-> this blog contains nsfw content, most reblogged, but some written (: please dni if you're under 18!!
-> i will write and reblog for whatever i'm interested in at the moment, mostly being genshin impact and various resident evil games :D
my ao3 💜 my non nsfw writing blog
✧･ﾟ: #about-the-author 🍬
hello! this blog was created as a separate space from my main blog where i can post nsfw things without immediately receiving an ask saying, “wait, you reblog nsfw??” (yes, that did actually happen LMAO). i love soapy writing and sometimes the only thing a heart-wrenching plot is missing is a good smut scene 🙈my favourite tropes are enemies to lovers and forbidden love, which is probably on brand for what i’ve said so far. i also usually stick to longer pieces which means more infrequent posts unfortunately ): i hope we can be friends!
✧･ﾟ: #inbox-status 💭
-> open, currently accepting requests 🫶 just a note, though, if you want to request a smut, i’d prefer it has some kind of plot or scenario attached to it :) ty
✧･ﾟ: #masterlist 🗒️
-> overachiever ; a week after you’ve accidentally slept with your partner, tension is at an all time high.
-> the world we gain ; a retelling of resident evil 2 where you are the niece and protege of umbrella scientist william birkin, going through the events of raccoon city with a rookie named leon kennedy. (ongoing)
Summary: Fucking the man who saves the world while you bury its secrets seems like an essential way to survive. Your morals may be different, but there is one thing you both can agree on.
Content: Smut (p in v, creampie, semipublic sex, a litte spanking, hitting it from the back in a headlock yep yep), implied situationship, oh and they’re both kinda bratty lol, reader is messyyyy
Word count: 4.2k
Masterlist❤︎
-
His eyes are as blue as you remember.
Even half-drowned in the bleeding neon of the club’s strobes, that ice color cuts straight through the dark. A blue that absolutely does not belong in a subterranean Berlin syndicate den.
You spot him leaning against the far end of the bar, playing the part of a weary patron nursing a drink. Would’ve been believable if his other hand wasn’t resting over his holster. You assume he’s using the mirrored wall behind the liquor bottles to track the two security details guarding the elevator.
So much for blending in.
Passing through the grind of sweaty bodies, you easily slide into the empty space beside him. Deliberately nudging his tensed arm with a manicured hand, “Buy a girl a drink?”
Leon doesn't even flinch, but you’re too familiar with his tells to miss the subtle twitch of muscle faltering under the skin of his neck. The deepening crease at the corner of his mouth gives away his exasperation. “Why am I not surprised that you’re here?”
You throw him a lazy smile. “Berlin is a lovely time of the year.”
“It's thirty degrees and pouring rain.”
“I've always been fond of the cold.”
He finally turns his head, bringing the full weight of his gaze on you. "Who holds your contract tonight? Don't tell me you suddenly grew a conscience about stolen bioweapons."
"What do you mean? I'm just a tourist taking in the nightlife."
"A tourist with a suppressed gun printing against her hip. Right."
"A girl has to protect herself in a city like this."
“From what? The people you're paid to erase?" He shifts his weight to turn completely towards you. "You're here to ruin my op.”
You scoff, as if the underground entirely revolves around the DSO's noble crusades.
When the dossier dropped in your mail forty hours ago, the mandate wasn't exactly draped in heroism. It seemed like the frantic equivalent of a corporate suit sweating through his silk collar. Some lab tech had let a synthesized parasite strain slip out the back door to be auctioned for the highest bidder, and suddenly you were flying to Europe to play exterminator.
While Leon was probably getting a patriotic briefing about securing an asset on foreign soil to save lives, the instructions given to you were pretty blunt. Retrieve the prototype, put a bullet between the broker’s eyes.
He wants to save the day, you’re here to make sure there is nothing left to save—it’s nothing new.
"I'm going to sanitize it," you correct, letting the playful lilt drop from your voice. "You want to play hero and drag the guy out in handcuffs. I’m here to make sure his brain decorates the walls."
"I can't let you do that."
"I know."
He takes a step forward, and you wonder if he realizes how close he’s standing. You can trace the harsh blue of his eyes as they fracture under the pulse of the lights, bleeding slices of violent magenta and sickly green. The color of his irises completely bottoms to midnight as you close the little to nothing space, the toe of your boot knocking against his.
“Security swap is in twelve minutes," you point out, tone entirely flat. "Which means we have a very narrow window to figure out what we're going to do with each other."
He tips his chin down. The scent of whiskey and gunpowder is intoxicatingly close. “I already know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah? What’s your big boy plan?”
“I’m going to take those guys out, secure the target, and then I’ll leave while you’re going to turn around and walk out the door."
You let out a mocking hum, sliding one hand up the solid wall of his chest. "You're hopelessly stubborn, Kennedy. Has anyone ever told you that?"
His chest tenses under your dainty fingers, but he makes no move to stop you. "Don't try to play me. I know exactly what you're doing."
“Do you?”
“You're trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?"
A heavy sound rumbles in his chest. "Not even a little."
You would believe him if he weren’t regarding you with such intensity. Your hair falls loosely over your eye with a blunt shake of your head.
"I can admit that you're exceptionally good with weapons, but you are a terrible liar."
You don't even wait for his reply. You grip his lapels and use his compromised center of gravity against him, dragging him off the bar. The club is too dark for anyone to notice as you steer him blindly away from the flashing lights, shoving him through the steel door of the maintenance hallway.
Satisfied that the narrow, concrete corridor is a complete dead zone void of security cameras, you nod, kicking the heavy deadbolt shut. “This will do.”
“We need to stop doing this.”
You wonder if he ever gets tired of reciting the exact same lie. He often does this, likes to draw his little ethical lines only to end up tearing your clothes off in discreet, cash-only motel rooms. It’s a hypocritical little dance, and frankly, the fact that he still needs to pretend he doesn't crave the collateral damage is starting to piss you off.
There’s a dismissive shove to his chest as you release him. You take a step back, masking the spike of adrenaline twisting in your gut with practiced indifference.
“Then go right ahead with your lame plan,” you snap, trying to feign a sudden lack of interest by shuffling away. “I’m sure there are plenty of guys on the dance floor who would love to fill in your shoes.”
It’s a cheap manipulative shot, and to your advantage, it works perfectly. You don't even make it a full step back toward the club. He uses his sheer size to overwhelm you, spinning you around and pinning your back flush against the door. A smirk of victory pulls at your mouth.
“Don't," he warns. Ducks his head slowly, mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from the pulse point at your neck. "Don’t even joke about that."
"Hmm, is America’s golden boy actually jealous?"
He ignores your jab.
“Jealousy implies I consider them competition,” he drawls. His nose brushes the line of your jaw, inhaling the sweet scent of sweat radiating off your pores. “I'm just saving some poor civilian from getting his throat cut when you get bored.”
"You make me sound so ruthless.”
“You are." He presses a kiss under your ear. “But that’s because you're predictable."
You yank his hair enough to force his gaze back up to yours. His projection is amusing when you’re staring at the most transparent man you’ve ever come across to. You can practically read the agonizing blueprint of his moral compass while he knows nothing of you other than the caliber of your favorite handgun.
You pull a condescending little face.
“I'm offended. I’d like to think I radiate some kind of mystery.”
“There's no mystery here," he retorts. You feel his hands move down your waist, long fingers digging into the plush curve of your ass. "You're wired on the adrenaline of a hit, and you're using me to quiet the noise in your head before you pull the trigger—”
He presses his obvious bulge against your belly.
“—and I let you."
The wrinkle on your nose deepens. “How incredibly noble of you, taking one for the team so I don't lose my mind."
"Don't give me too much credit." He palms the fat of your hip, slipping heavily between your parted thighs. Cups the scorching heat of your pussy. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
Your eyes flutter shut against your will. What follows is a crush of sensation, a visceral pressure that doesn't just chip at your composure but completely incinerates it, and you find yourself you’re slowly unspooling in real time, suddenly starved for the solid mass of him to keep yourself upright.
You reach out to map the lines of his biceps, span your fingers down his narrowed waist, drag your nails up the dense muscles hidden beneath his jacket. You can feel the coordinated twitch and contraction beneath his shirt as he massages you over layers of fabric.
His curse is what snaps your focus back to the overhead fixture when he slips inside your pants, touching the softness of bare skin.
“Fuck." His middle finger prods the moisture that greets him. "How are you this wet already?"
Your shoulders lift in a shrug, “Touched myself on the way here.”
Which is a blatant lie. The thought of admitting that you had practically soaked your underwear the second you saw him leaning against the bar is a defeat of power you refuse to make. His government-issued ego is already dangerous enough without handing him the satisfaction of knowing that his mere presence is enough to make you horny.
Whether he actually believes you’re wired enough to get yourself off in the back of a car before a mission, or if he simply doesn’t care, he doesn't call your bluff. He lets out a sharp exhale, pushing past loose skin to easily find your clit.
“Touched yourself like this?”
Your hips buck against his hand. The smile pressing on your cheek is infuriating.
“That’s enough,” you pant, swatting his hand away. “Just unzip your pants and pull out your cock.”
“Charming.”
He grips your elbow and harshly turns you against the door. White canines sink into the tender flesh of your bottom lip to cut off the pleased little sound lodging in your throat. Giving him the satisfaction of knowing how much you thrive on being manhandled is out of the question. Or how much you secretly lose your mind over the rough way he strips you, hands dragging your pants down to your knees in one quick impressive motion—
Smack!
“Fuck!” You screech, spine bowing reflexively. “Fucking slow down.”
“Sorry.” His palm flattens over your ass, thumb smoothing over the sharp burn of pain. “Couldn’t help myself.”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah right, you’re not sorry at all.”
“No, I am.” He surprises you then, pressing his broad chest flush against your back as his warm lips drag across the nape of your neck. "Should've asked for your permission."
You quickly shake your head, aggressively ignoring the gentleness bleeding over your skin and his need for your consent.
You can’t do this shit.
“If I haven't put a bullet in your knee,” you bite. “You can safely assume I'm not objecting.”
“Very well.”
Smack! Smack!
You can’t stop the gasp rolling off your chest.
“How ‘bout another one?”
You purse your lips together, hoping the extra seconds of forced silence can suppress the urge to beg for that familiar pain. Begging implies you still have something soft left inside of you to break, and you find that concept almost hilariously optimistic.
It’s far more dignified to just grit your teeth.
Clearly, he’s perfectly fluent in your defiance. The sting on your sore flesh multiplies with the echoing crack of another hit. Then another—and then another. By the tenth slap, your pussy throbs pathetically.
“We don’t have—” you huff, a harsh exhale flaring your nostrils, “much time.”
“Is this your way of asking me to fuck you?”
“I’m trying to keep us on schedule," you hiss.
You hear the metallic rasp of his zipper.
“How many minutes do we have left?”
"Three," you try to snap, but the word completely shatters on the way out of your throat. The exact second his tip nudges your tight hole, your bravado starts to dissolve. "Just—fuck, Leon, do it."
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
His large hands wrap bruisingly tight around your hipbones before he drives his hips forward in one sharp thrust. And despite your history, the way he’s stretching you open still shocks the breath straight from your lungs.
But you’ve grown accustomed to it. You like the blinding pain that radiates through your core. You like the suffocating pressure of him claiming your body. And if you're being brutally honest with yourself, you’ve been looking forward to the uncompromising way he holds you down with sloppy thrusts as if he can’t help himself.
You’d be lying if it doesn’t feed your damn ego. His primal urge simply proves that beneath all his discipline, he’s just as hooked on you as you are on him. That your mutual desperation somehow outweighs the catastrophic tally of stupid decisions you’ve both made to end up in this situation.
So if you’re inevitably going to ruin yourself, you find comfort in the knowledge that he’s not far behind.
At least, it’s the only comfort to cling to when his hips start plowing into you. He violently rocks you forward, only to drag you right back to take another unforgiving plunge. The race against the ticking clock seems to have driven him genuinely insane.
You’re not complaining, of course. In fact, you tilt your head back to lean all your dead weight against his chest. You immediately feel his body shifting to wrap an arm across the front of your neck, securely keeping you in place as he fucks the life out of you.
In every sense of the word, too. The blinding light exploding behind your eyelids isn't solely from his relentless pace, but from the restriction of his bicep bearing down on your throat. You feel the muscles around your mouth twitching as your vision starts to blur, hot tears clumping your lashes.
He has you in a chokehold and you’re fucking smiling.
Granted, Leon seems to be enjoying it himself, judging by the harsh groans vibrating directly into your ear. The jarring sound fills the hallway, apart from the low pulse of music playing outside the door that has you trapped flush against him. You’re both too busy exploiting this crunch time to waste any breath talking.
Although you could argue that the lack of conversation is proportional whenever there is a lack in clothing. For two people who spend the better part of their greetings by sparring with words, you rarely ever speak when he’s sheathed deep inside you. Your little rendezvous is usually filled with obnoxiously loud grunts (his), tiny short whimpers (yours), and the occasional slapslapslap of his pelvis hitting your cunt.
The latter is currently drowning out his groans. The pitch of his heavy frame slamming your pussy is increasing so loud you’re surprised the door hasn't completely rattled off its hinges from his sheer force.
You bruise his arm with the claw of your hands, suddenly aware of the heat cresting in your belly.
It’s pretty humiliating that your orgasm is threatening to consume you less than the three minutes you’re counting, but you find no point in arguing with the inevitable. You remind yourself this is what you need, what your body has been demanding—Relief. Release.
He was right when he pointed it out before. You do use him. In every way you can, in any way he lets you. But you find no shame in weaponizing something as base as sex when it’s the quickest way to crush the adrenaline out of your blood before you’re forced to spill someone else’s.
It’s why you allow the next few seconds to simply slip away, deciding to revel in the sensation of his fingers rubbing your puffy clit. You thaw in his arm, feeling your spine liquefy the second he tightens his hold around your neck. Gasping a large drag of oxygen, you weakly push your hips back to meet his.
The next few thrusts have you genuinely whining, a keening noise scraped from the bottom of your throat. But you couldn't care less when he's hitting deep enough to completely hollow you out while bruising your insides.
You finally cum with a fierce arch of your back. Eyes rolling, legs violently shaking. Your ears are also frantically ringing, the muffled club bass fighting a losing battle against the deafening roar of your own heart that you barely make out his harsh voice asking if you were still on the pill.
You hope he understands your ratification because your words are garbled by the drool spilling past your mouth.
The warmth oozing inside your cunt tells you that he does. You feel his grip loosening around your shoulder, but he keeps his weight clamped tight against your ass. His breath tickles the sweat on your neck as he slowly rides out the hammering thud of his heart against your spine.
“You okay?”
You wince when he pulls out, feeling uncomfortably sticky. “Fine.”
“You should clean yourself up.”
“Don’t have time.”
You try to yank your pants back up before he catches your wrist. “Wait."
He pulls out a dark handkerchief from his pocket. You let out a dry huff, "You seriously bring that everywhere with you?”
"Pays to be prepared," he deadpans, and to your absolute horror, his hand reaches between your thighs.
You awkwardly shift on your feet.
“Give me that! I’ll do it—"
“Hold still.”
He leans in, then, presses the soft cloth right against the swollen flesh of your pussy.
Fucking hell.
Stripping away your pride for the sake of a quick, violent release was one thing. Standing here shivering while the government's top agent carefully wipes your bodily fluids with a pocket square is a completely different kind of humiliation.
Pulling a long, measured breath through your nostrils, you force yourself to count to three. You fall back blindly on your training, relying on the strict mental protocols drilled into you for when you’re being cornered.
But three seconds isn't nearly enough to wash away the lingering burn of his touch, the foreign exchange of concern.
You retreat into reciting the core rules of engagement instead. To reclaim compromised ground and re-establish the primary objective—if only to remind your scrambled brain that there's an actual mission going on out there, and you didn't infiltrate a guarded club solely for a hookup.
You quickly twist out of his hold, masking your deeply flustered state by dressing yourself, blatantly ignoring the rustle of fabric and the dull clink of his belt. Securing the weapon threatening to fall out of your holster, you step away from his imposing frame, wrenching the door open.
The music is god-awful loud, people are grinding against each other, and you breathe a sigh of relief when a fast scan confirms your numbers. The path to the elevator tucked at the edge of the room is completely wide open. No guards, no big-muscled brutes.
You cut a quick stride towards it with Leon trailing behind.
Then stop five steps away. Because the hulking shape hunched over the elevator is the literal definition of a brute. The grotesque back of a creature with a rotten mouth shifts as it stealthily rips a human throat out in the shadows, looking like a starved hound cracking open a fresh kill.
Your belly plummets when you spot a blood-soaked radio hanging uselessly from a mangled shoulder mic.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Leon barbs under his breath, drawing out his gun.
“Is that one of the guards?”
“That’s both of them,” he replies, “the big guy is making a meal out of his friend.”
“Shit.”
You swallow hard against the bile rising in your throat. The fact that a man can undergo a full biological mutation into a cannibalistic nightmare in a twelve-minute window is so fucked up.
What the hell is in this sample?
Your paycheck for this mission isn't nearly high enough for the mess you just brought yourself into. The creature violently snaps its former partner's spine, and every instinct screams that you have less than seconds before it tears out the entire building.
Leon clearly thinks the same. He squares his shoulders, steps past you, and pulls the trigger. For a split second, the dance floor freezes.
Then everyone starts screaming.
The building is shaking from the terrified people thrashing around, but the creature barely registers the chaos when his focus is solely on Leon. The bullet buried in the dense meat of its shoulder only seems to piss it off.
The half-torn body is dropped to the floor with a wet slap before it launches itself, clearing the short distance with unnatural speed. Over two hundred pounds of mutated muscle slam into Leon with enough force to rattle his teeth. He chokes on a gasp as the hard concrete of a pillar hits his back.
Bloody claws tear through the fabric of his jacket, desperately lunging for his throat.
He violently throws an elbow, fights for every single inch of space with all the strength he can muster until he finally wrestles his arm free, forcing his barrel directly into the soft tissue right beneath its jaw.
Two concussive blasts blow out the back of its skull. The putrid stench of rot and rusted copper hits the air as dark blood paints the tiles and his shoulder. Instantly dropping the dead weight at his boots, he quickly scans through the panicked strobe of lights in search of you. He finds you standing right in front of the elevator doors, back facing towards him with a bright red keycard in your possession.
He notices the master override right away—the only piece of encrypted plastic in this entire godforsaken building capable of calling that specific car. The exact card that he was exclusively issued during the mission briefing.
His free hand instinctively slaps against the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He pats it once, twice. It’s completely empty.
He furiously stalks towards you, “What the hell are you doing?”
“My job,” you reply flatly, sliding the stolen card through the scanner. The pad instantly chimes a cheerful green. “And finishing it before this block gets firebombed by your people.”
“So you’re really going to put a bullet into the guy?”
“Between his eyes, specifically.”
He tries to reach for you. “I can’t let you do that.”
You swivel sharply on your heel, gun snapping up with practiced speed to level squarely towards his chest. He freezes, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as he stares down your weapon.
“I'm not asking for permission. Stay out of my way."
“No,” he argues. “Killing him should be the last thing you consider doing right now.”
“Oh be realistic, what makes you think he hasn’t already turned into one of those things?”
“That’s the problem! If the entire basement is crawling with them, you’re walking into suicide and I’m not letting you do that.”
Your grip tightens around your gun.
There’s exactly one step between you, his chest expanding and deflating as he completely disregards the loaded barrel aimed at his heart.
You don't know how to translate the look in his eyes. Reading Leon has always been a language of tells, of colors divergent depending on his composure. There’s the bright flash of cobalt when you catch him off guard. There’s the sharp scrutiny of pale blue when he questions your choices. You even know the darken twilight when he ruthlessly fucks you.
This one is an agonizing blue. Crushed glass and ozone, a glacial blue clouded by faint swirls of smoke. No less intense, of course, perhaps even to a higher degree. The way he’s regarding you has gravity to it, and it feels heavy on your chest, pinning you exactly in place with nothing more than his attention.
You realize it’s the same look that slips across his face whenever he decides something is worth protecting. The same stubborn focus that makes him throw himself headfirst into situations any reasonable person would run from—now aimed at you. Like you’re actually important, worth keeping alive when half the time you don't even have the will to exist.
The thought is laughable, really, because of the possibility that he might genuinely believe it. That somewhere along the way he looked at your messy life and arrived at a conclusion so wildly at odds with your own, a verdict he recklessly conjured just from all the measly encounters you both share.
Dangerous is your own verdict. Seems so precarious, as if he’d mistaken your hunger for sex as anything else.
You choose to use his faith in humanity against him instead, knowing he’s too deeply wired to protect.
"Look around you,” you snap. “There’s a handful of people stuck in a stampede. If the virus spreads, they’re all gonna die."
You physically watch him tense at your words. The elevator doors hiss open, and you take a step back.
"Evacuate them. You can't save us both."
You know you’ve won your battle when his shoulders slump. There’s a slow exhale of defeat when he drops his head, hands falling numbly to his sides. “Promise me you’ll make it out alive.”
“Leon.”
“Promise me.”
The metal panels begin to slide shut. There's a good foot of air separating you.
Ten inches. Nine.
He calls out your name when you meet him with silence.
Six inches. Four.
He shouts your name again. You’re thrown off by the sudden urgency in his voice, slowly lowering your gun, “I promise.”
His head finches in a nod, and you catch the way he’s staring at you, eyes blown wide and glassy. Reminds you of the heavy slate of a sky right before a downpour.
Two inches.
None.
You wonder if you’ll return to that shade of blue.
a mission goes awry when you're infected with a fever virus...and there's only one way to cure you.
warnings: smut, fem!reader, sometime after re4!leon, sex pollen (kind of), possible dubious consent 'cause it's fuck or die but really everyone here wants to be there and consents heartily, feelings realization, confessions, desperate sex turned tender sex, dry humping, fingering, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), leon kennedy one liners, canon-typical violence, a few sneaky references to other re games/movies, fake science i made up
a/n: picture your favorite leon for this. it was just sex pollen but became lots of plot with sex pollen and mush in the second half. what can i say, i'm a lover at heart. just like leon!
--
It starts with bad intel.
The facility is supposed to be abandoned. No bio signatures on the initial recon scan, no movement from hostiles after an extended stakeout, nothing. An abandoned underground lab for an experimental arm of Umbrella, potentially full of important documents on bioweapons research.
Your mission is to gather as much information as possible, should any of the viruses created there pop up on the black market or worse.
Easy, compared to the shit you're usually assigned.
Leon agrees.
Well, you think he agrees. He treats every mission as seriously as the last. You've grown to appreciate his consistency. It makes him easy to trust, which is essential in this line of work.
He's the best partner you've ever had. Thorough, direct, and smart. He never questions your abilities and relies on you just as much as you rely on him.
And, god. He's kind. Funny, too, when he wants to be. One time on a weeklong stakeout in the middle of nowhere, Argentina, he explained to you, in detail, the plot of The Count of Monte Cristo, all because you said you'd never read it. You hadn't even known he liked to read.
He's hard to crack, though. Professional to a fault, more dedicated to the cause than anyone you've ever met. And he's handsome.
How could you not fall in love with him?
You keep your ever-growing feelings to yourself. Asking him if he feels the same isn't worth ruining your partnership, isn't worth being someone else who wants something from him that he maybe can't give. Not when you can have him this way -- at your side with your life in his hands, his in yours.
In some ways, this is more intimate than any regular relationship you've ever had.
You'd spent the chopper ride here watching him as he looked out the window, even though you knew he felt your gaze. He's always doing that, always taking in everything around him with militant attention. You wonder what he sees that most people don't. Connections, patterns, maybe even beauty. You've never asked. Whatever it is has kept him alive this long. It's kept you alive, too.
And so, the mission.
You drop from a very long hatch into dark, stale air. The ladder leaves your hands aching and your shoulders tight, but there's no time for recovery.
Training takes over. Leon leads, with you at his right flank. Flashlights on, service weapon at the ready.
"Stay sharp," he says.
Sometimes you tease him about it, his constant readiness for a threat. But you feel it this time. Something's not right here, scans be damned.
Flecks of dust and grime float through your bright beams. The corridor ends maybe 15 meters in front of you in a set of metal doors, no windows. The security pad on the left side blinks a dull red.
"Emergency power," you say.
It was in the brief as a possibility but not a guarantee. Leon approaches, and you follow, digging into one of your belt pockets for the access card some other agent had to steal last week for this purpose.
"You want to do the honors?" you ask.
Leon shakes his head. "Be my guest."
The red light blinks green with a hover of your hand, and the unlocking mechanisms creak to life. The doors open slowly with a hiss. You're greeted with a dark lobby, dull yellowish lights lining the base of the walls.
"Must be on throughout," Leon says. Sometimes these places are zoned, or some other needlessly complicated system of power distribution. "Hopefully that means doors will keep opening."
He's still tense, arms outstretched to shine his light into the new space, shoulders taut. You feel it too, a prickle at the base of your neck.
"If not, I'm sure the power systems will be super easy to find with no issues," you say lightly.
He huffs, as close to a laugh as you can hope for at the start of a mission, but it's a win.
"Ready?" he asks.
You dip your chin. He glides into the room, clearing one side as you clear the other. There aren't any signs of disturbance, but that's how it goes with these places. The closer you get to the exit, the more normal it seems -- because all of the horrible things happen behind closed doors.
And no one makes it out.
"Clear," Leon calls. You echo it.
There are two single doors that reveal a bathroom hallway and the security office, as well as a set of double doors that resemble the locked entrance, another keypad glowing red at one side. Leon finds a map of the facility in the office and spreads it on the desk.
"That locked door will take us to an elevator that goes down to the labs," he says, tracing the path with a finger under the beam of his flashlight. "Three of them, all on different levels, connected by staircases instead of the elevator shaft, only accessible by keycard and on the other side of an anti-contamination corridor."
"Isolated," you observe. "In case of an outbreak?"
"It's bare bones compared to the other Umbrella stuff we've seen. This must be really out-there shit. Less resources, less of a footprint, less of an issue when it goes wrong."
You try to commit the map to memory. Leon will undoubtedly fold it into one of his pockets, but it's hard to consult a piece of paper when you're running from a B.O.W..
"Greek," Leon mutters. "More creative than T-virus, that's for sure."
This is just like him, surprising you after countless missions as your partner.
"Do you speak Greek, Leon?"
He shrugs.
"Not really." He tightens the strap on his glove, a cue that he's frustrated. You know most of his tells by now. "I don't know the last one. Fire, maybe?"
"Not really, he says," you tease. "What else are you hiding, Kennedy?"
He rolls his eyes at you, but if the lights were on, you're sure you'd see some pink in his cheeks. Battle-hardened agent he may be, Leon S. Kennedy still blushes for you.
If only...
No. You swallow the pang in your chest and roll your shoulders. "Start with B1 and go down, then loop back up?"
It wouldn't be out of the question to divide and conquer, but the slimy unease dripping down your spine prevents you from suggesting it.
He grunts his agreement, eyes still on the map, frowning.
As a pair, you work so well together because of your communication. It took practice, sure, but now you know each other across a crowded room, through the heat of a fight, in the dark. You don't let things go unsaid.
Well, most things, your traitorous heart says.
"Leon," you say. "It feels off, right? We're missing something."
Blue eyes meet yours. He sighs.
"Yeah," he says. "Guess we just have to find out what."
You can't help it -- you put your hand on his bicep and squeeze just a little, holding his gaze. His fringe hangs in his eyes. In another life, you'd push it back.
"Be careful, okay?" you ask him, faces so close you can feel his breath.
Leon got shot on your second ever mission together. It was a clean wound, through and through, except for the fact that he'd already been shot in that shoulder back in Raccoon City. The bullet fucked up the already fragile joint, so he needed surgery and was benched for six weeks (he was back at your side in four).
There was nothing you could have done. It was nobody's fault. But you felt responsible for waylaying your new partner, who was one of the most well-known agents in the whole damn place, so you went to see him in the hospital to alleviate your guilt.
"They have you with anyone while I'm out?" he asked you.
They did, actually, but hadn't told you who. Leon was troubled by it.
"Well, be careful," he said, as if he didn't trust anyone else to watch your back, even then.
"Only as careful as you," you replied, pointing at his shoulder.
That was the first time you made Leon Kennedy laugh.
Now, it's something you say to each other in the field. A mantra, a reminder, a promise.
Leon gives you a small smile.
"Only as careful as you," he replies, like he always does. We keep each other safe.
You release him and busy your hand at your belt immediately, god forbid you touch him more.
He rolls his shoulders back and checks the chamber of his sidearm.
"Into the depths, huh?"
"Into the depths."
--
Level B1: MENIS
The elevator opens to a dead contamination chamber. Nothing happens as you walk through the three zones where you'd expect to be scanned, doused, and dried. Another set of metal doors opens with a hiss when you tap the keycard. The smell of death hits your nose and makes your eyes water.
There are at least 10 bodies piled on the other side, most of them in pieces.
"Fuck," you curse, sidestepping a caved-in head.
"Looks like the party started without us," Leon says quietly.
"Great," you mutter. "God, that's nasty."
There aren't any claw marks or avid stains or other tell-tale signs of B.O.W.'s you see with this caliber of violence. One look at Leon and you know he's realized the same thing. You tilt your head down the hall. He nods, following your lead deeper into the floor.
Red emergency lights pulse along the base of the walls, illuminating the blood splattered pretty much everywhere. You pass the occasional corpse, most of them so horribly disfigured it's hard to tell if they were staff or test subjects or something else.
There are so many things you want to say, but you keep them to yourself until Leon leads you to the floor's main office. You slide in but don't relax.
"They look like they were torn apart," you say as soon as the door is closed. Leon frowns at you, since you didn't clear the room first, but it's a square office. You can see all the corners from where you're standing.
"I know," he replies. "But no sign of what did it."
You sigh. "So, are you going to tell Hunnigan the location survey was wrong, or should I?"
"I think I've run out of my 'bad news' calls for the year," he says. "That one's all yours once we get topside."
"How generous of you."
Leon smirks. "I'm a giver."
The office is small and the computers are dead. There are papers scattered around, so you divide and conquer.
