︵ ೀ mdni. waking up with yuji’s tongue between your legs
“shh, it’s just me, baby…”
yuji’s voice is still raspy with sleep as he slips under the blanket. his warm hands slide under your hips, gently easing your legs apart. you stir softly but don’t fully wake as he settles between your thighs, pushing them wider so his broad shoulders fit.
he leans in and drags his tongue slowly up your pussy. a low, pleased hum escapes him before he pushes his tongue inside, fucking you with lazy thrusts that get messier by the second, spit dripping down his chin and onto the sheets.
he pulls back for a breath, tongue gliding along your folds, then kisses your clit softly. for a moment he stares at your pussy in the faint light, dazed and hungry, before spitting on it and watching it drip down. then he dives right back in, lips wrapping around your clit. he sucks gently at first, then harder, getting greedier.
you finally wake up with a sleepy moan, your fingers reaching under the blanket to grip his hair. yuji doesn’t pull away. he only squeezes your thighs a little and murmurs against your soaked pussy, “morning, baby… sorry, you just looked so pretty lying there. couldn’t help myself.”
he spits on your pussy again, then runs his fingers through the mess, spreading it everywhere. he teases your entrance for a moment before pushing two thick fingers deep inside you, sinking them all the way in until his knuckles are pressed flush against you. he curls them slowly, pushing against that sweet spot inside you while he watches, completely mesmerized by how much you’re dripping down his hand.
“listen to how wet she is…fuck, i love this sound.”
you grip his hair tighter, thighs starting to shake around his head as you get more and more sensitive with every thrust.
“wait—don’t come on my fingers, baby!”
he pulls his fingers out and immediately replaces them with his tongue, pushing it as deep as he can. his nose rubs against your clit as he buries his face even deeper, licking and humming happily while his strong hands hold your thighs open.
“yeah… that’s it. i want you on my tongue. come in my mouth, baby… please.”
he’s licking and sucking even sloppier than before. when you finally come, yuji holds you down with both hands on your hips. he doesn’t pull away even a little—he drinks you in greedily, swallowing every drop while moaning against your pulsing heat.
only when your trembling starts to fade does he loosen his grip. still, he keeps lazily licking up every last bit, humming and moaning against your sensitive skin. and then he presses one last soft kiss to your clit.
olderbf!toji shows you why older men do it better ꒰♡
based on this request જ⁀◝✩ mdni.ᐟ
you’d both finished dinner, sat opposite one another as you wait for the bill.
that’s when a younger man strutted over, most likely around your age, decent looking and way too confident after a few drinks.
“so, you really came here with your… dad?” the guy asked, laughing like he’d made the funniest joke in the world. toji stares him down, narrowing his eyes, which was usually enough for anyone to take off running.
so, unfortunately, you rarely got to see your older boyfriend truly jealous.
most people wouldn’t dare challenge toji — after all, he’s six foot two and packed with muscle most guys could only dream of having. he didn’t often have to throw punches anymore. anyone who knew what was best for themselves would usually stay far away.
apart from this arrogant prick.
“boyfriend,” you correct him, shifting closer to toji who grips your thigh possessively under the table.
you turn to look at toji, who doesn’t look particularly angry, — just bored and unamused.
“don’t you want a man who can keep up with your… needs? can’t say i think this old man does," the guy smirks, looking down at your cleavage, making toji grip your thigh tighter.
toji stands up, slowly, closing the distance between him and the younger man with one stride. it wasn’t until toji began towering over him with that murderous look in his eye that the guy visibly started to regret his choices.
the atmosphere falls silent for a moment, toji only inches from the guy’s face, until-
thwack!
your big brute of a boyfriend knocks the fucker out with one lazy punch.
you raise your eyebrows, watching the guy get knocked the fuck out — then looking back at toji, who was already looking at you.
toji grabs your wrist as gently as he knows how, yanking you out of your seat and to the bathrooms nearby.
thank god you’d chosen a booth near the back of the restaurant.
within seconds, you’re pinned against the sink with toji’s lips on yours, kissing you with no room for air. his rough hands were all over you, tangling in your hair, groping your tits, making their way up your dress to tug your panties down.
"toji — mnnn — someone could walk in," you pant, being lifted onto the counter, soaked panties now loosely hanging around one ankle.
your mouth hangs wide open as he spits directly onto your cunt, shimmying his pants down hurriedly, then nudging his thick tip against your entrance.
"let em’," he rasps, attacking your neck with his teeth and tongue, "hope that arrogant prick walks in n sees how good this ‘old man’ fucks you."
with that, he drives his hips forward, bottoming out in one harsh thrust that makes you mewl loud enough for the entire damn restaurant to hear.
"atta girl, let em all know how full i stuff this pretty cunt," he grunts, setting a relentless, dizzying pace — one hand on your hip, another behind your neck.
he keeps the filthiest eye contact with you, smirking at how you desperately try to conceal your moans. "ahhnn — ohmygod — toji," you whine, gripping onto his meaty biceps for stability.
groaning loudly, toji hikes his shirt up, biting down on the hem with his sharp canines to keep it there, toned abs and deep v-line on full display for you to gawk at.
your pussy flutters around his dick at the sight, more breathy moans escaping you as he pounds you harder. "good fuckin’ girl, takin’ me so well,” he rasps.
he fucks you harder at the thought of other men lusting after you, thrusts driven by possessiveness. his thumb moves down to your clit, rubbing it up and down, making you flutter desperately around his length.
"mnghh — m’gonna cum—“ you cry out, locking your legs firmly around his waist, fingernails raking down his back from the overwhelming pleasure.
you only spur him on, cunt sucking him in tighter, heavy balls smacking against your ass as he gets ready to pump you full of his cum and walk out of the bathroom with you like nothing had happened.
"gonna fill this pretty pussy up, have my cum leakin’ down your thighs as we walk outta here," he grunts, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts becoming short and shallow.
“god, yes— fill me up, mnnn— please," you plead, thighs twitching and shaking still.
with a hoarse grunt, toji spills his load deep inside of you, slamming into you hard as he rids himself of every drop.
"mine…" he pants lightly, claiming your lips again, cock beginning to soften inside of you.
you were prepared for the fact you probably wouldn’t be able to come back to the restaurant again.
leon kennedy always recognizes you as his home. doesn't matter where he is, whether near or far, what time it is, doesn't matter how injured he is, how much his body and mind tire from cruelty and virus alike-- the mere sight of you, safe and happy, is enough to bring reprieve to an aching heart.
he has endured more than anyone else has in this world, but you know he'd never dare admit that. he's not allowed to, not when he's deemed himself a failure. he may have saved thousands of lives, but for the few he failed to save, he carries that with him forevermore. you know this and so does he.
but you don't recognize him as a failure-- never could, never will. but sometimes words are not enough of a reminder, and sometimes, it is not words that speak the loudest.
so you hold him every night, make sure he feels as safe as he makes you feel. even when it's a little too hot, even when you've had a misunderstanding that day. you hold him like something meant to be cherished, something meant to be protected.
you hold him like he's meant to be saved.
"...you're getting a few grays, baby." you say softly, fingers weaving through soft locks as he rests his head on your chest. you lay together in the bedroom you've shared for years and years. this is your home, your haven. your sanctuary. it's all you know and it's all he ever wants to know.
"getting old." he murmurs. "not as young as i used to be when we first met."
it's spoken in a lighthearted manner, but you can sense the weariness in his tone. you smile, press your lips against his head, feel him relax against your body even more than before.
"...'s okay. we can grow old and gray together, yeah?"
a small huff of amusement before he shifts slightly, looking up at you. there's that fondness in blue eyes you've grown to adore with all your heart ; you hope to continue protecting it with everything you have.
