to survive whatever horrors are actively ruining his mental health.
What does surprise you is how you’ve underestimated the scope of his physical abilities.
Over the past blurry hour, this complete stranger has effortlessly folded you into positions that defy your understanding of your own flexibility. Knees pressed so securely beside your own ears you start to believe the fee you pay for your weekly reformer pilates class might be a scam.
Apparently what you needed to achieve this level of advanced mobility was the unrelenting dead weight of a very, very capable man. So fucking capable that you’ve genuinely lost count of how many times he’s wrung you out on these expensive sheets.
Four orgasms? Maybe five? Whatever the number is, another one is dangerously crawling up the base of your spine.
Your sanity might be beyond saving at this point. You’re sweating profusely, and the backs of your thighs are screaming in dull protest from being pinned back for god knows how long. Leon pulls out and snaps his hips again with a jarring impact that seems to grow more ruthlessly aggressive with every single grind.
He does it again and again and again until you’re basically screaming from the unavoidable crash of yet another orgasm, toes curling frantically in the suspended air while your nails bite into the heavy muscle of his arms.
This man is something else, obviously nothing akin to the standard parade of disappointing men who talked big but possessed absolutely zero game. They were a flimsy attempt to scratch the very surface of your boredom. Leon, by comparison, is clawing straight down to the bone.
There’s a slowness in his thrusts now, and you blink to find an actual smile breaking through the sweat and exhaustion on his face. The warm puff of a chuckle against your cheek tells you he isn't simply amused. He’s actually entertained.
You huff, making a valiant but entirely useless attempt to mock him, "Stop laughing."
The sweat beading along his heavy brow does absolutely nothing to detract from how devastatingly smug he looks right now. “You’re shaking so much. It’s cute.”
So much for playing the femme fatale act at the bar. He swipes a thumb across your blotchy cheek, courtesy of his rough afternoon shadow.
“You okay?”
You sigh out a harsh breath, blowing a damp strand of hair out of your eyes. “Have you," you manage to wheeze, "even cum yet?”
He shakes his head, blue eyes glinting with unapologetic amusement.
"Are you ever going to?"
His low laughter rumbles warmly in your ears. “Why, you want me to stop already?" he presses a kiss against your jaw. "Thought you were having a good time."
“I’m having a great time.”
“Then what’s with the rush?”
“Maybe we should take a break,” you whine, gasping sharply when the weight of his pelvis rocks aggressively against your lower belly. “I-I need to pee.”
He seems unfazed. Moves like you didn't utter a word to begin with. Instead, what he does is press you even further into the mattress. “Is that right?”
“Fuck—Leon—” You arch your back as he maliciously tilts his hips. “You’re not helping.”
“I actually am,” he argues.
“What—”
“Let's test a theory," he drawls, hot breath ghosting over your pulse. "Do you really think you just need to pee, or are you about to squirt?”
You go completely still for a moment. Considering your track record of thoroughly uninspired hookups and non-lasting relationships, there is absolutely no palpable evidence to suggest you are capable of doing what he’s asking.
“I’m pretty sure I need to pee,” you reason quietly. “I’m not a squirter.”
He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve never done that before?”
“I have no prior experience to suggest it's even an option.”
He looks genuinely offended by your answer. “Do you want to try?”
Your head falls back to fully take him in. He really is pretty. Never mind the faint, tired wrinkles bracketing his pale blue eyes, or the harsh features of a man who has clearly seen too much and slept too little. He’s simply too devastatingly gorgeous for his own good.
Even with the fragments of scars you’ve spent the last hour subconsciously counting on his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Scars that make you wonder what kind of terrifying life he leads when he isn't in a hotel room with a stranger, fucking their brains out.
And you’re very much aware you’re one of the few he’s taken to bed.
But is he always this attentive? This generous?
Does he fuck everyone else this hard yet still find the gentle grace to cradle their face and brush the hair out of their eyes?
You instantly hate how territorial you sound. It's wildly hypocritical for someone who values the cheap thrill of a purely physical transaction just as much as he clearly does. He’s just a good lover, you decide. And if tonight is the only night you get to have this man all to yourself, then so be it.
If he thinks he can make you squirt, then who are you to deny?
“You really think I’m about to squirt?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
You frown. “What if it’s just pee?”
He kisses the wrinkled line between your brows. “Make a mess then, I don’t mind.”
Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight.
“Then make me squirt, Leon.”
He dips his head, breathing the hot air of his lungs directly into your open mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
Your pussy tightens reflexively at that, which he obviously catches. He catches on to every desperate tell your body gives him, actually. Probably the sole reason why you've already come an embarrassing number of times.
Not enough, apparently, because he’s already moving his hips in rapid rhythms—not too fast or too slow, but enough to have your eyes sliding shut, focusing on the stretch of his cock driving deep in and out of your cunt.
“Fucking beautiful,” he hums, binding your wrists together above your head. “Just lying there looking all pretty."
“H-harder,” you whine, weakly pushing your hips up to meet him.
“Yeah?” He squeezes your wrists together, leaning even more of his massive frame over you. “You like it when I go hard on you?”
Like it? You thrive on it, nodding frantically as your trembling thighs try to lock around his waist. Try is definitely the word when he’s practically flattened you beneath his crushing weight, effortlessly trapping your body. You can feel your limbs turn gooey and powerless, your stomach contrastingly hard.
“I know, baby, I know,” he rasps, ramming his hips harshly against yours. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Ngh—h—”
“That’s it, give it to me. Make a mess on me.”
The panic hits you first, quickly swallowed by an absolute wave of pure heat. Starts as a buzzing ache in your core before violently spiking into an unbearable sensation. Your belly burns, coils, rattles—and you blink your eyes open, brimming with tears. “Leon—”
He instantly reads the panicked clench of your muscles.
“Don't fight it.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Your groan is feral. “I can’t—”
“Come on, baby, you’ve got to trust me,” he croons softly. “Do you trust me?”
Surprisingly, you do, even if your only judgment on this man comes from the three hours that have passed since you sat down next to him at the bar. “Yes.”