You find an official logbook. Mostly in-the-weeds science stuff, but you skim until you find a change in handwriting.
LOG #57:
Development continues under new staff. Blood transmission remains the only method that carries enough sample to infect a host; airborne tests were unsuccessful. Vaccine/suppressant formulas abandoned for the time being after we were told that our subject supply would be steady. B2 wants to set one of theirs against one of ours, which seems pointless because any B1 subject will win that fight. B3 is a joke, but they're insistent that it'll work.
No vaccine...that's not good news. But what were they actually testing here? Infecting people with what?
You flip more pages until you find something that makes your blood run cold.
LOG #63:
We've finally gotten a host to survive. B2 and B3 are nowhere near this. We won't be sharing. Their subjects die within hours. B3 is practically useless, anyway. What use is controlling people if they die on you in an hour? But here, we've cracked it. I managed to figure out how to get the virus to work with the host's adrenaline production, stabilizing it into a constant state of fight or flight without short-circuiting the nervous system. If this batch survives the week, we'll ask permission to start on the suppressant. Once we have that, we'll be able to control the whole herd. The future of hostile takeover is here! Now, if only they'd let us out of this fucking dungeon more often…
Holy shit. They were making viruses to infect large populations, to control them. But using what? Changing their brain chemicals, making them reliant on suppressants? Leon told you about this kind of manipulation, how it infiltrated a military unit and even made its way to the White House a few years ago. Who knows how far they got this time?
"Leon," you call, turning with the folder in your hands. "You should look at this --"
You make eye contact and fall silent. He's got his finger over his lips and his gun at the ready.
You toss the papers aside and take your place on the other side of the door.
That's when you hear it.
Groans, grunts, screams. Footsteps -- a lot of them.
He holds your gaze.
Clear the chokepoint, get into the lab rooms down the hall around the corner, make for the stairwell on the other side of the floor.
That's what you'd do, so you know it's what he's thinking, too. No confirmation needed.
The door bursts open. You duck, missing the arms reaching for your neck. It's dark in here, but you rely on muscle memory and gravity to sweep the zombie's legs out from under it and stomp on its head while you fire at the next one.
The attackers are -- well, they look mostly human. But their eyes are wild, blood running down their faces like tears, pink foam and spit dripping from their mouths.
Leon's movements are sharp and decisive. Headshot, parry, twist. Uppercut, knee sweep, headshot. He occupies the air around you like he's magnetized to your movements, always filling the space where you aren't, ceding room when you need it. After hours upon hours of mat practice between the two of you and hundreds of field opportunities to master it, you work together like a well-oiled machine.
It's exhilarating.
You're forced back from the door, but you keep firing, slicing, covering each other. It's essential that you get into the hall sooner rather than later to avoid being trapped in this room.
A zombie rips the arm off another in its attempt to get to you. That's new.
"What the fuck were they doing with this shit?" Leon grunts. He's splattered with blood now. No doubt you are too.
"That's what I was going to tell you before our party of two got crashed," you say between shots.
"They wanted to control people."
"Yeah, this sure looks like control to me!"
"We have to clear it or we'll have to fight through on our way back up."
Leon grunts his agreement. "They're not biting." His aim is true, as always. He downs two, three, four infected. "They just want to rip us apart!"
"We need to go into the hall. Cover me," you say, dodging bloody fingers and sliding through the door. "Switching weapons!"
Your assault rifle is strapped to your back. You holster your pistol and reach around for it, but something catches your jacket and pulls.
The fabric tears. For a split second, you worry your flesh will be next, but then the tug disappears. Leon grunts and he breaks the neck of whatever had you.
You keep your gaze on the approaching pack, maybe 10 or 15 strong. Leon keeps taking them down while you holster your pistol and check the new cartridge.
"Gonna need to reload in a second here," he calls. "Six left. Five. Four --"
"Ready," you shout. Leon stabs a zombie in the neck and walks behind it, using it as a wall against reaching fingers until he's at your side again. He tears his knife free and slides beside you, solid, ready.
You open fire.
That's all it takes. The hallway is soon empty and bloodier than before. All you can hear is your combined panting.
Leon lowers his gun. "Nice job," he says.
You drop yours, too. "What was this floor called again? Menace?"
"Basically," he says, slamming in a new clip. "Divine wrath or anger."
"No shit." You look down at the tear in your jacket. "God damnit, this is my favorite."
Leon checks his chamber. "I'll get you a new one," he says.
You laugh. He almost smiles, like that was his goal all along.
The rest of the floor is mostly clear. A few stragglers here and there, but they're no match for the two of you. The containment chambers seem to be where the infected gathered in the months since this facility went dark -- the walls are covered in scratch marks.
"I can't believe they didn't kill each other," Leon says with mild disgust. "Not having control of yourself like that...I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
You've read the report from Spain. He knows how it feels.
"Do you think they're aware?" you wonder aloud.
He looks so sad for a moment that you almost reach for him. "I hope not."
--
Level B2: KAMATOS
The stairwell is a mess. The door to B2 is barricaded, but you manage to get through after slamming your shoulders against it over and over.
This floor is quiet, but in a different way than upstairs. Years of field-trained instincts tell you there's nothing left alive on this floor. That, and it made a hell of a lot of noise getting the door open, and nothing popped out.
It's dustier down here, like things have been still for longer.
"What's this one mean?" you ask. "This virus."
"Extreme fatigue," Leon tells you.
"So if they controlled adrenaline levels on the first floor to make them angry, they're depriving people of sleep on this floor?"
He shrugs. "Maybe they found a way to keep the brain awake without killing it."
They did not.
The documents you find suggest the virus was a failure. The bodies you find confirm it. Hosts died from heart failure, self-inflicted wounds, a number of things, no matter what the scientists did to keep the mind from giving up. All by depriving them of sleep.
Being so tired that you see no other way out…
The horror of it all rises in your throat. You leave Leon with the corpses so you can press your forehead to the cool hallway wall.
This job asks a lot of you. Your time, your well-being. Your security, your personal relationships, your hobbies. It's overwhelming and can bury a person. The things you see, the things you do -- it gets to you. It’s easy to shove it down, to pretend like you're untouchable, but that's no way to live, either.
Sometimes you just have to feel it.
These poor people.
Leon's hand is light on your shoulder. Not patronizing, not rushing, just there. Warm, solid.
You take a deep breath, then stand up straight.
"Let's take a quick break before the last floor," Leon says.
"I'm fine."
You turn to face him, but he's already crouching, back against the wall.
He grins, a real smile this time. It makes him look younger. "Who said it was for you?"
It's like he's giving you permission to put it all down for a second. To forget where you are, why you're there, what you're doing. Leon's guard is rarely fully down, and right now he's telling you that he's got you. Rest for a second, I'll take care of us.
He's proven to you over and over that he will.
So you smile back, shaky but genuine. "Getting old, Kennedy?"
"Something like that." He looks up at you, grin softening into something fond. "Do you remember Greece?"
You slide down the wall to his level. "Do I remember Greece? Be serious. How could I forget --"
"All those stairs," Leon finishes. "Exactly."
It was last year in the height of summer. A small, sleepy cliffside town, except for the fact that a scummy billionaire moved into the monastery and started developing B.O.W.'s in the catacombs.
The town was evacuated. You were sent in to apprehend the guy and secure whatever virus he was using. It turned into three days of running up and down stone staircases away from bats with tentacles and lizards with thousands of teeth where you wouldn't expect teeth to be.
Over the course of your partnership, you've seen each other in all states, but you've never seen Leon as exhausted as he was after that mission.
"I thought I was going to have to carry you to the rendezvous point," you remind him. "You fell down so many stairs."
Leon rubs his knees as if remembering the way they smacked stone over and over.
"And you would have," he says.
He catches your gaze and holds it. He's reminding you that you're in this together. That he trusts you, something you do not take lightly. It's hard to know who you can trust in this job, even your very own employer, but he never doubts you. You never doubt him.
The familiar ache of everything you feel for him sits warm and heavy on your chest. He's the best man you've ever known.
"I would have," you say.
Leon dips his chin, his mouth curling into a smaller smile than before, but this one is just as fond.
"We should go back," you say without meaning to.
It surprises him, but he hides it well.
"That would be nice," he muses. "I don't know the last time I took a vacation."
"We could go to the beach," you continue. It's scarily easy to imagine -- Leon in swim trunks, cheeks pink from the sun. "Stay at the bottom of the stairs and not walk up a single one."
"But you liked the monastery," he reminds you. "We'd have to go back up to see the windows."
Of course he remembers how you'd looked up in awe at the stained glass, gun in your hand and blood on your face.
"I'll climb up by myself. You can relax."
Leon sighs. "Relax," he says. "I don't even know if I know how to do that."
"You're good at everything," you say. "You'll pick it up in no time."
Whatever game this is, you're having too much fun playing it. Leon doesn't lie to you, so while he might be indulging you, there's a part of him that means all of this. He has to know that you mean it, too.
He stands and offers you his hand.
"One more floor," he says. "Then we can go to Greece."
--
Level B3: PYRETOS
The hit comes out of nowhere.
Maybe you're distracted by talk of vacation, or your guard is down after the silence of B2, but you don't see it coming. One second you're rounding the corner, the next you're flying backwards through glass, back slamming against a cabinet. You land heavily on the ground, more glass and something wet raining down on you.
Leon yells your name.
You try to catch your breath, but it's stuck in your chest. He's still calling for you in between gunshots.
"Fuck," you croak, finally finding air. You roll onto your side. Glass crunches under your weight as you try to figure out what the hell just happened.
Everything hurts, but you try to shake it off and push up to standing. Leon hauls himself through the broken window. He begins to clear the room after he sees you on your feet.
"Clear. That was one ugly son of a bitch," he says. "Must have gotten down here from upstairs."
You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words catch in your throat.
Something isn't right.
Your skin feels tight, like you already went on vacation and got burned to a crisp. Your pulse won't slow. Deep breaths feel impossible. Strangest of all, it's almost like –
Well, your core is buzzing. You press your legs together and try not to panic.
In the early days, after Leon got shot but well before Greece, you hid an injury from him.
You took a knife to the ribs during a fight. It wasn't too deep, but it was wide and bleeding steadily. Adrenaline allowed you to get through it. You figured you could patch yourself up the next time you slowed. But Leon pushed on ahead, and you followed without saying anything.
That is, until you left a bloody handprint on a door. He stopped immediately.
"Is that yours?" he said. "Where are you hurt?"
"It's nothing," you protested. But Leon S. Kennedy does not give up easily.
"Show me," he said, pulling out bandages from his hip pouch. "When did this happen?"
"I'm not compromised," you said, even as you lifted your jacket to show him.
"I know you aren't," he said. "I want to know when you're hurt so I can make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," you said weakly. He patched you up quickly and thoroughly.
"We're partners," he told you. "We have to help each other."
Here, now, you don’t hide from him.
"Leon," you croak. "Something's wrong. I think I --"
He's at your side in an instant, so close your breath hitches. Why are you so affected by him? Why are you so warm?
"The rip in your jacket," Leon says. "Your arm is bleeding."
"Liquid," you gasp. "It felt wet when I hit the cabinet."
The pieces come together. Shattered vials at your feet, an empty cabinet behind you. The dull red emergency lights make it hard to tell what color the puddle is, but you know it can't be good.
"They wouldn't keep a virus out in the open, would they?" you ask weakly. You're shaking now, shivering even though you don't feel cold.
"Fever," he breathes. "Pyretos. It means fever."
You've rarely seen Leon afraid. He's human, so it happens, but normally he faces things head-on without complaint.
Right now, he looks terrified. That scares you more than anything.
"Leon," you whisper. "What do we do?"
He snaps into action. He hands you a roll of bandages.
"Wrap it," he says. He presses a few buttons on his watch until it beeps. Setting a timer, no doubt. Just in case. "How do you feel? Describe it to me."
"Feverish," you say. "But not dizzy. I can think clearly."
Leon starts to dig around the lab, tearing open drawers and rifling through what he finds. The office on this floor wasn't in the same place as the other two, so any information must be in here, right?
"What else?"
You follow his lead, desperately searching for anything helpful. How do you explain the fact that your entire body is pulsing with a very specific kind of need? It scares you, feeling this out of control physically while also being in your right mind.
You land on achey. The buzzing under your skin gets worse every minute you spend looking and finding fuck all.
"There's nothing here," he says, frustrated. "Shit."
You're thinking the same thing: no vaccines. Any hope for you is in this lab.
But then -- your eye catches on a cabinet sitting on deep grooves in the floor.
"There's a door," you tell him, already heading for it. A wave of need hits you so suddenly that you have to brace yourself on the wall to catch your breath. Leon brushes by you. The slight contact has you swallowing a moan.
Jesus Christ.
He shoves the cabinet aside. Behind it is a door that opens into the lab office, as dark as the others.
You follow him in and start searching the shelves. Leon drags a table into the perfect place to effectively barricade you in.
"We don't have time to be interrupted right now," he says. He starts searching the desk.
You're sweating now. If this thing is going to turn you, Leon can't be here for it. You don't want him to see it. "Maybe you should go back to the surface --"
"I'm not leaving you," he interrupts. It's sharp, final.
"But if I turn--"
Leon whirls around. "I'm not leaving you," he says again.
Your nose stings. It's not the rational choice, but it's the Leon Kennedy choice. You can't help but be grateful for it.
He returns to the papers. Everywhere your clothing touches your skin feels heavy, almost painful. Your skin is sensitive, your throat dry, breath still fast.
You're so turned on, you think you might explode. It's all you can do to just stand there and try to keep it together.
"I found something," Leon says. He says nothing else. It's hard to see his expression in the dark without being close to him. You don't know if you can handle that right now.
"Bad news, doc?"
He swallows and begins to read.
"In an effort to bend the subject to commands, a fever is introduced via the bloodstream that increases testosterone and dopamine to near-unbearable levels of arousal. We have successfully altered the balance to allow the mind to be unaffected, making the reaction purely physical. The fever, if detected and combated within 1 hour, can be reduced by repeated bursts of oxytocin until the subject's internal temperature returns to normal. Required oxytocin levels seem to vary by subject; no pattern discernible at this time."
"What the fuck does that mean?" you pant. Your skin feels too tight. You still can't take a full breath. Control is becoming a missed opportunity. "Do I have a sex fever?"
No answer.
"Leon."
He exhales sharply.
"I think you need to be touched," he says. "To release the chemical that will help you fight this on your own."
Your responding laugh edges on hysterical.
"I do have a sex fever. So, what, you're going to hug me and hope I don't die?"
"I could," he says. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "I just don't think it'll be enough. This says bursts, and a lot of them. The best way to trigger that kind of response is --"
It clicks in your mind.
"Orgasm," you whisper. "Oh, god."
Leon closes his eyes for a second too long.
"I don't know what to do," he admits. He looks at his watch. "It's been 10 minutes. I don't know what--"
"I'm so sorry," you breathe. The gravity of your situation is like a bucket of cold water. If only it actually made you feel cold. You have to fuck your partner or die. What kind of sick joke is this? "Leon, I'm so sorry. You don't have to do anything, this is my fault --"
He tosses the file onto the table.
"I'm not going to let you die," he says with all his usual conviction. He really believes it, and it makes it easier for you to believe it, too. "Not when there's something I can do about it."
"But not like this," you croak. "This is --"
"I know."
God, you wish the lights were on. You want to see every detail of his face to discern what he's feeling. Can you ask him to do this? Will it ruin everything forever?
A tremor wracks through you. You have to brace yourself on the desk.
He yanks open drawers until he finds a thermometer. It beeps alive, somehow, and he holds it up to your forehead.
"Shit," he mutters.
"What?"
Leon flips the device to show you the screen. 103.2.
"Shit," you echo.
Your brain is going to cook in your skull sooner rather than later. You swallow frustrated tears along with your pride.
"I'm so wet," you whisper. It's the lewdest thing you've ever said to him. "I can feel it."
Leon inhales sharply, standing ever-so-still just next to you, just out of reach.
The pain radiates through you, molten lava in your veins. It's strange to be able to think so clearly. You want Leon as badly as you always do. That's bearable. But the pain. The heat. It's something else, something all-consuming.
You need him to touch you.
"Please don't make me beg," you whimper, turning towards him.
"Jesus," he mutters, filling the space you make for him. His hands find your face. You groan. The contact is like a balm, even through his gloves.
"Oh god."
You nuzzle into his palms. It's like you can feel the battle in your blood, the virus doing its best to cook you from the inside out, but Leon's touch is giving you a foothold, a reprieve.
If it wasn't so awful, you'd laugh at the idea that you're so horny you might die.
"Whatever you need, I'll do," he says. His voice is already hoarse. "But just -- you have to tell me if it's not okay. And I'll stop. We'll figure something else out."
You lean back on the desk and grab his elbows. You've touched plenty, but never like this. Never loaded with all of the unspoken things between you, never with such desperation.
"It's okay," you tell him. "Whatever it takes, it's okay. I trust you."
His thigh slides between your legs.
"Can you forgive me? If I do this?" he whispers, lips so close to yours. You lean forward on instinct, pulled to him by more than just the fire in your core.
"There's nothing to forgive," you say, and then you're kissing.
What you need is an orgasm, but this is something you've wondered about for a long time. Something you've wanted. It almost feels selfish to take it now.
But, fuck, it's good.
He's not shy. You trace the seam of his lips with your tongue. He opens for you immediately, licking into your mouth as he pulls you forward and onto his thigh.
His kisses are desperate, exposing his worry, but also tender, exposing his care. You're in good hands, hands you love.
Even through your pants, the pressure of your cunt on his thigh is enough to steal your breath.
"God," you gasp.
"Not quite," Leon says, kissing a path from your mouth down your neck. "Does that help?"
You grind down on him in reply. His palms have made their way to your hips, aiding you in your quest for pressure on your core.
It's too much. It's not enough. But still, the coil tightens. "Sorry, I just need --"
You chase it, grinding down on his thigh even harder, panting into his neck. You're close, you can feel it. You're chasing it, that snap, that reward. Leon just lets you take and take and take.
You thread your fingers through his hair, panting into his neck. When you tug just a little, he bounces his leg and you keen.
"More, please."
It only takes three more bounces before you're coming, shudders ripping through you, his name on your lips.
When you return to your body, Leon is dragging his palm up and down your back.
"Did you just--"
You're becoming very familiar with the fabric of his shoulder, his leather harness pressing into your cheek.
"Mhm," you manage.
There's a world where you're embarrassed. In that world, you asked Leon out for dinner and then up to your place after. In that world, you made out on the couch and ground down on his thigh until you came. In that world, he laughed with you, utterly charmed, and it was the beginning of something wonderful.
In this one, he gently tilts you back so he can check your temperature with the thermometer.
"Holy shit," he breathes. "102.1. It worked."
You don't feel that different, but the number doesn't lie.
Leon is panting, too. "More?"
You nod. Your cunt aches like you didn't have an orgasm at all.
He tugs off a glove with his teeth, dropping it god knows where.
"Don't know how clean my hands are," he says.
A laugh bursts out of you, but it sounds close to a sob.
Two fingers go in his mouth faster than you can open yours. He doesn't waste too much time wetting them, given how turned on you already are, but he gives them a good suck. A trail of spit hangs from his lip when he finishes.
You work at the buttons of your pants, unbuckling your tactical belt. It clangs onto the desk behind you. Leon slides his hand down under the waistband of your panties. You collapse into him with a guttural moan.
"Leon," you gasp. He holds you up, no problem, even as you go utterly boneless at just his fingers in your folds.
"You weren't kidding," he says, breathy. "You are wet."
"I'm sorry," you pant into his shoulder.
"Please don't say sorry again," he groans. "I can't take it."
"Can I say thank you?"
"That's worse," he says, sliding two fingers into you at the same time. "I just wish it wasn't like this, is all."
The absurdity of the whole thing makes it hard to keep your emotional walls high. What's the point? You're having sex with your partner to save your life in an underground Umbrella laboratory. You're way past keeping your emotions from him.
So you hear his words for what they are. For what he's not saying.
"Oh, yeah?" He curls his fingers and you groan, arching into him. "You have something you want to tell me, Kennedy?"
"Little late for that."
He presses his lips to your jaw, but you pull back so you can see his eyes. He's flushed, his pupils taking over almost all of the blue you love so dearly.
"I always want to know how you feel," you tell him. It's honest, raw, perhaps out of place when he's knuckle deep in your cunt.
"Fuck," he breathes, like eye contact is enough to undo him.
"I just want to help you," he says. "I always want to help you when you need it." He picks up the pace with his fingers. "I like being the guy who has your back."
His thumb circles your clit. It’s all you can do to hang onto his shoulders and ride it out as he keeps talking.
"I want to give you everything you've ever wanted," he says. "I miss you when you leave the room. I trust you more than anyone I've ever met."
"Oh, Leon," you gasp, grinding down onto his hand. "Me too. Me too."
He scrapes his teeth along your neck. "Yeah?"
"Yes, yes, yes --"
The orgasm washes over you. You clench around him over and over. He carefully pulls his hand from your panties and licks his fingers. Good god.
Something has shifted between you. It's still about the mission, about breaking your fever, but now it's more. It's more, because you both want it.
Leon leans in for a kiss. You meet him halfway, tasting yourself on his lips.
Beep.
"101.3," he says.
You push his hair back from his forehead. "Is that low enough?"
This time, you do feel a bit different. Maybe it's the confirmation that Leon has feelings for you, but your muscles feel more relaxed, your skin less taut. The need still burns, though.
"There's no way to say this without sounding like a creep," he says wryly. "But I think you should have a few more."
You drag your hands up and down his torso, but your gaze lands on his makeshift barricade.
"Do we think we have time?"
Even as you ask, you're toeing off your boots and shoving your pants down. Leon is quick to help you.
"If anything comes through that door," he says, fingers hooked in your underwear, "I can kill it with my eyes closed."
He hooks his hand under your thighs and helps you up onto the desk fully, sweeping everything onto the ground.
"So could you," he adds. You hum in agreement. Your hand returns to his torso, trailing it down to the front of his pants.
He's hard.
It's not entirely a surprise, but you're pleased.
"I know, I'm sorry, it's kind of fucked up --" he tries. You don't let it get very far.
"Don't you apologize," you say. "You're allowed to want, Leon. I promise you, whatever you want, you can have. You already do."
His answer to that is a kiss, not searing and heated like before, but soft and slow. Like he's memorizing you, learning every inch of your mouth just because he can.
A wave of heat rolls through you, so intense and unexpected that you have to close your eyes and grit your teeth against the pain.
Leon rubs your back and tells you to breathe, it's okay, you're going to be okay.
The heat dulls. "How long has it been?" you ask through gritted teeth, eyes still shut.
"26 minutes."
His thumbs stroke your cheeks, helping you come back to yourself.
"Are you okay to keep going?" he asks. "I'll do whatever you want."
You reach for his belt with shaking hands. Not because you don't want him, or because you're scared, but because you need him. You need him to survive. This was just as true before you got infected as it is now. And you have him.
He has you.
Leon lets you unbuckle his pants as he undoes his harness and his tactical pouches. They both fall to the ground.
You take him in hand and he hisses. His cock is warm, another layer of heat against your already burning skin. His hips jerk when you stroke him root to tip.
His fingers circle your wrist to stop you.
"Another time," he says. He kisses your chin. "Okay?"
There will be another time. Leon doesn't say things he doesn't mean, so you take it to heart. This will happen again.
It's not exactly romantic, the way you lean back on some long-dead bioterrorist's desk naked from the waist down, Leon's pants shoved down his thighs and his cock in his hand. But it's what you've got, and it's what you'll take.
You spread your legs for him. He sucks in air like a man just saved from drowning.
"Ready?" he asks. You feel his tip at your entrance and can't swallow the moan that rips from your throat in the shape of his name. He wastes no more time sinking into you in one stroke.
You come immediately, legs wrapped around his hips. You might scream, it's hard to tell. But you're so full and it finally feels right. Like you've been missing something all along and finally found it.
Leon says your name over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer.
"I wish I could see you properly," he says, voice breaking. "I wish –
His hips jerk forward even though he's bottomed out. He leans forward until he's bracing his forearms on either side of your head, brushing your nose with his. He's right. It's hard to see him fully in the red-washed office.
"You know what I look like," you tell him.
"Not like this," he shakes his head. "Not like this."
"You're doing so good," you say, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Leon, it feels so good --"
It's a strange sensation to feel your blood cooling while he's inside you, to regain control of your body just as you surrender your heart.
Leon starts to move his hips, a slow drag at first, but it quickly becomes a snap. You dig your fingers into his biceps and hold on. You can hear how wet you are as he fucks you.
The coil in your core tightens again. "Leon," you moan. "I'm gonna--"
He kisses you, hips slowing to a grind. He reaches between you with one hand to find your clit and give it some messy circles.
"Go ahead," he says against your mouth. "I can take it."
Your cunt clenches around him. Tears prick in your eyes not from overstimulation but from everything else -- the heat in your veins, the tenderness of his hold, the way he's kissing you as you fall apart, swallowing your gasps.
"So beautiful," he says. And god, it sounds like he means it. Half-dressed, sweaty and bandaged, he means it.
Leon goes back to shallow thrusts, but they're becoming more erratic.
"How many is that?"
"Four," Leon says.
"Are you..."
He nods. "I'm close."
His forehead is damp from the effort. You wipe it with the heel of your hand.
"It's okay," you tell him. "It's okay, Leon. You can --"
You tighten your legs around him to hold him inside.
His breath hitches, but he picks up the pace without argument.
The smack of your flesh fills the room. The only thing on your mind is Leon Leon Leon.
The noise he makes just before he comes inside you is a punched-out whine of your name. He stills above you entirely, eyes screwed shut in pleasure.
"So beautiful," you echo. "So beautiful, Leon."
He keeps his weight off you but presses his face into your neck as he catches his breath.
"Fuck," he says. "How do you feel?"
You need to check your temperature, but remarkably better. The heat in your veins is an expected one. You can feel sweat cooling on your skin. The incessant need in your cunt has dulled to a satiated ache.
"Still alive." You kiss him chastely, considering he's still inside you.
"Let me check -- where the hell did that thing go?"
He pulls out. You both hiss just a bit, but he finds the thermometer on the ground.
Beep.
"98.3," Leon says. "That's normal."
You feel boneless and make no move to get up from the desk. If you did, you'd surely make a mess.
"Finally, something normal about today."
Leon tucks his cock back into his briefs, buttons his pants. He drags his hands up and down your thighs.
"Can I clean you up?" he asks.
Even though you now know how he feels, know that he wants you just as much as you want him, he's done so much for you today. Your temperature is back to normal. You still need to make it back to the surface.
"You don't need to," you say. "Just...give me a clean bandage, or something --"
"Let me do this for you," he interrupts. Begs, really, already getting on his knees between your legs. "One more. Just to be safe."
The heat that builds is nothing like the wild, uncontrollable fire of before. This is all you, all Leon.
The fact that he wants his mouth on you, wants to lick his own come from your cunt.
"Okay," you breathe. You thread your fingers through his hair. He preens.
He kisses the inside of your thigh and pushes your legs wider.
Maybe you should feel exposed, but you don't. You feel wanted. You feel safe.
Leon pulls your folds open with his thumbs. He starts with long licks with the flat of his tongue along your seam, flicking your clit when he reaches the top. But your entrance quickly becomes his focus, and suddenly he's a man possessed.
He laps up his own release as it drips from you, humming when you tug on his hair. He hardly comes up for air, but you know he's paying attention to your reactions based on the way he moves his mouth. He sucks on your clit. Your hips buck, so he does it again.
"Leon," you gasp. How is it possible that you're going to come again? But you feel it, the rising tide in your core. All it takes is a glance down to find him watching you, soaking in whatever he can see in the dim light.
He keeps his mouth on you through your final orgasm. This time, a few tears leak from your eyes. Your breath evens out and your heartbeat actually slows the way you expect it to. The fever is broken, you're certain of it.
"Just to be safe," you say to the ceiling. "You just wanted to show me how good you were at that."
Leon wipes his face with the back of his hand.
"I like to be thorough," he replies. He stands, drags your underwear and pants up with him.
"Are you okay? How are the symptoms?"
"I think so." You scoot forward on the table so he can pull your clothes over your hips. "It doesn't feel like a fever anymore."
"What does it feel like?"
Your legs are a little shaky, but you stand and wrap your arms around him. You've just had sex to save your life, but you don't know if you've ever hugged Leon before.
"It feels like you," you tell him, cheek pressed to his shoulder.
Leon stills, but you can hear his heartbeat pick up. He envelops you in his embrace, lips pressed against your temple, his inhale shaky.
"I'm glad," he whispers. "I'm so fucking glad."
He's hidden his fear from you so well this whole time, but you saw the look on his face when he realized you were infected. You hug him tighter, willing the fear to leave him. You're okay. You're here, in his arms. He saved you.
"What now?" you ask. You turn in his arms. He releases you so you can reach for your tactical belt.
"We get out of here in one piece," he says. "We get you to medical."
"Fucking medical," you mutter. You shove your foot back in your discarded boot.
"I won't leave you there," Leon says. They could keep you for days, but you know he means it. "Then I'll take you home. And we'll sleep for days."
You almost forget that you don't have to keep your feelings from him. You let the joy take over your face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he says, a little sheepish. "If you want to."
"I want to," you assure him. "I want to."
You'll have to talk about this, surely. The way it changes your partnership, how to navigate field work. There is so much to learn about him. What he's like on a quiet morning at home instead of a stakeout. The noises you can pull from him in a real bedroom. His face when you tell him you love him.
The future is bright.
Leon buckles his harness. He laughs to himself, tearing you from your thoughts.
"What?"
He straightens your belt and grins crookedly, boyish and lovely.