"yeah," he says, quiet, reverent, as he kisses you on the lips, "we can grow old and gray together."
hybrid puppy!choso who becomes so attached to you whenever he's in heat. he loves sitting on your lap and snuggling into your embrace as you go about your day-to-day life.
hybrid puppy!choso who pathetically attempts to hump your leg whenever you're angry at him. think of it as his form of an apology.
hybrid puppy!choso who wears a leather collar with your name on it. the collar reads "y/n's pathetic puppy." just him wearing it gets his dick all wet.
hybrid puppy!choso who loves using your panties as a gag while he jerks off. he loves inhaling your musky smell as he pumps down on his cute cock.
hybrid puppy!choso who constantly begs for you to sit on his face. it started as a small idea but then surged into full-on begging.
hybrid puppy!choso who sleeps curled up next to you every night, letting out soft whimpers whenever he has wet dreams of you. his tail flicks in anticipation whenever he has dreams of you. a twitch of his ear, a jingle of his collar, and then you're woken up by the sound of his whimpers and quiet pleas by him asking for you to fuck him.
hybrid puppy!choso who just constantly wants to please you. he'll do favours whenever you want, even if he is occupied with something. he'll try anything new out that you want. heck, he'll even be your personal footrest if you ask.
hybrid puppy!choso who has fully devoted his life to you. he's here to please you, to make sure you're always happy. it doesn't matter the cost. he's yours forever. he's your pathetic puppy.
summary; leon’s been infected with something unknown from his mission.
notes: dub-con, coercion from blood sucking, dead dove do not eat!!, blood and death, but its happy ending (depending on what you interpret as happy...) , p in v, oral sex, creepy leon, please do be warned this is pretty dark!! but still mostly consensual id like to say, no beta read we die like luis..
word count: 1.7k
Leon hasn’t been the same since he returned from one of his missions two weeks ago. He had been deployed in deep Romania, told to investigate an unknown disease spreading throughout the region. Pale, sickly victims who fed on their companions. At first thought, it sounded awfully like zombies.
He refused to answer any of your questions when he returned. He kept a thick silence as he laid in bed with you that night, the darkness of the room swallowing you both whole. You were worried. Had something happened to him?
Even after questioning him, he didn’t open up. Not immediately. His silence worried you intensely, each day crawling at your insides and scratching at your flesh. It drove you crazy. He wasn’t the same, his skin held no warmth, he was paler, and his eyes fell dull. Like he had died, yet he stood in front of you breathing.
You felt like you were going crazy. Peeking over your shoulder every few minutes, sneaking a glance at him seated on the couch, posture sulken and relaxed. An old TV show plays on the screen a few feet in front of him, his eyes glued and mind occupied. He was in his whole own world.
Distracted with your head turned towards him, you don’t realize your knife slipping, accidentally nicking your finger instead of chopping the fruits settled in front of you on the counter. A sharp gasp leaves you as you step back, clutching your finger delicately. It didn’t hurt too much, but definitely caught you by surprise.
Inhaling deeply, you turn to reach for the medical drawer, only to be met by the sight of Leon standing behind you. You gasp loudly, knocking into his firm body and colliding your nose into his chest.
“You okay? I smelt— heard, uh, you hurt yourself.” He mutters lowly, hand reaching for yours, as gentle as always. You flinch at the coldness of his skin, fingers handling your finger as he examines the cut. Not too deep, but deep enough to cause blood. A bit of blood.
“My knife slipped, hun. It wasn’t anything bad.” You reassure, blinking up at him as he stares intently at your fingers. His eyes were locked down on the blood, lips parted and pupils dilated. You could feel the hunger in his gaze, and it scared you. You hadn’t even heard him get up, his footsteps or breath behind you.
The air brushing against your shoulder makes you shiver as you watch him bring your finger closer before suddenly pulling back. With a heavy sigh, he runs his fingers through his hair before softly patting your hip. “Be careful, yeah? I’ll get you a bandaid.”
It’s late at night when you awake from your slumber, eyes slowly drifting open and adjusting to the lack of light inside your shared broom. You can feel his body behind you, tucked into the bed under the blankets. His back faces you as you peek over your shoulder, breath slow.
Cautiously, you climb out of bed, lifting a weak hand to rub your temple. It’s well past midnight, and the silence of the house is all you can hear. Knowing Leon’s presence was next to you always soothed you, having such a hunk of meat for a husband, knowing he would always protect you.
But now you couldn’t help but feel unease. He looked the same as Leon, sounded the same, yet he didn’t feel the same. You didn’t know who was pretending to be your husband, and it scared you.
You get up from the mattress, slipping on slippers and quietly walking out of the bedroom. You don’t hear the sheets moving behind you.
The living room was pitch black when you entered. Living with Leon meant living in a cozy house with top notch security, which helped you feel safe from the threats outside the walls. Now you were afraid of what laid inside the walls.
Fiddling around, your eyes land on one of the decorative candles you have set on the dining table. You light it, holding it up as you begin to rummage the countertops for your sleeping meds. It wasn’t rare for you to stir in the middle of the night and crave your meds to fall back asleep, it was an annoyance but had become routine.
Across from the fridge you had double ovens stacked on top of each other on the wall, metallic, expensive and glimmering when the moonlight shines across it. Passing by them, you see your own reflection by yourself and alone in the dark kitchen. You don’t give it second thought.
You reach up, fingers aimlessly searching through the higher cabinet for the familiar feel of your meds. You couldn’t see so high up, so you were using your senses.
Slowly, a masculine hand comes into view and reaches into the cabinet beside you. Your blood runs cold. You didn’t see anyone behind you, you didn’t hear them either.
Your entire body freezes up before you suddenly dig your elbow into the man’s gut behind you, a loud groan of pain escaping him. You recognize the voice immediately and turn around to shove him back, glaring at his scrunched up blue eyes.
“Leon Scott Kennedy—“ You hiss, hand clutching your chest as you try to level your breathing. He stands in-front of you almost sheepishly, gently rubbing his stomach where you had struck him, a frown on his lips.
“Honey, what was that for? I was trying to help.”
“Help?! Where the hell did you come from?!” You snap back, clutching at your chest and leaning back against the counter behind you. He may have a good amount of years on you, but he was going to make you die young from a heart attack.
“I’m sorry, so sorry..” He whispers, gently pressing against you and nuzzling his stubble into your tangled hair. His limbs press cold against you, making you flinch softly. Thick arms wrap around your waist, your hair standing up on your own. He was cold, still, and with your head pressed against his burly chest, a small part of you tells you to lean in and listen for his heartbeat. To remind you this is your husband.
But you find none.
The following days are hell for you. You know there's something wrong with him, but you can't name it. You’re worried sick about what to do and if he’s even okay, but whenever you ask, he waves you off. Shrugs or laughs and tells you ‘You overthink, hun.’ It's nauseating, sharing a bed with a man who wears the skin of your husband but not the soul. Yet he still reaches for your hand in the dark, his cold touch only further pushing you away.
You were scared. Terrified, even. The nights grew longer, days more tiresome; you were unable to make them through without noticing things you didn’t want to notice. His lack of heartbeat, the unnatural chill lingering on his skin, his dead-silent breaths, darkened eyes, the hunger that flashes in them when he looks at you. Not the hunger a husband should have— something cannibalistic instead, something disgusting and rotten to the core. You’re terrified of your husband.
You can't pretend you don’t notice any of this, or that you’re able to wait it out until he decides to open up, or the delusional hope that’ll it wash over. The phone in your hand shakes as you call up the only number you could think of in the moment that would be able to help you.
“Hello?” You speak hesitantly, your voice hushed. You’re tucked into the dark corner of your living room late at night, Leon asleep in your bedroom. You had checked several times to make sure. A single candle is lit beside you on the small table.
“Chris Redfield here.”
“Chris!” You quickly whisper to him your name, alerting him you were Leons wife. He’s quick to recognize you, worry immediately grasping at his tone. Your body tightens in fear as his voice reaches to you. “Chris, I need your help. Leon—”
“Leon? You’re with him?” He gasps.
“Y-Yes?” A hard blink.
“You have to get out of there. We’ve been trying to contact him for days, he disappeared from our care and isn’t answering any calls and turned off his location services. He’s not safe.”