“Good. Then let it happen.”
Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.
“Breathe through your nose.”
He plunges in with a particularly harsh thrust and you gasp. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Oh, fuck—”
“That’s it.” He closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads touching. “Let it go.”
You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding.
It’s like a switch. One moment your muscles are tensed, then a passage of whines pitches upward as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Strong and gut-wrenching. Body hot in bliss and shame—only for two seconds. Quick as it hits, he abruptly pulls out, instantly replacing his cock with two calloused fingers.
Your mouth gapes in a silent scream. Even more so when his offhand curls around your neck. Fingers pressing against the sides of your throat, palm flat against your windpipe, but exercising barely any pressure all the while his fingers fucks your swollen, dripping cunt.
You’ve seen yourself getting wet, you’ve felt yourself getting drenched, but you’ve never experienced anything as wild as this.
Speckles of liquid spatter across the sheets the more he drags his hand in an up-and-down motion, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.
He pushes his palm against your clit.
“Oh fuck! fuckfuckfuck—”
A sudden rush spills over him. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot onto his thighs. He continues to pump his fingers while you lie there—crying openly, violently shuddering. It goes on for what feels like forever until he smoothes out his pressure around your throat, kissing the drool glistening on your lips with a disbelief chuckle.
“Should’ve met you sooner,” he laughs into your mouth, easily slipping his cock back in.
Maybe it’s the bliss completely corrupting your nervous system, or perhaps it’s the overwhelming stretch of his thick cock driving back into your overstimulated cunt. Whatever it is, you completely lose your grip on the casual nature of a one night stand, eager words spilling past your wet lips before you can even screen them.
“Can we meet again?” You pant. “Like—after tonight?”
You’re somewhere right on the edge of a pathetic whimper and a helpless laugh, entirely too pleasured to think straight, dangerously too giddy at the possibility of actually getting to know him. To uncover those scars in daylight, to figure out what kind of hell he had to survive to inherit those devastatingly sad yet kind eyes.
To learn his last name. To unearth his middle.
You gasp when he effortlessly flips you over, twisting his fingers in your hair and pulling it back.
Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight—and all the days that follow.
synopsis: you sent a nude picture to leon while he was at work, and well, he’s letting you know that you were misbehaving badly.
tags: re9!leon (or di!leon) x fem!reader: ddlg established relationship, leon is a father figure, age gap (at least twenty years, but reader is over 21) fauxcest, spanking (pussy and ass spanking), condescending jargon, mentions of vibrators, daddy kink (used: daddy, dad, papa and dada), petnames: sweetheart, dollface, girl, little/young lady
author's note: i finally gave into ddlg and fauxcest with leon bc hes literally dada. i don’t condone this type of dynamic with any man in real life unless they’re jensen ackles, or wilson bethel tbh. i personally feel comfortable writing this with leon bc i can control the narrative. but in real life, a big no-no, i know u guys r smart enough to know this. read at ur own discretion. we know dada <3
wc: 2.6k
Piled high on the mahogany table were the reports and assignments left unfinished thanks to the bureaucratic chaos by the name of the highly respected Kennedy, ironically enough, the head of the division department, had brought upon himself. Because if we were to consider his work ethic, your Daddy was normally as sharp as a tack, always precise and swift in executing his tasks (and missions) within governmental standards – could potentially even earn him the approval to be running this country his damn self should he ever wish to represent the eagle, soldiers and superb men alike pledged their loyalty to.
But today, a string of high-stakes phone calls atop the plethora of papers seemed to have left their mark on the American golden boy (or rather, rugged old man with legendary status), and thus, his productivity slowed down to a cipher.
It didn’t quite help that his own phone had buzzed with a notification that Leon should have refrained from checking upon in the first place. Because all it took was one look, and the agent, who was known by his protegees as competently indifferent, wasn’t able to think straight anymore, therefore, had explained himself of having to leave work early due to an emergency and rushed out of the building.
Right.
Not much of a surprise when it came to –
Said to be a present, clearly, as he read the message, added with a picture of your body, scantily clad, in the lewdest position possible, only for his eyes to see, of course. Indeed, the man who was as anonymous as one could be, had a very weak spot for a beautiful, little missus in his life.
A-hem, you.
To then say that he wasn’t willing to speak upon of what had prompted him to ditch work ahead of schedule would be an understatement. Everything you did was solely reserved for Leon the professional, and he wanted to keep it that way – under lock and key (in conclusion: secretive). He also wouldn’t be willing to admit (to you either) that he loved your risqué side (proven by the exempt as just shown), more accurately, your overly provocative one, especially when the entire relationship was established on said premise: that he was the one in control, and therefore, intent to be the one to draw the impermeable lines (boundaries) in scorching hot sand, which you had to respect and abide by in return.
Leon had, admittedly, been in denial for a very, very long time.
At the beginning, he had stated time and time again he wasn’t into such things (his browsing history said otherwise, though, but let’s digress), shooed you away and shook his head as if he’d been disappointed by you (translating into: he pushed you away because you had kept boking the bear). Silly you.
But late at night, that’s exactly when he couldn’t help but think about it.
The very first time you had called him Daddy, it was more of an awkward situation to be quite frank – he laughed awkwardly, cocking an eyebrow (didn’t hate it at all, side note) – though it was only natural to you, because Leon was the very embodiment of a fatherly figure, no?
He loved explaining things to you, especially when it came to his job, his guns or his motorcycle (which, obviously, was incredibly attractive and only amplified your feelings towards him). He liked showing you around, driving you around (which became common courtesy as you had admitted once that he looked sexy in his Porsche. Coincidence?). Would often times go to the grocery shop with you just so he could buy you whatever you wanted. He’d let you hold him by his two fingers, thick in girth, whenever you two decided to go for a walk at the park. He’d stroke your hair in bed, and at last, would always make sure you were safe and sound (for example: text you hourly whenever you were at a party or outside enjoying yourself with your friends, reminding he’s home alone waiting for you. Poor Leon, not even his favorite movies could keep him company anymore).