"Are you writing this into the mission report, or am I?"
thinking about 𝒍𝒆𝒐𝒏 𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅𝒚 conforting you after finding out that your excuse of a boyfriend, who happens to be his oldest son, had cheated on you.
you were trembling on his arms, sobbing while trying to say some coherent to him but leon could only focus on how pretty you looked with your face all teared up, lipstick smudged and rosey puffy cheeks.
you were so cute, he didn't want you suffering over the actions of an asshole, even if that said asshole was his own son. so, with all the best intentions a man like him could have, he did all he could to cheer you up and make you forget.
and if that implied eating you out with his son's hoodie still on, so be it.
"mmf, fuck, mr. kennedy," your sweet moans were like music to his ears. your delicate hand found its way towards his head and grasped the grey-ish strands, tugging at them when his face buried deeply into your pussy, and his nose tip brushed against your puffy clit. a low growl teared from his throat when your thighs squeezed his head, making him choke on his breath.
mr. kennedy. oh, how he loved whenever you called him that. normally, it would have been in a polite greet whenever you came to visit. but now, with your soft legs tangled around his head and his mouth glued to your leaking cunt was more enjoyable than ever.
you're squirming and whining under his tongue, holding onto his hair as his mouth sinked more into your core, telling him it's too much for you to handle. yet, he didn't care, not when your pussy was clenching around his tongue, begging for him to keep going. you were so desperate for his touch it was almost pathetic.
poor baby, all of this time fucking a useless prick, not knowing what it was like to be worshipped like you deserved. it was bordeline criminal, a beautiful woman like you—the root of all desire, the tought on his brain whenever he furiously fisted his cock at night—neglected by someone who didn't know what he had.
"that's right," he groaned against your soaken core. "feels good, isn't it? spread your legs a bit more, yeah—just like that, fuucking god."
his hot breath ghosted over your sensitive clit, making your head falling back against the cushions, moaning and pleading, crying your eyes out for a release. "mhmp, mr. ken—oh fuck! r-right there! i'm so.."
leon increased the pace of his tongue, smothering his moans in your pussy, sending vibrations that were enough to drown out his lewd noises with your orgasm— shutting him off while squeezing your thighs, hidding his face between your shaky legs.
And when you meant annoying, you meant annoying. No words could describe how much of a nuisance Sylus could be when he’s with you.
His constant teases, constant nitpicking, extremely soothing aggravating voice buzzing in your ear 24/7, telling you the most stupid bullshit you did not care about.
"Your hair looks like a mess today."
"This color doesn't look that great on you. Try green. Bet it would make you stand out."
"Your voice is too loud. Lower your tone, sweetie."
The list could go on forever. And dealing with it was a pain in the ass, literally.
Because not only was he just your little friend who annoys you once in a while, but he also was your stress reliever. In a way. And not in the comforting way you'd think it was, no. Complete opposite of that.
On some nights when you really needed it, really needed to cum.
You'd call him.
It was annoying at first. Annoying that he was really, really good at sex, and always found a way to make you feel better, before and after. But it also seemed to be the only time Sylus could actually tolerate you.
Those teasing remarks he gave you during the day were now gone the moment he's inside you. Breathless praises slid out of his lips as he rapidly pounds himself in and out of you, growls of satisfaction filling the room, vibrating through your body, it was like he was a whole different person.
But tonight he wasn't that person he was during sex. He seemed to be the exact same as he was during the day, spitting utter bullshit. And you tried every way to ignore it, tried to only focus on your sounds so they could mute what he was saying, but the volume of his voice was way too hard for you to ignore.
"Talk to me, sweetie." Sylus groaned, ghosting his large hands on your sides, not holding onto them, but getting his grip ready when he really needs to grab you.
When you stayed silent, Sylus only huffed and quickened the pace, just a little faster. He wasn't usually this quick with you, but the sudden change made you gasp, and feel nauseous to your stomach.
Gulping up your words you continue to shake your head as every thrust pummelled into you like he was in a race. Hard, brutal jabs, hitting your sweet spots, tip kissing your cervix. God you felt like you were on cloud nine.
"Ungh- S-Sy!" choking his name in your throat, the grin on his lips seemed to grow wider now that you were finally responding.
"There you are. Felt like I was- ngh- talking to a wall there, huh?"
"Shut u-mmph" feeling him sink deeper in your used cunt, obliterating it like he was planning to destroy you, you couldn't even be able to spit out a straight sentence because of him!
"You seem to be the one getting shut up," he mused, wrapping his large fingers around your hips, finally controlling you in the pace he wanted. And that move might've been the first mistake.
"It's cute."
Second mistake.
The knot in your stomach tied tighter and you felt like you were going to... cum? What was it that made your stomach feel so full..? Like you needed to release, now.
"S-Sylus!"
"Hm?"
"i'm–ngh- please more- AH!– I-I feel-"
"You're rambling. I can't tell what you're- ngh- saying." The rocks of his hips, increasing momentum like he was in a rush, made the sickening feeling in your stomach grow stronger and you were trying so hard to hold back.
"I- feel like- my stomach- g'nna-"
"Gonna? Talk to me."
"No- s'too much- more- please I c-can't." you twist your body away from his, trying to get away from his grasp, but each inch your body moved in was getting more painful and you couldn't help but stay frozen in the same spot.
"First you're begging for more, now you're telling me you can't handle it, be clear with your answer, sweetie." The strain in his voice was painfully obvious, and it only made you whimper in response. Legs quivering at every jolt of his hips, you tried to chant your release, tried to back away from him but he kept you in place, caging you beneath him.
"Don't run away from me now. Tell me what's wrong..." his fingers glide down your neck. A teasing burning touch that could kill. Calloused fingertips make contact with your warm skin, drawing lower and lower until he got to your weak spot, your lower stomach.
"wai-WAIT!"
Without warning him that you were close, you bit your lip to brace for impact and spurs of a pellucid mixture shoots right out of you, and you shut your eyes in embarrassment.
But Sylus seemed elated at the scene. Mouth agape in pure shock, the only thing he said was:
"Again."
a/n: pumped out 3 smut fics while on my period. fourth one tomorrow.
unexpected audience — ft. kyryll chudomirovich flins
synopsis: flins is good at fucking you—you know that, and he knows that, too. it doesn’t hurt if maybe the ghosts are also made aware
before you read. ❤︎ 2k word count ; female reader ; established relationship ; smut — mdni ; exhibitionism ; mating press ; unprotected sex ; creampie ; praise ; i have no dignity left from writing this so i could not bear to proof read lol </3
commentary. ❤︎ i have no comments i would just like to say everyone should block @luffysprincess and @neiptune while you have the chance there is pure evil in their dna’s
Your favorite thing about Flins is how good he is at talking. Ironically, your least favorite thing is also how good he is at talking.
You don’t like how convincing he can be. (But then again, it’s rather enjoyable when he’s…well, convincing. You don’t ever have a bad time.)
“How lucky I am,” he murmurs, his nose brushing against the column of your throat. He inhales. It’s a sweet scent—the smell of your sweat and your lingering perfume. He likes when he gets to breathe it in right here as his hands dig into your thighs and press your knees closer to your chest. “Aren’t you just a marvelous sight? Breathtaking as always, my light.”
“H-how would you know,” you stutter, “it’s dark—would it kill you to have some more light in here?”
He chuckles.
“Is it? But I can see you just fine,” he murmurs. He rolls his hips once more—the thick, warm girth of his cock dragging along your walls once more and building the pressure in your core with just a little more friction. You whine, and he grins with a little too much satisfaction. “Your face is glowing, did you know? And there’s that divine little way you scrunch your nose—I can see it all clearly. Oh, and we mustn’t forget the way your lips part when you say my name. Wouldn’t you be so kind as to say it once more? For me?”
You’d call him evil if you had the clarity. Instead, you cry, “F-flins,” with a sharp gasp as the tip of his cock slams against a particularly sweet spot at the back of your walls.
He knows that spot a little too well. It’s a little too familiar, and he never fails to remind you that he knows exactly where you need him to fall apart.
“Ah, there it is,” he says happily, “a precious sound, indeed. I envy anyone who gets to hear your voice utter their name—would it be selfish if I asked you to only say mine?” His tone enough makes you feel praised—something you crave a little too much when it comes to him. You like when he’s happy with you. He gives you plenty of honeyed, sugared words when he is. Words that make you so quick to become pliant and weak under his touch.
Spread your legs a little wider for me, darling—you know how beautiful you are when you do. Somehow, you always do when he asks. Ah-ah, don’t hide your face—let me see how you look when you come undone, won’t you? I craved seeing you all day. You can’t bring yourself to hide your face when he asks so politely. Give me one more, my light—you can, can’t you? You always do. And just like that, you’re caving and bending for his whims once more.
It’s easy for Flins to fuck you. He’s good at it when he does, and you can’t ever say no when he wants to. (Because you always want it, too, your heart tells you. No, he’s just very, very good at being convincing, your mind argues). But it’s easy. You make it easy for him to bed you, and he makes it easy for it to be worth it.
His fingers brush along your lower belly. The skin is smooth as silk and he traces it like he worships the feeling of you under his touch. Slow. Careful. Deliberate. Every second his fingertips trace along your body, you feel a dizzying heat of his touch mapping your body out.
And then it finds its way between your legs, right above where he has you split open on his thick length. His thumb latches onto your clit, rubbing precise circles that make your back arch upward—his other hand his quick to plant itself at the small of your back, cradling your body as you mewl.
“You seem to rather enjoy that, don’t you, my darling?” He coos, “Shall I keep it up? Touching you here?”
Another quick circle onto the sensitive bundle of nerves. It’s perfectly timed with a sharp roll of his hips, his tip bullying past your folds. It’s messy—there’s a pool of your slick at the base of his cock, and it’s smeared along your inner thighs. He made a good point of bringing it to your attention, too—my, what a pleasant mess I am greeted with, my dear. Surely I haven’t earned such an eager response from your body with so little? We’ve hardly begun.
Smug. He’s so, irritatingly smug with words dipped in gold. They’re soft and precious and rich the more pure they are, and they lure you in with greed. And you fall for it every time.
Every damn time.
“Close,” you pant, voice a breathless whisper, “s-so close, Flins—th-think…think m’bout to cum—”
He groans at that. He’s good at charming you, but he’s not immune to that effortless charm of your own. You don’t even know it, he thinks—you don’t even know that you have him wrapped around those pretty little fingers without even trying.
His cock does a twitch. He’s close too—you know because there’s a small change in his pace. A touch sloppier. A little less rhythmic with the way he drills into you. A little more desperate as he chases the friction of dragging every ridge and every vein along your slick heat.
You hum a little, grinning to yourself as you pull him down and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your lips into a wet, messy kiss. Your walls clench around him, and he groans into your mouth, making a soft, low sound that you drink up greedily.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper.
“Must I elaborate such obvious things?” He asks roughly.
“Won’t you indulge me with your usual sweetness?” You plead.
He’s weak—for you, he is. So he groans once more, heavy and labored breaths fanning across your lips as he feels the tight, warm squeeze of your walls around his cock. It’s good—so good, in fact, that he’s almost at a loss for words. (A miracle in and of itself, he thinks. Flins is hardly at a loss for words—he’s quite good at articulating what he wants to say, in fact).
“Well, if I must—yes. You do feel good,” he pants, voice breaking just a fraction as your walls flutter around the throbbing cock that bullies into you. “You…you are a wonder—so soft and sweet and exquisite. I fear one day I may wake up and find you gone. A figment of my imagination. You’d never let that happen, would you my dear?”
“N-no,” you whine, breath getting heavier as the familiar build up creeps up on you. “Never…n-never leaving.”
“An undeniable relief,” he chuckles breathlessly. “I was almost worried—”
He cuts off his own words the second he senses it. Flins can sense things a little quicker than you.
There’s a creak in the door. There’s a weird howl in the wind. There are the faintest, quietest echoes of what sounds like footsteps.
You think you’re imagining it. He knows a little better than that.
It’s not like you can pay it much mind—you’re in a bit of a predicament yourself to pay too much attention to your surroundings. One particularly harsh thrust of his hips, and you forget what you were thinking in the first place.
He tends to do that to you.
“What utterly unremarkable timing,” he almost grumbles. “I always thought my neighbors to be a little more…considerate.”
Flins lives alone on this small little island that he calls home. He keeps to himself. There are no signs of life apart from him and you and the frostlamp flowers that grow along the cemetery. There are no neighbors…unless he means the ghosts.
And then you notice it—the pair of eyes in the corner. The other right beside the first. The pair in the distance to your left and the one that’s a little closer to your right. They watch you carefully, watch the way your knees are folded to press you in half and the way his cock disappears and reappears every time he practically pulls out just to slide back into you all the way. You’re sure they take note of the way his hand—free of gloves for now, has a persistent thumb attached to your clit with those harsh circles that make you dizzy.
It feels shameful, having the dead watch you this way. It feels almost like they are mocking the way you are so alive—watching the way your heart is erratic and your body is worked up to such a heightened state.
“W-wait,” you gasp, “there’s p-people—”
“Yes, it would appear we have an audience,” he clicks his teeth, “how impolite. I don’t appreciate sharing—selfish as it may seem.”
“We should stop—they’ll s-see—”
“Then show them, my darling,” he leans down and presses a soft, delicate scatter of kisses along your jaw. “Perhaps they only wish to watch, don’t they?” His voice is almost a purr now, wicked and low. Still dangerously sweet. His hips snap into you harder, forcing you to take every inch. “Show them how beautiful you are when you come apart.”
Your protest dies in your throat when his thumb grinds cruelly once more over your clit, dragging tight circles that make your thighs shake. You can feel every stare searing through you, their hollow eyes fixed on where you’re split wide open around him. Shame burns in your chest—but it only makes the heat in your belly throb sharper, dirtier.
“Flins—ah, f-fuck—” you choke on your own words when he pulls almost all the way out—but you don’t mourn the loss of him filling you when he slams back to the hilt, the sound wet and obscene in his quiet home in the graveyard. His hand presses at your lower belly, holding you in place, making you feel how he fills you up inside. “They’re—they’re going to see me—”
“Let them,” he sings against your ear, biting at your lobe. “Let them envy what it means to have a pulse. Let them watch you bleed with pleasure.” His thumb flicks faster—it’s almost merciless, and you’re keening now, arching shamelessly so every phantom eye can see how your body reacts and begs for more.
You’re dizzy, your thighs are quivering, and your chest is heaving as you writhe under his touch. He pistons into you like he means to fuck you straight through the earth, the rich soil that houses his troublesome neighbors that don’t know to mind their business. He’s good at dragging the sounds out of your throat no matter how you try to swallow them—no matter how much dignity you try to preserve. His pace is too brutal, too expert at making you lose composure to keep it together in front of your….unexpected audience.
Finally, with a sharp cry, you’re breaking apart around him. You can feel your walls spasming around him with your release, wet and gushing over his cock. He hisses when you clamp down around him, thrusting deeper and rutting until he shudders inside you, spilling hot and thick ropes of cum while his teeth sink into your neck.
“P-perhaps one of these days you’ll kill me, too,” his voice cracks, “and I’ll join our intruders in the land of the dead with how you make my heart stop.”
“Flins,” you sob—it’s all you can manage to utter. All you can bring your incoherent mind to piece together as your nails press angrily into his shoulders and make bright red indents bloom into his skin. “F-feels…feels so good.”
“I’m sure they are aware,” he chuckles, “it’s written all over your face, my dear.”
He sounds a little satisfied with that. With the fact that there is a population of people—dead, of course, but a population all the same—that knows how good he is at fucking you. At making you fall apart around his cock and scream his name and weaken in his arms.
When you come down from your sigh, both trembling in the aftermath, he doesn’t let you hide. You try to pull hims down and bury your face into his neck, but he resists—instead, he drags your chin up so you’re looking directly at him, face fully on display. He’s still deep inside of you—and you’re still full of him, still stretched and dripping with his release.
“I believe they had a proper view, wouldn’t you say?” His voice hoarse but laced with triumph. “Even the dead cannot argue that I know your body better than anyone.”
synopsis: you haven’t seen flins in almost a week. when he’s unexpectedly taken a week off his duties, you want answers why—the answers come in…a rather interesting form. or: flins is not human, and his non human form happens to come with a rather interesting condition
word count. ❤︎ 10k words—i am speechless. truly no words
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; established relationship ; fae go into ruts bc i said so ; flins has fae like features like pointy ears and wings ; he is in rut and not the right state of mind so ig slight dubcon ; dry humping + flins cumming in his pants ; flins has sensitive wings ; vaginal fingering ; mating press ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; slight breeding kink and talks of having babies ; slight size kink ; implied multiple rounds after ; not proof read pls it’s almost 7 am i wrote this in less than 24 hours cut me some slack i beg
commentary. ❤︎ uh yeah. anyway *jazz hands* flins fae rut. ALSO THANK YOU ARABELLA AKA USER PHAINANON FOR UR DELISHUS BRAIN FOR THE RUT CHARACTERISTICS
Kyryll is off duty for a week—this is what his superiors tell you when you visit the office of the division he is under, anyway.
That is suspiciously odd—he is never off duty. Ever. Kyryll never gets sick, he never gets particularly badly injured, he never takes a personal day, and he never, ever, under any circumstances, takes longer than a day to contact you, regardless of how busy the wild hunt may have him. Something is wrong, and you’re worried, and you will figure it out. He needs you, probably—he has that annoying habit of trying to handle everything all on his own, even if it isn’t always the brightest idea.
So you open the door to his humble little home at the bottom of the lighthouse and let yourself in. Kyryll does not ever mind. Kyryll is soft and open and gentle with you, and he does not mind if you enter his home—
“What are you doing here?” a breathless, almost pained voice all but hisses. Kyryll. His voice is never this distressed—it takes you a moment to get over the shock enough to properly turn and meet his eyes.
He looks…distinctly inhuman. Not just inhuman, but also not himself. Apart from the pointed ears and the glow in his eyes and those bright, iridescent wings (you’ll focus on that later, you decide), Kyryll is also not wearing a shirt with his hair hanging in a loose bun to keep it out of his face. He looks hot and sweaty and flushed—so unlike that typical collected, well-dressed, and polished man that you know who always runs a little cold.
“I was looking for you?” You blink at him as you answer like it’s obvious, “You missed work.”
“Yes. That was an intentional decision,” he says, closing his eyes and gritting his jaw. He turns away from you, as if the sight of you physically makes him sick. You’re a little offended. “You should not have come here.”
“What? I have not seen or heard from you in almost a week! How do you think it makes me feel when I have to hear from your superiors, of all people, that you’ve taken a personal leave from—”
He exhales, the sound thin and weary. “Yes,” he says at last, each word carefully measured, “I took leave—for a reason.”
You blink at him, frowning. “And that reason would be?”
He closes his eyes, his jaw flexing as though he’s counting to ten in his head. “A personal one,” he replies evenly, though there’s a faint tremor in the calm of his voice. “When I am ready to return, I will do so. Until then, I would be grateful if you allowed me some solitude.”
“Solitude?” you echo, incredulous. “Kyryll, that’s not how this works. You don’t just vanish without a word and call it solitude. You didn’t reach out, you missed work for nearly a week—I was worried.”
“I am aware,” he says quietly, gaze lowering. “And for that, I apologize. It was never my intent to worry you.”
“Then what was your intent?” you demand, stepping closer as you cross your arms. “Because you can’t just disappear and expect me to act like that’s normal.”
A muscle in his cheek twitches. He’s clearly fighting something internal, trying desperately not to let it show. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, careful. Pleading, even. “I know what this looks like to you. I know it seems as though I am shutting you out. But please—believe that it is not from malice or indifference. I simply cannot…be as I should, not right now.”
You hesitate, your irritation giving way to confusion. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he groans, “that there are parts of me I would rather you never see. And those parts are…difficult to keep hidden at present.”
You stare at him. You blink once, then twice, then you stare some more. “I have no idea what you’re implying, but your solution is to just lock yourself away and say nothing? That is ridiculous.”
He sighs, the sound faintly exasperated. “It is not ideal. But it is safer—for you, and for me.”
“Are you in danger? What is going on? Is something after you? Is it the wild hunt? Maybe we can—”
“You need to leave,” he cuts you off. “Please.”
That part makes you pause. He adds that last part with a broken, croaky little voice—like he’s begging, and it’s so bordering on pure desperation, you almost feel scared. What could possibly have happened in less than a week’s time to make him plead not to see you? To skip work? To…to look so different and not human?
Because he isn’t like you. Kyryll is not human, you realize. Concern for the man you are courting has caused you to overlook that very obvious fact for a moment, but reality has dragged you back to its awful truth and slapped the cold, hard facts into your shaky little sweaty palms and said: Look, the man you think you love is not who you think he is.
You stare at him, the question caught somewhere between your throat and your lungs. What is he, exactly? His face looks the same—still that sharp-boned, beautiful thing you adore so much—but now, under the dim light of his living room, there’s something wrong. Perhaps not wrong, exactly. Just...unfamiliar. His skin seems to shimmer faintly, and his eyes almost illuminate the dark around him, and his ears—his ears are just a touch too pointed when he turns his head.
“Kyryll,” you breathe, “what’s happening to you?”
He exhales, a sound that almost feels laced with dread. “Nothing is happening to me—I am exactly as I am intended to be. Some traits that humans would consider abnormal are…well, they are not so rare amongst non-humans.”
You furrow your brows. “You mean to tell me you’re the latter?”
What a silly question, your mind hisses, what else would those features imply?
He hesitates, eyes closing as though it hurts to confess. “You have heard before, perhaps, that Snezhnaya was once a realm of the fae,” he says softly. “A race that is no longer of any importance, but one that does exist. I am proof enough of that, simply by standing before you.”
“And when were you going to tell me that?” you ask, your voice trembling just slightly. You wonder what that sinking feeling in your chest is—fear, perhaps? Are you scared of him? Scared of what he is, or what he isn’t? Scared that he is something else entirely, something beyond you?
No, you think faintly. Human or not, Kyryll would never hurt you. He would never let harm come your way—certainly not from himself. The ache that blooms inside you is not fear at all, but something heavier, deeper, more hurtful: the knowledge that Kyryll does not trust you. That he cannot bring himself to believe you would see him for what he truly is and still love him—that your eyes would see the what of him before the who.
“My light, it was never my intention to deceive you,” he says, pleading now. “I simply wished for more time—to cherish you as you are before the truth might…alter things between us.”
“Alter things how, exactly?” you frown. “Alter things because I’d leave? You think I can’t be trusted—is that it?”
“No.” He smiles sadly—a fragile little smile that still does something painful to your heart, easing and tightening it all at once. “No, it was never that I doubted your trust,” he murmurs. “Only whether I deserved it, once my nature was known. For that, I must apologize. I should not have hidden it from you. You are far too precious a person to entangle yourself with someone like me.”
“Oh, be quiet, you fool,” you huff, stepping closer to him. You press your palm to his cheek, and he leans into the touch with a soft, startled breath. “Self-pity will not earn you any leniency. Do not lie to me again. Understand?”
“Fae cannot lie,” he smiles faintly, eyes fluttering shut as your thumb brushes his skin. “Should we attempt it, we sicken. Very gravely, in fact.”
“Ah,” you nod with mock solemnity, “so you’re simply skilled in manipulation. How comforting.”
He laughs, just barely—a sound that fades too quickly as he pulls back, though not far enough to escape your curiosity. Your hand drifts upward, fingers brushing the sharp point of his ear. He flinches.
“Now…is perhaps not the best moment to be touching—”
“You also have wings?” you interrupt in awe, gently maneuvering him to turn around. He stiffens as your finger traces delicately up his spine from the small of his back. “Can you fly?”
“No,” he says shakily, “they would not support my weight. They are not a particularly useful trait of the fae—merely an aesthetic one, if anything.”
“Very aesthetical indeed,” you giggle.
“That is not a real word,” he murmurs, closing his eyes. His breath hitches when your finger drifts to the place where the fragile wing meets his warm skin. His skin is never warm. Kyryll runs rather cold—you complain about it often when you curl against his side. (It never stops you from cuddling him, of course, but the complaints never cease, either.)
“Hm, still clinging to your extensive knowledge of words, are you?” You roll your eyes.
You gently rub along that small network of veins where translucent skin fades into flesh, where the shimmer of his wings dissolves against the pale slope of his back. The base of each wing seems impossibly fragile—paper-thin, like spun glass, yet alive and keenly receptive to your touch. They rise from just below his shoulder blades, delicate membranes threaded with faint iridescence, catching the light in colors that shift like oil on water. You stare in awe at that narrow strip of skin between wing and back. It’s softer, almost silken, and the sensation is strange—cool, like morning dew, yet trembling with a pulse beneath your fingertips, as though burning from beneath.
The wings flutter instinctively the more your touch wanders, a tremor rippling through the transparent folds and making him flinch—a sharp breath pulled through his teeth.
“Does that hurt?” you ask, pausing in concern.
He shakes his head, though his voice is strained when he answers. “No. They are just…sensitive.”
“I see,” you breathe in fascination.
They are sensitive—you can feel it under your fingertips. His skin there runs cold, but the pulse beneath it beats hot and fast, trembling through the thin lattice of veins. The wings twitch involuntarily, like they’re trying to fold in on themselves to escape your touch, or maybe reach for it—you cannot quite tell. When you trace your thumb along the joint where the wing anchors to his spine again, his breath catches once more, rougher this time. The friction of your touch draws a low sound from him, half-strained, half-pleasured. The wings shiver—and then so does he.
“Kyryll?” you ask softly.
He only lets out a sharp inhale in response.
“Are you…” You falter. How do you even phrase it? How do you ask your boyfriend—who has only just shared with you his origins as something not human—the burning question at the back of your mind? There is clearly something in his system, something woven into his bloodline, his very DNA, the framework of who he is, that makes him so…pent up. (That is the only phrase you can think of.) “Is…is there something happening with you? Biologically, at least?”
He goes still at your words. The question hangs between you with thick enough tension in the air that you feel like it physically separates you, and for a moment, he seems unable to breathe. When he finally does, it’s shallow—careful.
“I—” His voice breaks, then steadies, smooth and practiced as though he’s forcing it into place. “That is…a delicate subject.”
You take a small step back. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I just—”
“I know.” His hand reaches and grabs yours, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles before promptly letting go. His eyes flick to yours—bright, sharp, and mesmerizing in the low light. You wonder how you never caught on before that he could not be human. “I did not intend for you to see me in such a state. It is a rather shameful condition—one might say it is…seasonal, or perhaps instinctive. A remnant of older blood. It makes my body…less easily governed.”
He swallows hard, turning his face away. The fine tremor in his wings betrays the effort it takes to keep control.
You reach out before thinking, fingers hovering over his arm. “Hey,” you say quietly, “you don’t have to be ashamed. I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His laugh is soft, almost bitter. “You should be. There are things in me, desires in me, that are not…proper. Not human. When such old instincts rise, I am ruled by them more than I care to admit.”
He finally meets your gaze again, and something raw flickers there—fear, want, and the painful effort of restraint. The air between you tightens. Something shifts. Something that pulls you towards him just as fiercely as he wants to push you away. You ache to close that gap he wants so badly to put between you—a naive and optimistic thought process, perhaps. Kyryll knows himself and his state of mind better than you do.
He has lived through it. For hundreds of years, evidently, and you have only known him for so long. He is perhaps, wisely so, protecting you from a part of himself that requires protection against. But you don’t find his warnings—nor his pleas for that matter—to stay away from him until this passes worth listening to. You won’t. You can’t bring yourself to.
He looks unwell—he looks pained and in suffering and alone in this small, little home of his where nothing is there to ease his troubles, no one is there to ease his burdens or his aches. You take one look at that soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, the dampness of his clammy skin, the somehow even darker circles beneath his honeyed eyes, and you cannot fight the instinct in your heart that longs to take care of him however he needs it. The instinct that just as easily governs over your body against your will as Kyryll’s governs over his.
Love, perhaps, is what your heart would call it. Foolishness, on the other hand, is what your mind would say.
“It hardly happens,” he whispers, keeping his face turned insistently away from you, “once every decade or so, there are urges…and they are not very pure in nature. I am ashamed to admit I am unable to keep from harboring improper thoughts about you, my dear. It would be in your best interest to leave before I am incapable of controlling myself any longer.”
“Forgive me for being so candid,” you say with a small grin, amusement threading through your voice, “but we’ve been intimate before, you silly thing. What exactly are you trying to protect me from—sex? Kyryll, we’ve done that plenty of—”
“No.” His voice cuts through yours, low and sharp, carrying a kind of desperation that stills you. “This is hardly comparable.” He turns toward you finally, and even though his expression is composed, his eyes are not. They are hungry and wild, and his pupils almost dilate at the sight of you. His wings twitch behind him, restless. “This is not a desire one can reason with,” he continues quietly. “It is old. It does not recognize affection or care—only need. And I would sooner burn myself hollow than make an object of you.”
For a moment, you weigh his words. You can see how much effort it costs him to hold himself still, to speak in measured tones instead of instinct. So much care and respect are woven into that tense, agonized distance he keeps between you both as he wills himself to stand still. And you decide that you want none of it.
You do not care about his self-imposed moral limits and boundaries. He needs you—and by the Gods, you are going to give him what he needs.
“Kyryll,” you say firmly, the earlier humor gone from your voice. “You could have told me sooner.”
He closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. “And ruin the illusion that I am civilized?”
You shake your head, stepping closer despite his warning. “You never needed illusions with me. I am the first person you should be able to turn to when you need something—when you need someone to take care of you.”
“You cannot take care of me in this form,” he clicks his teeth, patience slowly wearing thin. (He is certainly not in his right mind after all, you deduce—your Kyryll is never impatient with you. Not his usual self, at least.)
“I can,” you say stubbornly, “and I will because there is no way I am leaving you like this to suffer—so if you must use me for your own pleasure, then I think that is exactly what I will have you do because I want it of my own will. See? It is fine now, so come here and—”
“You are playing dangerous games,” his voice is deeper, lower, almost a throaty sound that vibrates in a way you’ve never heard from his usual rich, smooth, almost velvety voice. “Humans are not meant to withstand this level of…depravity that becomes my nature—”
“You are infuriatingly stubborn,” you roll your eyes.