It's almost hard to hear Chris with how loud your heart is beating. Horror grabs at your legs, keeping you frozen in shock on the couch as you croak out a weak, "What's wrong with him?” Even if you knew you should get up immediately and run, you found it impossible to move your legs.
A moment of hesitation fills the call before he speaks. “He went on a mission to Romania and ran into Umbrella, if you know what that is.”
“Yeah, I do. And?” You usher, your voice small.
“They were making a virus, and he got infected. Its dangerous, he’s dangerous. The only reason he hasn’t killed you yet is probably because he loves you. But he’s not himself, he won't be able to make that difference for too long, so you need to get up, grab your stuff, and get out of that damn house!”
His sharp voice makes you snap back into reality. Your voice shakes as you stand up, holding the candle in your hand shakily as you wobble down the hallway. “T-The virus— What is it doing to h-him?”
“He… It's… It's a sick duplication of vampirism, is the best way to describe it.”
“He’s a vampire?”
You look up from your candle, slowly making eye contact with deep blue irises with no light in them. He stands before you, gaze flat and set down on you like a predator would do with its prey. The air runs cold as he silently closes his palm over the candle, bathing you both in darkness.
Chris calls out your name in confusion, but Leon slowly takes the phone from your hand, his fingertips making you shiver. He silently ends the call and sets the phone aside, staring down at you with an unpleased frown. Your body trembles, and he notices.
“Sweetheart,” He whispers, gently stepping forward until your breath brushed against his, “Why would you go to Chris when you could have just talked to me?” A large hand sets on your back, creeping up and pressing through the thin fabric of your silk-cami. You struggle to respond, mouth open but no words able to escape your throat. You never wanted to be scared of your husband.
“H-He— he said—”
He hushes you, his other hand going to brush your hair out of your soft cheek, before cupping it and gently squishing. “He was lying. I’d never hurt you, my love.”
You can't help but notice he didn’t correct the idea of him being infected.
“What.. about.. the virus part?” You choke out.
He hesitates, eyes slowly drifting down your body before snapping back up to yours. A frown washes over his face.
“I love you, you know that?”
“What?”
A soft cry leaves you as he suddenly latches his teeth into your neck, fangs breaking through your skin. The sensation tingled, a small sting, before your body slowly starts to feel lighter in his arms. You can feel your blood slowly being sucked out into his mouth, his soft tongue occasionally darting out to lick over the two punctured holes. Shaky whimpers leave you as your arms fly out, pushing and swatting at his large body.
“I love you, my sweet girl,” He whispers, pressing you against the wall behind you, his hand on your back reaching to gently grasp the back of your neck, tilting your throat just right for his mouth. Your legs flail around before falling limp, your body completely limp against his. “You’re such a good girl for this, I’ll reward you, okay? Just relax.”
His words only make you tear up, whimpering into his hair as his sucking slowly renders you useless in his arms. Wrapping around his shoulders, you push up into him, finally giving up control. You craved to be in your husband's arms again and to feel intimate with him after weeks of being apart, even the thought of him being a supernatural being didn’t scare you anymore. He was still your husband, and you loved him unconditionally. The pain in your neck slowly numbed.
He pulls away slowly, blood trickling down his chin as he stares down at you longingly. Gently, he connects his lips with yours, hands moving down to scoop up your body and hold you against him. Your legs wrap around his waist like second-hand nature, hands moving to cup his stubbled face as you kiss back deeply. Your tongues move against one another slowly, the taste of your blood making you moan. It was salty and metallic but gave the kiss taste.
Before you know it, your back was against the familiar warmth and plushness of your mattress, his heavy body grounding you into the bed. It was like dead weight drowning you into the sheets. Cold kisses, lingering caresses, slow touches and the rustling of clothing being pushed to the side. You don’t know when you end up naked, but next thing you know he’s between your thighs, hungrily lapping at your wet folds.
A sense of euphoria washes over you as you relax, body yielding to his touch. You cant control yourself at this point; you’ve fully surrendered to him. You feel as if you’re drunk on his touch, unable to breath without it. The moment he sank his fangs into your neck was the moment you were permanently his for eternity.
“Do you wanna be with me forever, sweetheart?” He whispers against your skin, large hands spreading you open by putting pressure on your thighs. Even while inhumane between your legs, you were always the first thing on his mind. The thought of being with you until the end of the world was all he craved.
“Forever?” You croak, another moan leaving you as he dives back down, sucking your clit between his lips with focus. Fingers rubbing soothing circles into your thighs, massaging your legs until you’re putty in his hands. The sensation of him is everywhere, starting from your head to your toes.
“Mhm. Just gotta trust me, love. Can you do that? Will you be a good girl?” He finally pulls away, leaning up to make eye contact with you. Warmth flutters from your heart at his voice, still as sweet and caring as the day you met him, hence why you married him. He always put your needs and love first.
“I l-love you, of course..” You nod eagerly, locking your lips with his passionately. His burly arms wrap around you, groaning in content as he quickly pushes his briefs down, thick cock springing out against his abdomen. Heavy, painfully hard, irritated and aching to be burrowed into your body. He doesn’t hesitate when he aligns himself with you, pulling back from the kiss to slowly intertwine your fingers and press a soft kiss to your cheek, watching closely to your expression as he pushes inch by agonizing inch, stretching you wide on him.
You almost can't breathe, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions, the pleasure, and even the pain. The hunger but love in his eyes as he slowly thrusts, whispering loving praises to you. He ushers you everything will be okay, and that when you wake up you’ll understand.
His teeth clamp down on your throat, fangs breaking through your skin once again. You cry out in pain underneath him, flinching and hugging him tighter. He groans at the taste of your blood filling his mouth, lapping it up hungrily while rolling his hips deeply into your tight warmth. You smelt like home and tasted like heaven.
“Leon, I’m— I cant— please,” You cry, trying to pull away from his teeth. It was starting to hurt, not like before— no, this time it was agonizing. Like he wasn’t planning on stopping until you were fully drained and nothing but a corpse underneath him. “Y-You’re scaring me..”
“No, no, no, baby,” He pulls away, his lips covered in your blood. He licks it away as he dives down to bite into his wrist, blood spilling down his forearm. The sight terrifies you, and you hiccup underneath him, trembling. Gently, he nuzzles you closer to his big chest, pressing warm kisses to your hairline. “You said you trust me, right?”
“M-Mhm.”
“Then be a good girl and drink this, okay?”
Your eyes slowly drift down to his bloody wrist, the thought of even consuming his blood nauseating you to your core. Your lips move to say no, but you can’t help but remember what he said. Together forever. So gradually, as if you were hypnotized, you lift your head and take the blood into your mouth. It stains the inside of your mouth as you lap at it for a short moment before pulling back sharply, as if you were snapped back to reality.
“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He hums, pushing you back down to lay underneath him. The blood staining your lips only makes him groan, starting back up a strong pace. His hips push against yours, snapping harshly. The sounds of skin-to-skin echo throughout the bedroom. His teeth latch back onto your neck, his hands holding you tight against him.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” He groans between long sucks, feeling your body slowly grow lighter in his grasp. Finally pulling back from your throat, he can see the light in your eyes slowly dim underneath him. With a weak smile, he presses one final kiss to your warm lips. “I’m gonna be here when you wake up, okay?” He brushes his thumb to your bottom lip, pressing down slightly before releasing you. It would be the last time he’d feel your skin warm and alive.
In your last few moments, you can feel your orgasm wash over your body, releasing on his cock as he moans deeply and burrows into your neck, clutching you tightly. His thrusts grow sloppy and inconsistent before he spills deep into you, holding onto you like a lifeline— yet there you were, dying slowly.
With one last shaky breath, he nudges his nose against yours, fangs glistening in the moonlight. “I’ll love you forever sweetheart, till death do us part.”
And when your body finally falls limp in his arms, he awaits till you rise once again, skin cold to the couch as fangs grow where humane canines once laid.
And reader wakes up as a vampire and they live happily ever after!!! No sad endings on my blog!!!