Without a doubt, to fall for Leon was no difficult feat to do. It was very easy, in fact, given that this man was a man, who gently nurtured and guided you through life and luckily, not at the expanse of your own intelligence, for example, to be downright insulted as so often was the case with men, unfortunately.
If we were to look behind the scenes though, Leon constantly debated himself over a predicament of his own making, that he was falling for a woman half his age. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint why it felt so wrong. Most definitely assured, the two decades of disparity drove a huge nudge. You were settling down in life, meanwhile Leon already had roughly thirty years of experience under his leather belt. Tough on the mental, for him, to say the least (asking himself daily what his colleagues would think of him were they ever to find out about it).
The need to be close to you was stronger, however, and it eventually won him over, so much so, that he ended up needing you as much as the very air to live and breathe, couldn’t believe you were this kind and stunning, also greatly emphasized: able to empathize with his struggle he was more than ashamed of (his alcohol addiction). How heartbreaking, for what it’s worth, Leon could have ended up way worse for what had to endure in his life. And you had told him that, more so, of how proud you were of him. Sadly, he wanted to keep you at distance to spare you. He didn’t want to hurt you, and purposefully ignored you for about three months.
After much consideration, he told himself screw it, allowing himself to let this all be, no matter what his brain had conspired against him to believe about you – or this relationship. And why wouldn’t he?
He was incredibly thankful you hadn’t given up on him. Having nearly missed out on a little angel like you was a near-miss of a nightmare vivid enough to leave him tossing and turning, wallowing in the sweat of his own self-sabotage. “Cuteness be damned, you do have a head on your shoulders, young lady”, he muttered under his breath with a sincere smile on his face the day he decided not to fight his very own whim to be with you.
With that being said, it was of no surprise that he let himself fall, truly fall, as in: curtains strung wide open for you to see Leon in all of his glory, for who he was, stripped bare and all. He was scared, free from pretense, wasn’t sure whether he was ready to receive love now, considering all he’d known was to care for other people. Nevertheless, he welcomed you to his world and his heart with open arms and hadn’t let go since.
Now, back to the picture.
So, what was the result?
Well, as indicated heretofore, your Daddy had a few consequences lined up for you in case you wanted to misbehave. Though he was very loving, he did discipline you. You knew very early on that certain things were strictly forbidden without Daddy’s permission, including saying the word “Daddy” out loud in public.
Well, little miss provocateur – you – had other things in mind.
Once, he took you out shopping, on the pretext of: needing new clothes himself, but secretly bought them to impress you, wanting to look dapper (yes, dapper, he said so himself). So, when your man – a replica akin to pure perfection – stepped out of the dressing room to show his black slacks (he was more than ready to buy), you complimented him with dreamy eyes, quote, “You look so handsome, Dad.”
Not Daddy. But Dad.
And that’s when things took a turn for the worse for Leon.
Objectively speaking, you had not overplayed your hand here. In all fairness, though, this was just another version of the original, if not the original itself (the paternal one), which, in all candor, wreaked havoc within him, spiraling his guilt out of control to such depths he wanted to resent you for it. You fed into his domineering manhood too much, pushing the envelope until his own mind started to drift off to places he desperately wished he could just forget.
He was, truthfully, at a loss for words here.
He couldn’t believe – well, that he liked –
Clearing his throat, Leon excused himself in front of the shop assistant, his cheeks burning brightly red he looked sunburnt at this point. The emotional concoction of – what was it? –embarrassment, anger and a heavily laden, forbidden lust that turned Leon’s mind into a wasteland with its last standing resident – him – giving in to the madness of his own prurient desires. At that moment, all he knew was this: he needed to escape the shopping mall as soon as possible.
To hell with changing, the price tag issued that sorting out this never-wracking fiasco was way more urgent. You bid your own endgame when you started giggling as he frantically dragged you out, back into his car – not the front, but the backseat (sealing your destiny) – where you were forced onto his lap, telling you to zip it and to listen to him carefully. Each leg of yours rested comfortably over his as you were spread wide open, your slick center turning all puffy and swollen as he imprinted his palm onto your mound, slapping you stupid, his questions leading an entire investigation, forcing you to explain yourself to him.
And that you did. For about an hour.
And this time, it wasn’t your center that had to deal with the result of your tomfoolery that knocked Leon out of his reasoning. No, it was your bare ass, panties dragged to your knees, as you were draped across his thighs like a blanket, a spanking following right up to meet you to remind you who was in charge here.
“Count it, girl,” he rasped, breathing raggedly as he soothed your skin that had been marked already upon the impact of his with veins riddled hand. “C’mon, be good for Daddy and let me hear it.”
“Ten,” you sniffled, regret creeping in until you were completely submerged. Leon had the stereotypical strength of every elderly man who’d spent decades doing manual labor, a very dense, functional strength, though you wouldn’t perceive at first glance (his statue did however support the presupposition). But you certainly felt it now, entirely at your Daddy’s mercy, forced to play the cards you’d been dealt – your fault, shoulders shrugged, mind you.
“Aw, poor baby,” he cooed condescendingly, rubbing your butt and smirking to himself. “Is my little girl crying, yes?”
“Yes,” you whined, wiggling your butt to flee from his grip but it transgressed into him growling out of pure frustration, his hand hitting you so hard you yelped, “I’m sorry, Dad!”
“Zip it,” he warned, bending over to get closer to your face, utilizing his other hand to grip your chin with no chance left to move anymore. “You know you’re not sorry. You were bad today, weren’t you?”
“No, Daddy,” you mewed, your lips jutting out into a pout. “I wasn’t. I only wanted to show you how much I missed you.”
“Yeah? And that involves sending naughty pictures to Daddy while he’s at work speaking to the fucking President of the United States, huh?” he seethed, his breath fanning over your cheek. “You never fucking learn, do ya?”
“I didn’t know!”
“Cut it out,” he countered angrily, another brutal smack landing on your perky buttocks. “Count it. C’mon.”
“Dada –“
“I said,” he groaned through his teeth, cutting you off, clean slices. “Fucking count it.”