You step closer, moving to wrap your arms around his neck. He catches your wrists before you can press yourself closer against him. His grip is gentle, but his hand trembles as he holds yours. His pupils are blown wide, the faint iridescence of his eyes flickering like they are something alive, something of a soul of their own. “Do not tempt me,” he breathes. “You do not understand what you are inviting.”
“I think I do,” you say softly. “You’re suffering, and I won’t stand by and watch it.”
He shakes his head, his voice dropping to a low, strained murmur. “It is not the kind of suffering you can easily mend. The endurance of a fae and that of a human are…not measured in the same way.”
“I’ve never been afraid of a little imbalance,” you counter, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I like a good challenge.” For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. The air between you holds still—tense, waiting.
And then he caves.
His hand rises to your jaw, tentative at first, as though he’s still convincing himself he shouldn’t. But the moment his skin meets yours, all restraint shatters. You’re pulled in for a kiss just as fervently as you lean in for one. Neither of you can say for certain who leans in first—who reaches for the other first. You don’t think you’d ever truly know.
His breath his hot against your mouth, and it comes out in nothing but heavy, short puffs of air that he all but gasps for. For all his stamina as a fae that he claims to have, he seems almost out of breath from just a little kissing. Your hands wander along his back, gently rubbing against the delicate portion between skin and wings as he lets out a surprised groan of pleasure at the feeling. You giggle into his mouth as he flinches in shock from the touch.
“You weren’t lying,” you murmur into his lips, “they really are sensitive, aren't they?”
“Amused, are we?” he huffs into your mouth.
“Maybe a little,” you admit cheekily. He only grunts in response—Kyryll in a rut is a Kyryll with very few words that he can articulate, you realize.
You feel the bulge of his cock against your thigh as he flips you around to press you against the wall, caging you with his tall, strong body as his hands desperately cup your jaw and angle your face up, kissing you with more hunger than before. It’s hot, his erection—you can feel that sheer warmth of it through the fabric and layers of clothes, and it’s thick and twitching through his pants in a way you’ve never felt him before, as though he’s already responding to absolutely nothing from how starved he really is for anything.
You move your thigh up, pressing it between his legs to slot perfectly against his crotch. He all but whimpers at the feeling—shuddering against you before his lips break away from yours and his face buries into your neck.
“D-don’t stop,” he pleads, “more. I need…more.”
“I know,” you soothe, gently tugging the hair tie that keeps his long strands in that low bun until it frees his hair and lets it fall down his back. Your fingers stroke through them, delicately raking your nails along his scalp as you murmur, “I know, baby. You need more. Got it.”
He shivers at the pet name, and you smile fondly. You would have preferred to relieve him of such a clear ache with more gratifying methods, but Kyryll does not allow himself to detach from you long enough for you to even reach for the waistband of his pants and use your hand. Your thigh is as good as he allows you to pleasure him with the way he’s pressed so close to your personal space. You feel him grind against it with his own pace, meeting your movements halfway as he chases the friction against his hardened cock.
When your fingers move back to his back, tracing the sensitive little networks of veins along the base of his wings, he groans into your neck, biting into your skin hard enough that it stings just a little.
“Does it feel good when I touch here?” You press gently into the base of his wing for emphasis.
He lets out a soft, breathless, almost whiny sound as he nods shakily. “Y-yes,” he swallows thickly, “very…very good.”
“How cute,” you giggle. “You are so cute.”
“M’close,” he gasps, “so…so, so close.”
“Already?” you blink in shock–you’ve really only hardly begun, “but we—”
You don’t even get to finish your thoughts before the sound of his voice, gravelly and thick with pleasure, cuts you off.
“F-fuck, I…I’m s-sorry,” he slurs his words incoherently, “‘m…c-cumming—”
You feel the familiar rush of warmth as he spills into his pants. (Kyryll has only cum in his pants once before—one night after he had a glass of wine too many, and you’d dragged your aching core against his own throbbing sensation between his legs as you shifted on his lap between kisses. It was cute then—seeing the adorable pinkness on his cheeks as he’d stuttered an apology. You enjoyed the slightly damp feeling of his release against your leg.)
But this time…it’s a little different. He absolutely soils his own clothes as much as yours. You can tell that much just seconds into his orgasm—the sheer amount of his seed that seeps through the fabric of his pants and dampens yours has you shocked. It’s…a lot. More than normal. More than you thought possible. Clearly not a very human amount, considering he is…well, very much not human. But you try your best to keep the steady rhythm of your thigh grinding against his crotch since he has stopped moving himself in favor of stilling—his body is taut and stiff as he shudders through every wave of his high, gasping into your neck and letting out choked moans against your skin.
“S-sorry,” he rasps, “I did not…I had not meant to tarnish your c-clothes with—ngh—”
He cuts his own sentence off with a low grunt as another thick, warm rope of cum spills from the head of his swollen cock. You shake your head in response to his apology—he does not need to apologize, you tell him softly—before gently rubbing his back as he rides out the last final waves of his orgasm. (It’s a long wave of pleasure—you’ve witnessed Kyryll fall apart quite a few times before. You like to consider your intimate life a display of healthy passion. It’s never lasted like this before, though—you don’t think you would forget it if you’d witnessed that sort of…well, spectacle seems not the kindest word for it. But it’s certainly a sight, that much is undoubtedly true. You decide not to comment on it for the sake of his feelings, however—you do not wish to embarrass him any further.)
“It’s okay,” you smile into his temple as you kiss it, “I don’t mind. Clothes can be washed, you know, silly.”
He pants into your neck, catching his breath for a brief moment before he reluctantly peels himself away from you. His face is even more flushed—his skin is practically glowing, and his wings seem even brighter as they droop into his back almost self-consciously. He doesn’t dare meet your eyes, as if his moment of self-indulgence is too shameful a scene for him to make peace with. You can practically hear his thoughts without him saying them—humping against your leg like that is the least dignified thing a man could do to the woman he cares for. Utterly unrefined and uncouth, and lacking in respect.
You sigh, reaching to cup his cheek. “Hey,” you whisper gently, “don’t worry too much. Do you feel better now?”
He looks at you miserably. It’s only then does your gaze wander a little lower…and you realize that he is still hard. Very, very, very hard—in fact, you don’t think it ever stopped despite the way he clearly came undone just a moment ago.
“Oh,” you breathe.
“…As you can see,” he says shakily, “this is not a problem that will resolve itself any time soon. Not even with your best efforts, I’m afraid.”
“So you need a few more rounds,” you shrug. He looks utterly horrified by your phrasing, which only makes you grin a little before you reach out to poke the tip of his nose affectionately. “I think I can handle that, baby—”
“No.” His voice sharpens, though there’s still that tremor of restraint beneath it. “You have already done far more than I deserve, my light. I will tend to the rest on my own. You should go—for your own sake, if not for mine. Though it pains me to watch you leave, it is the wisest course until I have recovered from this…condition of mine.”
“I’m not leaving,” you frown, your tone firm and unyielding.
He exhales, long and weary. “You are impossibly stubborn. Funny that you would have accused me of being just that, not too long ago.”
“I’m not!” you protest. “Look at you—you look like you’re in pain.”
“If you would kindly refrain from voicing such mortifying observations aloud,” he says with a tired sigh, “it would preserve what fragile shred of dignity I still possess, my dearest.”
You roll your eyes fondly.
You and Kyryll are an oddly functioning couple. You only just started calling him by his first name a few weeks ago. Before that, he was simply Flins. Mister Flins, before that, when he was just a ratnik who had saved you from a creature of the wild hunt.
Do be careful when you wander at night, Miss, he had said politely.
And then he had been off on his way. You run into him time and time and time and time again after that. It’s an odd way the world works, you like to think—how you can meet someone so often after one encounter when just days before, you’d never been aware of their existence. How they can bleed into everything you know so suddenly, like they’d been there this entire time, even when you’d known nothing of them for so long. Your usual places, your usual routes and paths, your usual stops. All of them have been the same for long enough that you wonder if perhaps they have merged with your cells and become part of who you are.
The one thing that was never there before was him. And then, as if the Gods had willed it, he was. Always, in every corner, it was Mister Flins.
How funny of a way the world works that things are thrust into your small bubble against your will, invading the tiny space of what you know and becoming one with all the things you hold dear.
Mister Flins at the market buying spices at the same time as you. Mister Flins walking down the same path as you are as he makes his way to his superior’s office. Mister Flins in the area to fix some broken part of his lamp. Mister Flins and a drink he asks to grab with you when you both happen to be free. Flins after that—he asks you kindly to drop the Mister. Flins and a nice dinner that he offers the bill for instantly. Flins at your place of work to escort you home in the evening—it’s dark out, you know, Miss. Flins in your kitchen as you make lunch while he’s in the area. Flins and that coat of his that he likes to drape over your couch when he’s here to stay for a while. Flins when you wake up in the morning, and he’s still there, tangled in the sheets with you. Flins who asks you to call him Kyryll, if you would accept—it’s only fair that two people who are courting use their proper names.
How long of a way you have come—from calling him Mister and hoping if you might ever run into him again, to whispering Kyryll like it’s a prayer and letting yourself into his home as you please. How far of a way you still have to go—he is still too embarrassed to be open with the physical desire that consumes him so wholly despite being intimate with you so many times before.
You wonder if a decade from now, Kyryll will warn you in advance that he will experience this same thing once more. If this time, instead of hiding from you, he might ask you to help him, take care of him. If he’ll trust you and put aside his composure and be fragile in your hands, so that you can carefully curl your hand and cup him in there, keeping him tucked into your hold, protected from the world.
You sigh, shaking your head in fondness before you gently murmur, “If you would just shove aside your pride for a moment and understand that I do not find shame in your nature, then perhaps we might both have an enjoyable time. I don’t dislike being intimate with you, you know—it isn’t as though it’s a chore for me.”
He swallows, mulling over your words before his shoulders ease. A loose, breathless chuckle slips past his lips. “You are remarkably eager to bed me, my love.”
“Don’t be so smug,” you scoff, stepping toward him as your arms curl around his neck.
He hums, burying his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder and inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of you. You can still feel the throbbing length tucked away in his tight pants—but you let him set his own pace for how he wants to do this. This is about him, you remind yourself, him and his…whatever this fever is called that has consumed him and turned him into a sexual-haze induced version of himself with mythical features you did not think people of this world could possess.
You hesitate, voice gentle. “So…is this basically…like a rut or something?”
Kyryll stills, then exhales slowly against your skin. His laugh is quiet, resigned—the sound of a man who has given up on maintaining dignity. “If you insist on using such a barbaric term, then yes,” he murmurs, voice low and rueful. “It is something akin to that.”
“Ah,” you nod, trying not to grin. “Good to know.”
He lifts his head, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “I can feel you laughing at me.”
“I would never,” you lie, smiling sweetly. Silence lingers for a beat before your curiosity wins out. “But wait—how come I never see your features like this? The ears, the wings…” your gaze drifts downward and back up again, “I’ve seen you naked plenty before, and those wings definitely weren’t there then.”
A soft sigh escapes him as he closes his eyes, the faintest trace of embarrassment lacing his tone. “I can usually hide them,” he admits quietly. “Most of my kind evolved to conceal the traits that set us apart. The wings, the ears—I have learned to keep them hidden away to pass unnoticed among humans.” His wings twitch faintly behind him, betraying his irritation. “But in this state…” his voice roughens slightly, “I cannot maintain that restraint. They emerge on their own.”
You hum thoughtfully. “So your wings come out when you’re horny.”
He groans, shoulders slumping. “You do have an unmatched talent for vulgar phrasing, my light.”
“I like to think it’s one of my more endearing qualities,” you grin, brushing a fingertip along the curve of his ear until he shivers. “Don’t you?”
He gives you a look—half exasperation, half resigned fondness. “Endearing is one word for it,” he murmurs dryly. “There are others I might choose.”
“Charming? Irresistible? The light of your lonely, dark little life?” you suggest, all innocent eyes.
“Insufferable,” he says immediately.
You press a hand to your chest in mock offense. “You wound me. Truly, so mean.”
“You’ll recover.” His lips twitch, betraying amusement. “You always do.”
You grin wider, leaning closer so your noses almost brush. “Only because I am so fond of you. The things I endure in order to love you are what some might consider horrors, you know.”
“I’ve watched you survive far worse than my teasing,” he replies, arching a brow. You hum thoughtfully.
“True,” you whisper as you bite back a grin, “so surely, I can handle you when you are not entirely yourself.”
He exhales, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—soft, endeared. “Incorrigible,” he murmurs, though the word loses its bite when you rise on your toes and press your lips to his.
The kiss starts tentative, almost cautious. You test the waters, and he trembles faintly against you, as though afraid he might hurt you just by touching. But when you tilt your head and draw him closer by the back of his neck, that restraint begins to crack. His hands find your waist, firm yet so achingly soft the way that Kyryll always is, and he kisses you again—deeper this time. Harder. Like he means it. The kind of kiss that steals the breath right out of your lungs as he inhales it for himself.
You feel his heartbeat where your palms rest against his bare chest, and the faint shiver of his wings brushing against your hands as they travel from his sternum to his back. When you part for air, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, the tips of his pointy, adorable little ears flushed a faint shade of rose.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice hoarse with longing.
“Positive,” you breathe, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. He presses a kiss to the pad of your finger before nodding.
“You’ll try to stop me if it’s too much? Perhaps we should keep something heavy nearby so you may hit me if I do not listen to reason—I will certainly survive the blow and—”
“I am not hitting your head, Kyryll,” you gape, “and I’m not backing out, either. Now fuck me—I want you.”
“Must you say it just like that?” he asks tiredly.
You giggle, nodding as you murmur, “How else will I prove my enthusiasm to feel you?”
That seems to undo him completely. He looks at you for a moment—good and long and hard before he kisses you again. This time, it’s with the kind of fervor that feels almost desperate now, stumbling a little as you both move in a tangle of limbs through the quiet rooms of his home. His hand stays at the small of your back, guiding you blindly toward the bedroom, though his mouth never leaves yours for long.
The journey there is clumsy and impatient—you nearly trip over a low stool in your rush, and he catches you with a low laugh that melts against your lips. His wings flutter, brushing against furniture, fragile things trembling with the same tension that threads through his entire body. He moans into your mouth every few moments, unable to keep his usual composure and bite back the sounds. You like this version of Kyryll—the version that makes his pleasure a loudly known fact rather than a politely kept secret.
By the time your knees hit the edge of his bed, he’s panting harshly, worked back up to impatience for release as his body burns with tension.
“This is your last chance to leave while you easily can, you know,” he says lowly—his voice thick, hoarse, and edged with something that no longer sounds entirely human. Each word rasps as though dragged through gravel, deeper and rougher than before, echoing faintly in his chest before reaching you. The sound sends a shiver down your spine—not from fear, but from the strange, thrilling feeling of want piercing through your spine.
You meet his gaze steadily. “I’m not backing out,” you say, your voice so firm and sure.
He closes his eyes, jaw tightening as though your words physically pull at the fraying thread of his control. “You do not understand what you invite, my light.”
“I don’t want to understand,” you whisper, reaching for him, “I just want you.”
His breath stutters at the touch. For a moment, he seems frozen, torn between his care for you and his instinct of desire. Then—as if his biology finally wins over—whatever fragile barrier he’s built around himself shatters. The sound that escapes him is low, almost feral, but still unmistakably him.
“I told you,” he says gruffly, “I will not be guided by my affections. Yet you insist so firmly to see a version of me that only fucks you with instinct alone—is that what you truly want? A man as depraved and senseless as this? What little regard for your fragile, human body,” he chuckles.
His mouth claims yours before you can reply—hard and bruising and all teeth, filled with a relentless urgency. You gasp, arching into his touch as his large, impatient hands tug you closer by your clothes. (So this is what he meant, you think—Kyryll is utterly lacking in his typical gentleness. No—in fact, his gentleness is completely gone.)
Your clothes are torn off in a swift motion. He does not bother disrobing you, does not bother taking his time to admire you, or tease you, or simply just bask in the moment of being so intimately close to you. Instead, he grabs the fabric with a rough hand, pulls with more force than you’ve ever seen from him, and tears the fabric without remorse. You gasp at the sight of it being completely irreparable.
“Kyryll!” you hiss, “soiling clothes is one thing, but destroying them is an entirely separate—”
“Enough,” he cuts in, voice low and edged. “They were in my way. I will not waste time with trivial barriers.”
You shiver at the sound of such a rough tone in his voice. Long gone is the delicate, well-mannered, and well-spoken man you know—long gone is his patience and sweetness and lingering precision in everything he does.
His hands squeeze at your hips in appreciation as he marvels at the sight of your curves and bare skin. “Mmh, and to think I was going to deny myself such a splendid gift—where such patience had graced me, even I myself cannot tell. No matter—I will make the most of such a wonderful blessing.”
You’re dripping—his words alone, his sheer desire to use you alone, have made the ache between your legs worsen, and the pool of slick collecting there does the same. It coats your inner thighs, and when he roughly spreads your legs apart, humming at the sigh of your bare cunt, you whimper.
“What a sight,” he groans, “I cannot wait until I am buried in the warmth of such a beautiful, perfect cunt.”
He is much less hesitant to use filthier words, too, you realize. And less focused on you and your pleasure as his fingers sink past the velvety walls of your pussy, curling deep into that spongy, sensitive spot that makes you mewl. Nothing about this is gentle. Nothing about it is thoughtful and giving and filled with adoration like Kyryll always is when he beds you. Nothing about it puts your pleasure above all else and does it for the sole purpose of making you feel good and feel his devotion.
No. Instead, Kyryll fucks his fingers into you because he needs you prepped and ready to take his cock. He also wants to feel the warmth of your walls flutter around his fingers because his mind is in a filthy haze. You can tell because the way he groans as his fingers pump into you, scissoring and stretching you open, has nothing to do with the way you gasp and twitch from pleasure, but everything to do with the wet, squelching sound he hears and that shiny, messy essence that he sees coating his fingers.
“So warm,” he moans, “how long before I can sink the entirety of my cock into such a perfectly awaiting pussy, I wonder.”
“K-Kyryll, please—”
“Say that again,” he demands, “say my name like that again. Say it.”
“Kyryll,” you sob brokenly. His fingertips are so cruel, slamming and curling into that sensitive spot so rough and fast, so impatient to get you gushing around him so that you are ready to take his cock with ease. “M’go-gonna…gonna cum—fuck!”
“There it is, my dove,” he smiles, pleased. “I knew you would do well—after all, you always give me just what I want, don’t you? It’s what you know best, isn’t it? Such a good, obedient human.”
Your orgasm doesn’t last long—it’s not like the usual sort of high Kyryll coaxes out of you. It’s not soft and prolonged and doesn’t make you slip into a hazy, blissful state that makes you feel like you’re floating. Instead, it all but makes you black out, a wave of pleasure that absolutely wrecks you and shocks your body right to its core. It’s impatient and fast, and when you come down from the split second of pure white-hot pleasure, he is already there, studying your fluttering walls and humming in approval.
“I think you are sufficiently ready, don’t you think, my dear?” he all but growls.
You watch deliriously as he unzips his pants, quickly shrugging them and his boxers off in a swift movement and freeing his cock—and oh. You have seen his cock. You have taken his cock down your throat and deep in your walls, and you’ve felt the weight of it in your hand. You are not a stranger to the sight of Kyryll’s cock, but you are a stranger to his version of it—the version of it that has thicker veins that are practically glowing along the side of his length. The version of it that has messy, runny, iridescent pre cum leaking from the tip and coating his pink, flushed cockhead. The version of it that looks even bigger and thicker, and longer than you remember it.
You gasp at the sheer sight of it, instinctively pressing your thighs together in…in what? You do not even know. In fear? In excitement? In need of relief at the sheer excitement it sends through your aching core, or in need of a break before you’ve even begun from the sheer size of it that will surely break you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, “oh my god, it…it’s not going to fit,” you shake your head. “K-Kyryll, you’ll…you’ll break me.”
“Will I?” he chuckles, slightly mocking as he leans down and presses a flurry of kisses along your jaw, sucking and biting at your skin before he makes his way to your neck and inhales the scent of you once more. It occurs to you then that perhaps the scent of you has only been driving him more mad this whole time—that with the way he’s taken every opportunity to sniff at your skin, he must be absolutely overwhelmed by the scent of you. “I specifically remember you saying you would not mind doing this with me and that it was not a chore. Why the sudden change of heart?”
“L-look at the…the size of…of it!” you stutter, “that is not what it usually is!”
“We will easily make it fit, my dove,” he hums, “not to worry. There is no doubt that this pretty cunt will open up nice and slowly for me—after all, she is a good, good girl, isn’t she?”
He traces a thumb over your clit as he says that—and when you whine, jolting from the touch, he chuckles in a sick, almost twisted form of amusement. Without warning, he grabs a leg, hooking it over his shoulder as his hand squeezes the meat of your thigh and groans.
“You were made for my taking,” he says, staring at your body as though he’s in a heavy trance. His eyes are wide and dilated, unfocused and almost wild as he rakes them over every section of bare skin he can. “I am going to take great pleasure in feeling the tight warmth of you wrapped around me—what a wonderful fate life has granted me, indeed.”
With that, he leans down to hover over you, and the knee tossed over his shoulder bends and practically meets your chest as he closes the gap and kisses you roughly. The thick, blunt head of his cock meets the entrance of your cunt, pushing past the folds slowly, carefully for a moment that you almost think that this is your Kyryll—the Kyryll that you know and love.
But then, with a rough snap of his hips, he’s pressed a good amount of his length into you, stretching you with a burning girth that makes you cry out in a sharp mewl. “T-too much, baby,” you sob, “w-wait—”
“You can take it, my dear,” he insists, kissing away the tears with chapped, warm lips that feel nothing like the usual soft and cool ones you’re used to. You hardly recognize the man who is taking you, and yet…and yet, you cannot help but fall in love even deeper with him in this state. Every fiber of your existence should scream to run, but instead, they long to be intertwined with him. Threaded into the very fibers of his own existence, living tangled and one with him.
He’s right. You can take him—and you do. He snaps his hips one more time and buries the rest of himself into you, completely down to the hilt and completely filling you up until you feel almost certain that you can feel him in your throat and lungs.
“S-so big,” you gasp, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him as your walls flutter around the intrusion of his thick, swollen cock. He groans, wings fluttering behind him impatiently as he waits for you to give the signal that you’re ready for him to move—he still has enough sense in his system for that much kindness. “S-so full, baby—m’so full.”
“Yes,” he says hoarsely, “what a sweet, precious girl, you are—taking me so well. Such a darling light I have that takes me so well and doesn’t complain. I simply adore you, my dove.”
You mewl at the praise, clawing at his back with your nails as you pull him closer—and impatiently, with a jolt of your hips, you plead, “M-move! Move, please…need to feel you so bad.”
Your hands rub along his back—and without the same careful, gentle precision as before, you rub at the base of his wings, too. Friction at the delicate, sensitive, almost painful nerve-endings at his wings that respond to your touch by twitching harshly. He lets out a gasp, jolting with a low, drawn-out moan that is obscenely loud. Obscene. Kyryll is never much of an obscene sight even in the throes of pleasure, but you suppose such a frenzied, desperate state of mind would make him prioritize his composure last.
“F-fuck—I told you, those are sensitive,” he hisses, “you…you cannot simply just touch and feel them as you please unless you want to—”
You lean up and bite at his earlobe, effectively cutting him off as his breath gets caught in his throat. You hear the hitch before you whisper into the shell of his pointed ear, “Kyryll, just fuck me already. What in the Gods' names are you waiting for?”
That makes something in him snap. Something carnal and hungry and desperate and…so far gone in his desires, it almost feels animalistic. His hips snap, harsh and fast, and nudge his cock deeper and deeper past your folds, pressing effortlessly against that sensitive, delicate spot in the back of your walls. Your Kyryll usually knows where that spot is; he usually aims his thrusts to kiss that spot with the blunt head of his cock purposely.
This Kyryll doesn’t try. He doesn’t even think to find your pleasure points, drilling his aching length and chasing the warm friction of the tight walls that surround him without a thought. It just so happens that naturally so, with the sheer size and girth of him, with the perfect curve of cock, he manages to find that spot anyway.
“Fuck,” he groans, “ngh—you are so…so soft. So exquisite and warm and so fucking tight.”
Your legs wrap around his hips, bracing yourself for every forceful, heavy snap of his hips. It’s fast and rough and impatient. It’s everything your Kyryll is not. It’s hungry and mad and vulgar. There’s a filthy squelching sound that mixes in with both of your pleasured sounds—a wet, filthy one that comes from skin slapping on skin and the way his cock slips in and out of your dripping cunt.
“I’ll fill you up,” he says lowly, “there is a perfect little womb right here,” his large hand presses against your belly, applying light pressure against it as he thrusts into you, making you wail. “And I intend to make good use of it. I will fill this womb up with my seed over and over again—until it takes. However many times I must, I will. Until you are swollen with a child that will have both the bloodline of a fae and a delicate little human.”
“P-please—”
“Is that what you want?” He coos, “to have a child you can bear with half of me and you? Perhaps my eyes? Your smile? Is that what my darling little human wants?”
“Y-yes,” you sob, “yes, yes—please!”
“Then far be it from me to deny such a precious request,” he hums.
You moan into his mouth as he kisses you roughly. A messy dance of tongue and teeth and hot breath that you exchange between heavy panting. One hand tangles in his hair and tugs, and the other alternates between scratching into his back and rubbing over those delicate nerves at the base of his wings. You feel him jolt every time you trace them—feel him let out a tiny whimper into your mouth when your thumb catches over a particularly delicate membrane that makes his whole body shudder.
“Oh,” he groans roughly, “I’m…I’m c-close—so…so tight. It’s never…it’s never felt like this before.”
For a fleeting moment, you wonder what he means by that—he’s fucked you plenty of times before. Plenty of times, he’s felt the slick tightness of your cunt and the warm walls that wrap around him invitingly. Then…then it occurs to you that perhaps…perhaps this is the first time Kyryll has ever fucked somebody at all during a rut. Perhaps he has never had the company of another while he locks himself away in his home.
Perhaps, all these years, he’s had nothing but the frustrating company of his own hand against his cock, a limited and lonely form of relief for that awful, throbbing ache between his legs. You imagine it—the sight of him sprawled on his bed, bare and sweaty and painfully erect. The sight of his fist stroking his cock and squeezing at the base while he bites the palm of his hand and chokes on sounds he tries to suppress. The sight of him spilling into his hand and feeling the tremors of his pleasure all alone with no one to whisper sweet nothings to him as he comes down from the high.
What a lonely, awful way it must have been to ease his aches. What a lonely, awful fate he was so willingly to resign himself to again before you had wormed your way into his home and demanded an explanation from him. A part of you knows he had done it mainly out of fear—fear of hurting you and losing control. Fear of slipping too far in his desires and taking it further than he would ever dream of, and causing you harm.
But another part of you wonders if Kyryll is just too used to being alone. If his mind and body are accustomed to being alone during something like this, that even when his body craves the heat and closeness of someone else, even when his mind has envisioned you in less than proper ways, like he’s said himself, he is too ingrained in the habit of being alone. Being far, far away from others and handling things alone. Being far, far away from you when he thinks himself to be a burden who does not deserve your closeness or your care or your intimacy.
And you don’t like it. You don’t want his mind to think that way on default and put space between you when all you want is to be nestled into his skin and make home in his ribcage. You’re safest there—he would protect you with his bones and shatter them first before anything would harm you. You know that.
And you want to take care of him. See the less than human parts and make them feel welcome in this big, large world where there is room for both of you to exist with your differences.
“Have you ever fucked someone like this, Kyryll?” You whisper, “When your body is flushed and warm like this? Has anyone touched these cute little wings of yours as you fucked your load into them? Held you as you come undone? That’s what you deserve, don’t you think?”
Filthy. That’s how you make him feel. That’s how he makes you feel, too. Even when you are being sweet, you are both downright, purely filthy.
“No,” he rasps, “fuck—no, I haven’t. I’ve never…n-never had someone before you for…for this.”
“So I’m your first proper rut, is that it?” You manage to giggle even through his ruthless, heavy thrusts. Even as he bullies his cock into your folds as deep as it’ll go, you find a way to tease and mock him.
(And he likes it. There is, undeniably, a part of him that excites when you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t feel him twitch inside of your cunt like that.)
“Yes,” he groans loudly, dizzy with pleasure as you squeeze around him, “yes…my first…first proper one.”
His hips stutter for a moment as he says the words—like he’s mulling them over and pondering on the implications of them before suddenly, your other leg is thrown over his shoulder and you cannot help but squeal in shock from the force of his body maneuvering yours. He folds you in half, and your knees are almost pressed to your chest.
He rolls his hips in quick, impatient thrusts—sloppy in rhythm and no longer as deliberate as they once were in pace. He’s close. This Kyryll is so, so different from your Kyryll, but he’s still the same. You recognize the patterns as they come. That slack jaw and those eyes that flutter shut and roll to the back of his head. The deep, heavy breaths and the low, raspy grunts. The familiar way his pace becomes messy and less rhythmic as he tries to grind into you and chase the friction. And finally, the small, little twitch his cock does before he spills into you. It’s warm—so fucking warm and thick, and it fills you up from just a few ropes.
“M’c-cumming,” he says hoarsely, so fragile and broken as pleasure bleeds through his veins and shoots along his nerves. “So…so good, love—you always feel so good.”
Just like the first time he came in his pants right against your legs, he spills more seed than you ever imagined possible. It paints your walls white, and he does a careful job of fucking the load into you as it spills, never stilling for a second. You can feel it leaking from your folds—there’s a mess of his cum and your slick leaking past your folds and coating your inner thighs, dripping along your skin.
He watches, mesmerized.
And when a particularly sharp thrust lands, you follow him as you fall off the edge and go hurtling into your own pleasure. It’s dizzying. He’s never stretched you like this—you’ve never felt veins this thick rub against your walls and drag along with such sickening friction. When you cum, you cum hard—harder than you ever have on his cock. You squeeze around him, milking him of the last of his thick ropes of cum and making sure he gives you everything he can.
“Kyryll,” you gasp—you chant it a few more times as you ride out the final waves of your high, unable to form anything else but the thought of his name. “Oh,” you breathe, “fuck.”