All thanks to the action hero extravaganza : Leon S. Kennedy
-one-shot-
pairing: Leon Kennedy x shy! Reader
warning/s: social anxiety portrayal, mild distress in social situations, unwanted proximity/pressure from a third party, protective behavior
note/s: Ahhhhhh Enjoy!
☆main masterlist☆ ☆Leon Kennedy masterlist☆
Leon notices it before anyone else does.
It isn’t the stutter—no, that part is obvious enough if someone actually bothered to pay attention.
It’s everything else.
From the way your shoulders tense every time someone looks your way during a conversation. How your fingers curl into your sleeves like you’re bracing for impact. To the way your voice starts out steady, only to thin out and trail off the longer you speak, like the words are quietly abandoning you mid-sentence.
It’s subtle.
Easy to miss.
But not for him, no, no.
He doesn’t point it out.
Of course he doesn’t—this is Leon we’re talking about. Subtlety isn’t always his strong suit, but somehow, with you, he manages.
He just… adjusts himself around you, like it's second nature.
His voice softens when he talks to you—not by much, just enough that you notice the difference. He gives you space when you need it, but never enough that you feel like you’ve been left behind.
When conversations start moving too fast, he slows them down in ways that don’t draw attention—redirecting things just enough to give you an opening.
And when you take it, when you manage to get your words out, he listens.
You were pleasantly surprised with how well he listens at times.
“Hey,” he says one afternoon, leaning against your desk like he’s been there the whole time. His voice is quieter than usual, meant only for you. “You did good in that briefing.”
You blink at him, caught off guard by the welcomed intrusion. “I—I didn’t really…”
“Yeah, you did.” There’s a small smile tugging at his lips. “You caught something the rest of us missed.”
You stare at him for a second. Hesitant, briefly wondering if this is a trap.
It’s not. It’s Leon. He doesn’t do traps. He falls into them.
“T-thank you,” you manage, softer than you meant.
He gives a small nod, like that settles it.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he adds, pushing off your desk. “You’re better than you think.”
And then he’s gone, like he didn’t just say something that sticks with you longer than it should.
You hate how easy he makes it sound.
After that, it turns into something unspoken.
A routine.
He doesn’t hover—he’s too careful for that—but he’s always within reach. Close enough that you don’t have to look for him, but not so close that it feels obvious.
During briefings, he somehow ends up within your line of sight every time. When conversations get crowded, his voice naturally cuts in—not overpowering, just enough to keep things from overwhelming you.
It’s subtle.
You pretend not to notice…but you do.
Sometimes, when things get a little too loud, he’ll slide a cup of your favorite drink toward you like he just happened to grab an extra.
You’ve tested this.
He did not grab an extra.
You don’t call him out on it.
Mostly because you like it.
And slowly—so slowly it almost feels accidental—you stop tripping over every word when you’re around him.
Sentences come out easier. Thoughts don’t feel as fragile.
You laugh once—really laugh—before you can stop yourself, immediately covering your face out of pure instinct.
Your cheeks blooming a shade of pink.
Leon pauses mid-sentence.
The look on his face is almost startled, like he didn’t realize how much he wanted to hear that.
“See?” he murmurs, quieter now. “Knew you had it in you.”
You lower your hands just enough to glare at him.
“I always had it in me,” you mumble.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, yeah.”
You narrow your eyes at him.
He doesn’t even try to hide the hint of amusement.
Then…the new guy shows up. The fire nation to your peaceful little bubble.
He was a transfer.
Confident in a way that feels loud even when he’s not talking, like he’s constantly taking up more space than necessary.
At first, you try to be polite.
But he stands too close. Talks too fast. Doesn’t give you time to catch up, let alone respond. He doesn’t notice how your answers get shorter, thinner, or how your hands start to shake the longer that he stays in your space.
“C’mon, you don’t have to be so quiet all the time,” he says one day, leaning over your desk, some of your things being pushed aside—like the space belongs to him. “We’re teammates, right? You can loosen up a bit.”
“I—I’m—” Your throat tightens, the words catching before they can form properly. “I just—”
He laughs.
Like it’s nothing.
Like you’re overreacting.
“Relax, I’m just talking to you.”
You consider, briefly, passing away on the spot. Maybe even digging your own grave while you're at it. At this point it feels like a viable option.
The space feels too small. Too loud. Too much.
Your chest tightens, breath catching somewhere it shouldn’t—
“Hey.”
Leon’s voice cuts in, calm but firm, with just enough weight behind it to make the room pay attention.
The new guy straightens slightly. “What?”
Leon steps in beside you, close enough that the shift in space is immediate.
“Give her some room,” he says, tone easy—but not optional.
“I was just—”
“I know.” Leon cuts him off, not sharp, but firm enough to stop him anyway. His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re crowding her.”
There’s a brief stretch of silence.
The kind where you can hear your own pulse, feel your fingers tightening against the desk. But then Leon shifts slightly, his arm brushing yours.
The action was barely noticable.
But it steadies you.
You resist the urge to grab onto his sleeve like a lifeline.
You have some dignity.
The new guy scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and eventually backs off.
And just like that…you can breathe again. All thanks to the action hero extravaganza that is Leon S. Kennedy.
Leon glances down at you after a moment.
“You good?” he asks, voice lower now.
You nod too quickly, then stop, forcing yourself to take a breath before trying again.
“I think so.”
He watches you for a second longer than nececours—noting how your voice wobbled slightly.
“Alright.” His tone softens just a bit. “You don’t have to deal with that, you know.”
“I k-know.” You hesitate, fingers twisting around your bracelet. “I just… I don’t always—”
“—get the words out?” he finishes.
You nod, a little sheepish.
Leon exhales quietly, then shifts so he’s not towering over you.
Less intimidating.
As if he was ever intimidating to begin with—to you that is.
“Then you don’t have to,” he says. “Not if you don’t want to.”
Your brows knit. “…what?”
He shrugs, like it’s obvious.
“If someone’s making you uncomfortable,” he continues, like it’s obvious, “you don’t have to explain yourself.”
“Just look at me.” His gaze meets yours—steady, certain. “I’ll handle it.”
Your chest tightens—not like before. Something warmer settles in its place.
You glance at him, then away, then back again.
“…okay,” you say softly.
He gives a small nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
Later, when things have quieted down and most of the office has cleared out, you find yourself drifting back to him.
Standing next to him, you don’t feel like you’re shrinking.
Which is new.
Nice…
A little suspicious, even.
“…Leon?”
He glances over. “Yeah?”
You hesitate—but only for a second this time.
“Thank you. For earlier.”
He studies you briefly, like he’s thinking something over.
Then he shakes his head lightly.
“Anytime.”
You look at him for a second longer than necessary.
“…you’re kind of nice, you know.”
He snorts. “Don’t let that get around.”
You huff quietly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good,” he says. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“What reputation?” You glance at him again, unimpressed. “Brooding government agent?”
“Careful,” he says, glancing at you. “You’re getting bold.”
ᰔ your inexperienced boyfriend bleeds when you kiss him?˚‧⁺･˖
⤷ choso melts when you kiss him and doesn’t even realise he’s bleeding all over you.
you're choso's biggest blessing.
he makes a point to remind you every day of the way you make him flourish, feel safe and painfully loved despite his half-curse origin and his indisputable inexperience.
he really tried to hide it, though it bled through his stammers and stutters when he asked you out on a date for the first time and when you held his hand– eyes shining –thanking him for the sweet picnic date he'd organised. and it was especially obvious when he stiffly thrusted a hand-picked bouquet of flowers into your chest alongside a neatly written note (the eighth draft) and asked you if he could be your boyfriend.
ever since then, he's convinced himself that for the first time, the universe had been on his side and took pity on him, allowing him to feel unconditional love from a sweetheart like you. even if he didn't know the first thing about intimacy or how to be a boyfriend.
you understood– of course you did. never pressured him into anything, only took his hesitant, brief pecks with a sweet smile and a fleeting kiss of your own to his nose where his blood mark stains the pallid skin.
he's been on his umpteenth replay of this memory when he groans aloud, brows pinching together. he runs a hand through his hair and gracelessly undoes the pigtails, allowing it to fall over his face.
five hours.
if choso wanted to be precise, he'd say you've been gone five hours and thirty-eight minutes. something about a friend's birthday get-together you so desperately had to attend, leaving him bored and girlfriend-less at your place.
that's five hours and thirty-eight minutes of sighing incessantly, laying in your bed to smell the remnants of your perfume, using your favourite cutlery as he eats lunch alone, and staring at your last message on his phone promising to come home soon.
should he text again? no, yuji mentioned girls hate that. should he just wait? it’s unbearable, really—
he's on his fourth aimless lap around your apartment when he hears the keys jingle outside and the door push open. and like a moth to a flame, choso suddenly finds purpose and pads over to the door.
you're there, beautiful and his, slipping off your heels with a soft huff and neatly setting them aside before lifting your head. a smile tugs at the corners of your lips, urging him to mirror the gesture, albeit shyly.
you’re so pretty. he loves what you’ve done with your makeup. so shiny, oh he loves you.