Quite the curveball, but you couldn’t. The man in leather jackets, nursing his expensive whiskey, was done here, he was not having it with you anymore. Worse still, he absolutely loved seeing you like this. To be looked upon as a monumental person in your life was too satisfactory of a victory he had no intention of giving it up, ever. You were his baby, no questions asked, it was embedded into the ground like a cornerstone, and like a good father should, lay his girls foundation of the world by showing her what was right and what was wrong. Even if it meant it had to hurt a little.
“Aw, is it getting hard to speak?” he purred, kissing you featherily. “Let’s do simple math then, little lady. I know you’re smart. What’s one plus ten?”
“Eleven,” you quipped to his wit.
“There you go,” he chuckled warmly with half-lidded, lustful eyes. Then added all high and mighty: “See? You do listen when you want to. When there’s a will, there’s a way, sweetheart.”
“No more, Dada,” you pleaded, ignoring his fatherly non-sense, biting your bottom lip and looking him in the eye. “No more spanking.”
“Aw, it’s too much for you already?” Squeezing the plumpness of your ass, he grazed his lips over your skin, his stubble slightly tickling you. “But you’re gonna take it, no? You said you wanted to be good for me.”
“I am good, Papa! I am!”
“Well, guess what’s for dinner tonight, sweetheart?” he asked, a tone so cocky it almost played a wagging finger at you. And he didn’t let you guess either. “A big old slice of be-have-your self, and Daddy’s gonna make sure you leave the plate empty. Understood?”
“Your joke wasn’t funny, Daddy.”
“Oh, I know it wasn’t funny to you, sweetheart,” he snickered, very much amused at the wordplay at hand. “Especially not for what I have planned.”
“Wait,” you quivered panicky, but definitely understandable, considering Leon was able to play extremely dirty. “What?”
“Do you remember Henry?”
No two ways about it. You did.
Hook, line and sinker.
Thus, your throat went as dry as a well out of water. You gulped – well, tried to. It hurt, and while you could explain it, admitting what your Daddy was referring to was definitely too much of a shameful gamble. Before you met him, you had – let’s say – certain ways of satisfying your needs. These, a-hem, tools could vibrate, came in cute colors like pink or purple, and were available in different sizes. Well, Leon here, had found one while snooping around in your bedroom once. In lack of better words: it was an invasion of privacy, but not like he cared. He was looking out for you. Like a father should. Right. He was appalled at first, and, comically enough, had his ego bruised that you still kept one in your nightstand.
Until a bright idea flickered in his mind, that he could use it on you – to make you squirm, to make you moan, to make you cry, all while you were confined to the bed, unable to flee from the calamity. He made sure, no, Leon put you to a test of how well of a student you could be. Whatever you tried would be used as a weapon, turned against you, to tranquilize your maverick energy for his own benefit.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I do.”
“Well, our friend should come over tonight. Don’t you think?”
“No! No, please, no,” you begged, trying to kiss him now, but to no avail. He withdrew from your face.
“You don’t like Henry?” he asked innocently, pretending he was a real living and breathing human being. “Young lady, that’s not nice.”
“I don’t like Henry,” you whined. “I like you. I want you, Daddy.”
“’S that so, yeah?” Shifting his gaze back to your ass, he chuckled, “Well, I already called Henry. He’s coming over. No if and buts, dollface.”
“But –“
“I said, no if and buts. Hear me?”
Seemed like you were in for one heck of a situation tonight.
calling leon by his middle name. he loves it… maybe a little too much (18+)
“leon— mmhm, fuck!”
the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoed in the room, along with your moans and his grunts. he’d been back from whatever mission he was on, a week ago. and he’d missed your pussy, and you deeply, which he was showing you enthusiastically.
“so tight f’me, baby,” he grunts, his voice low and breathless, hips pounding into you relentlessly. “missed you so— hah... so much.”
you could only wantonly moan in response with the way he had you spread under him, legs propped up on his broad and muscular shoulders, copious amounts of slick leaking from around his cock, trickling down your ass and into the bedsheet, ruining them.
you wrapped your hands around his strong forearms, digging your nails and leaving behind bloody half crescent indents, and if it was possible, it turned him on even more.
he let out a deep, throaty groan. fuck, you couldn’t get any better. “yes, baby. that’s it, mark me up.”
he moved faster now, almost at a punishing pace, eliciting a few tears out of your eyes.
“baby… scott— you’re too fast! ah… slow down,” you whine, almost crying out, nails still digging onto his forearm.
the moment his brain registers what you just said, he freezes. literally. his hips stutter mid-thrust, the rhythm faltering altogether and then, he stops. “what’d you just say?” he asks, observing your face, watching a tear roll down from your eyes to your temple.
you breathe deeply, easing your body, and loosening your grip on his forearms. “what?”
you look at him, eyes locked with his. why did he stop? you just asked him to slow down, didn’t you? “i just… wanted you to slow down… you were going too hard.”
“no, not that. what did you call me?” he asks, his voice was soft, body at ease now, not strained. just propped up above you on his forearm.
oh. you had called him by his middle name. scott. you would’ve been worried about him being displeased if it was not for his cock twitching traitorously inside you. “scott. it slipped. my bad,” you say, smiling coquettishly.
leon smiled back, almost boyishly. he reached up and gently grabbed you by the thighs, pulling back just enough to dislodge your legs from his shoulders and letting them fall back on the bed, eyes never leaving yours.
“well, don’t let me stop you,” he says softly, propping himself back on his forearms that rested besides your shoulders. you noticed his face was flushed when he leaned closer, that silly smile never leaving his face.
“leon scott kennedy, are you blushing?” you giggle in amusement.
he groans softly, burrowing his face into the curve of your neck, breathing in your scent. you giggle again, one hand coming up to play with his hair.
“did you like it when i called you scott?”
he lifts up his head, just slightly, to look back into your eyes. “…a little.” when you kept looking at him, he surrendered. “‘kay, yeah. i did. that was hot—you are hot. fuck, i missed you.”
not even a millisecond later, his lips were on yours, tasting and coaxing you open. and then, a soft thrust, which had you grip his biceps. his whole body was weighing down on you, every inch of his skin pressed against yours.