He slumps over you as he finishes, catching his breath in the crook of your neck. His wings tremble faintly before folding closed, and for a long moment, the only sound is his heavy breathing and the faint hum of his heartbeat against your chest.
When he finally speaks, his voice is still rough, still deep and throaty. “I did warn you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “I told you I lose myself in this state. You insisted on testing me.”
You hum, utterly unbothered, fingers lazily combing through his damp hair. “Lose yourself? That was you losing control? I must say, I expected something a little more…dramatic.”
He lifts his head, giving you a look equal parts disbelief and exhaustion. “You have the audacity to critique my performance?”
“I’m just saying,” you tease, grinning, “for all that talk about feral instincts and uncontrollable urges, you were still very polite about it. You even romantically asked to start a family with me.”
A huff of laughter escapes him despite himself. “You mock me even now?”
“Only because it’s easy,” you grin, kissing his cheek. “All that talk, and you’re already out of breath.”
A low, breathless hum escapes him. “No need to worry,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual—and you feel the familiar twitch of his cock. Still hard and still swollen inside you. “We still have a long way to go before my desires are satisfied. I hope you’re prepared.”
You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, eyes widening a fraction. “Oh…how long?”
Kyryll smirks—that infuriating, elegant smirk that makes you weak-kneed. “Well,” he begins, voice dipping, “I did say that fae have a lot of stamina.”
“Well…” you murmur, looking at him with defiant eyes. “I still think I can handle that.”
He groans, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, “We shall see,” he rasps, “because I am not finished with you yet.”
[KINKTOBER 25] ᯓᡣ𐭩 SWEET AS PIE - CALEB XIA ! (week 1)
[♡₊˚ ♕]: her highness's decree: this is my first kinktober!! I'll try to post most of these on the first day of the week + do sum drabbles in between <3
⋆˚꩜.ᐟ : WARNINGS! — scent kink, p in v, kitchen sex, fingering, grinding, cunnilingus / munch!caleb, raw fck / creampie, overstimulation, yearning!caleb, messy sex, standing fuck / manhandling, cockdrunk reader, praise kink, light coercion via desperation, marking (bites, bruises), begging / whimpering, multiple orgasms, light dumbification, minor pain/pleasure mix (too much but still taking it), porn with little plot ♡
word count: 4.9k
kinktober masterlist <3
𝐸𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦 𝑀𝑦 𝑅𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙𝑠 <3
The water was still running when you felt him.
One moment your hands were sunk in warm suds, stacking dishes in the rack like any other evening, and the next Caleb’s chest was pressed flush against your back—hard, broad, still sheathed in his uniform. The sharp smell of leather and rain hit first, then the low groan in his chest as he wrapped an arm around your waist, dragging you back until his clothed cock was nestled right against your ass.
“Fuck, pips…” his voice cracked, lips grazing your neck as he breathed you in. His nose buried at your pulse, dragging slow, greedy inhales that made your skin burn. “Missed that, fuck I missed you.”
The dish slipped from your fingers, clattering softly into the sink. “C-caleb! You're back mm..early. H-how was your day?”
A rough, almost broken laugh vibrated through his chest against your back. “Day was fine,” he rasped, voice strained and low, “just 'missed you.” His mouth dragged lower, hot and open against your skin, sucking at the spot that always made you shiver, a soft gasp tumbling from your lips. “thought about feelin’ you, smellin’ you all day—always smell so sweet.” Caleb’s arm cinched tighter around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest like he couldn’t stand even a breath of space between you.
You tilted your head, baring your throat for him, eyes fluttering as more wave of nerves coursed down your spine. “Mmm—ah, m-missed you too, ’leb,” you breathed out in a sigh, the words tumbling soft and unguarded, melting straight into the heat of his chest. His lips grazed the side of your neck again, and you swore you felt him shudder at your confession, like the sound of it had undone him completely.
The scent of his cologne, dampened by the rain clinging to his uniform, wrapped around you, dizzying and thick. Caleb groaned low in his chest—nearly a moan at your words—his breath hitching ragged against your skin as his hips rolled forward, rougher now, obscene, allowing you to feel every inch of him straining through the dark fabric of his slacks.
“Say it again,” he rasped, voice hoarse, almost pleading. His gloved hand slid up, curling around your jaw, coaxing your head to turn until your eyes met purple ones. His face hovered close, eyes dark and starving—but he didn’t close the distance. You could feel the tension in him, the way his chest rose sharp against your back, like he was barely holding himself back.
Your lips parted, lashes flicking from his to his lips before you breathed sweetly, “Missed you too—” A strangled whimper fell past Caleb's lips before he could swallow it down, his restraint shattering as he surged forward to capture your mouth in a desperate kiss, practically moaning the second yours graced his.
Caleb's lips claimed yours like he meant to consume you, groaning into the kiss as his hips ground harder against your ass, the thick line of him straining through his slacks. Each needy roll pressed deeper into the swell of you, sparks shooting straight to your clit. The vibration of his moan melted into your mouth, swallowing every gasp and whimper you gave him like they were the only thing keeping him alive.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, "Need you so bad pips..wanna feel you," his forehead pressing to yours as his hand finally slipped past the elastic waistband of your shorts. The action drew a gasp from you as leather dragged hot over your skin, a delicious contrast from his fingers pushing under the thin fabric of your panties.
“C-Caleb wait! Don’t you wanna ngh…go to the bedroom first..?” you asked breathlessly, your hand grabbing onto his forearm, despite your back arching helplessly into his touch.
He groaned at your plea, the sound wrecked, almost broken. “Mhm, mhm—don’t wanna wait. Need you now.” His voice was strained, bordering on a whine, each word spilling hot against your lips before his mouth dragged lower to your throat. His tongue traced a wet, messy line along your neck before he latched on and sucked hard enough to make you whimper.
“C-Caleb!”
A moan—half ragged, half feral—tore from Caleb’s lips at the sound of his name spilling off your tongue. His gloved fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, hunger guiding him like instinct. The leather dragged hot over your skin before dipping into your panties, grazing your soaked folds with practiced precision. Your slick made it easy for him to slide, and when one thick digit pushed past your entrance, stretching your gummy walls, you broke.
“Ahh—’leb—!”
The way you cried his name made him moan back, desperate and unhinged, rutting his hips against the swell of your ass like he was already about to fall apart. His fingers sank deeper, knuckles nudging inside as his thumb pressed down on your clit, messy and relentless. The wet squelch of your pussy filled the kitchen, loud and obscene, pulling a guttural groan straight from his chest.
“Y-yeah, just like that—fuck, that’s it. Say my name again,” he begged, voice wrecked and trembling. His forehead pressed to the side of your head like he needed the contact to keep from breaking. His hips stuttered against you, the thick length straining through his uniform as if he was using your body to grind out his own desperation.
Your back arched into his chest, breath stolen in sharp gasps as his fingers pumped deeper, harder. Every thrust was sloppy, wet, obscene, slick coating the leather until each push made a nasty squelch that echoed off the kitchen tiles.
“Love hearin’ it from you, pretty—fuck—turns me on so much. Say it again, pips—please.” His plea was choked, needy, dripping out of him like he was seconds from begging on his knees.
Meanwhile your vision went starry, white heat coiling tight in your belly as the pleasure built fast and sharp, your thighs trembling against his iron grip. A shaky exhale fell past your lips, eyes practically rolling back into your skull as a soft plea reached Caleb's ear.
"D-don't stop 'leb, wanna-ngh-cum for you."
Caleb let out a strangled whimper, the sound raw, torn from his chest. His fingers instantly drove deeper, fucking into you deeper, faster, while his thumb rubbed messy circles over your clit, frantic and uncoordinated in his desperation. You could practically taste your orgasm at this point.
“Gonna make me cum in my fuckin’ pants sayin’ that, pips,” he babbled against your throat, voice wrecked, every word a needy plea tangled in a promise. His mouth was hot and unrelenting, kissing, biting, sucking at your skin like he couldn’t get enough, groaning between every lap of his tongue. “Always so good f’me—shit—always so sweet. Let go, pretty girl. Give it to me—c’mon, let me have it.”
Your knees buckled, nails biting into his forearm as your head fell back against his shoulder, body quaking under his touch. His pace only grew more reckless, the lewd squelch of your soaked pussy filling the kitchen, mixing with the desperate little whines breaking from his throat.
“G-gonna—!” you gasped, grinding down against his hand, chasing the edge as your whole body locked tight.
“That’s it, that’s it—fuck yes,” Caleb groaned, almost sobbing, his forehead pressed to your shoulder as his hips rutted into your ass like he couldn’t stop himself. “Give it to me, pips—let me feel you—need it, need it so bad—”
And then you broke. A cry tore out of you as the wave hit, thighs clamping around his hand while your cunt spasmed around his fingers. Pleasure flooded you in sharp, dizzying bursts, your hips bucking helplessly against the relentless drag of his gloves.
“Good girl—fuck, that’s my girl—” Caleb’s voice cracked as he praised you, his chest heaving like he couldn’t breathe, grinding into you harder as if your orgasm was dragging him under with you. “So fuckin’ perfect—so perfect for me.”
Your release soaked his fingers, slick coating the leather, and Caleb’s breath hitched raggedly at the sight of it. His hips jerked once—twice—before a strangled groan tore from him. “Ahh—pips—I can’t—” His voice pitched high, breaking as his body locked up against yours. You felt the sharp, needy rut of his cock grind into your ass once more before the damp heat spread in his uniform slacks, his release spilling thick as he came undone right there against you.
His whole body shuddered, forehead pressed to your neck, teeth sinking into your skin to muffle the broken whimper that escaped him. His gloved fingers never stopped, still pumping you through every aftershock, like he needed to feel you fall apart while he did.
When your whimpers softened, he pulled back just enough to look at his hand glistening under the kitchen light. His pupils were blown wide, his breath harsh, chest straining against his uniform.
“I need a taste—"
He brought his soaked fingers to his lips without hesitation, sucking them past his mouth with a guttural groan. His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue swirled along the leather, dragging every drop of your slick into his mouth like it was the first drink after a drought. He moaned around them, pulling off with a wet pop, saliva glistening on his chin. His gaze snapped back to you, dark and hazy, lips swollen as he licked across them, chasing the taste. “Can’t get enough of you, pips—never fuckin’ can.”
Then he was spinning you around, hunger blazing in every movement. His mouth crashed against yours in a wet, desperate kiss, sharing the taste of yourself with you as his hands made quick work of shoving your shorts and panties down your thighs.
Your half lidded eyes fluttered open in a haze, already knowing where this is going to lead- to you two fucking in the kitchen and Caleb having to carry you back to the bed due to him blacking out once he slides in your pussy.
You swallowed hard, still trying to catch your breath, fumbling for words. “Leb—w-wait! Don’t you wanna…mfh- get more comfortable?” Your thighs twitched together on instinct, trying to close as you fought to speak against his hungry lips. Barely getting the chance to pull away far enough so that you'd have a second to speak.
The whine that left Caleb's lips as he chased your lips once more made your heart squeeze. Your will to resist his pleas was growing alarmingly small.
“You’re still in your uniform, ’leb—mfhh.”
The protest broke uselessly against his mouth. Caleb wasn’t hearing it, wasn’t capable of hearing anything past the thunder of his pulse and the taste of you. His lips crashed back onto yours, swallowing your words in a kiss so hot and messy it had your knees trembling. The sheer intensity of it alone sent arousal slipping down your thighs, your body betraying you under the weight of his hunger.
And when his tongue pushed past your lips, eager and greedy, sweeping into your mouth like he meant to devour every sound you made—you knew it was over. Your hands found his neck and hair, clutching desperately, dragging him closer until there was nothing left of the space between you. His growl vibrated straight into your chest as your nails dug into him.
But Caleb wasn’t satisfied. He never was when it came to you. His gloved hand slid down, sneaky and deliberate, parting your thighs once more with a subtle press that had your breath hitching. He kissed you like a man unhinged, but his body was already moving lower, inch by inch, until you felt the heat of his breath ghost your belly.
“Leb—” Your voice cracked, but he didn’t give you the chance to finish.
His mouth tore from yours with a wet gasp, forehead pressing hard to yours, breath hot and ragged. “Already had one taste, pips,” Caleb rasped, voice low and trembling with lust. His pupils were blown wide, gaze burning into you as his gloved hand slid down, gripping your thigh and spreading you open just enough to make you suck in a sharp breath.
His lips ghosted over yours again, softer this time, a teasing brush. “But now—” his tongue flicked against your bottom lip before he drew back just enough for you to feel the loss—“I want a different kind of taste.”
Before the words could even settle, Caleb was dropping to his knees. The sight alone made heat punch through your belly—your colonel, still in his uniform, hair falling into his wild purple eyes, sinking down in front of you like he was about to pray to an altar. His big hands shoved your thighs apart, unyielding, claiming, until you were spread open for him against the counter.
Then he buried his face between your legs, no hesitation, no patience. A guttural moan ripped straight from his chest as his tongue dragged a fat, sloppy stripe up your folds, savoring you with messy, obscene hunger. The vibration of the sound against your cunt made your knees buckle instantly, your head falling back as white-hot pleasure tore through you.
"H-holy shit 'leb-wait s-slow down!"
Caleb ate you like a man starved—sloppy, messy, desperate. His nose nudged your clit as his tongue circled, lapped, then dipped deep into your cunt, fucking you with wet, obscene thrusts of his mouth. The bottom half of his face was drenched, but he couldn't seem to care less, didn’t even look like he was breathing in between groans of your name. Like his need to taste you outweighed everything else.
His gloved hands gripped your thighs, holding you open and still as he ravaged you, lips and tongue working you over with frantic precision. Each sloppy lap and press of his nose against your clit sent shivers through your spine, making your knees wobble and your hips jerk involuntarily.
Your thighs quivered around his face, your nails digging into the backs of his shoulders as your body pressed down, helpless to the relentless pull of pleasure. Every flick of his tongue, every sloppy swirl, dragged another broken moan from your lips, leaving you trembling and on the edge of losing control again.
You came once, thighs trembling, voice breaking in a scream of his name—but he didn’t stop. Caleb groaned through it, tightening his grip as your hips bucked, sucking and licking at you harder like he needed to wring every ounce of release from your body.
“Fuck—so sweet,” he panted into your slick, voice wrecked and needy. “Gimme more baby, give it to me-mffh”
The second orgasm ripped through you quicker, sharper, your thighs clamping around his head as your body convulsed against the counter. Caleb whimpered at the way you pulsed around his tongue, sucking harder, drawing it out until your voice was nothing but broken moans.
When he finally tore himself away, his mouth was shining, chin slick, lips swollen. His chest heaved under the stiff press of his uniform as he looked up at you, purple eyes wild and still hazy with lust.
Yeah...you weren't leaving this kitchen anytime soon.
♡
The wet smack of your bodies echoed through the kitchen, louder than the rain hammering against the windows. Your slick was everywhere, dripping down his cock, running down your thighs, making every slap filthier, wetter.
“S’good—fuck, you’re so good, baby,” Caleb babbled, almost whining as he buried his face against your neck, his hips slamming up into you again and again. His breath came in hot, broken bursts, teeth scraping your skin as if he couldn’t keep his mouth off you. “So tight—so fuckin’ wet for me."
Meanwhile, you were practically melting under him, mouth parted, saliva pooling as your nails raked down his back through the damp, clinging fabric of his uniform. You clawed at him like you were trying to hold onto something—or maybe like you might tear him apart entirely. “S’good, ‘leb—don’t stop, don’t stop, please!” you whimpered, voice shaking, body bouncing helplessly in his grip.
His cock plunged deep with every powerful thrust, each drive hitting that perfect spot inside you, ripping little cries from your throat as your cunt clenched desperately around him. Arms gripped your waist and thighs, keeping you flush to his chest as your hips jerked helplessly with each relentless pound.
You had long lost count of how many times you’d come. Four? Five? Truthfully you had lost count, each time Caleb pulled another earth shattering orgasm out of you another part of your brain turned to mush.
“F-fuck—‘leb, too much—ahh, I can’t—!” your voice cracked, but your cunt betrayed you, squeezing down on him so tight he groaned, a feral sound torn straight from his chest.
“Yes, you can, pips,” Caleb rasped, breath hitching, voice wrecked and almost begging. His forehead pressed hard to yours, sweat beading at his temple, hair sticking damp to his face as his hips pistoned into you. “Take it for me—lemme hear you.”
You gasped, choking on your own moans as your body jolted against the cabinets, his cock hitting deep, dragging against every swollen, sensitive spot inside you. Stars burst across your vision, your thighs trembling helplessly in his grip.
“That’s it—oh, fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his voice breaking as his gloved hand slipped down between your bodies, pressing against your clit, rubbing in messy circles to match the slam of his thrusts. “Make a mess for me, baby. Wanna feel you gush on my cock again—give it to me.”
Your body lurched, pleasure winding so sharp it bordered on pain. “C-Caleb, I—ahh, I’m gonna—!”
“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he nearly sobbed into your neck, rutting harder, faster, grinding into you like he wanted to break you apart on his cock. “Cum for me, pips—make a fuckin’ mess for me, let me feel it—” The words alone undid you. Your cunt squeezed tight around him, and then you broke with a cry, back arching, nails digging his shoulders as your orgasm ripped through you, wetter and harder than before. Slick gushed down his cock, dripping to the floor, and Caleb moaned at the feel, hips stuttering but never stopping.
“God—fuck yes—so sweet, so fuckin’ perfect,” he gasped, kissing you sloppy and hungry, swallowing your cries as his thrusts grew erratic. “That’s it, baby, give me all of it—fuck, I can feel you milkin’ me shiiit—”
His cock slammed deep one last time, the wet heat of your release coating him, and then Caleb broke with you. A pornographic moan tore from his chest as his hips ground flush against yours, cock pulsing as he spilled inside. The warmth spread through you in thick waves, his seed filling you so deep it made your toes curl.
“F-fuck—oh god, 'leb,” you whimpered, squirming in his hold as your sensitive walls fluttered around him. Your head fell against his shoulder, body weak, twitching from aftershocks. Every tiny movement had you whimpering, the fullness almost unbearable.
Caleb’s chest heaved against yours, his forehead pressed to the curve of your neck, hair damp and clinging as he exhaled raggedly. Even as his body came down from the edge, his hips rolled with slow, deliberate pressure, pushing every inch of himself deeper into you. The warmth of his cum coated your walls, slick and heavy, while his low, guttural groans vibrated through your body, matching the tremor of your quivering thighs. Every soft gasp, every helpless whimper of yours seemed to drive him further, his fingers tightening on your hips as if he could anchor both of you to this overwhelming sensation.
You whimpered, tugging weakly at his uniform, but he only kissed your temple, feverish, still trembling from the high. Then he pulled back, purple eyes wild and desperate, his voice dropping into something rough, hungry.
“One more time, pips,” he begged, almost whined, as his cock twitched inside you. His gloved hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you open against the cabinet. “Let me fuck you one more time, 'promise I'll make you feel so good."
“C-Caleb, I—” your protest died in a gasp as his hips drove sharply into you again, cock still hard, still needy, still stuffing you deliciously full. Your body jolted at the sensation, oversensitive and twitching, every nerve on fire. “H-honey I can't s'too much—ahh—”
His forehead pressed to yours, damp brown strands sticking to his temple, sweat glinting along his skin as he rutted slow, deliberate, grinding you down against the cabinet with each powerful thrust. “C’mon, pretty… just one more. Wanna fill you up again—wanna stuff you full,” he murmured.
Christ.
If you had been in any proper state of mind, you might have kissed him softly and whispered that you were going to pass out at this rate—not that it hadn’t happened before—and that maybe he should rest too. But you were too far gone, utterly cockdrunk, and resistance was damn near futile.
So, as your teary, flushed eyes blinked up at Caleb, slick dripping down his hips, you could only shiver and arch into him, mentally preparing yourself for the fact walking would become a foreign concept to you after this was all over.
And that was all he needed. Caleb groaned, a sound low and feral, and started to move again—thrusts deep and sharp, determined to wring another release out of your already spent body. Your whimpers filled the kitchen, nails dragging helplessly down his back as the cabinet rattled with every slam.
And deep down, you knew his “one more” meant until you couldn’t stand, it meant: until Caleb wrung every last orgasm you could muster out of you in his kitchen.
♡ princessxmin please do not alter, copy or translate my work !
Caleb realizes his shirts have been going missing, and he's pretty sure you're the culprit. His solution? Give you what you want. Straight from the source.
cw/tags: freak for freak, voyeurism, stolen laundry, sweat, scent kink, possessiveness, obsession, light humiliation, praise, teasing, marking, body worship, licking, piv and creampie, begging, established relationship, mutual pining, gym, sweat, morning sex, shower, possessiveness, praise, mutual aftercare, pet names including a little bit of pips(queak), honey, pretty and others
a/n: I was enlisted and requested to write this i refuse to toot my own horn (lie) but I do feel like I cooked maybe >-< I wrote this like a madman and tried to proofread but I'm sooo impatient. Sooo yeah. Posting this n then running and hiding bye 🏃🏽♀️
Get added to my taglist(s) must have age in bio or pinned
🍎 for caleb
☃️ for zayne
🖤 for sylus (in future)
🐟 for rafayel (also in future)
🌟 for xavier (also a maybe in future)
🐇 to be on the list for all of my writing
Masterlist (not up to date will update soon when i'm not so lazy anymore)
It's been weeks of Caleb's gym shirts going missing. At first, he thinks it's nothing. It must just be the washer, right? The dryer? Maybe he wasn't paying attention when he did your laundry together. But when he notices that it isn't clean ones going missing—but always just one from the laundry—suspicion wriggles its way into his mind.
He himself knows a thing or two about… borrowing… laundry for his own unsavory purposes, the justification being that you'd long already given yourself up to him more than once. What was a few pairs of underwear to that anyway? He's tasted every inch of you enough to miss the scent of your need for him flooding his senses once your hookups became sporadic.
The memory of it, the taste of it, is a ghost on his tongue. That’s why he notices. It starts with a single white tank top, the soft, cotton kind he always wears to the gym. One day it’s in the hamper, the next it’s just… gone. He chalks it up to the laundry gremlins, the same ones that supposedly steal single socks.
But then it happens again. And again. Always a tank top, and always one he’s just worked out in, ripe with the evidence of his effort.
The suspicion is a slow, creeping vine, wrapping around his ribs. He knows this particular sin too well. His own drawer is hidden in the back of his closet. It holds the silky lace, delicate proof of his obsession: a collection of your panties, gathered over many months. A trophy case from those hazy, breathless nights when you’d stumble into his room, or he'd stumble into yours, and give each other everything. It’s been too long since the last one. He’s starving.
So when you’re out with friends, laughing at some bar across town, after he told you he was too tired to come too, he does the very thing he’d never want you to do to him. He slips into your room.
His heart is a frantic drum against his ribs, a mix of guilt and a dark, thrilling hope. He’s meticulous, careful not to disturb a thing. He checks your drawers, his hands trembling slightly, feeling like a hypocrite and a thief. He finds nothing. Disappointment sinks in the pit of his gut. Maybe… he was wrong.
He's not sure what has him look underneath your bed, but when he does, his suspicion is proven to be intuition. Under your bed, with all sorts of other chaos is a carelessly crumpled pile of white compression tank tops, his to be precise. A puff of air punches out of him. How silly of him to think for a moment that the two of you weren't the same.
He considers his options. He could confront you, but that wouldn't be any fun would it? He could pretend he doesn't know, but that would be harder than anything. Then the idea comes to him. With a sly smirk, he goes to his own room, pulling today's sweaty contraband out of his laundry hamper before sauntering back into yours with it. He tosses onto the back of your desk chair. A lure.
The world tilts woozily as you push open your bedroom door. The bar had been loud, the drinks strong, and the ride home was just long enough to let the buzz settle into a warm, comfortable hum in your veins. You kick off your shoes with a sigh, the cool of your floor a blessing against your feet.
A yawn stretches your jaw as you flick on the light, your eyes scanning the familiar mess of your room. It’s then you see it. Draped over the back of your desk chair, a stark white against the dark wood, is one of Caleb’s gym tanks.
You blink, your tipsy brain processing slowly. His shirt. In your room. You shake your head, a small, confused smile playing on your lips.
Silly Caleb.
He must have come looking for you after all, gotten tired waiting, and left in a hurry, accidentally leaving his shirt behind.
It’s the only explanation that makes sense in your hazy state. You take a step toward the chair, your eyes drifting to the space under your bed. The guilty pile is still there, hidden in the shadows, a secret you’ve been nursing for weeks. Untouched, and unmoved.
Satisfied that your collection is undiscovered, you turn back to the shirt on the chair. This one isn’t part of the stash. This is a fresh offering, left behind by mistake. A little prize just for you.
With a glance toward your closed door, you reach out. The cotton is soft, still slightly damp with the evidence of his day. You bring it to your face, inhaling deeply. This scent… it floods your senses, making your head spin more than any cocktail ever could. It’s an intimacy you’ve been craving, a closeness you’ve been stealing because the real thing has been so scarce.
You clutch the shirt to your chest, a secret smile finally breaking out on your face. He doesn’t know. Your little trophies are safe. And now, by some happy accident, you have a new one. The best one. Still warm from his body, practically a gift.
You decide you’ll give it back to him tomorrow. You’ll tease him for being so forgetful. But for tonight… tonight it’s yours. You curl up in bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, the soft cotton of his shirt pressed against your cheek, breathing him in. Your hand slips below your waistband, and in your tipsy haze, you touch yourself with the contraband tank pressed to your face. The sounds you make are so quiet you couldn't wake a soul.
You never see the shadow shift in the crack of your doorway, or the sly, satisfied smirk that had been watching you the entire time.
It's around 5 in the morning when you here the clock off the front door, causing you to stir in the warmth of your sheets. Ah right, it's Thursday. He goes to the gym early on Thursdays. Arm Day.
Sleep takes you back, dragging you back into your dreamless rest before you can think much more—a worryless slumber of someone with much less to hide than you.
You're awoken only by the feeling of your mattress dipping under pressure and a scent you could swear was—
Your eyes fly open. “Caleb?”
Caleb looms over you, caging you between two beefy, sweat-slick arms. His chest, broad and sheened with a fresh layer of sweat, rises and falls with his deep, even breaths. He didn't shower. He came straight here from the gym, still dripping, the damp fabric of his white tank top clinging to every defined ridge of his torso.
A single drop of sweat escapes the damp hair at his temple and lands on your pillowcase with a soft, devastating pat.
His face is inches from yours, his eyes dark with a knowing, predatory glimmer that makes your stomach swirl and your thighs clench. That slow, sly smile of his plays on his lips, a smile that says he’s already won a game you didn’t even know you were playing.
“Morning, Pips,” he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly thing that vibrates straight through the mattress and into your bones. The old nickname, from when you first met and he said your sneezes sounded like a tiny mouse… he's teasing you.
You’re frozen, your mind scrambling, still fogged with sleep and the lingering memory of his scent on your fingers, on your lips. Your heart is a wild, panicked drum against your ribs.
He knows something. Oh God, he knows, doesn't he?
“You… you’re gross. You're sweating on my sheets,” you manage to whisper, a weak, pathetic deflection.
His smile only widens, a flash of white in the dim morning light. He shifts his weight, one powerful thigh pressing against your leg, and the heat of him sears through your thin pajama bottoms. He lowers his head until his lips are almost brushing your ear. His breath is hot on your skin.
“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower, a confidential, intimate whisper that’s somehow louder than a shout. “I know a lot of things, Pipsqueak.”
“You don't have to call me that…”
Your heart rate picks up even faster, if it's even possible.
“Like how you've been stealin’ my shirts. Not the clean ones, either. You always take the good ones, don’t you? The ones I just worked my ass off in.”
“N-no I—”
“No?” he breathes, interrupting you, the word a warm puff of air against your lips.
“So that wasn’t you last night? Curled up with my shirt? Making those little sounds…”
Your breath hitches, a tiny, trapped sound. He heard. He was there. The shadow in the doorway—it was him. The shirt on the chair wasn’t an accident. It was a trap, and you walked right into it.
There’s no point in denying it. The evidence is all over your face, in the way your body is trembling beneath his. You squeeze your eyes shut, humiliation washing over you.
A low, rough chuckle vibrates through his chest. “Look at me, Pips.”
You shake your head, eyes still sealed shut. You can’t. You can’t see the mockery in his eyes.
The bed shifts as he moves one of his arms. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking over your cheek. The touch is shockingly gentle, so different compared to the sheer, sweaty dominance of his position.
“C’mon. Open those pretty eyes for me,” he coaxes, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rumble that does things to your insides. “I’m not mad.”
Slowly, reluctantly, you let your eyelids flutter open. His face is so close you can see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the tiny flecks of gold in his violet eyes where the light of the sunrise meets them. There’s no mockery there like you expected. Just a dark, intense heat that steals the last of the air from your lungs.
“You’re not?” you breathe, the question barely audible.
“Mad?” He lets out another low chuckle before he continues, shaking his head. “Honey. Look at me. I'm dripping sweat on your nice clean sheets at 6:30 in the morning. Do I look mad?”
He doesn’t. He looks… starving.
His eyes drop to your lips, then drag slowly back up to meet your gaze. The intensity there sends pulses to the very place you pleasured last night.
“I’ve been goin’ out of my mind noticing my shit was gone. Knowing what it meant… what I would be doing if it were me,” he confesses, his voice a rough whisper.
Oh. He knows… he knows that you know… about what he's taken from you too.
He leans in closer, until his nose is almost brushing yours. You are breathing the same air, air thick with the salty, musky, utterly primal scent of his sweat. It’s intoxicating.
“So… I gotta know. You like how I smell that bad? Tell me the truth”.
There’s no hiding now. No point in it.
Swallowing hard, you give a tiny, jerky nod.
“Yes,” you whisper, the admission feeling like both a surrender and a victory.
A low groan rumbles in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. “Fuck,” he breathes out, the word a prayer. His eyes flutter closed for a second, as if he’s savoring the confession. When they open again, the violet is almost swallowed by black. “Ive been dreaming of hearing you say that.”