"hi, cho!" you beam, now turning to slip your jacket off, hang it up, empty your purse— and choso soon finds himself walking towards you to snake his hands around your waist without thinking. he tugs you back into his chest, hands sprawled over your stomach, squeezing faintly at the flesh.
you drop your purse on the counter, twisting in his arms to face him. his brows, if possible, have furled further and his pupils are dilated nearly entirely.
"cho?" you murmur softly, wrapping your own arms around his neck. "is something wrong?"
"you were gone for a while."
"you knew i would be."
"i missed you." he frowns further when you laugh, tilting his head down to look at you. consequently, his hair falls over his eyes a little, having freed it from the signature pigtails it's always in.
"cho, i wasn't even gone long." you coo, tucking his hair behind his ear with an amused smile, fingertips brushing an earring.
"five hours and forty minutes."
you laugh again, soft and airy, a sound he'd gladly exchange a sense to hear indefinitely.
"okay, cho, i’m sorry."
"you don't need to be sorry, i hope you had fun." he murmurs, tilting his head down to brush a brief kiss to your hairline. "what did you do?"
yeah, he'll ask. maybe your rambling will take the fact that he wants to kiss you off his mind.
"mm, we went to a really fancy restaurant! it had a cute bar too and—oh, the bathrooms were super pretty! my friends and I managed to get super pretty pictures, remind me to show you! anyway, we had dinner, then—”
he's listening. well, he was at some point, but now he's on his tenth non-committal hum while he guides you to your bedroom to help you wind down as you continue your storytelling.
you giggle, unruffled in the slightest, and stop in your tracks. that earns you a confused hum, choso mirroring your movements and halting.
"hm? carry on."
"you're not even listening."
his eyes widen imperceptibly and suddenly his hands are sweaty. is this the start of your first argument? are you mad? oh, god, are you going to dump him because he was too stuck in his fantasy of kissing you that he didn't reply?
"i-i was." he manages to mutter. "i’m sorry. you said something about mirror pictures?"
"yeah, five minutes ago."
he's sweating profusely now. and just when his lips part to come up with another weak response, you can't help but giggle.
"cho, i’m not mad. i was rambling, anyway. what's on your mind, though?" you hum, taking his hand and swinging it as you pad into your bedroom.
choso's not a liar. so, he confesses, but as quietly as humanely possible.
“…”
you hum again.
"huh?"
"said i wanted to kiss you." he repeats with a soft groan, the tips of his ears growing a bright red.
you stop and smile. god, you’ve done a lot of that tonight.
you don't even think twice. you stand on the tips of your toes and cup his cheeks, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. choso grunts, half-surprised and half-fuckingfinally, placing a hand on your waist to return the favour.
although, when you pull away, he leans back in, his other hand cupping your cheek to guide your face to his again. you don't even deny him, you kiss him back happily, sweet presses of lips with an undercurrent of messiness only an inexperienced choso can offer.
he gives a soft whimper when he feels your tongue prod at the seam of his lips, ears growing hot at the implication. was it an accident?
you walk him back against the bed and climb into his lap, and he audibly gasps. you take advantage of the airy sound, slipping your tongue into his mouth and deepening the kiss just slightly.
choso's jaw falls slack, his lips trying desperately to meet you halfway. his head feels heavy and far too hot and he's dizzy, everything's fuzzy and blurred and he can't even feel his hands on your waist anymore–
you feel a drop on your cheek. then again, on your nose. instinctively, your nose scrunches and you pull back thinking he's crying again like he did with your first kiss.
to your surprise, he's bleeding. the blood mark on the length of his nose is dripping down his own cheeks and nose in slow, small rivulets and his eyes are blown wide. he sniffles. doesn’t even notice it’s him.
"babe? are you bleeding?" he panics a little, swiping the blood off your cheeks with his thumbs before he feels a trickle down his chin.
"no, its you! cho, you're bleeding!" you yelp, reaching over to the bedside table to grab a box of tissues, pressing three to his nose. "are you okay?! what happened?!"
now, his entire face is red and you can't tell if he's blushing or if he's about to bleed from every facial orifice next.
he lifts a hand to his face, sliding a fingertip down the bridge of his nose and down the subtle bump you love, collecting a smudge of blood. he starts to wipe his nose with the tissues.
"s-sorry, i lost control... i didn't think that would happen." he mumbles, covering his face with one hand while the other cleans himself up, desperately willing his technique to fix itself. he should ideally only be bleeding at will, he knows this.
"oh my god, you scared me!" you squeak, watching as his blood mark stops bleeding.
"s-sorry, i guess i got too caught up," he apologises, embarrassment laced in his words. he presses a kiss to your nose, wiping your cheeks until clean.
you sigh, cupping his cheeks and letting your eyes run over his face to ensure he won't bleed all over you again. when satisfied, you nod, letting your hands drop to your lap, your smaller body still perched on his thighs.
"okay. I'm not kissing you until tomorrow. to be safe.”
choso's jaw falls open and his eyes widen comically.
“cmon baby,” he said, tsking playfully— like this was a game to him— as he watched you writhe on his cock. “just like the first time you took this dick, huh? cmon, you can do it, i believe in you.” he said, stroking down your stomach slowly, and reaching down to thumb at your clit.
you shakily rode him, and yes— it definitely felt like it was your first time riding him everytime you did so. you never got over the sheer size of him. “mmh, i—i’m tryinggg—“ you whimpered, placing one hand on his chest for stabilization. “poor baby,” he said teasingly, running his tongue over his bottom lip as he watched you.
“put some work into it. there you go, just like that.” he groaned, as you finally mustered up the strength to pick up your pace. “fuuck, just like that. give it to me.” he nodded, watching you. as you adjusted to his size, you let out a shrill moan, your eyes squeezing shut. “see, that wasn’t so hard was it?” he said softly. “t—toji, i’m nuh—not gonna last long.” you spoke, returning your gaze onto him.
“yes you will,” he said, reaching his other hand, which wasn’t occupied with playing with your sensitive clit, to guide your hips to move on him the way he wanted. “you think i’m just gonna let you tap out on me? you’re funny.” he said, moaning as you moved your hips— per his guidance.
“shit, baby. finally learning, huh? what a good girl, finally using that dumb brain for good.” he breathed. “just like that. keep going, you wanna be good for me, don’t you?” he said, meeting your own strokes with his thrusts.
you nodded desperately, continuing your movements despite your growing fatigue. “yes, yes yes— yeah,” you moaned. “fuck, i can’t hold it back anymore—“ you whimpered. he chuckled, shaking his head. “cmon, then. come for me.” and when your finally came, your body tensing but your movements continuing shakily, your moans increased in volume. he watched this whole thing, an accomplished smile on his face.
his hand came up to stroke your back slowly. “aww, that’s it— fuck, mhm, cum on that dick..” he murmured, placing his hand on the small of your back to stabilize you. “see? you’re not that dumb.” he said, kissing your temple.
Summary: You take down a monster but it has one last surprise for you – a polar plunge. Leon's forced to go in after you. Once you're free of the ice, you've got to go get warm, fast.