“scott,” you whimpered in his ears, voice soft and gentle, as he kept thrusting into you shallowly.
“christ, you’re going to be the death of me, love,” he grunted out, increasing his pace. “dont stop.”
it didn’t take too long for you to come apart under him, pussy clenching and fluttering around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you. soon enough, he followed with a choked grunt, emptying himself inside you, filling you up to the brim.
after you had caught your breath, you couldn’t help but giggle again. “now i know just what to say to get you blushing like a schoolgirl.”
leon huffed out a breathless laugh, looking at you with amusement. “not if i make you scream it all night long. think you can handle a second round, hmm?”
Y’all don’t like ‘kitten.’ y’all don’t like ‘princess.’ Yall don’t like ‘baby girl.’ y’all don’t like rough play, y’all don’t like fluff, you don’t like smut, y’all don’t like anything taboo (from fictional power imbalances to daddy k!nk), y’all don’t like short fics, y’all don’t like long fics—
leon kennedy x wife!reader : death, improper burial
both of them lived on borrowed time. the infection spread further with each day, skin rotting beneath their clothes. they wouldn't risk going back to find a cure. they'd live with that virus.
they had settled far away, in the french countryside. mornings were quiet, nights littered with the soft hum of crickets. a record always spun on a player, filling the house with music.
she woke up before him often. when he'd wake, the scent of breakfast was wafting up the stairs. he'd sit up with a deep groan, stretching his arms above his head. he'd make his way downstairs, still in just his boxers. he'd wrap around her, kissing across her temple and cheek, stubble caressing her soft skin.
"your coffee is already on the table," she told him softly, eyes landing on the black flesh of his hands. she knew they were both running out of time, but she had always believed in an afterlife. maybe their spirits would remain in this little house of theirs. they'd stay here, together for eternity. far from that damned city.
he hummed, hands squeezing her waist before he walked to the small square table by the window. he sat in his seat, sipping his coffee. just a splash of milk and a pinch of sugar; just how he had always drank it. in minutes, she brought over two plates. his had fried eggs, salt and pepper cracked over them, and a few sausage links. hers had scrambled eggs, salt and pepper cracked over them, with a small pile of sliced fruits and a few sausage links.
her coffee had far more creamer and sugar than his. she had always liked things obnoxiously sweet. he told her that it was why she was so sweet.
her foot brushed against his leg under the table, receiving a huffed chuckle from him.
"you always got cold feet," he muttered, pulling her foot into his lap, rubbing it with his free hand to warm it.
she giggled softly, sipping her coffee. they ate in a comfortable silence, elvis presley's voice humming from the record player in the living room.
the virus only continued to spread. each day, it got worse. leon's seemed to be progressing faster. maybe it was because he was older, or maybe he had gotten it sooner than she had. certain details of what happened in raccoon city were foggy now.
during the summer, his condition worsened. he began walking slower, with a limp. then he could barely shuffle along. then he became bed bound. it broke her heart each day. she knew he hated this, just as much as she did. she too was worsening, but she was still able to walk, so she cared for him.
one morning, she woke up early, as usual. she looked over at leon, gently shaking him. a faint groan left him. he went to speak, but his mouth didn't move. a sound was heard, but nothing would move.
tears welled in her eyes. she leaned down, kissing his head softly.
"it's almost over," she promised. she couldn't end his misery, she couldn't bring herself to.
she cared for him the best she could that day. tears lingered in her eyes, hands a bit shakier than normal. that night, she looked into his beautiful eyes for what she feared may be the last time.
"i love you, leon," she murmured, kissing his decaying lips.
the following morning, he was gone. the virus had destroyed him. with the little strength she had left, she carefully took his body to the backyard. she dug a shallow grave for him beneath the willow tree that they used to sit under. she carefully put his body in the opening and covered it. she picked lilies from the garden, laying them over his grave.
she laid there for hours, merely sobbing. she could only hope that her beliefs were true.
she returned to bed that night, laying on his side of the bed. the mattress held a permanent dip from his body. he had always laid in the same position in the same spot each night. the pillow still smelt of him. she pulled the blankets over her body and closed her eyes, fat tears dribbling down her cheeks. she knew she likely wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow. she would be left to die.
the following day, she was proven correct. she couldn't move. with the lack of nutrients, the virus took over faster. in days, what happened to leon in weeks repeated itself to her. that last night, she shut her eyes, knowing she would never wake up.
but, she did. she sat up smoothly. she stood, looking around. her eyes landed on her own decayed body.
she had been right. there was an afterlife.
"leon?" she called, opening the bedroom door. she walked to his study, opening the door. there he was, sitting in his chair, reading a book.
"been waiting for you," he whispered, laying his book down.
she walked over, smiling softly. she sat in his lap, leaning against him. his arms wrapped around her, like they always had. one hand held her thigh, the other on her waist to hold her in place. he laid his head on hers.
they had sworn at their wedding that not even death would part them, and that had held true.
re9 coming out has reawakened my love for this man
i know im being dramatic but i cant handle any more theories surrounding re10. i dont wanna get my hopes up, not after they fumbled requiem. claire shouldve returned. HELL, she shouldve been in re6. capcom treat their female characters very poorly and it hurts me. i love jill so much, but i have no hope of her returning anytime soon. 💔
☆ summary : a quiet life was never supposed to be possible for leon. but somehow it happened anyway — a beautiful wife, a house in a wooded suburb outside the city, a son who thinks he has the coolest dad ever, and another baby on the way. for the first time in years, things are calm. normal. until one morning, leon receives a photo taken from within his home. in it, his family is asleep. someone has been watching.
✩ caution : age gap relationship! don’t shoot! reader in mid twenties to early thirties. pregnancy, motherhood, tension, suspense, canon typical resident evil tension/violence/danger.