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fisting gently but firmly at the roots. It’s not painful; it’s possessive. It anchors you, tells you there’s no escaping this.
“You... left the shirt on purpose,” you accuse weakly, your body arching slightly into his touch despite your words.
“Yeah, I did.” His smirk is back, wicked and knowing. “I had to be sure… had to hear it for myself. Your little whiny cries while you inhaled my fucking sweat… I could barely focus at the gym this morning.”
“Caleb…”
“Shhh,” he soothes. He grinds his hips down once, a slow, deliberate roll that makes you gasp. The damp, hard ridge of him presses against your core through the layers of your pajamas and his gym shorts. The heat is searing.
“Since we’re confessin’ our sins tonight… I have a collection of my own... Of your little lace things. They've been mine for a while now.”
You knew, but hearing him say it, his voice thick with ownership, sends a jolt straight through you.
“I miss it,” he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly whisper that goes straight to your knees.
“I miss the taste of you. I miss you coming apart under my tongue. I’ve been so desperate, and you… you’ve been right here, stealing my scent instead of just taking me again.”
The raw honesty in his words really throws off the last of your defenses. Your hands, which had been frozen at your sides, come up to clutch at his sweaty sides, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his obliques. The fabric of his tank top is soaked, plastered to his skin.
“You're… you're sweaty.” You repeat it as if it means anything now, now that he knows.
“I know,” he growls, lowering his head until his lips are against the shell of your ear.
“And you’re gonna taste every drop of it. You like my smell so much? Then you’re gonna breathe it in while I’m buried deep inside you. You’re gonna lick it off my skin. You’re gonna come to me, get it from the source… next time you think you wanna steal another one of my shirts.”
The threat—no, the promise—hangs in the air between you, thick and heavy as the sweat beading on his skin. Your heart is hammering against your ribs. His words paint a picture so vivid and so exactly what you’ve been craving, that all you can do is whimper.
Your fingers, still clutching his damp sides, curl tighter, pulling him closer to you. The evidence of his workout is now being offered from the source, and the reality of it is overwhelming.
He sees the surrender in your eyes, feels it in the way your body softens beneath his. That predatory smirk softens into something darker, more possessive.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, reading you like an open book. “That’s what I thought.”
He doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he grinds his hips down again, a slow, deliberate circle that has you gasping, your head falling back against the pillow. The friction, even through the layers of clothing, is electric. You can feel the formidable strength in his thighs, the solid proof of his early morning dedication, and it’s all for you, to hold you down, to ruin you.
“Say it,” he commands, his voice a low growl. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes holding yours captive. “Tell me what you want. Since you’ve been so good at takin’ it, now you have to ask for it.”
You’re trembling, completely at his mercy. The humiliation is still there, a hot flush on your cheeks, but it’s been eclipsed by a need so profound it steals your voice. You manage a shaky breath, inhaling the potent, musky scent of him—a scent that is now yours to claim openly.
“You,” you finally whisper, the word cracking. “I want you. Please, Caleb.”
A groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure, feral triumph.
“So good.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, he shifts his weight, rolling off of you just long enough to hook his fingers in the waistband of your pajama bottoms and your panties beneath. He yanks them down your legs in a single, ruthless pull, leaving you bare and exposed to the cool morning air and his scorching gaze. He doesn’t even bother to fully undress you, just pushes your shirt up your torso, baring your stomach and breasts.
He settles back between your thighs, his own gym shorts pushed down just enough to free his aching length. He’s huge, hard, and dripping with a different kind of sweat. He grips himself, giving a few slow, slick strokes as he looks down at you, sprawled and wanton beneath him.
“Gonna give it to you,” he promises, his voice ragged. “Gonna make sure you never gotta steal a fucking thing from the laundry again.”
He notches himself at your entrance, and you cry out at the contact, your hips lifting off the bed to meet him. He doesn’t push in. He teases, rubbing the head of his cock through your slickness, coating himself in you.
“Caleb, please…”
“Breathe me in, Pips,” he orders, lowering his chest until the sweat-damp cotton of his tank is pressed against your bare skin, chilling and heating you at once.
“That’s it. Get it all.”
And then he drives into you.
You're so wet that he doesn't need foreplay, all this was enough. All it takes is a single, deep, brutal thrust to steal the air from your lungs and replace it with him. You scream, a sound he swallows by crashing his lips onto yours. His kiss is as demanding as his invasion, all tongue and teeth and the shared taste of morning breath and desperate want.
He sets a punishing pace from the start, each thrust jarring you up the bed, the headboard knocking a steady rhythm against the wall. His sweat rains down on you, dotting your face, your chest, your lips. Remembering his command, you open your mouth, and a drop lands on your tongue. It’s salty, musky, and utterly, perfectly him. It’s better than any stolen scent from any hidden shirt.
“That’s it,” he grunts, his rhythm faltering for a second as he watches you taste him. “Fuck, yes. Lick it up. Take it all.”
You obey, your tongue darting out to catch the beads of sweat rolling down his neck, his collarbone. You suck on the salted skin where his pulse hammers wildly, and he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper.
One of his beefy arms snakes under your lower back, arching you into each piston-like thrust, while his other hand fists in your hair, holding you in place for his ravishing mouth. You are surrounded by him, filled by him, suffocated by him. It’s everything you never let yourself dream you could have.
“You feel that?” he grunts against your lips, his breath coming in ragged pants. “That’s me. All me. No more second-hand shit. You're too good for that, my love”
You can only nod, your face in the crook of his armpit.
His low, guttural groan vibrates through your entire body, a direct response to the way you’ve buried your face into him. The scent here is the most potent, the most him—a concentrated, intoxicating blend of everything that has driven you to theft and secrecy.
It’s the warm, spicy-woody base of his cologne, swirling with green apple, now deepened and amplified by his heat, clinging to his skin like a second, more primal aura. Underneath that, the clean, herbal ghost of his bodywash from last night’s shower fights a losing battle against the raw, musky evidence of this morning’s exertion and the current workout he's getting from driving into you. Layered over it all, a faint, familiar floral-musk, the deodorant he always uses, now thoroughly worked into his skin, a familiar note in the symphony of his sweat.
You inhale deeply, greedily, as if you could pull the very essence of him into your lungs and keep it there forever. A broken, needy sound escapes you, muffled by his damp shirt and the solid muscle of his torso. Between that and the feeling of his cock dragging cock your walls, the moans you give him are honey-sweet and just as addictive to him as his scent is to you.
“Fuck, baby,” he chokes out, his thrusts losing their brutal rhythm for a moment, stuttering into something slower, deeper, more feeling. The hand in your hair loosens its grip, instead petting you, encouraging you. “You’re really… fuck… you’re really doin’ it, aren’t you? Huffing me like I’m some kind of drug or something?”
You nod against him, your lips parting to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the fabric, tasting the salt and him through the cotton. It’s not enough. The barrier is suddenly unbearable.
“Off,” you beg, your voice a ragged whisper against his skin. Your fingers, which had been clutching his sides, scramble for the hem of his soaked tank top.
“Caleb, please, take… take it off. I need to… I need…”
The command, the sheer desperation in your tone, seems to undo him completely. A high, whining sound gets caught in his throat, something utterly vulnerable that you’ve never heard from him before. He’s always been the one in control. Now, he’s laid bare by your hunger for him.
“Yeah,” he rasps, his voice shot. “Okay. Yeah.”
In a frantic, graceless movement, he pulls out of you, the sudden emptiness a shock that makes you whimper in protest. But he’s not leaving. He fists his hands in the back of his own shirt and yanks it up and over his head in one swift motion, his biceps bulging with the effort before he tosses it to the floor with a slap.
And then he’s on you again, skin to skin this time, and your world explodes.
He's all you can breathe, all you can taste in the air. His chest, slick and hot, presses against yours. You moan, your hands flying to him, sliding over the sculpted planes of his pecs, feeling the frantic beat of his heart under your palm. Your fingers trace the lines of his abs, down through the trail of hair, following the paths of sweat, collecting the moisture on your fingertips.
“Look at you,” he breathes, his eyes dark and wide with awe, watching your hands roam his body as if you were molding him out of stone. “You can’t get enough.”
You aren’t listening. You’re consumed. You lean up, your tongue darting out to lick a long, slow stripe from the hollow of his throat up to the pulse hammering in his neck. He tastes of salt and pure, unadulterated Caleb. You suck gently at the skin there, and he cries out, his hips jerking involuntarily.
“Do it again. Please, baby, please. Taste me,” he pleads, his voice cracking. He’s trembling above you, his strength seeming to leach away under your worshipful mouth.
You obey, lavishing his collarbone with your tongue and kisses, his shoulders, the hard curve of his pectoral muscle. You run your hands over his slick back, feeling the powerful muscles working as he holds himself above you, pulling him closer, smearing his sweat across your own skin, marking yourself with him. You are both slick and sliding against each other, a feverish, desperate mess.
“I’m gonna—” he gasps, his control nearly splitting through him, breaking.
“Inside, Please, Caleb, I need to feel you.” you beg, your own climax coiling tight in your belly, spurred on by his taste, his smell, his complete surrender to your desire for him.
With a broken groan, he sinks back into you, and the feeling is infinitely more intimate without any barriers. His skin slides against yours, his sweat mingling, his scent enveloping you completely. He fucks you now with a raw, unashamed passion, his forehead dropped to yours, his eyes squeezed shut as he chases his release, spurred on by every lick, every sniff, every whimper you give and have given to him.
“Breathe me in,” he rasps, his voice a ruined thing. “Come for me, pretty. I wanna feel you lose it just ‘cause of how I fucking taste, alright?”
It’s the final command that shatters you. Your orgasm crashes over you, violent and all-consuming, a direct result of his scent in your nose, his taste on your tongue, his body moving inside yours, his breath and words in your ear. You scream his name, your body clamping down around him, milking him, pulling him right over the edge with you.
He follows with a guttural cry, his own release pounding into you, his body shuddering violently as he collapses on top of you, crushing you into the mattress, spent and breathless.
For long minutes, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of your hearts slowly settling into a synchronized rhythm. The room is thick with the smell of sex and sweat and him.
He doesn’t move, his weight a comfortable, heavy, feeling on top of you. You nuzzle into his neck, inhaling the fading, post-climax version of his scent, and press a soft, languid kiss to his damp skin.
He shivers, a contented, weary sigh escaping him. His arms tighten around you.
“No more stealing,” he mumbles into your hair, his voice slurred with exhaustion and satisfaction. “You just come and get it from me. Any time. Whenever you want it. Got it? Don't keep this from me.”
You nod, a smile touching your lips as you breathe him in one more time.
“Yeah.”
The silence that follows is thick and the air hums with the echo of your shared release. You can feel the steady, slowing thump of his heart against your own, a rhythm that feels more like home than anything ever has.
His weight is a familiar pressure, a warm, sweaty blanket you never want to leave. You trace idle, lazy patterns on the slick skin of his back with your fingertips, feeling the powerful muscles there twitch in residual pleasure.
Eventually, with a groan that seems to come from the very depths of his soul, Caleb shifts. He doesn’t roll off you completely, just lifts his torso enough to look down at you. His violet eyes are soft now, filled by a sated, drowsy warmth. A strand of his dark hair, damp and sticking to his forehead, falls into his eyes. He doesn’t brush it away.
He just looks at you, his gaze tracing the features of your face as if he’s memorizing them. A slow, utterly smug smile spreads across his lips.
“Told you it was better from the source,” he rumbles, his voice hoarse and sleep-rough.
A laugh bubbles out of you, breathy.
“You’re insufferable.”
“But you like it. Admit it. You like me just like this. All sweaty and gross on your nice clean sheets.” He dips his head, nuzzling his nose against yours.
You don’t even have to think about it.
“I do.”
The admission makes his smile widen, as if that's possible. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then another on the tip of your nose. It’s so gentle it makes your head spin.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, finally pushing himself up. The loss of his warmth is immediate, and you make a small sound of protest. He chuckles, low and deep.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Pipsqueak. But we’re a mess. And I’m crushin’ you.”
He stands from the bed, a magnificent, rumpled sight. His gym shorts are still tangled around his powerful thighs, and his torso glistens in the morning light filtering through your curtains. He is a work of art, all hard lines and spent energy, and he is entirely yours.
He holds out a hand to you.
“Shower. With me.”
You let him pull you up. Your legs are wobbly, and you stumble into his chest. His arms come around you instantly, holding you steady. He smells even more intense up close, a heady mix of sex, sweat, and pure man that makes your head spin all over again. You bury your face in his chest for one last, deep inhale.
“Yeah, okay. Get your fill. Last call before the soap and water,” he says, his voice laced with amusement and something like infinite fondness for your twisted little head.
He leads you to the bathroom, his arm a solid band around your waist. The shower steam quickly fills the small room, blurring the mirror and clinging to your skin. He steps in first, pulling you under the hot spray with him.
The water pours over him, carving paths through the sweat and the evidence of your coupling. Hickeys cover his skin, the sight of them making you blush red hot. He takes the soap and begins to wash you with a focus that leaves you breathless. His big, calloused hands are surprisingly gentle as they glide over your skin, washing away everything but the memory of his touch.
Then he turns you, pressing your back against his front, and hands you the soap. “Your turn.”
You understand the assignment. You lather your hands and begin to wash him. You start with his chest, soaping the defined muscle, watching the suds mix with water and slide down his torso. You work over his shoulders, down his arms, feeling the corded strength there.
You drop to your knees in the spray, soaping his powerful thighs, his calves, every inch of him. You are worshipping at the altar of him, cleansing him with gratitude. He lets you, his head tipped back against the tile, his eyes closed, a look of pure bliss on his face.
When you’re both clean, he turns off the water and wraps you in a fluffy towel, rubbing you down with care. He dries himself off, then leads you, warm and smelling of shared body wash, back to your bed.
He doesn’t even ask before just pulls your comforter over the damp, rumpled sheets and guides you down, climbing in beside you and pulling you into his arms, your back to his front. He spoons you, his body a solid wall of heat against you, his nose buried in your damp hair.
“The laundry… Your shirt from the chair… and the sheets…” You mumble, already half-asleep, nestled in his embrace.
Today's going to be a lazy day, probably. You were both up too early. Energy burned away into the rising sun.
You feel him chuckle.
“Fuck the laundry. It can wait. This can’t,” he whispers, his arms tightening around you.
You smile, drifting off. You’re almost asleep when his voice, soft and serious, rumbles against your ear.
“I meant it, you know. No more stealing. You want a shirt? You come find me. You want me? You come get me. I’m yours. All of this…” He squeezes you gently.
“It’s yours. Whenever you want.”
You lace your fingers into his where they rest on your stomach.
CRASH COURSE ﾉ xia caleb x female reader ៹ explicit content, unprotected sex, virginity loss, mentions of cheating (none actually happens), pet names (pipsqueak (sorry but i have to be accurate) gege, good girl), instructional sex, blowjobs, creampie, idk what this is i wrote it in 5 seconds i just needed an excuse to write caleb, not proofread :( ˓˓ WORD COUNT ᨀ 4.9k !
asking the boy you’ve known nearly your entire life to teach you how to have sex isn’t weird, right...? right?
caleb has taught you a lot of things over the years.
he taught you how to drive a car in the shopping mall’s parking lot, how to cheat at card games, how to avoid burning the house down by letting him cook for you instead, how to sneak underneath the turnstiles on the subway to avoid fees.
he’s reliable and sturdy and a little reckless, but also patient and nonjudgmental— creating the idea in your idea that he’s kind of all-knowing, that whenever you don’t know something caleb does, that whenever you need help, you turn to no one else but him. which is precisely why you’re standing outside the door of his bedroom right now, hand lifted to knock on it.
because surely, asking caleb to teach you how to give a blowjob falls somewhere underneath that category too, right?
it’s one of those rare moments when the two of you are off work at the same time. caleb, on annual leave for the next two weeks and you, taking out a handful of unused vacation days to spend time with your favorite person in the world. it’s like old times again, when you can simply walk down the hall and hear his laugh drifting from underneath the door as he plays some stupid video game with college buddies.
thinking of the old days is exactly why you’re hesitating at the door. there’s too much shared history between the two of you, too much to lose if this goes badly, if you’ve been reading him wrong all along and he doesn’t want the same thing. there’s no way you can march in there and ask the boy you were raised with teach you how to—
“door’s open, pipsqueak,” caleb calls, somehow knowing you’re there because of course he does. you used to complain that he must’ve secretly implanted a tracker in your arm because he always knows your whereabouts, which made games like hide and seek with him impossible.
knowing it’s too late to play it off, you walk inside his room, greeted by his devastatingly gorgeous grin. “hey, you. lemme guess— the fridge is empty? no? lightbulb in your room need changing again? huh… or did you just miss me?”
“uh,” you mumble, shifting your toes in the soft carpet of the rug in the middle of his room. “not exactly. i was just wondering if you had time to talk and— … you’re not wearing a shirt.”
you realize how dumb you sound as you point it out, it’s just that your brain short-circuits, turning into a syrupy mess at the sight of caleb without a shirt on, his dog tags resting against bare skin. you’ve seen him like this before, of course— but not since he up and left, gallivanting off into the world to become a hotshot military pilot.
he’s always been nice to look at when you think he isn’t paying attention, but god he’s pretty. your eyes blink almost in disbelief as you take in his broad, muscular form that did not exist while he was a cadet in basic training. your gaze can’t help but snag on the ripple of his abs, or the thatch of brown hair trailing from his navel to disappear beneath his gray sweats. he swivels in his stupid gaming chair, smiling at you with his stupid face—
“uh, yeah?” caleb laughs, forehead creasing in confusion like you shouldn’t be surprised and really, you shouldn’t. caleb is like a furnace, blood running hot even in the middle of winter. “gran’s got the heat turned up to max again. it’s like she wants to kill me.”
“yeah, right,” you shake your head, laughing skittishly. “sorry. i’ve got a fan you can borrow, if you want.”
“thanks,” he says, magenta eyes dragging over your form suspiciously, taking in the way you’re standing in the middle of his room fidgeting like a leaf in the wind, hands white-knuckling the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing, knees knocking together all nervous and cute. he frowns, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to give you his full attention in that heart-stuttering way he often does.
“what’s with you? not that i’m not glad to see you, but… did something happen? did someone do something to you?”
“no, no— nothing like that,” you hurry to reassure, voice cracking on the last word as your cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment, trying to find the words to say what you need to without crashing and burning. swallowing around a lump in your throat, you glance at the paused screen of caleb’s game before blurting out—
“can you teach me how to give a blowjob?”
caleb immediately chokes.
a lesson on what not to do.
the overclocked fans on caleb’s gaming rig whirs in a soft hum, the neon lights in his room flickering crimson streaks over his handsome face in the dark. he wonders if it’s post traumatic stress or prolonged exposure to cosmic radiation in the sky forcing him to hallucinate. obviously, he’s got too many marbles in one jar and not enough in the other because there is no way he’s heard you correctly.
slowly, he removes his headset. “come again?”
“i’m awful at it, ge,” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. in fact, you don’t know if you’re awful at it or not because you’ve never tried. you’ve been too busy waiting on the man in front of you to stop torturing you both, but caleb doesn’t need to know that. “you see, i’m dating this guy, right? and we’ve been hitting it off well. i can tell he wants to take it to the next level, but i’ve never… and you— you’re good at everything, so i just thought…”
“thought i would give you lessons,” he finishes for you, his voice deepening to a rougher edge that makes you shiver. “so you can suck your boyfriend better. do i have it right?”
“y-yeah…”
“since when do you even have a boyfriend? you didn’t tell me anything,” he says, doing nothing to mask the disappointment in his voice.
“uh, we’ve… been seeing each other for a couple of weeks?” you fumble, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “i didn’t want to say anything yet. in case it didn’t work out.”
“so you want to learn how to suck dick for a guy you’ve known for a couple of weeks?” he counters, a muscle in his jaw twitching. he’s got no right to feel jealousy, not when he’s wasted so much time attempting to be one thing in your life when you clearly wanted something else. he’s got no right, but the thought of you on your knees for someone else, someone that isn’t him, makes his blood boil enough that he already knows what his answer will be.
however, you’re already backing up towards the door, about to make a quick retreat. your plan was horrible, shame burning your skin like a brand. “what am i saying? oh my god, you’re right it’s stupid and wrong and gross. can we please just forget i even came in here—”
he lets you ramble for an excruciatingly long time, then he pushes out of his gaming chair and grins down at you like you just asked him to make a quick run to the convenience store. he stretches his arms above his head. “let’s do it.”
“w-what?”
you didn’t expect to get this far, honestly. you expected caleb to laugh at you, ruffle your hair, and call you ridiculous. but instead, he’s already striding to his door, thumb flicking the lock with a decisive click. when he turns, his expression makes your breath hitch— those unusual purple eyes molten, staring straight through you.
“first thing’s first, we need to lay down some ground rules, soldier,” caleb tells you playfully, stepping closer until your breasts brush against his midsection. his hand lifts, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “if you need to back out at any moment, you say so. no guy’s pleasure is worth your discomfort. and if i hear his name, whatever it is…” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “this stops. understood?”
you nod eagerly, fighting your smile as his scent envelopes you. he smells like spearmint gum, your shampoo that he’s been stealing since the two of you have been back at the house, and a hint of sweat from the stifling air in the room.
“use your words, pipsqueak.”
“y-yeah, i get it.”
his smirk is all teeth. “good girl.”
caleb guides you over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. his big hands reach for you, circling your hips and pulling you towards him until you’re standing in between his spread thighs.
“alright, my little student,” he jokes. “you wanna get him all riled up before the main event so start with something small like… a kiss,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to glance at your mouth as his finger traces the hinge of your jaw. “you do know how to kiss, don’t you?”
“of course i know how to kiss,” you grumble.
caleb nods and then curls his hand around the nape of your neck, pulling you down to his level. you lean with the pressure, slotting your hands in the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding them up until you cup the underside of his jaw. then, you’re kissing him— kissing caleb, the boy who used to patch up your scraped knees with cute band-aids, who let you crawl into his bed after nightmares, who pretends he hasn’t thought about kissing you, about making you his, for years.
the kiss is messy, desperate and hungry, decades of pent up feelings behind it. a string of saliva keeps your mouths linked together whenever you pull back for air and when caleb’s tongue swipes across your bottom lip, you whimper and part your lips to let him in, body melting against his front until your weight’s toppling him back onto his elbows, hitching your leg over his waist to crawl on top of him.
his grip on your waist tightens, gently pushing you to stand once more. “this is feeling less like a lesson, and more like you just wanting to do this with me,” he teases, making heat flare across your cheeks.
caleb guides your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants, the heat radiating through the fabric searing your palm. breath hitching, you begin to sink to the floor in front of him but his hand shoots out to stop your descent with a breathy laugh. “no no no, c’mere. you’re gonna hurt your knees down there.”
backing up, he moves until he’s lounging against the headboard, impossibly long legs stretched out on either side of your sweet figure.
“still wanna do this?” he asks, lifting a brow. when you nod, he continues to speak, voice gravelly, “take it out then.”
your fingers fumble with the drawstring a bit, struggling to undo the military knot caleb’s tied there, but you manage eventually. peeling back the waistband of his sweatpants to free his cock.
you should’ve known it would be just as pretty as the rest of him— it’s the biggest one (the only one) you’ve seen in person. he’s thicker than he is long, flushed dusky pink with veins that make your cunt clench with the desperate need to feel them dragging along your inner walls. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, watching you reach for it, nearly sobbing when your hand wraps around him.
“fuck—!” his hips jerk and stutter in shock, hand shoving yours away with a quickness. you frown and bite your lip, retracting your grip as if you’ve been burned.
“oh no,” you rush out, moving back to sit on top of your hands like a scolded kindergartener. “did i do something bad? did i hurt you, cal?”
caleb’s chest heaves, breath punching out of his lungs rapidly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to slow the speed of his heart down. he’s dreamt about you touching him like this for ages, and the image of your dainty hand nervously wrapping around his cock will be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. you crawl back towards him slowly, seriously worried. “caleb?”
“i’m fine, pip,” he sucks in another breath, then opens his eyes to look at you. “didn’t mean to scare you. you didn’t do anything bad, you just surprised me. go ahead, touch me again.”
“if you’re sure,” you mumble, then hesitantly circle your fingers around caleb’s shaft again. he’s ready for it this time, hot against your palm when you give him an experimental squeeze, making caleb hiss through clenched teeth. “how’s that?”
“a bit tighter,” he instructs, palm closing over yours to adjust your grip. you squeeze him tight, and the hitch of his breath makes you squirm, stickiness gathering between your thighs at the sound. “don’t just squeeze, guys like it when you stroke. base to tip— no, don’t yank it like a fucking joystick, pip. god.”
his protest makes you burst out in giggles before caleb is shushing you with a severe look, his purple eyes narrowed. sucking your plump lower lip in between your teeth to keep from smiling, you nod at him with an exaggeratedly focused look.
“wet your palm,” he tells you, rolling his eyes at your wrinkled nose. “getting a handjob from a dry hand hurts, it’s like sandpaper.”
“are you saying i have dry hands, caleb? i moisturize daily, unlike you,” you whine out, but you listen to him anyway— you’re a good student, after all, and you don’t want to do anything that’ll make caleb want to stop. you lick your palm a few times, eyes on caleb the entire time.
the next time you touch him is with a spit-slicked grip, dragging your hand up and down his cock in an inexperienced, sloppy rub that should feel uncomfortable, but caleb eats it up— hips jerking involuntarily, pearls of watery precum already beginning to leak from the slit of his cock. your gaze is transfixed on it, a little greedy too, watching it stain your knuckles with each stroke.
it’s that same greediness that makes you lean down and brush your lips against the head of his cock, cherry tongue lolling out to tentatively taste the salt-bitter precum beading there. caleb’s hips immediately kick upward in a desperate twitch, but he forces them still, knuckles ashen where they reach down to grip the sheets.
“easy,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. his thumb strokes your cheek briefly. “just the tip first, okay? don’t go trying to swallow me down or anything.”
you do what he’s taught you so far; flatten your tongue, swirl it around the head— like that, fuck— press it hard against the thick, sensitive vein running along caleb’s underside, then repeat. every time, you’re rewarded with caleb brushing your hair back, murmuring soft praises, or your personal favorite— his deep, almost nasal groan, the hard planes of his abdomen flexing underneath the heady heat of your tongue.
it’s intoxicating, watching him fall apart like this— exactly what you wanted when you walked into his room. you want to pass his class with honors, please him even more, so you drop your mouth open a little more and suck him in deeper.
too deep.
the thick ridge of his head nudges against your uvula, tears springing to your eyes almost immediately. little startled chokes cough from your throat as you pull off caleb’s cock, bands of saliva stringing from his tip to your mouth in a way that should be gross, but you don’t care one bit, too busy trying to catch your breath.
“shh, shh— breathe,” caleb soothes, eyes darkening with something perilously close to reverence and pride. “through your nose, slowly. you can’t force it, that’s why you keep choking. when you’re ready, try again.”
you let caleb thumb away your tears like he’s done countless times before and when you’re ready, when you’ve had enough air to breathe, you let him guide you back onto his damp cock. eager, swollen lips bringing him in against your cheeks in a hot, branding suction that twists his insides up.
he’s supposed to be teaching you, showing you the ropes so you can please your stupid boyfriend, but you barely even need it— god, you’re so good at this without even trying. how can he focus on teaching when he’s got all of his focus pointed towards trying not to shoot his load down the back of your throat like some inconsiderate asshole?
he can barely look down at you because every time he does, your teary eyes glance up at him through thick lashes with an expression that begs for praise. he knows if you didn’t have a mouth stuffed full of his cock, you’d be asking him am i doing it right, ge?
his thighs tremble, eyes lidded as you finally find a steady pace— mouth bobbing up and down, spit bubbling at the base of his cock where you’re starting to make a mess on him.
and when your hands dip down into his sweatpants, cupping his balls in your soft hand, caleb’s vision whites out, his climax rushing to the front at a rapid pace. before he can cum, though, he takes two fingers and pushes at your forehead, hauling you off his cock with a wet slurp. his chest heaves, dripping beads of sweat that glow in the haze of the neon lighting in his room.
he looks wrecked, and you fight your triumphant smile, schooling it into something unsure and pliant, batting your eyelashes. “did i… did i do it wrong?”
“fuck, no,” his chuckle is hoarse and ruined, calloused thumbs swiping spit from your chin as he gazes up at you meaningfully with those hooded eyes. “just don’t wanna cum down your throat.”
“o-oh.”
the implication makes arousal bubble low in your belly, thighs squeezing together in need. caleb tracks the movement, nostrils flaring as he grins knowingly. “yeah, you don’t want that either, do you, pipsqueak?”
for a while, the two of you just stare at each other in disbelief. you don’t know how to tell caleb that you’d take him in any form he’s offering himself in, pining after him long enough that it’s painful. nothing you ever did got his attention, not in the way you truly wanted. he’s protective and possessive in all the right ways, but he’d never make the first move.
he’ll never come out and admit that he wants to spread you out on his bed and fuck you dumb, mark you as his so nobody else can have you. it took you coming to him to even get this far, so you might as well take matters into your own hands once more.
“teach me the rest, ge?”
the rest.
caleb releases a pained groan at your words and you think he’s going to refuse you, but then he’s flipping your positions, pushing you down onto the mattress with ease. he makes quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down the rest of the way. then, he wrestles your panties off your hips and tosses them somewhere across the room.
“look at you,” he whispers, pushing your shirt up— his cock leaking a bead of precum at the sight of your pretty tits. he reaches forward, toying with your puffy nipples, grinning at the sound of your soft whimper.
“c-caleb.”
“you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you get that?” the confession comes out sounding suspiciously like a whine. he gazes down at you like you’re water and he’s a man lost deep in the desert, dying of thirst. “you’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. look at these cute tits, just begging for me to touch them. and—”
his big hands sink into the fleshy part of your upper thighs, opening them to get his first exclusive look at your pussy. his thumb parts your folds, spreading one side apart to watch the way your entrance twitches. caleb dips one finger into your cunt and could fucking cry at how warm and tight you feel. “fuck, you’re so wet. is this all ’cause of me?”