WC: 4.5k
CW: NSFW, minors DNI, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, monster fight, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, reader put in peril, reader is injured, shared body heat, sex in the back of the Porsche, first time (together), unprotected p in v, creampie, synchronized orgasms, sort of aftercare (Leon is sweet and attentive), I'm so incredibly not kidding half of this is porn
Notes: MINORS DNI
The root of the problem is there are too many fucking limbs to keep track of.
The monster’s knotted, slimy arms – if you could call them such – are clawed into the ground, keeping it pulled onto the shore, and it has plenty more to swing and slam and bludgeon with, swatting at you and Leon running around like you’re nothing more than pestering flies. After an initial trial of overwhelm, you’re learning: shoot for the bends to shatter joints, hit the ground when it swings then immediately roll to avoid the follow-up slam meant to unite you with the dirt. Permanently.
There’s an additional complication.
“It’s a fucking hydra!” Leon shouts.
It’s a fucking hydra. You’re dealing with more limbs now than when it had burst out of the frozen lake and charged you, with a screech so piercing it still rings in your ears. This changes things, if you don’t want to end up popped like a sauce packet on the patchy grass bank.
“Fuck.”
You have to keep moving, but you’re not shooting at it now. You’re reassessing, heart pounding, breath loud in your ears and visible in the cold, grey air. Leon grunts as he dives clear of a slamming limb, rolling to his feet and dodging the bullwhip crack of another arm.
Your gaze locks on the grenade hanging from his belt. A plan fills in behind your singular focus.
He sees you half a second before you slam into him at full tilt, no time to slow down, but his stance is wide enough that it doesn’t knock him over.
“What–!”
You meet his eyes. You can see the next threat in your periphery; your one, his six, another slimy limb coming in hot. He’s realizing where your hand is. It all happens in the space of a heartbeat.
“Spicy meatball,” you explain, then drop him by kicking your heel into the back of his knee, folding it. Your grip on the grenade yanks it free of his belt and you hold it up over your head as the hydra’s arm, great ugly claw-hand open, misses Leon on the ground and grabs you, ripping you into the air. Leon shouts your name but it’s lost under an ear-splitting, triumphant screech.
The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.
You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.
Leon’s already caught on.
A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.
You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.
The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –
It throws you.
Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.
Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.
Leon’s already running.
The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.
The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.
You haven’t come up for air.
“Fuck.”
He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.
The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.
The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.
Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.
He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.
You do not.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.
You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.
It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.
Get up
We need to move
Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”
As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.
“Run!”
It’s a bit much to ask.
You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.
Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.
You’re almost there.
You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.
Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.
“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.
You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.
The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.
“Almost there. Come on.”
Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.
“Get in. Get in!”
You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.
“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.
You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.
“Fuck!”
There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.
Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.
“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?
Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.
“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.
“No.”
“No?”
“The keys are in my coat.”
“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”
“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”
He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.
Fuck.
You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.
It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.
Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.
“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.
“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."
“How bad?”
“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”
“Deep breath in.”
You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.
“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.
His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.
“You gotta get down on me."
You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.
"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."
“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.
Fuck.
"I don't know where you think my knees are going."
You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.
He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.
“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”
You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.
“You can’t be wearing that.”
“Leon–“
"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."
Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.
"Do you trust me?"
You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.
"Yes."
It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.
"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.
It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.
“Yeah. Fine."
It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.
He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.
“Do you know you're doing that.”
He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.
“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.
“Yes ma'am.”
Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.
Your eyelids are heavy.
“Is it bad to fall asleep?”
He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.
“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.
And you register why.
His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.
And something else is different.
“…Where are your hands?”
You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.
“Good boy.”
You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–
He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.
“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.
He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.
“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”
“You be careful with my side.”
“Damn.”
“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.
“You’ve got a fixation.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”
“Don’t be rude.”
You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”
“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.
“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?
He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.
“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”
“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”
You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”
He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.
“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.
“What do you want?”
Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.
“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”
The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.
“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.
“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”
“Mm. Lucky day.”
“I know.”
“Any last words?”
“What?”
You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.
“Be careful,” he says.
“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.
“Are you okay?”
You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”
He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.
Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.
“Fuck me.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.
“Think you can come like this?”
“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.
“Tip your hips down,” he says.
You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.
“Fuck, like that Leon!”
He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.
“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”
“Do you want me to be?”
You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.
“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.
“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”
He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.
When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.
"I think that did the trick,” he says.
You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.
“How’s your side?”
“Stings.”
He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.
“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.
“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”
He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.
“Worked out fine the first time.”
You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.
“Beginner’s luck.”
There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.
But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.
On AO3
Guys quick tip don’t take survival advice from a gratuitous x reader they probably died lmao
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 💙
⌗ TOJI FUSHIGURO / 伏黒 甚爾
mdni. ◞♡ toji sends you nudes the whole day
your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. it was barely past nine in the morning and you were already regretting not silencing it before your shift. the office did not offer much privacy so every vibration against your thigh made your stomach flip.
morning gorgeous. slept like shit without you.
he attached a mirror selfie. his broad chest filled the frame. you can see his dark happy trail disappeared into low black boxers, and that cocky smirk was aimed straight at the camera.
you typed under the desk: toji. i’m at work.
so? i’m bored and got aaaaalllll day to think about how good you looked riding me last night.
he sent a new photo. his boxers were shoved down. his thick cock rested heavy on his stomach. one big hand wrapped around the base. the veins were prominent. the tip was already shiny with precum.
heat flooded your face. you locked the screen and tried to focus on the spreadsheet. it didn’t work. by ten-thirty he was sending short videos—lazy strokes, low voice murmuring your name, “miss that pretty mouth, baby.”
you lasted until lunch before slipping into the single bathroom. the stall door clicked shut. another photo had arrived while you were walking: toji on his knees on the mattress, ass up, looking back over his shoulder with a wicked grin, scar on his lip pulled tight.
“fuck,” you whispered. your fingers were already under your panties when the next message popped up.
ignoring me? bad girl. gonna punish you when you get home.
with it he sent a close-up of his cock. precum dripped onto the sheets while his fist squeezed the flushed head.
you came fast and quiet, biting your wrist, then cleaned up and went back to your desk on shaky legs. the rest of the afternoon was pure torture. he kept spamming—texts about how bored he was, how he was just chilling, maybe playing games or napping. in your mind he was living that unemployed life he always joked about: cereal for lunch, no schedule, nothing but time to get himself off and send you the evidence.
the photos kept coming. him in the shower, water streaming down his muscular body. a fresh cumshot across his abs, voice note of him groaning your name. by four-thirty your panties were soaked through and your focus was gone.
shift over yet? been thinking about bending you over the second you walk in. got something nice and hard waiting.
he sent a last photo. he was sprawled on the couch, legs spread wide. his cock flushed and heavy in his hand.
hurry up, princess. daddy’s lonely.
you grabbed your bag the second the clock hit five. on the train you finally replied, you’re the worst. what did you even do all day??
nothing much. same old. miss you.
what you didn’t know—what he could never tell you—was that “nothing much” had been a silenced pistol in a warehouse across town, a clean headshot, and a thick envelope of cash now hidden under the floorboard at home.
toji wasn’t unemployed. he just played the part so you would stay soft and safe and none the wiser. he sent nudes instead of explanations, kept you wet and distracted at work, and waited for you to come home smiling, exactly like this.
you smiled at the screen, already wet again at the thought of walking through the door. if only you knew.
husbands are supposed to keep pretty pictures of their wives in their wallets; if they keep a photo at all, that is. and the photo leon has of you in his wallet is not pretty.
you had picked up his wallet while you left the house in a hurry to run some errands. inside it were not many things—just a costco card, his driver’s license, emergency cash folded neatly, a receipt from eight months ago, his credit card, a photo of your daughter from when she was a toddler, and a photo of you.
it’s a polaroid from when you were pregnant with your daughter and horking down a giant burrito. your hair in a messy bun and some guac smeared on the corner of your lips. out of all the pictures leon could’ve kept in his wallet, he decided on this one. it almost made you laugh in the supermarket.