☆ note : sorry for the wait guys! i hope you enjoy the chapter! i’m in base for work and i didn’t bring my laptop like an idiot—so all this was written and edited on my phone! (¬`‸´¬) . . .
it’s been about twenty minutes or so.
the porsche shudders as leon steers it off the road and into the parking lot beside a little roadside market. the ruined tire drags with a scraping grind that rattles through the floorboards and into your teeth, sharp enough that you catch yourself clenching your jaw against it. what an awful sound it is—it actually makes you feel a bit nauseous but at seven months pregnant? everything makes you feel nauseous. thinking about the thought of nausea makes you—you get the point.
leon keeps the wheel steady anyway, guiding the car through the loose gravel until it finally slows to a stop near the front of the building.
you already know the tire is finished before he even checks it because the way the car leaned during the last mile? told you everything you needed to know and you didn’t know much about cars in general. you can’t help but to feel terrible though because this car was so expensive.. leon knows it too, but he still sits there for a few seconds after stopping, hands resting on the wheel while his eyes travel slowly across the parking lot.
but he’s not looking at the place the way you do. the two of you react to a room on entirely different levels, your bodies wired for different threats: a mother and a father— man and woman.
when you first glance at the market, what you notice is how dead quiet it feels. its one of those squared market stores that look identical no matter what town or city they’re dropped into: pale siding and a flat roof with a strip of buzzing lights running along the edge. bright posters cover most of the front windows—groceries, energy drinks, lottery jackpots, cheap cigarettes—a little bit of everything because there’s a few gas pumps on the outside too.
but through the gaps between them, you can see fluorescent lighting that spills across narrow aisles of snacks and coolers humming along the back wall. everything inside seemingly looks clean. well stocked. the norm for places like this.. but its so fucking quiet. your mind subconsciously rations it's thoughts; you shouldn't be surprised, right? according to your husband, raccoon city is stupidly close. and it’s not like this place would be a terribly popular spot by any means. it's probably meant for the locals who’ve been populating the town for generations and have no intentions of leaving. the cost of living is probably crazy cheap too. still. the place reminds you of wrong turn or something..
and leon doesn’t see any of that first.
his attention moves along the roofline, the corners of the building, the spaces beside the entrance where someone could stand without being visible from the lot. the habit is second nature by now. you’ve watched him do it enough times to recognize the method to his madness: doorways, windows, sightlines, places a person could hide.
the quiet really starts to press in once the engine stops and without the car running the town around you makes your ears strain for sounds that might not even be there or maybe its tinnitus. you never felt silence like this back at home—there was always the tv running while you made lunch, matteo’s little feet padding against the floors while he plays, the cars passing by with neighbors chatting as they walk along the sidewalk. hosting dinner parties (that leon hates but he still plays along because he knows you’re excited about that pot roast you made). to think your life was seemingly normal less than twelve hours ago but it feels so far away now.
wind pushes lightly across the gravel lot, carrying thin sheets of dust over the ground that curl around the tires before breaking apart again. your eyes drift back toward the market.
the sign above the door reads harper’s market in bright plastic letters mounted against the front of the building, it lights up pretty when it's night like this—though, the sky is slowly starting to turn that odd morning gray. the storefront is clean enough to suggest someone still takes care of the place. a security camera sits tucked into the corner near the roofline, a dark lens angled toward the parking lot. security is nice. this is good. yeah, this is good.
the store looks open and there are no signs of anything odd, you feel like you can maybe breathe again. leon finally exhales through his own nose and he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against the steering wheel while his gaze lingers on the glass of the storefront. he’s deciding something. you can tell by the way his shoulders— you can read this man like the back of your hand at this point in your marriage.
“tire’s done,” he says quietly, the words aren’t directed at you so much as spoken aloud for confirmation. “stay.” he reaches for the door handle and steps out, letting the outside air spill into the car, not surprising that it smells like gasoline and dry dirt but in some odd way—it makes your mouth water and crave something that you absolutely cannot ingest. pregnancy makes you have the weirdest cravings.
you watch him through the windshield as he circles the front of the vehicle and gravel crunches under his boots while he crouches beside the ruined tire, studying the damage up close. you can’t see it from where you’re sitting but there’s shredded rubber hanging in rough strips around the rim, the edges curled and blackened where the debris on the road tore through it. leon presses his thumb briefly against the bent metal wheel.
but leon already knows the answer. he needs a spare but he thinks he’ll be able to make due with some things around here.
inside the car, matteo shifts in the back seat and the sound pulls your attention away from the window immediately. he’s been awake this whole time it seems, just quiet. the sounds of the tire pulled him right out of this sleep. you turn slightly in your seat just as the little boy stirs, greeting him with a smile as his curls stick up in soft and uneven tufts where they’ve been flattened against the seat. his face is puffy with sleep and his eyes blink slowly in the cute way children do when they wake somewhere unfamiliar.
“good morning, sleepy baby.” you coo.
“mommy..” he mumbles. you glance back toward leon through the windshield without thinking to make sure he’s okay and outside he’s already looking into the car. it’s the way he always reacts when matteo makes noise or moves a little—like there’s some sort of invisible thread that connects them together. his expression softens for a second when he sees the boy moving around in the back seat, the tension in his posture easing just slightly before his focus drifts back toward the surrounding area again.
wind rattles the loose chain hanging from one of the gas pumps near the road, a faint metal clink carrying easily across the empty lot. leon studies the storefront a few seconds longer.
matteo shifts again, the soft creak of the seatbelt tugging lightly against the buckle as he moves. the sound pulls your attention away from the windshield and when you glance back over your shoulder, he’s pushing himself upright in the back seat with a sleepy effort, one small fist rubbing hard against his eye while his gaze drifts toward the front of the car.
the empty driver’s seat makes him pause.
and confusion settles across his little face first, that moment where something in his routine doesn’t line up the way he expects it to. he leans forward against the seatbelt slightly, peering between the two front seats like maybe leon is just hiding somewhere he can’t see yet.
“mama,” he mumbles thickly, voice still foggy with sleep as his eyes scan the dashboard, then the door, then back again. “mm.. papa? where is..?” the words come out uncertain, the question sitting plainly in his voice.