“d-don’t look at it so shamelessly, you pervert,” you scold him, squirming back and forth in his hold as you try to snap your thighs shut. “stop teasing me or i’ll hit you. this is embarrassing!”
“why not?” he tilts his head, giving you that boyish grin that makes your heart stop. “after i’m done with you, it’ll be mine anyway. my pretty pussy. my girl.”
you huff and drive your fist into his shoulder before folding your arms over your breasts, lower lip stuck out in an unhappy pout. caleb winces, though mirth still shines amongst the nebulas in his eyes. he leans down to kiss your pout away, chuckling in amusement. “okay, okay, don’t hurt me. i’ll give you what you want.”
and then, he’s wrapping a hand around the base of himself, kissing your clit with the leaking tip of his cock before rubbing it up and down your slit. he coats himself in your wetness before he finally notches against your entrance and slowly pushes.
the pressure makes air stutter out of your chest, blunt and unyielding. he immediately notices your struggle and drops forward on his elbows, caging you safely in his embrace. he kisses the corners of your eyelids, licking away stray tears.
“i hate hurting you like this,” he whispers in your ear, hips drawing back and crawling forward again. you gasp, eyes falling shut, and he shushes you once more. slides a hand down to play with your clit to distract you, which only makes you clench up around him. his jaw is clenched tight enough to shatter the bone, hand fisted in the sheets next to your head. “shh— relax and let me in. it’ll feel good in a second.”
“i-i don’t know if i can,” you say, trying to force your body to accept him, but when he sinks in those first few inches, you whimper and dig your nails into his biceps. “y-you’re so big, gege.”
“f-fuck, don’t—” caleb grunts and his fingers grip the soft sides of your belly, holding your body to his like a lifeline. “don’t call me that right now. i might cum. i’m gonna put the rest in, okay? be a good girl for me and take it. i-i can’t wait any longer.”
he draws out and presses forward all the way in, burying himself to the hilt inside your sweet pussy. his gaze drops to where you’re split obscenely around him, cunt fluttering in protest at the stretch and a ragged groan tears from his throat. it takes every ounce of willpower the military beat into him not to cream himself right then and there.
“c-caleb!”
you whine as caleb retreats slightly, only to surge back in, fucking a little deeper this time. the weight of his cock stretching you out borders on cruel, but you would die before you ask him to stop, your walls squeezing him in a vice grip. it takes a few trials and errors (“keep your hips down, pipsqueak” and “i don't know, maybe a little to the l— fuck, right there oh my god”) but eventually, caleb builds up a good rhythm, the cool metal of his dog tags pooling in the valley of your breasts as he fucks you with deep, steady strokes; bottoming out each time with a guttural groan.
“fuck— stop clenching so much i’m gonna lose my mind,” his breath scalds your neck, teeth grazing your pulse as he fucks a little faster. “so fucking good. that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good. taking every inch of me like this.”
he’s right, it is so fucking good— no, it’s better. your nails scrape against caleb’s back. shivering at the hot pleasure singeing your nerve endings each time he fucks into you. it doesn’t take long for pressure to gather in your lower belly, a band waiting to snap.
you can’t help but wriggle a hand between the two of your bodies and circle a trembling middle finger around your swollen clit. “nngh, you feel so fucking good, cal.”
“a-are you- god, that’s so hot,” he grunts, glancing down at the way you’re toying with your clit and it turns him on so much he’s speeding up, cock pistoning in and out of you, his thrusts deepening until he’s nearly kissing your cervix, he’s in so deep, your thighs slamming against his hips as you try to close your legs when the head of his cock brushes right up against your sweet spot, creating starbursts behind your eyelids.
“oh god, cal— i-i can’t!”
caleb’s grin is feral, grinding deep to press into that swollen spot inside you relentlessly. “knew i’d find it,” then his fingers joining yours and it’s so much better than your own, two digits rubbing quick circles into your sensitive clit. you’re a babbling mess at this point, the pleasure too much to keep up with. “can you cum for me? can you let me feel it? please? i’ll never ask you for another thing if you give me one right here, right now.”
what are you supposed to do, deny him? you couldn’t even if you tried, not with the heat in your belly full to bursting, needing an escape.
“’m gonna c-cum for you, ge, just for you,” you sob.
caleb has seen many versions of you over the years— grumpy and pillow-marked in the morning with syrup stains on your shirt at the breakfast table, covered in sand and sun-kissed at the beach, screaming at him to do something about the jellyfish sting on your leg, in sleek black dresses at the military balls you attended as his plus one that made all his comrades stop and stare. but you’ve never looked prettier than you do right now. his dog tags between your breasts, your creamy pussy fluttering around his cock, and your pretty face twisted in pleasure as you’re about to cum for him.
he hopes that when he dies, he’ll go out with this image in his brain.
those big doe eyes of yours roll back into your head, hands frantically pushing at his abdomen as if he’s trying to escape the overwhelming friction of his cock. you cum hard, thighs trembling, vision winking out. wet droplets of tears stream down your cheeks as white heat washes over your body, the pleasure bleeding through your limbs like wildfire.
seeing you like this, what is caleb supposed to do? not follow you? he’s been holding his own orgasm back since you barged into his room in one of his shirts, begging to be taught how to suck a cock. there’s no way he can last through seeing— through feeling— you cum around him. his rhythm fractures almost immediately and he knows he’s on thin ice, fraying at the edges.
“gonna cum,” he grits out, voice mangled. “fuck, i’m gonna cum. where do you want it?”
you don’t waste a second, babbling out the answer desperately, “i-inside, ge, cum inside me. give it to me please i want it so bad i’ll do anything!”
that’s all it takes.
one more sloppy thrust and he cums right after you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still. he breathes choppy, ruined moans into your neck as he pumps his release deep inside your cunt before he collapses against you, damp chest heaving against yours, giving a few more weak thrusts of his hips as his climax ebbs.
you don’t know how long the two of you lay there, struggling to catch your breaths. you’re satisfied and pliant as putty underneath caleb, unable to move from his heavy embrace. he’s a wall of solid muscle, one that is pressing you into the mattress. “caleb, you’re heavy.”
“gimme a minute here, pipsqueak,” caleb chuckles breathlessly against your sweaty skin, pressing a wet kiss to your neck. “i just had the best sex of my life and can’t catch my breath.”
you begin to smile in pride, but then your eyes narrow as his words register through the fucked out haze clouding your brain. “wait, you were having sex before this?” you ask, jealousy bubbling up in your chest. “was it that one sergeant? the one who kept giving you lovey dovey eyes at the DAA gala?”
“mmm, nope,” he answers almost immediately, kissing your lips quickly to placate you, making your heart swell big and bright for the boy on top of you. “chill. saved myself all this time for you.”
your heart begins racing stupidly fast at that. “sap,” you tease, before an idea pops in your head and you reach for your phone tossed haphazardly on caleb’s bedside table.
caleb’s grip on you tightens as he notices you reach for it, a dark cloud shuttering his loving expression. “what are you doing?” he demands, the venom in his tone startling you a bit. “texting him already? that eager to try out what i just taught you?”
you frown in confusion until you remember the excuse you used upon coming into caleb’s room. wow, the boy you’re in love with is an idiot. giggling, you lean up and press a sweet kiss to his cheek before opening the camera on your phone and snapping a quick selfie of the two of you.
“no, you big dummy, i’m taking a pic of us losing our virginities together so i can add it to our photo album,” you explain simply, grinning. “and there was never any boyfriend, i made him up.”
warnings: spoilers for Homecoming Wings story and Caleb’s Painful Signal memory, grief, sexual content
part two to Handsy
ao3 | masterlist | ko-fi
You hadn’t paid attention to any of the specifics that were provided to you, you simply didn’t care about any of the details besides the fact that your friend was dead. He was supposed to show up on his first day back at Skyhaven from his trip to Linkon for a follow up appointment, you needed to make sure his concussion had actually healed so he could be cleared to fly, only to be told by one of the Captains that you weren’t going to see him again.
You’d wanted it to be a joke, his horrible attempt at gauging how much you missed him while he was gone, but you know better than to challenge a superior over it.
That explained why he hadn’t texted back, aside from your other explanation being that he was spending time with his family and not checking his phone. But for him to be dead? It didn’t feel real.
Not him. Not Caleb.
He was always confident in his strength and ability to perform (in every scenario), for him to have been killed was just…wrong.
But a week goes by without someone saying “sike”, nobody jumps out to tease you for being gullible, and you’re dressed for the funeral held in Linkon City for the fallen pilot. You stand in your only appropriate funeral attire - one of hundreds on base who showed up but the only one who received eye contact from two of his close friends.
After the funeral one of those two friends approaches you, letting you know that there were a couple things with your name on them in Caleb’s room of the apartment they shared, and that you were welcome at any time to come collect them. Stuff he’d want you to have, they’d said, and that wasn’t something that was easy to comprehend.
The idea of Caleb having things for you in his apartment felt off, given your lack of a real relationship between you. Sure you were friends who had sex and he teased you relentlessly, but there hadn’t been anything more concrete established for him to have things for you in the apartment you’d never seen. There were feelings on your side of the relationship, sexual attraction blooming into so much more with every moment you spent with the pilot fertilizing that seed, but you kept that to yourself out of risk of him laughing you out the door. Without knowing his intentions, you wanted to keep your feelings safe from potential garden shears ready to cut the stem from the root, only now that flower would be left to wilt without his care and attention to keep it alive.
You leave the gift bag sitting on your coffee table for longer than you’d like to admit. Two weeks of staring at it after long shifts in the med bay, your eyes constantly sore and puffy from how much you rubbed at them to keep the tears from staining your cheeks. It felt wrong to open a gift when the person who gave it to you wasn’t there to see your reaction to it. But you know you need to do it, because he would’ve wanted you to be strong for him.
Inside the bag is a bear, one of the souvenir bears dressed like a pilot that was sold in the gift shop of the aviation museum. You told him once that there wasn’t a replacement for him unless those silly bears were an option, and he’d told you that it could count even if he was cuter.
The card is opened next, your eyes taking in the only thing of him that you had left in his handwriting. The script was neat compared to other pilots, legible and carefully printed to ensure you could read it instead of the squiggles and shapes others had put in front of you to attempt at reading.
Happy birthday, doc!
Cheers to another year of keeping each other healthy. Little Caleb is your new friend for when I’m gone - he’ll keep you company until I get back to bug you some more.
Confession time:
I can say a lot to your face, but not this for some reason. Maybe we can get dinner for real as a date and it’ll be my turn to be flustered as I talk about feelings while you tease me?
Have a wonderful birthday, and let me know if anyone gives you crap so I can straighten them out.
-your favorite pilot, Caleb
“Yeah,” you whisper, reading over his handwriting once more in hopes that it relaxes the vice around your heart. “We should’ve talked feelings before you left, idiot.”
But that opportunity had long passed; and now you’re curled up on your couch with the bear in your arms, crying over your deceased lover.
If he was alive, you’d kill him again for making you so upset - but he’d kick himself for it enough which would unfortunately deter you from wanting to hurt him. He was great at looking like a kicked puppy, you didn’t want to deal with that.
The next day you resign from your position at the DAA. You felt sick to your stomach every time you saw a pilot walk by after Caleb’s funeral, and after the bear you just couldn’t take it anymore. A month later you’ve moved into a new apartment across Skyhaven in a month after accepting a position at Willow Medical Center. It doesn’t fix everything, but it certainly helped to live somewhere that you didn’t have a memory of Caleb - no meals cooked in that kitchen or singing in the shower to haunt your memory. In the hospital you don’t see him in every patient you come across, you don’t have to do any double takes when you see a uniform pass on a man with dark hair. You don’t sit and wait for him to slide into whatever room you’re in to ask you to hang out or get him out of some cleaning duty he’s been tasked with because he was a smartass.
It was easier to breathe when you weren’t being suffocated by the memories of him and what could’ve been between you.
But if you were to say you were handling your grief well, you’d be lying if you said you had it under control. You pay bills for a house you rarely live in, only there to sleep in a bed rather than half awake in your office at the hospital. It was more likely to see you reading a research paper in the hospital cafeteria than out getting lunch with colleagues, and you hadn’t had a home cooked meal since you left the DAA. You’d never bothered with truly going grocery shopping since moving in, so there was nothing to cook and you could keep your body alive by ordering takeout.
It wasn’t healthy, but it kept you alive - or, at least, whatever this version of “alive” could be called. You weren’t even present in your own life anymore, holding an absence in your own life to keep yourself from truly processing those feelings.
This was supposed to be any other Tuesday. You’d been in the hospital since Monday morning, moving about with maybe one or two naps in your office to keep you moving between appointments and the random request for a second opinion on a diagnosis. There had been a bustling on the floor when you were leaving your last patient for the day, which had you mentally planning to delay your return home about an hour or so to ensure you could avoid whatever commotion had arisen.
But then the door to your office opens as you’re packing up your bag, and you bite your lip in irritation when the door is softly shut behind whoever had come to see you.
“Can I help you?”
“I missed my follow up appointment.”
That voice… it was impossible. Caleb was- he’d been killed by an explosion. This visitor was just a victim of a similar voice, that was all. That, or you’d been at the hospital for far too long.
“I’m sorry, but I haven't had any follow-ups scheduled that have been missed, so…” You trail off as you turn around, realizing immediately that you were standing face-to-face with the new Colonel of the Farspace Fleet that everyone was talking about. Tall and imposing in the long black coat over the uniform, but he’s not looking at you so you can’t see his face clearly. But why was he here? They had their own doctors in the Fleet.
“I’m a couple months late, doc.” He states, keeping his service cap tucked in his arm as he turns to face you properly.
Those eyes, that stupid little smile - there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that this was the mad you’d been grieving for months.
The crack! that rings through the room freezes everything that might’ve been happening around you. Caleb holds his jaw with a gloved hand, staring at you open mouthed in shock as you stare back at him. You’d slapped him hard enough that you felt a crack in your own hand in addition to the sting from the impact, and yet you were the one who was now crying over it.
“Okay, ow!” He finally speaks, and you stand your ground with hands on your hips despite the tears that trail down your cheeks. Any eye makeup you might’ve worn is now ruined if your long hours at the hospital already hadn’t, but you can’t care about that when you’re standing in front of a ghost. “I’m sorry, doc.”
“You’d want to be more than that.”
He doesn’t stop you when you hit him again, your left fist colliding with his chest and followed by your right. It’s like he didn’t feel the blows at all, his hand coming to rest on your hip as you continue to pound on his chest and gradually pulling you in closer until you’re sobbing into his uniform. A gentle hand rubs your back as the other cradles the back of your head, keeping you close as you cry.
“I’m back, doc, I’m okay.”
“Y-you’re such a dick.” Your voice wobbles more than you’d wanted it to, as if your tears didn’t already alert him to how deeply upset you’d been. “Why’d you come here?”
“You weren’t at home.” It’s like he’d never died, as if never left you, his tone light and easy as he steps back to look at you. He always could find you anywhere, it was an annoying talent of his. “Can I take you home? Your colleagues say you’ve been here for over a day, you need to rest-“
“To be able to take care of others,” you finish for him, stepping away from his gentle hold and turning towards your desk. “Yeah, I know.”
You didn’t have any appointments, the ward and emergency room were staffed, so there was no reason for you to stay. But did you want to go anywhere with a man you believed to be dead? Could you?
You supposed that you didn’t really have a choice; he already knew where you lived and worked, so he could show up whenever he wanted. This was a Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, noncompliance could land you in their military jail for whatever reason he deemed fit. It didn’t feel like something Caleb would do, but you weren’t sure that this was even the man you’d had such strong feelings for - how could this possibly be your friend?
When you wake up the following morning, you believe that you’d dreamt it all. You’d gone home, probably had a drink, then fell into bed to sleep off the long days at the hospital. It was a believable story, considering your history, and you’d almost convinced yourself of that truth - until you looked at your hand.
Bandaged neatly, the dull throb telling you that you had actually injured yourself slapping Ca-
It couldn’t have been Caleb. Just some Farspace Fleet suit that riled you up, it couldn’t have been him. He was still very much dead in a box in a cemetery in Linkon City.
Maybe this was the universe telling you that you needed to take some flowers to his grave - telling you to come to terms and get the fuck over it. He wouldn’t have wanted you to be miserable like this - that much you knew. If you didn’t get arrested for assaulting a Farspace official then maybe you’d take some days off to go to Linkon, or maybe go to the DAA and see the little shrine Patrick and Gideon had set up in his old locker.
“Caleb,” you whisper, your head dropping into your hands as the too-familiar burn of tears in your eyes builds up. “You bastard.”
“Rude.”
The new voice in your bedroom has you screaming, throwing the first thing you could get your hands on at the figure in the doorway. He catches the bear easily, looking at it with a smile before looking back to where you sit on the bed. He’d never seen you so upset, and for it to be over him was a twist of the knife that had planted itself in his heart every time he went to check on you.
“Hey, you’re okay, doc. It’s me.”
“That's the problem.” Your counter makes him scoff, and you scoot away from him as he steps closer to your bed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.” His sigh is heavy, and he sits on the edge of the bed with Little Caleb in his hands. “You’re not hallucinating, and you can hit me some more if you want.”
Fuck, did you want to. But if you hurt him you’d then have to patch him up and that wasn’t something you were particularly interested in. Not when your hands couldn’t stop shaking and your vision was blurred courtesy of the tears you'd been trying to blink away. You didn’t sign off on sloppy work, nor would you perform sloppy work - not even on him.
You watch as he scoots closer to you, slow and with his hands in your sight as if trying to calm a scared animal. He’d always been so dramatic, and you hate that his antics have your cheek twitching as he dances Little Caleb towards you as he moves. He was now a Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, and he was using a teddy bear to try and calm you down.
“You shouldn’t cry over me anymore,” he says when you’re finally within reach, his hand coming to rest on your thigh. It’s warm, skin softer than you remember it being, and you can’t help but put your bandaged hand over his. “I’m back, and I’m okay.”
Was he? The Caleb you knew would rather die than have to wear a suit and tie - uniform or not. He’d shed the tie and coats, sitting beside you in a button down and slacks with the top two buttons of his shirt undone, more like the man you had come to love but still foreign to you
“So you just stalked me for two months?”
“Only two weeks. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Your diagnosis?”
“You’re not okay,” he whispers, his arms hesitant to pull you into him but still succeeding in their task. “I can’t apologize enough for what’s happened, but I can take care of you moving forward. Whatever you want or need, I’ll make sure you have it and that’s a promise.”
“I don’t want you to leave me again.” Your murmured request has him moving you so you straddle him, forcing the eye contact he needed to try and get through to you.
“I’m not.”
The kiss happens before you’ve registered that he’d moved, but your fingers move to undo more of his buttons so you could get so your hands could feel his skin and trust that he was real. Your bandaged hand rests over his heart, and you’re not sure if it was his heartbeat or the throbbing in your hand that you’re feeling but you were choosing to believe that it was his.
“No zero gravity acrobatics,” you request when you feel yourself get lighter, earning a laugh from him against your lips as he moves below you.
“Trying to get these pants off.”
That was a good idea, and you swing your legs back as you’d learned how to do so you can get your own pants off while he did. There were some things you supposed you’d never forget how to do, you just hadn’t expected moving in the evol created gravity fluctuations to be one of those things but it clearly came in handy.
“So talented,” he praises, bringing your legs back around him as the gravity returns and his hands pull your shirt over your head. “Missed you so much, baby. Your teasin’ and your smile, this pretty body, and the way you tell me ‘m stupid.”
“Caleb.” It’s all you can say, eyes closing when you feel his fingers slide through your folds. You couldn’t help that his gravity manipulation turned you on, or the way your body would always react to his touch.
“Already so wet, that’s my girl.”
His. You’d been his since the second time you’d slept with him, nobody could ever come close to what Caleb made you feel. Both literally and figuratively weightless, with an infectious warmth that radiated from his heart and easily made your own that much warmer. His hands are still so familiar with your body, touching you with an uncertain gentleness but still knowing exactly how you needed to be touched to pull that first orgasm from you.
“Come home with me, doc.” He whispers into your mouth, hands holding you hips tight as you hover over his length. His tip just barely poking into your prepped hole drives you crazy, but you know he won’t let you move until you answer him. Those dual-toned eyes have that pleading look to them, like a puppy begging for a treat but the looming darkness in them makes you wonder if this puppy would bite.
“We can talk about it later,” you suggest, your arm moving to wrap around his neck as you get the clearance to lower yourself onto him.
It’d been too long since you’d had any kind of penetration, the fire of your desire snuffed out by your grief, and Caleb had always been difficult for you to take. It had been long enough that this felt like a new experience again, your eyes staying open as his forehead presses to yours while he talks you through the slow descent with soft praise until you’re fully seated. You missed the feeling of his length, the position that made you feel like he was deepen enough that he was pushed against your cervix - and in this moment you think he actually might be.
“Always take me so well,” he praises, his hands guiding you to move. “You could have me every day if you wanted. All the time, take you with me on tours just so you can be close.”
The drag of his length against your still adjusting walls prompts an ache that was familiar and comforting despite the pain it brought, and you find yourself clinging to him in hopes that it would keep him there with you forever. You couldn’t bear to let him leave you again, you’d keep him inside you like this if it meant he wouldn’t leave you alone, leave you to feel that emptiness he’d left when he’d “died”. The offer to go with him actually sounded enticing, being taken care of rather than taking care of others - taking care of yourself again.
“No more crying, baby.” It’s a soft spoken order, but an order nonetheless, his hands coming to cup your cheeks so he could wipe the offending tears away. You still have the assistance of his evol to ride him, the fluctuations in gravity keeping you moving despite both of you being otherwise occupied with each other.
“I don’t want you to leave again.” If you hadn’t been so close, he likely wouldn’t have heard your whisper. Being exposed like this, even in front of Caleb, wasn’t something you were good at. You were already calm and collected, the black cat to his golden retriever in terms of energy which carried into your work. You couldn’t hold it together after he’d died, but you put up a good front in the hospital for your patients and colleagues. Even the most artisan of masks had their cracks and you were seeing yours crumble to dust in his hands, likely never to be repaired.
“I’m not leaving you, baby,” he murmurs, placing the gentles of kisses to your lips as he holds your head in place. “Never again. I can’t be without you again. But let me make you feel good, alright? Let me take care of you.”
And he does, pulling multiple orgasms from you before he finally releases into your spent body. You’re held tightly in his arms, chest to heaving chest as you both fight to catch your breath.
His stamina was insane now, making you wonder just what they’d done to him in his recovery as your brain finally caught up to the activities of the last hour. How had he been alerted, was it the Fleet’s doing or someone else’s? Did it hurt? Was he-
“Thinking way too hard after all of that.”
“Is it okay if I’m thinking about you?”
“Only if it’s about my offer to come home with me. But I’ll also accept compliments about how handsome and good in bed I am.”
In all your grieving you’d forgotten how fucking cocky he was, an annoyed huff leaving you as you try to pull away. The reaction in his right hand is delayed compared to the left, which was odd considering he was right handed. His reaction time should’ve been better, and it was suspicious how perfect his skin was despite him being in an explosion. There were some imperfections created by your grip on him, but nothing related to the explosion. You’d expected maybe some grafts, scarring from burns at the very least - but he was perfect.
“Let’s go shower, honey. Maybe that’ll help you relax some more.”
It doesn’t, but you do your best to put up a front as your hands carefully examine his body. He spends the shower reassuring you that he was real and standing in front of you, trying to wash your body down as you used washing his as an excuse to really look at him. Medical at the Fleet must really be something, and you’re tempted to take him up on his offer just so you could investigate closer. Something truly wasn’t right here, and for his sake you needed to know what it was.
His hands are careful as they dry you off, paying special attention to your hair and leaning in to kiss you as you look up at him. His lips are dry, and you remind him to stay hydrated which earns a nervous laugh at him being caught.
“You really notice everything, doc.” It’s unfortunate that he’s right, because you wanted to just enjoy that he was here but couldn’t.
You’re barely dressed when he gets a call, and you excuse yourself to get your own glass of water so he could have that privacy. It’s when you start to head back to the bedroom that you frown at seeing him fully dressed and heading your way while draping his tie around his neck.
“I gotta handle some business. But I’ll be back tonight.” His fingers nimbly tie the black fabric around his neck, and it feels like he’s slipping away from you as he transforms into The Colonel.
He leans in to kiss you, indulging himself in your taste with a satisfied hum that reverberates through your mouth and causing your heart to flutter.
“Promise?”
“Yeah, doc, I promise.” The promise is sealed with another kiss, only he’s pulling you along with him to the door to maintain that physical contact to anchor him to the moment despite the tides working to pull him away. “I ordered some groceries for you that should be here soon, make sure you eat.”
“Yes, Colonel.” The use of his title pulls a wink from him, a request for you to call him that in bed at least once met with your door closing in his face. You could hear him laugh on the other side, the sound more comforting than you think he’d ever realize. He was back, alive, and with you once again. You couldn’t look past the mystery that was lingering under his surface and return, but you were going to enjoy your time with him nonetheless.
GHOST TO ITS HAUNT, I.
pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader
summary: You really shouldn't take advice about your love life from gorgeous women in red dresses, who knew being cold to Leon once would lead to him snapping?
word count: 19K
warnings: vomiting, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, rough sex to gentle sex, safe word usage, it gets a bit angsty, hurt/comfort, teeny tiny l-bomb, fluff... as a treat
notes: We're here y'all. I went way overboard again. I hope it was worth it. This is so horribly unedited, please enjoy. header template can be found here.
🌀 read on ao3!
i. The White House ballroom shimmers with golden lights, and the air buzzes with the sound of laughter and polite conversation with the soft hum of elegant music relaxing the nerves in the background, setting the perfect backdrop for the prestigious event where the whole First Family would be making appearance, most probably to present Ashley Graham, whom the rumors were circulating about of a kidnapping — it was obvious they wanted to be seen and be put in the front page of the newspapers, and everybody with and their mother with a press pass was searching for an opportunity.
As other fellow journalists mingle with politicians and distinguished guests, you move gracefully through the crowd, camera hanging around your neck, as you interview influential guests and fish for possible slips of the tongue that could be important.
After you’re satisfied with that, standing near the refreshment table, you busy yourself with discreetly capturing candid shots of dignitaries and officials while gliding over the crowd to look for a decent looking photo, when out of nowhere, the viewfinder lands on a familiar someone, making you do a double take and going back to him through the camera, your heart going a mile an hour and doing a backflip where it stood, sending a jolt through your body from the surprised spike, breath catching as your time together flooded back in a stuttering film reel from monochrome to color as you registered it was really him.
In the soft glow of the yellow light emanating from the elegant chandelier above, Leon is almost shining — the center figure of a conversation, all attention on him while he dons a weary expression and the slightest of a polite smile, his blond hair catching the illumination and setting it ablaze with a golden radiance, like a halo, cascading in gentle strands and framing his face with an ethereal glow. He is dressed impeccably, wearing a tailored suit that fits him flawlessly and emphasizes his strong figure in the most flattering way as he talked to other men who shared similar clothing, but it’s unfamiliar to you, having never seen him wearing something like that before — it’s strange to you, but you guess feeling unfamiliar and a stranger is supposed to be normal, and a needlepoint of an ache stings your chest.
You keep watching through the viewfinder for what seems like an eternity when only a few seconds of absolute shock has passed, feeling like it’d be similar to looking directly at the sun with a naked eye if you lowered your camera to stare better.
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say you didn’t know if you would ever see him again. He and you don’t have anything in common, didn’t meet in a place where you’d be crossing paths often, he lives in a world different than yours, seems like there are oceans between you despite standing in the same room. The joy of meeting him again is melancholic, and the sadness is bittersweet, a weight you can’t lift makes a home on your chest, crushing your lungs underneath it.
What ties you and him anymore? What could there be besides pleasantries? Two years spent by each other’s side without being anything at all together — and the rest, rust and stardust, just like that?
Your fingers betray you and take a photo of him, a flattering shot with the focus on him, and you come back down from la-la land with the muted shutter sound. Stumbling on him when you were expecting it the least has you dumb enough to not realize if Leon were to turn his head, he would literally see you standing there, across the room, pointing a camera directly at him, and the realization has you flustered, dropping your hands and looking for a corner to slip into the shadow of, all the while he is still at the corner of your vision, angry at the intrusive thought in your head:
Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.
It’s almost as if he’s heard you, or sensed your presence somehow, because he abruptly turns, eyebrows pinched, and your eyes lock across the crowded room.
For a moment, there isn’t anyone else in the room but you and him.
You see the genuine, unguarded surprise light up his face, people around him keep talking, but he zeroes in on you, not blinking once, not even breathing, perhaps, because that’s how you are, frozen in time almost. It takes everything in you to not flee like some heroine in a rom-com, your hands snatching a champagne glass from a nearby waiter’s tray when he conveniently walks by the minute Leon breaks the magic of the moment first by shaking his head as if disoriented and saying something to his companions before starting to make his way toward you, steps picking up the speed as he gets closer.
Why is he coming this way? What does he even want to say? What do we even talk about?
Leon is strangely out of breath as he finally stops in front of you, hand coming up to open the button of his jacket, a tentative, fond smile tugs at the corner of his lips, an incredible contrast to how he was like with the group of men he was with. He calls your name like witnessing an answer to a prayer, nodding in greeting, and it’s awkward, so against the nature of how your greetings used to be, always accompanied by some sort of loving touch to translate the feelings.
“Leon,” you reply, voice and the hand around the delicate stem slightly shaky, and you tighten your fingers to get rid of it.
Neither of you talk for a beat, eyes avoidant of each other as you try to take the other in without being noticed. You didn’t want to acknowledge how nervous he is, how it was because of you, how he would barely let you see any of it before, none of this could mean anything anymore.
"You look amazing," Leon finally says, breaking the silence, the rasp in his low voice raising goosebumps all throughout your back, how he looks at you is a loaded gun at your temple.