It’s when you return home that you find him sitting in the garage, working on his bike. you didn’t even ask the question, just wheeze and show him the photo.
leon looks up from the chain of the bike that he was fixing after hearing your laughter and then looking at the small polaroid in your hand. “i keep that in my wallet,” he says calmly, matter-of-factly.
“i look ridiculous,” you huff out. “i’m stuffing that burrito down like i’ve never had food!”
“you look happy, and you’re glowing,” he corrects, a fond smile on his face, as if remembering that moment. “and that’s my favourite photo of you, so i won’t be hearing anything against it.”
an: sorry this part is shorter, but i wanna write a full chapter version of this anyways if you enjoy it enough. ❤︎ . ݁ ˖
♡ you were pretty nervous this time around, and not because he had given you a direct reason to but because something felt different that night
♡ leon was a stunningly handsome man, you knew that from the start, but you knew no more than his name and address. it had to be limerence, so always told yourself he was off limits.
♡ not only was he already married and nearly twice your age, but you had responsibility over his children, and you weren’t one to jeopardize your career and moral standpoint just so you could bang your hot employer.
♡ but, did that mean you couldn’t admire him? especially the way he looked under the warmth of the street lamps on the drive to yours?
♡ so when you two found yourselves stuck at yet another red light, you decided to take a leap of faith
♡ how harmful could it be to ask about his late wife? it’s only respectful, if you take away your profile, given that he brought her up first.
♡ you pretended to forget and first asked him for her name, then what she did for work, and if he still thought about her.
♡ he seemed taken aback, but the more he talked about her the more he warmed up
♡ his shoulders relaxed a few millimetres, and he had a certain lingering smile of adoration on his cheeks. you had never seen him show so much emotion, well, ever.
♡ while the sight was aching, to say the least, you couldn’t help but feel a weird sense of jealousy
♡ not because you were worried about a beautiful dead woman, but you were put off by how a small part of you wished he was talking about you that way
♡ you tell him that she sounds lovely and you wish you could’ve met her, but what you didn’t think he’d ever say, he did.
♡ “she actually… looked a lot like you.”
♡ you felt a weird mix of emotions braising in your stomach and swelling your heart. part of you felt honoured to be compared to a woman he seemed to love very much, and another part of you felt… a different kind of good.
♡ for a moment you forgot he was father of the kids you’re caring for, a man you hardly know anything about, a man who will always be ten steps ahead in life’s experience compared to you.
♡ for a moment you saw a handsome man who hadn’t had an outlet for his love in years, a man who felt comfortable to confide in you about it. you saw a man with potential.
♡ in his car, at the thousandth red light, you sat next to a man that you deliriously believed you might have a chance at saving.
𝜗𝜚 “an iced strawberry matcha with vanilla cold foam... and a chocolate croissant please!”
more like this
Choso Kamo has never felt more out of place in his life, unless you count the time he was too early to drop Yuji off at school and accidentally had to make awkward small talk with a group of middle aged mothers and their children. The coffee shop he’s stood in is pretty, all pastel walls and cosy chairs with the occasional hand-sewn pillow.
So, all in all, not a match at all to the outfit he’s wearing; baggy jeans, his beat-up jacket and his messy dark brown hair (coupled with the eyeliner smeared underneath his big eyes) makes him the exact opposite of the other clientele in here. His stomach flips nervously a little when a woman in the corner starts side-eyeing his eyebrow piercings, but a polite smile fixes that issue.
The smell hit him in the face first when he stepped in. Coffee (duh, he thinks), sugar, and the vague smell of baking croissants as an employee lifts one out of the little oven they’re using to make the pastry flaky. This is the fifth coffee shop Choso’s been in within the last half hour, and he’s starting to get dizzy.
Choso doesn’t even like coffee that much.
Which is good, because: one, he isn’t here for coffee. And two, he isn’t here for himself, either.
He’s here for you, his girlfriend, tucked in with your laptop and pyjamas in the bed back at his dorm. He just wanted to be a good boyfriend; so when you’d turned to him, still sleepy with rosy cheeks and messy hair, and mumbled something about ‘really wanting a matcha right now’ as your head slumped onto his bare chest, he’d practically shot out of bed to help.
“Text me what you want, sweetheart.” He’d said, kissing your forehead as you gently leaned into it. You’d smiled, still sleepy. “Okay, Cho.”
Who knew there was so many coffee shops nearby? First, Choso tried the one with the table and chairs outside, the one he sees sometimes walking back from lectures. They told him that they didn’t serve ‘altered’ matcha, because they ‘don’t believe in gentrification.’
I mean, fair enough!
So he’d tried the second and third, both of which informed him that they either did blueberry or regular matcha, but no strawberry; and neither of them offered vanilla cold foam, just plain strawberry, which seemed bizarre to Choso- if you’re offering strawberry foam, why not the matcha too?
The fourth told him they served the exact drink, but only sold breakfast foods- which Choso assumed would mean the pastry you requested, but actually turned out to mean overnight oats and yogurt bowls stacked with granola and fresh fruit. Which you’d eat, he knows, but it isn’t what you asked for, and Choso can’t bear to even think about the disappointment you might feel.
The fifth- the one just across the street from this, the final shop- didn’t even own matcha powder. Makes sense, considering the sign outside said ‘family owned since 1935’ and exclusively seemed to sell black coffee with hot buttered toast. Choso had apologised to the elderly owner for the confusion and crossed the street.
Now, here he was, staring at that message again for the sixth time.
strawberry iced matcha, with vanilla cold foam please! :)
oh, and a chocolate croissant if they sell them
I love you!! <3
“Vanilla cold foam…” he repeats under his breath, eyebrows knitting together. Choso’s learnt a lot this morning. Mainly that a chocolate croissant is not the same thing as a pain-au-chocolat, and cold foam actually exists.
Seriously, isn’t the foam on drinks supposed to be hot?
“Hey, can I take your order?” The barista smiles, the lighting glinting from the earrings she’s wearing that seem to blend seamlessly with the rest of the decor in here, and clash terribly with Choso’s outfit. But he has a job to do, so he clicks on your message again.
“Um, a strawberry iced matcha with… vanilla cold foam please? Oh, and a chocolate croissant, too, please.” Choso recites, almost wincing as he anticipates another rejection.
“Perfect!” The barista says, tapping up his order. “Can I take a name?”
“Choso.”
She smiles politely again. “Just wait beside the shelves over there, I’ll call your name when it’s ready.”
Choso thanks her again, then positions himself by the shelves as directed alongside a girl who’s clearly midway through a jog, a woman wearing a perfectly ironed blouse and a laptop case, and a pastel plant pot with a monstera.
“Choso?” The barista calls, earrings catching the light again. Choso clutches the pastry bag in one hand, feeling the slight warmth the pastry exudes while he thanks the woman.
In his other hand sits the drink. Pretty green liquid, cubes of ice slightly visible, and swirls of pink and red throughout he assumes is the strawberry sit beneath a fluffy layer of foam. He can’t deny it looks good, he thinks, walking back to his dorm.
“Baby?” He calls, slipping off his shoes before walking into his bedroom.
“Hi!” You beam, still curled up around your laptop as you tap in a few notes. Your eyes brighten when you see the drink in his ringed hand. “Oh my gosh,” you gush, “thank you so much, Cho!”
You sip your drink and hum happily, stirring it a little with the plastic straw. Choso perches next to you on the duvet as you hand him your matcha to hold while you busy your mouth with eating the pastry. “This is really good.” You say through a mouthful, “was it a huge bother trying to get my order right?”
Choso thinks back to the way he’d stared blankly at the baristas, debates on telling you, then decides he loves you too much to make you feel bad. “No, not at all.” He smiles, wrapping his arm around you. You’re glad he shucked off his jacket as he walked in, because now you can press your body back into his even more without the barrier of leather.
“I’m glad.” You sigh, sipping your matcha again and watching the way the foam swirls around. “You’re such a good boyfriend to me, Choso, I’m so lucky. I really love you.”