“he’s right there, sweetheart.” you say softly, tilting your head toward the windshield so matteo can follow your line of sight. “see him?” matteo squints toward the glass.
it takes him a second before his eyes land on the familiar shape of leon standing up beside the hood. the moment recognition clicks, the tension in his tiny shoulders disappears and his whole face brightens, his routine and reassurance visibly fall back into place.
“papa,” he hums quietly then just as quickly, his attention drifts somewhere else. one small hand presses against his round tummy as he shifts in the seat, fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt while he looks toward you again. his voice is softer this time, almost thoughtful. “..eat, ’teo.”
you open your mouth to answer, but matteo is already squirming again, the seatbelt pulling tight across his chest as he tries to shift his legs under him and his brows pinch. slightly.
“..mama.” he wiggles harder this time, the restless little movement of a toddler who’s suddenly realized something urgent. “potty.”
“okay, okay—” but before you can even get out yourself, its leon who opens matteo’s door, one hand against the frame of the car. his gaze flicks over you first then toward the carseat below him. you could see a little smear of black on his hand because outside the car, leon managed to find a spare nearby and dropped it beside the car. he could see the little scene playing out in the car and decided to be daddy to the rescue.
“papa!” he calls, voice suddenly bright. you can see the small smile tugging at the corner of leon’s mouth.
“hey, buddy.” he says quietly.
matteo looks at him immediately. “hungry.” he reports. then after a tiny pause with much greater urgency— “..’n potty!”
leon exhales slowly through his nose, the sound of a tired laugh as one hand drags briefly down his face before he glances back toward the market behind the car.
“yeah?” he mutters under his breath. “pssh. got some serious business to check off this to-do list, huh?”
you twist in your seat being mindful of your belly, but you’re already reaching behind you to unclip matteo’s latch. leon watches you, and he inwardly sighs. you’re always doing things he can do for you. he swears it's like you have this complex about asking for help but, he knows you probably need a task right now—he can only imagine how much you’re dealing with mentally and physically, so. he doesn't make a fuss. the metal tongue slides free with a quiet click and the second it does matteo leans forward into the space between the seats and leon lifts him out, setting him down outside the car. leon walks him around the car where you're currently opening your door.
the loose stones shift under your weight when you step out and matteo is already wiggling impatiently. little cutie.
“potty,” he reminds you urgently.
“i know, baby.” you say, fighting the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite the tension sitting in your lower back. you lift him carefully, settling him against your hip.
the lot stretches wide and quiet around you, the darkness pressing in beyond the weak glow spilling from the market’s front windows. a single overhead light above the entrance throws a dull yellow circle across the ground while the rest of the lot dissolves into shadow. you carry matteo across the lot toward the entrance, one hand resting lightly on his bottom to keep him moving while the other steadies the door when you reach it. the glass reflects things in warped pieces—your tired posture, matteo’s rosy cheeks, the car sitting a few yards behind and leon.
“mommy, store.” he says, voice small and insistent.
“mhm! you're so smart, aren't you, sweet pea...?” you murmur softly, pulling the door open.
the inside of the market greets you with a rush of cool air and the harsh brightness of fluorescent lights. it floods the narrow aisles and spills out through the front windows into the empty parking lot, making the darkness outside look even deeper by comparison. the shelves are stocked neatly with chips, canned goods and rows of bottled drinks humming quietly inside the refrigerators along the back wall.
you guide matteo quickly toward the small hallway beside the counter where a printed sign points toward the restroom, your footsteps echoing faintly across the tile before the two of you disappear around the corner.
meanwhile outside, leon watches the door close behind you. he waits until you and matteo are fully inside before he moves, and once the coast is clear the driver’s door opens quietly and he leans down slightly, reaching beneath the seat where a small black case rests tucked out of sight. the latch pops open with a soft click when he flips it back, the lid lifting just enough for him to slide his hand inside.
the pistol settles into his palm and it feels like a familiar friend, something that’s lived in his hands for decades—a weapon unlike the one he keeps in the glove compartment, this one is.. essentially a handheld shotgun. a gun that really screams he was so fucking over fighting literal monsters and demons with a 9mm pistol.
it’s “gorgeous” as he would say. you get jealous of those things.
his thumb checks the magazine — full, just what he wanted. the metal glints faintly before he seats it back into place. he pulls the slide just enough to check the chamber, the faint click sound swallowed by the open night.
leon exhales slowly through his nose and his eyes drift toward the storefront again, studying the bright interior through the glass.. he doesn’t want to anticipate something happening but—his pregnant wife and kid are in there, he’d rather be safe than sorry. he tucks the pistol into the back of his waistband beneath his jacket, adjusting the fabric so it falls naturally over the grip before shutting the car door with a quiet push. he crosses the lot, the lights from the windows growing brighter the closer he gets.
by the time he steps through the door, the calm expression settles back on his face because you’re standing a few aisles over with matteo beside you. he’s already wandered toward a lower shelf stacked with brightly colored snack packs, his small hands hovering like he’s deciding which one deserves his attention most. you’re saying something to him that leon can’t quite hear but you’re smiling and cradling a couple bottles of water to your chest while you rub your belly.
leon joins you quietly, his eyes moving through the store as he gives your temple a kiss. the place is running. the lights are on but on his way in he noticed the counter sits empty. no clerk. no customers. no voices anywhere else in the building—he has a weird feeling but, he’s thinking maybe some kid is out back smoking pot because this place probably doesn't get a lot of business.
you glance up at him with a little smile.
“bathroom was clean,” you say quietly, you’re half surprised by it because there hasn't been a time where you’ve felt comfortable using a gas station bathroom.
matteo tugs at your pant leg. “snack.” he says hopefully.
you sigh softly but reach down to grab the small packet of puffy cheetos he’s holding. “this is what you want, baby? how about—”
leon doesn’t take his eyes off the aisles and he hasn't this whole time even as you’re trying to talk your three year old into a ”healthier” option.
his head tilts slightly..listening.
because underneath the store music, your voice and the soft crinkle of matteo wrestling with the chip bag. something else is sounding inside the store. its a wet sound. a slow, thick sound like.. like meat slamming against something hard.
it comes from somewhere deeper in the building, he decides to move a bit down the aisle eyes narrowing slightly as he studies the stretch of store beyond the shelves. the sound isn’t loud but it repeats and repeats, over and over with a slow rhythm that feels mindless.
you notice the shift in his posture almost immediately. leon doesn’t tense in an obvious way when something’s wrong, especially when his family is around but there is a subtle change that always gives him away to you—the way his attention stops and locks onto one point in the room. he also doesn't have a very good poker face either.
“what’s wr—”
“stay here a second,” he says quietly, his voice calm enough that matteo barely notices the change.
you follow his gaze toward the back of the market, where a narrow corridor opens near the refrigerated cases. a neon sign hangs above it advertising the deli counter, the letters flickering faintly in the light like the sign has been buzzing there for hours without anyone bothering to turn it off.
the sound gets louder the closer leon steps but this time there’s another noise tangled inside it. a dull thud—metal striking something soft, yes. but.. strangled throat sounds.
leon’s steps are slow and careful as he angles himself toward the end of the aisle. the pistol appears in his hand sometime during the walk, drawn quietly from beneath his jacket in a motion so smooth it’s almost invisible. god, he’s so cool.
the smell reaches him before the sight does and he rounds the corner just enough to see into the deli area.
the overhead lights back there are still on above the long glass display case where cuts of meat sit neatly arranged for customers— but instead of meat from cattle, it looks like human remains. leon can’t quite make it out from this far. the counter itself is smeared with dark streaks that have dried in uneven patches along the white tile.
and two figures stand behind it.
the first one is a.. rather large male—at least 6’6, burly and still wearing a stained butcher’s apron to which it’s fabric hangs crookedly from one shoulder where something has torn through it. his back is turned slightly, broad shoulders hunched over the counter as one arm lifts and falls in a slow, mechanical motion. each downward swing ends with that same dull thud heard from before and in his hand is a meat cleaver.
the blade rises again and comes down hard against something lying on the cutting board.
a human hand. the butcher doesn’t react to the damage he’s already done to it. he simply repeats the motion over and over, chopping with the empty persistence.
beside him, slumped awkwardly against the tiled wall is the second body. the clerk or what used to be the clerk, if he could call the poor bastard that anymore. he can tell because the uniform shirt is still visible beneath the stains spreading across his chest, the name tag also hanging crookedly where it’s half torn from the fabric. his head hangs forward at an unnatural angle while one arm stretches uselessly across the counter.
the butcher keeps hacking at that hand as the clerk twitches. his head lifts just enough for leon to see the cloudy film coating his eyes. a wet sound slips from his throat as his mouth opens, jaw working in grinding motions as if trying to speak to service a customer.
there’s a very sudden pause—one that seems as though they’ve been alerted by something. a noise.
that very noise being his son’s high pitched giggles a few aisles over.
fuck.
leon quickly takes cover, after a few seconds he leans slightly around the end cap long enough to look again toward the deli counter. the butcher has wandered a few steps away from the counter now, the cleaver still hanging loosely from his hand while his head turns in slow twitching angles like something inside his skull is struggling to remember what it was doing moments ago. beside him the clerk has pulled himself upright, shoulders slumped forward while his ruined jaw opens and closes in useless motions.
neither of them has fully locked onto anything yet, but.. they are not idle either. both bodies drift pausing and turning in short, jerky movements that make it clear something nearby has disturbed them. the butcher’s cloudy eyes sweep across the aisles without focus while the clerk’s head tilts toward the open store floor, both of them reacting to faint sounds and subtle shifts in the air the same way animals react to scent they can’t quite locate.
leon doesn’t wait to see if they figure it out.
the moment the butcher’s head begins to lift a little higher, leon steps back from the corner without making another sound. he rounds the aisle again and finds you exactly where he left you. matteo is still standing beside you with the chip packet still clutched in his hands, the plastic crinkling softly every time he digs his fingers inside.
highway to hell starts playing over the store’s system and leon thinks this is one big joke.
you’re watching leon now, reading the change in his face immediately even though he hasn’t said anything yet. you want to say something but there's a noise relatively close those makes you turn your head and his hand closes around your wrist firmly. “come on,” he murmurs quietly and you don’t argue.
there’s something in his tone that tells you this isn’t a suggestion, and the way his eyes flick briefly over your shoulder toward the back of the store is enough to make your stomach drop without needing any further explanation.
he guides both of you quickly down an aisle and turns between two rows of shelving that block the line of sight from the open floor of the store. he makes you all stay crouched.
matteo looks up at leon, clearly confused by the sudden movement. “papa?”
leon smooths matteo’s hair with a strained smile while his other hand stays wrapped loosely around the grip of the pistol resting low at his side.
“hey, kiddo,” he murmurs softly. his voice shifts in that soft way it always does when he talks to matteo, the tension smoothing out of the edges even though his eyes are still tracking the open spaces between the aisles. the kid blinks up at him, crumbs already stuck to the corner of his mouth.
“can you do something for papa?”
matteo nods automatically. “mhm! ‘helper teo!”
“that’s right.” leon brushes his fingers gently through the boy’s hair, “close your eyes for me, okay? be as quiet as possible.. like a little mouse. and don’t open until i say it's okay.”
matteo tilts his head slightly, considering the request. “why?”
leon doesn’t miss a beat. “part of a game.”
the answer comes easily, he’s used it—all the questions. matteo is a curious little boy and leon doesn’t fault him for it because leon was a curious kid too, he just hopes his son opts in for a normal job. not like his old man. the boy studies him for a second with the deep seriousness, then squeezes his eyes shut tightly and puffs his cheeks.
“perfect.” only then do leon’s eyes shift toward you.
for a second he studies your face, the tension in his shoulders saying everything that doesn’t have time to be explained. his gaze drops briefly to your stomach before lifting again, the look lingering just long enough to make sure you understand what he needs you to do next.
“stay here,” he says quietly. “don’t make a sound.”
you nod and leon gives you both a kiss before standing up and stepping back toward the end of the aisle.
2087
yousharknotpass
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