“I’m lucky too.” He says back softly, looking down at your body all tangled up beside his, in his cosy duvet, smiling at him. He blushes, grins stupidly, then immediately tries to play it cool. Which he fails at immediately, of course, because you’d know that tone of voice anywhere. “And I love you too.”
You turn your head to look up at him and press a soft kiss to his lips, strawberry and matcha passing onto his mouth with a faint hint of vanilla. ”Well…” he says awkwardly, “I did have one question about your order, actually.”
Your brows furrow. “Oh no! I should’ve been more specific, or just asked you for a latte or something. I’m sorry-“
“No, no!” He says, “it’s just…” Choso shuts his eyes in embarrassment.
“Isn’t foam supposed to be hot?”
masterlist
a/n: this is NOT my order but it’s yummy nevertheless!!
summary: just because his dick doesn’t work anymore doesn’t mean he can’t please you.
warnings: established relationship, age gap (40s!leon|25+!reader), older man with ed, oral (f!receiving), fingering, minor embarrassment involved angst
w/c: >1k
author notes: little blurb, more leon soon.
If you had a dime for every time someone openly judged you for being married to a significantly older man, you’d have enough money to buy two porches and four ninja creamis. At some point the comments didn’t really affect you anymore, it became natural to see some reaction when you mentioned it to a new person.
Your marriage with Leon was relatively new, being shy of just four years, most of your friends made sure you knew good and well how they felt about the relationship. Of course, many of your friends were supportive, because if you were happy and he treated you well nothing else mattered. They knew he was older, knew he had a job, spoiled you and cared for you like no one’s business.
But in every conversation where your friends would talk about their own boyfriends or their relationships, there would always be one person to remind you of the obvious.
It was painful, honestly. You knew the age thing would be controversial to some, and you knew the complications of it all. Hell, Leon was the one that kept rejecting you despite your adamance to be with him.
But you saw past the age difference and more at the man he was.
And being the doting, caring husband he was, he always put you before him. It didn’t matter the case, the situation or the scenario, if it benefitted you and made you happy, it was done. Which is why you were currently sprawled out naked on the warmth of the messy bed, legs spread apart as he propped himself between the softness of your thighs.
The two of you tried, key word: tried, to enjoy each other’s presences. A natural, soft kind of intimacy saved for nights where he wasn’t tired and felt particularly eager on pleasing you. And he so desperately wanted to please you. To soak in the warmth of your body against his, to press his lips against your neck and hear your soft little moans as he nudged his cock against the wetness of your walls.
Except that plan, that thought in his mind was evaporated about as quickly as steam from a pan. By the time he fished out his cock between slow mouth kisses and gentle squeezes of your ass, the damn thing just flopped out. Not hard, not even a half chub. It was like looking at deflated balloon, just soft and embarrassingly so.
The embarrassment had crawled up his spine and rushed to his neck so fast he nearly got dizzy. Of course, now was one of the times his dick decided to stop working. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to fuck you. How could he not when you were looking up at him so pretty and expectantly, glossy lips and wide eyes watching his every move.
It was terrible. Worse than anything he’s ever dealt with or any person he’s ever fought.
The arousal was there, the want was there. You were right there. But it was like his mind and body were disconnected, unplugged from the port. He tried giving himself a few strokes, busying himself with the smell of you and the taste of your skin hoping (and praying) that he would just get hard.
For a moment, he couldn’t even meet your eye. He was terrified. Would you take it the wrong way? Would you be disappointed? God, what would you think?
He tried to busy your eyes from anything but him, peeled off your shorts and guided you against him as he tried to work with what he had. The last thing he wanted was for you to see and immediately think the worse; the disappointment, the rejection, the dissatisfaction, the unattractiveness. Throughout all his inner thoughts and the waves of worries, he only thought about you.
And that’s how you suddenly wound up with a pillow under your hips and one leg pulled over his shoulder. He didn’t care for himself anymore, and despite the lack of warmth from your bodies pressed together just five minutes ago, he was more than happy to focus on the pretty wetness of your pussy.
His mouth was placed sloppily against your cunt, eyes glued onto your face to soak in every little gasp and reaction you had. His tongue dragged up in long almost frantic slides, moving up and down, then side to side. Your hips jerked forward, feet digging into the mattress below you as you moaned softly.
His lips were swollen and glossy with the thin sheen of your own juices, mouth inching further and further up to suck at your clit. Two of his thick fingers were shoved knuckle deep into the weeping mess of your cunt, pumping in and out in slow squelches. His digits turned, scissoring and curling against your walls as he flicked the tip of his tongue against your clit.
His other hand gripped tightly around your thigh, squeezing the flesh and guiding your hips against his face to literally smother himself in the taste of you. He let out a low, vibrating groan into your pussy, eyes fluttering slightly as you ran a hand through his hair.
Your fingers curled into his hair, back arching as his mouth latched around your clit again. His nose buried against the dampness of your skin, fingers pulling out with a quiet, wet pop. You let out a whiny moan at the loss of his fingers, pussy clenching around the cold air. “W-what, why’d you stop?”
You can feel his grin against your folds, eyes shifting up from the slick in front of him to the verbal disappointment on your face. “Patience, baby. Just getting a better angle, ‘s all.”
You huffed impatiently, shifting back as he gently tucked the pillow further under your hips. He planted his lips against your inner thighs in teasing, soft kisses as he angled your hips up just another fraction or two. Staring down at him, you let out another little noise of impatience only to be met with a smug grin from your husband.
“God, baby. Don’t get all worked up now.”
“Leon. Hurry up.”
He laughs, warm and muffled against your thigh before giving you a slow nod. He nips at your inner thigh, enjoying the way you squealed and squirmed against the bed. “Okay, okay. ‘M sorry.”
He gives you approximately two seconds to prepare yourself before immediately diving back into your pussy. He presses a firm hand against the soft of your stomach, forcing you still as he mouthed open kisses to your slit. Whimpering shakily as he firmly pressed a calloused fingertip against your clit, he dragged the base of his tongue along the slick of your arousal.
He peppers your folds in kisses, spreading your lips apart to gently slide the tip of his tongue against your fluttering entrance. He’s met with momentary resistance, before gently pressing his tongue an inch further.
“Oh, fuck.” You gasp heavily, fingers digging into his scalp as you subconsciously buck your pussy against his face. He sloppily slides just the tip of his tongue inside, curling the pink muscle and rotating it slightly. His thumb presses firmly against your throbbing clit, rubbing quick, tight circles against the nub.
Between your frantic squirms, moany gasps and the audible sounds of your pussy, Leon’s subtle sounds of approval are barely heard. A growing warmth spreads from the top of your head to the bottom of your toes. Tugging mindlessly on Leon’s hair, though he doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes are entirely fixated on you. He watches as your body tenses, hips stuttering forward at the heavy pinch of your clit.
Your orgasm washes over you abruptly between airy moans, an intense heat sprouting in your gut before breaking off into a long simmering buzz. Your thighs twitch against his head, his large, calloused palms wrapped around the flesh of your thighs to soothe you. He pulls back slightly, watching your chest rise and fall in labored breaths as he laps at the mess of juices against your slit. He licks the gloss from his lips, splattered with your own arousal and juices before hesitating.
You’re completely oblivious to the moment, slowly coming down from your high as he strokes your thigh. His eyes dart down momentarily towards the growing tent in his boxers and the persistent throb of his cock finally coming to life. Without thinking twice, he lets out a small chuckle, gaining your attention as he moved to wrap an arm around your waist.
“What’s so funny?” You asked between labored breaths, shimmying against him as he gave your hip a small squeeze. You ran a hand up to his forearm, glancing down as his other hand moved to free himself for the second time tonight.
“No nothing, hon’.” He rubs his thumb up and down the expanse of your waist, looking down at you as he allowed his hand to roam. “Just thinking.”
You smiled slightly, a bit dazed and confused as you tilt your head at him. “About what?”
“How many times I can stuff that pretty pussy full.”