"Thank you," you reply, fiddling with your hair nervously once and freezing once you catch yourself doing so, it has to be about self-consciousness, you can’t be giddy and nervous, you can’t be flattered. “You, too.”
The corner of his mouth hitches up in a twitch and leaves a faint, crooked grin in its wake afterwards, his eyebrows raise and fall, head tilting and straightening again. “You think so? Pulled this out from the back of the closet. It’s a couple years old. Feels like it’s gonna rip if I don’t stand like a robot at all times.”
It’s tight fitting in the best way possible, you fight to not look at how his shirt is straining as it hugs his chest and how well-defined his thighs are, but the way he puts it in the added context manages to make you laugh a bit. “It sounds like the job of a Queen’s Guard.”
(Your first instinct was to say, What a memorable show that’d be for the boring old people here, but it’s way too intimate and suggestive, you don’t feel like you should say it, and more surprised how naturally and comfortably it comes to you that it’s frightening.)
You don’t notice him get closer and stand right beside you, the moment you do however, suddenly watching the boring old people seem more interesting. “Would have loved that. At least people wouldn’t expect me to speak, then.”
You take a sip from the flute glass. “Suffering from popularity, are you?”
“I have you to thank for getting me out of my misery,” he says, nearly whispering like he wants nobody to hear him.
It’s so easy to fall into a back-and-forth with him like nothing of dire consequence happened, he makes it too comfortable when he’s the silent type in the first place — the one to be talked to, and you ponder, mind conjuring an image of him dutifully standing beside the President’s daughter, her getting to find out how gooey he is inside when the exterior is of a rock, and the irritability seeps into your speech, replacing the lighthearted undertone of the conversation. “You shouldn’t have come at all in the first place, then.”
He reaches for his tie, tugging on it, you see that he wants to loosen it, take it off entirely, but can’t do anything about it, not really, not when he’s surrounded by all the glamor and politics, and somehow it’s a good metaphor to be tied to the White House the way he is. “It was a last second invite, I wasn’t going to attend, but… I’m glad I did.”
Leon knowingly says it in a voice that conveys what he wants to say without having to say it, and here it was again, the hooded, longing stare that darkens the blue of his eyes. There’s another spike in your heartbeat, palms getting sweaty, all of a sudden it’s too hot to handle and the spacey ballroom is stifling.
You’re looking down, and feel the feather of a touch at your pinky that you wouldn’t even have noticed was there if you didn’t catch his own extending toward yours, and you’re mesmerized by the sight, by the tenderness of the gesture. He can’t possibly hold your hand because of all the people around, you think, but he only reaches, doesn’t touch, just lets the heat be there, and you realize that it’s you that he’s waiting for — he won’t initiate anything uncomfortable.
“Leon!”
You snatch your hand away so forcefully that you nearly bump into the refreshment table, the actual President’s daughter Ashley Graham parting the crowd and walking up to you — to Leon gets you in a frenzy you can’t explain and want to avoid, and so, face flushed from almost causing a scene by spilling champagne everywhere, you quickly mumble your pathetic excuse, “I should go,” and leave like your tail is on fire.
Leon calls, “No, hey, wait!” after you, but you’re maneuvering around the crowd with the agility shame has presented you. The disappointed, “Ashley…” of his comes from afar, and you momentarily look back over your shoulder to get a glimpse of her reaching out to touch his tie and the cute giggling that follows.
It hurts how close they are. It hurts how you still get hurt by the notion he has hidden sides he shares with others but won’t let you see.
You’re so unsettled that it’s only after stumbling on a few coworkers that reason shows back up and says you were an idiot to walk out like that when Ashley herself had shown up, you could have asked her a few questions, no journalist stumbled on a chance like that and you’d blown it.
All this because you were too disturbed seeing her with him — the familiarity in the exchanged “Leon” and “Ashley”s knocking the breath right out of you.
Jealousy. Really?
No, it went beyond jealousy.
This was envy. Of her shared experience with Leon.
You couldn’t possibly be this childish, could you? Two people of opposite genders can be friends, it doesn’t make sense to be making a mountain out of a molehill. How is he drawing out the vulnerable, young and neglected self of you in the past, wallowing in loneliness and the ill-fated ache of being left behind and not chosen over anybody?
You never want to feel like that ever again. This was the biggest reason you really should let Leon go, not because he broke up with you first.
Why did you let him get close like that in the first place just now? It’s stupid and child-like to crave being chased like that when you know nothing good will come out of it.
Leon suddenly wanting to commit has all the toxicity and accumulated grudge in you bubbling to the surface, angry and boiling and condensed, sticking to your insides like tar, you don’t want any of this, don’t want to be like this, you can’t bend to what he wants anymore. Not only does Leon wear around an armor at all times unlike you, he’s also covered in spikes — it hurts trying to get close to him, who knows what him getting close will do to you?
Who knows how you’re going to ruin it the moment things start getting better because you resent him for the past?
As the event at the White House draws to a close, guests are guided towards the designated exit area by attentive staff members. The grand ballroom, really the East Room, was where the gathering had taken place, located on the State Floor, which is the main floor of the White House reserved for official events and receptions, and you find yourself amidst a sea of elegantly dressed guests, each one chatting animatedly about the evening's affairs. You navigate the ornate hallways adorned with historic artwork and furnishings, taking in the grandeur of the place while being mindful of the strict protocols in place. It takes your mind off of things even if only for a while, but everything you look at begins to remind you of Ashley, and what once was breathtaking is now tinted with green, making you sick of yourself.
Along with the guests, you are directed towards a designated security checkpoint. Secret Service agents, dressed in formal attire but discreetly vigilant, ensure the safety of everyone leaving the event. Guests are required to present their official invitations or credentials before being allowed to depart, you hand your invitation to a stern but courteous Secret Service agent, who checks your name against the guest list and returns a friendly nod as he allows you to pass.
You’re finely attuned to Leon, consciousness of him making you notice he isn’t in the crowd at all.
He’s not being let out like the other guests are.
So the newspaper issue coming out tomorrow is right, he isn’t like the other guests.
An acidic feeling rises.
“It was a last minute invitation.”
“Leon!”
“Ashley…”
You feel like you’re being watched.
You also feel like you’re going to puke, though, so it could be out of being ill at ease over preferably not wanting to do that in front of the most dignified of the U.S.
Outside, you feel a rush of cool night air as you make your way towards the awaiting vehicles where the guests departed, assisted by courteous White House staff in locating their assigned transportation.
In your moment of privacy, you take out your camera, and scroll to the picture you’ve taken of him, zooming enough until his face is the only thing in frame. You don’t have anything else left from him. Your bottom lip bears the pressure of your teeth as you hesitate, questioning whether you should delete the picture or hold onto it as a memento of what once was.
Just as you're on the brink of a decision, you're startled by the sound of running footsteps approaching from behind. You turn around to see Leon, disheveled and looking flustered, his tie missing and a few buttons of his shirt undone. The lights of the White House cast a halo around him, making him appear almost ethereal, like a figure from a distant memory.
And you’re a deer caught in the headlights.
He clears his throat, the silence between speaking volumes, crackling and popping with the charged electricity of the heavy words left floating unsaid. .
"Hey," he says softly, eyes searching yours for any sign of what you might be feeling.
"Hi," you reply, trying to maintain composure despite the butterflies in your stomach, putting your camera away, flustered a bit that he could have seen that.
He takes a deep breath, as if trying to gather the courage to say something. "I wanted to talk to you," he combs his hair back, but it falls back anyway, his voice is clogged from nervousness and sincerity. "About everything. Properly."
You swallow, trying to dispel the lump in your throat. "There isn't a point in that anymore," you say, trying to protect yourself from potential heartache.
"There is," he insists, his determination shining through. "There is, for—"
"For closure?" you interrupt, a bitter smile forming.
"No," he responds firmly, his expression showing cracks of something sad and agitated. "Not closure. I want to start again, do this properly."
Your heart stirs at his words, torn between skepticism and a treacherous glimmer of hope, and the ugly feeling in response to him wanting to string you along with what he wants again. "I'm not some guinea pig, Leon.”
He begins to approach you like you’re a frightened animal that’d take off with the slightest of abrupt movements. “I know,” he says, mouth falling open and closing again as if he’s exasperated by the words, head shaking. "None of it was fair to you and I can't change the past, but I've thought about you a lot during these past weeks. I miss you, I miss what we had."
That catches you off guard. On paper, it sounds sweet, but it really is not. What you had was something of a double edged sword that got in between when you tried to get close to him, it was a wall and it was ammunition at the same time, comfortable in some ways, yes, but for him. You always burned for something more and waited for him to acknowledge the fire, but he acted like the smoke didn’t bother him, he could easily breathe through it.
So you laugh, and watch as his eyes close shut in gloom. “I bet you do. It was convenient for you after all.”
“I can’t deny that. But believe it or not, I wasn’t happy. I wanted more. I wanted to be more.” He took a deep breath, searching for the right words, one hand at his wrist, playing with the watch there. "I know I messed up before, and I'm sorry for hurting you for so long. I can't promise that things will be easy going forward but—”
You’ve had enough of this. “What do you want, Leon?”
Having noticed you were getting more agitated and detached from the conversation as he kept going on, he reaches out and catches your hand in a loose hold, thumb feathering over your knuckles. “I want to be yours.”
Blinking rapidly is all you could come up with as a reaction through the blankness that takes over your thoughts.
“You don’t have to be mine.” Leon presses on with more restrained desperation when he sees no response from you, the heat of his palms shocking you as he cups your face with both hands, looking you dead in the eye, searching for what was once out in the open for him. “But I wanna be yours, I am yours. I always was. I’m… If you’ll have me…I want to be more to you—I could be so much more—”
You step away from him, looking him up and down as if he’s burnt you, and his Adam’s apple bobs with the harshness of the rejection, eyebrows pulled in to hide sadness, hands hanging in the air for a bit before falling back to his sides, fingers flexing like he’s dealing with the sensation of your skin still lingering.
“You want to be more to me.” Your arm wildly gestures and claps back to your side as you turn around to face to the side, hands on your hips like there’s someone you can confirm with if they’re also seeing this or not. “You always have to say things in a roundabout way. Or maybe that’s not the case at all and you are afraid of change and that’s what this is about—and yeah, okay, let’s say I accept that and say yes, will you let me be more?”
“Of course, I—”
“Do you know what that means?” You fight a shiver from the chilly air, crossing your arms against your chest as if it could shield you. “It means none of what we had will work anymore. It means the moment I’m treated like that again, I’m gone.”
He releases a big exhale, like he’s been released from ancient chains he’s had to drag around with him for his whole life, he sees this as some sort of green light from you — because you wouldn’t have brought this up if it wasn’t a possibility. You’re still here, hearing him out, and it’s your hamartia. “I’m not incapable of understanding that, I just…”
"Know how it ends?" you ask, echoing his words from the past, and he falls silent, the environmental sounds of cars going about and conversations of the people seep into the quiet between.
His confession would have made you the happiest person in the world once.
There’s still something in you for him, but it’s exhausted, it’s not excited, only anxious, it doesn’t know if it should be happy or not, terribly numb yet wanting to cry at the same time.
You've been through the patterns before, the moments of closeness followed by distance, and the history will repeat itself if you let it. Your heart yearns for love, nothing short of it or close to it, you want to be loved openly, unashamed, unafraid, and you can’t trust him with it, don’t think he’s ready, and you have to think of yourself now. It was two years of putting him first.
But Leon insists on haunting you. “Will you at least have dinner with me sometime? No expectations, just... talking.”
“I don’t know, Leon.”
“Is that a no, then?”
“I don’t know.”
That means chase me, and you’re astounded at yourself for not drawing the line — not even wanting to.
“That’s fine.” He drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, his scent enveloping you and the cold melting away into warmth within seconds, your hands clutch onto it, stunned. “I’ll call you, then. That okay?”
Avoidant of his stare, your pride doesn’t let you say, Sure. Instead shrugging, “Do as you like.”
ii. A lady in a gorgeous red dress and the most beautiful silky, shiny, short black hair is keeping you company as you’re drinking your woes away that night.
The bar is a pleasantly lit space, with inviting, warm lights casting a cozy ambiance. The walls are adorned with vintage photographs and framed artwork, giving the place a touch of nostalgia and character, air filled with a blend of laughter, murmured conversations, and the faint notes of the jazz music playing in the background, creating a charming hum of activity. A polished mahogany bar counter stretches along one side of the room, lined with bar stools, and attended to by a skilled bartender who effortlessly crafts cocktails for the patrons, you’ve come back to him over and over again for more mango margaritas, and behind him, bottles of various spirits and liqueurs are neatly displayed on shelves, reflecting the soft glow of the lights. The place is furnished with a mix of plush leather booths and high-top tables, offering a comfortable and inviting seating arrangement, the deep red upholstery of the booths complements the warm wooden tones, adding a touch of sophistication to the space, everything about this place is safe, and that’s why you chose to get drunk in this place tonight.
The lady in red and you are seated in a cozy corner booth, giving you both a degree of privacy amidst the social hubbub. The table is adorned with a flickering candle, casting dancing shadows on your faces, enhancing the intimate atmosphere of your conversation.
You’ve long forgotten how and when she decided to sit by you, but she’s a great listener and a natural man-repeller — one would think she would do the opposite instead, but something about her keeps them at bay, makes them hesitate to make a move, and you suppose she is unapproachable. That sort of beauty would intimidate anyone of rejection. And you’re talking about man troubles with this kind of woman when it’s obvious it’s beneath her, thinking someone like her would never share your idiocy in matters of the heart, she looks too experienced and dignified for it, looks like she’s mastered any game of love.
It’s not in her intent to embarrass you when she playfully, pointedly asks, “And you thought you could change him?” chin resting against the back of her hand, manicured fingers curled inwards, dark eyes inquisitive and twinkling in the faint lighting of the bar — but you feel like a teenager talking about her first boyfriend anyway.
The lady in red tilts her head slightly, her black hair shimmering as she listens intently. A small smile plays on her lips, and you can sense amusement in her expression. Her fingers trace the rim of her cocktail glass, the redness of her nail polish matching the elegance of her dress.
"Do I look that dumb?" you ask, feeling a touch defensive, a self-conscious smile on your face. "No, he doesn't need changing, I just... I thought maybe I could change the outcome, you know?"
She leans back, the dim light casting an alluring glow on her face, teasing yet genuine. "You just said you accepted that it would end. I'm getting mixed signals,"
"Yeah, I know... But I guess I am that dumb," you admit, feeling a bit embarrassed discussing your romantic struggles with such a sophisticated woman when she puts it like that and exposes your bullshit for what it is — it’s like getting called out by an authority figure you’re looking up to as a child.
"Men like him are predictable, so yes, I would say that you are. For wasting your emotions," she says bluntly, but her eyes show a hint of empathy.
So, you try to make her see it from your perspective, seeking solace from that point of view in the conversation, but the knot continuously folding within your chest isn’t letting you get any relief. “It was worth it. He was worth it. I mean, I’ve never felt like I was wasting anything. You know — you know that famous quote? ‘Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened’?”
Her lips curve into a sympathetic smile, but her eyes remain sharp as she retorts. “You’re not smiling now, are you, hun?”
You have to break eye contact at that, “Well, I’m sad about some other things right now as well, so…” you trail off, not wanting to delve into the other troubles plaguing your mind.
“Oh? Do tell.”
“I technically can’t talk about it. It’s work related.”
“Hmm,” she hums, taking a sip of her red wine cherry sangria, her eyes never leaving yours, tips of her fingers trailing the bumps on her cocktail glass.
“What?” you ask, her silence penetrating your thoughts.
She doesn’t get into a back and forth with you, saying it straight away. “I have eyes. All night long, you’ve been drowning in alcohol for someone, not something. You’re lucky I don’t take the change of heart personally.”
You sense that she’s majorly unbothered at all times to take anything personally, yet, your first instinct is to protect yourself from the allegations. “I’m not lying. It is work related.” The confession comes out childishly guilty. “He’s just unexpectedly involved.”
“Now things are getting interesting.”
Your brow wrinkles at the sight of her feigning interest. She doesn’t look surprised.
“They weren’t before?”
"You don't want me to answer that," she says enigmatically, leaving you to wonder what she truly thinks of your life and choices, and you can't help but feel drawn to her mystery and wisdom, even if her observations are uncomfortable to confront.
“Okay, wow,” you widen your eyes at her bluntness, pitch comically rising, but come down from the moment after that, tipping your glass to her. “But yeah, things got… complicated thanks to that and I’m not sure what to do or what to feel. Let’s just say he hasn’t been honest with me and I know why now. Still doesn’t make it any better.”
“Dump him.”
The tipsiness reflects in the way you use grammar comically for emphasis. “We’re already dump. We’ve dumped.”
“He’ll come back. When he does, dump him.”
Scratch begging, you can’t even imagine Leon wanting you to take him back. “Yeah, sure he’ll be back. To pack his shit and leave.”
“Will he really?”
You give her a look, and she gives a subtle, amused one back, so mysterious for no reason.
“But we’re done for good this time. This isn’t him being away for like a month without saying a word, we’ve talked it out, he returned my key. It’s over.”
“Over isn’t the word I’d use.”
“How?”
“I have a feeling.” She looks like she’s scheming behind that subtly knowing smile about something she knows but you don’t, index finger tracing along the rim of her glass. “So… When he comes back, give him a taste of his own medicine. Ghost him.”
You’re terribly interested, imagination going against you, her confidence and subtle smile make you curious about the possibilities.. “Ghost him as in..?”
“Stop caring. Show him he’s become just another passerby on the street. Treat him like how you’d another stranger. Kind. Polite. Bland. Withdraw emotionally.”
That’s not how your personality is, you’re self-aware of being too desperate for your own good. That sort of strength in knowing one’s worth, not lowering standards for any kind of men and forcing them to step up are what chic women like her are good at. Besides, Leon isn’t the sort of man she’s talking about, anyway. “I don’t want to hurt him, though. He hasn’t been that bad to me.”
Her eyebrow slowly starts rising up, accompanied by a flat look that puts you in your place.
“So… Be cold?” you ask, feeling like you’ve disappointed your mother or something.
“Yes.”
“I don’t even know why we’re talking about this when it’s the farthest from what’ll happen—”
Your phone starts ringing, you take it out to see who it is, and see Leon’s contact name flashing on the screen.
“Is that him?”
The urge to answer is strong. "Yeah,"
“Her authority surprises you. "Don't answer.”
"But... He'll worry. I know I would," you protest, torn between following her advice and your natural instincts.
The mischievous glint in her eyes is the glare of light reflecting from a knife’s edge. "That's exactly the point. He's the cat, you're the mouse. Let him chase you around, play with him.”
“I’m not sure what that’ll be good for at this point…”
“Depends. Think about it carefully. How do you want this to end?”
iii. D.C.’s darkness embraces you, mirroring the turmoil within as your stumbled silhouette emerges from the shadows, teetering and swaying with the weight of intoxication. It’s a moonless night, heavy with the weight of regret and shattered dreams, and stumbling through the dimly lit streets, you clutch the remnants of your sanity, drowned in the bitter solace of liquid courage to feel the emotions you’d been avoiding.
But as you fumble for your keys, a flicker of dread ignites in your chest, for there, lurking in the shadows, stands your past, patiently waiting — an ex-lover, hauntingly familiar yet irreversibly estranged.
He is all but highlighted by the contours of the darkness illuminated by the fluorescent light overhead, standing tall, his broad shoulders squared and his stance rigid, holding onto a phone, the strength of his grip on his own biceps something else, the veins on his forearms standing out, and you are unsure if you’re hallucinating things you wanted to see. “You’re late.”
But that didn’t sound as gentle and inspired by the more vulnerable moments you treasured and preserved like a rare insect in amber as you often imagined in your head, the reality being too pent up and harsh and angry — how he’d managed to convey that with two simple words and nothing more, you had no idea.
“And you’re back.” A ghost back to haunt you. A physical ache in your chest manifests, grinding and grounding your lungs, you don’t know what kind of face you’re making as you exhale the pressure out. “Welcome, Leon.”
“Where the hell have you been until this hour? Why didn’t you pick up? You can’t do this, you can’t just not answer when you’re out and I’m going insane over what could have happened—”
“Okay, dad,” you snort. Your head is down as you maneuver around him like some jester while he is talking his head off. Fumbling with your bag for your keys, you squint up at him through the blurriness that doesn’t clear from your vision no matter how much you try to blink it away. “Like you pick up my calls properly.”
(Leon looks like hell from what you can focus on — a wave of dark circles under his eyes, unkempt hair that still looked frustratingly pretty, a special kind of distant, sharp look, small bruises on his neck dipping downwards and disappearing into the skin covered by the t-shirt underneath the jacket and tiny cuts on his face, smell of the hospital, a unique blend of antiseptic and cleanliness with a faint medicinal undertone. But, oh well. Doesn’t he always, when he comes back from his trips? It’s not your problem anymore. It isn’t. He’d figure it out. He figured it out by himself, always.)
The set of his lips is firm, creating an almost imperceptible grimace. “Jesus — ugh. Have you been drinking?”
“Wow, Captain Obvious.”
Leon drops the ridiculous interrogation — for now — about what you’ve been up to in your private time private to you when the activity in question is clear as day, and puts a hand on your upper back when you wobble after finally getting your keys out. “Is everything alright?”
A stuttering laugh slurs from you at the perpetrator feeling concerned after ransacking everything in the scene of the crime that was your life. “I don’t think that’s a conversation I want to have with you…” You keep missing the keyhole. Just go in. “In front of my house… At three in the morning…”
His hands hover over yours, unsure, not wanting to cross a boundary and eliciting battery acid to sour your stomach, but also making you notice one of them was bandaged as if there was a huge gash in the middle of it. “Here, let me help…”
You swat him away. “No, I have it.”
“Don’t be stubborn, give it here.”
“I can do it on my own, thank you very much.”
“Listen—”
Click.
“A-ha.” You turn your head to where he was but find out he has moved, and then you actually find him at the other side of you, (embarrassing, you weren’t that drunk) and you don’t let the awkwardness of that deter you from flashing a triumphant smile, acting way more sober than you were. “What, you think I can’t function without you or something?”
The shadows over his face move in gloom almost, you’re imagining things. “That’s not what I—”
You push forward without any consideration for what he has to say, entering your house, staggering as you kick your shoes off, fatigue draped over you like a weighted blanket all of a sudden. “Doooon’t care.”
“Hey!” He shouts after you while the only mission objective you have in mind is getting to your bed, stalking through the hall like some zombie and getting farther away. “You’re just gonna leave the door wide open?—”
“Just close it before leaving!” The wave of your hand is slow and heavy in the air, your eyes half-closed already, it’s all instinct guiding you to the bedroom. “Too tired. Just gonna tap out.”
“You have to lock—” But you’re not listening, nor responding anymore, and he curses. “Shit.” There is a brief silence in which you find your bedroom door and tumble in, and he chooses that moment of happiness to ask a question when any input has faded from your perception. “Hey, I’m coming in, okay?”
Meanwhile you have soared through the air and landed on the dreamily soft mattress of your bed, limbs spread out like a starfish, enjoying the silky coolness of the covers against your face.
And he's still yelling, still back at the entrance, his voice is like a fly buzzing in the distance. “Are you listening? I said I’m coming in.”
“Yeah, whatever,” you murmur sleepily, to no one in particular. The room becomes a hazy blur as exhaustion and intoxication intertwine, pulling you deeper into the comforting embrace of slumber. The words of concern and exasperation from Leon are distant, as if filtered through a thick fog that blankets your senses.
There’s a window of opportunity of silence in which you’re a bird not burdened by the weight of existence and floating upward into the hands of a pleasant state of blankness, and then there his voice is again, closer this time, in the room, and you haven’t even heard him sneak in.
"You're really gonna regret not taking your makeup off in the morning when you see the stain it leaves," Leon softly chides, and despite talking to you, he sounds like he doesn’t want to wake you up, a vocal fry in his low and soft tone, and you could sleep listening to it honestly, if he just wasn’t this persistent..
With a drowsy sigh, you mumble, "Be quiet, I'm... sleep," your words slurring together.
You physically feel Leon's eyes linger on your face, his gaze gentle but heavy, the same weight when he wants to say something so badly but is holding back. He reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek lightly, a silent gesture of care and it makes you jump at the unexpectedness of it, looking up at him with one cheek squished against the bed and see that he’s perched up on the edge of your bed, no idea how he can sit lile that well-balanced. "You really should be cleaning up first," he persists, worry evident.
There’s something else there — but your brain is slow to keep up, it’s like trying to open an image on Internet Explorer and it’s loading streak by streak, pixel by pixel. But even in that state, your emotions know that touch shouldn’t be given to an ex of all people, you can’t even hate how it instantly has you cozy and comfortable and safe, your response coming out as a hum, consciousness drifting further into the depths.
"That'll be one hell of a hangover," Leon tries once more, the way he speaks is so pleasantly smooth and dulcet.
Your mood instantly shifts when he disturbs you yet again. “You have to get up.”
Growing slightly irritated, you murmur, "Can you not nag me first thing after coming back, please? I'm going to sleep. You can pack up your belongings all by your lonesome and get outta here."
Leon's shoulders slump ever so slightly, understanding and resigned. He knows better than to press the matter further, realizing the futility of trying to reason with a half-asleep mind.
"Right..." he concedes, his voice softening with acceptance.
"Right," you affirm, your voice trailing off as sleep claims you once more.
You think you sleep successfully.
For a while.
It could have been half an hour or just a few minutes before he startles you awake once more. He stands over you, slightly long blond hair falling over his forehead and those striking ice blue eyes narrowing slightly with concern, he’s so pretty in the gray darkness. He brushes his hair away with a distracted gesture. “At least get up and change. You’ll feel much better.”
“I'll feel much better if you just let me sleep, oh my god,” you reply with a hint of drowsy annoyance, your voice muffled by the pillow you've pulled over your head.
He sounds like he’s arched up an eyebrow. "You're not getting any tonight. In less than an hour, you'll be spending the rest of the night in front of the toilet, throwing up," he says, huffing.
You peek out from under the pillow, meeting his gaze with a mock glare. "Yeah, yeah. Leave me alone." You pull the pillow back over your head in a half-hearted attempt to block him out. It’s your shield against him
With a small smile playing on his lips, he reaches down and gently tugs at one corner of it. "Don't say I didn't warn you.”
You resist for a moment, and there’s an unexpected tug of war, but the warmth of his hand and the concern in his eyes are too inviting to ignore. Slowly, you relent and slide the pillow off, allowing him to see your face. "Then don't say I told you so. I'm just tryna catch some Z's, goddamn.”
"Okay," he concedes, a bit sad. With a soft sigh, shifting to move from the edge of the bed to sit closer and more comfortably, his hand resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture.
Head having found its way back under the pillow again, you wave him off. "Okay. Now, shoo.”
You seize the silence for a moment, enjoying the tranquility even if it's interrupted by Leon's presence beside you.
His concern only adds fuel to the fire.
"Are you sure everything's alright? You're not a drinker," he questions, with the familiarity of someone who once knew you intimately.
"Oh m—” You shoot up to sit cross-legged on the bed, irritated beyond belief. “Alright, you've successfully acquired my undivided attention." Your arms cross defensively over your chest, drawing out our swords. "So, spill the beans, what do you want? And before I can drift into the blissful realm of sleep, what exactly must I accomplish for your satisfaction?" you add, dripping with sarcasm.
His spine straightens, you don’t know if he did that to look bigger than you, but he’s tentative, usually composed demeanor faltering slightly. "I'm just worried."
Play cold, was it? You didn’t even need to try. It came naturally. "Okay. So?"
"So?” His eyebrows can’t go any lower. “What's going on with you?"
Your anger simmers just below the surface, and you can feel your frustration boiling over. "What's going on with me? What is this, a ketchup?"
"Ketchup?" he echoes, blinking, clearly puzzled by your choice of words.
"Catch-up. You know what I mean. Why are you trying to catch-up with me?"
The question that follows is icy. "Am I not allowed to ask you about your well-being?"
"Oh, you care about that now?" Your words are little unexpected presents for him, wrapped with venom. The anger inside you starts to spill out, and you can feel yourself losing control.
There's a pause, and you almost regret the harshness in your response. As you glance over at him, you notice a flicker of hurt in his eyes, a vulnerability that he rarely displays. The sight only serves to stoke the fire of your anger as he gets worked up too.
Leon's cold exterior is a shield, protecting both you and himself from the intense anger that simmers just beneath the surface. You can see it in the way his jaw flexes.
"That's... the most ridiculous thing to ever come out of your mouth—” He raises his arm and then wrenches himself off the bed, back to you, running a hand down his face. “No, you know what. You're drunk, I shouldn't... I'm not picking this fight with you," he says, his voice firm and controlled, there’s strain behind his words.
"Yeah, you're picking girls instead.” The bitterness in your voice makes it difficult for you to hold back the torrent of the real emotion behind it all. “From private airports,"
His head turns your way, hand hanging in the air in front of his face. "What? What are you talking about?" His profile is to you, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
You take a shaky breath, threatening to spill over, like porcelain all tumbled over inside the cabinet and the only thing holding the disaster off is one single door. "Nothing apparently. Everything's nothing to you. Like nothing. President's daughter. Nothing. Biggest spoof of this year yet. Nothing."
His eyes widen with realization, fully turning around, and you can see the gears trying to turn with the wrench you’ve just jammed between cogs. He struggles to find the right response, caught off guard. "Wait. Ashley?—"
You scoff. "It's Ashley to you now, is it?"
Leon's stoicism remains unyielding, and it infuriates you even more. It's as if he's completely missing the point, focusing on technicalities and trivialities instead of acknowledging the elephant in the room. He starts to inquire, his voice professional and overly serious that he might as well be talking to a stranger. Where did you get this information? Can't be paparazzi. Nobody knows—"
You slide off the bed, swaying as you start walking up to him, first sentence coming out as if you’re singing. "Eeeeveryone will know tomorrow. President's daughter with her bodyguard. The new Rachel and Frank. Didn't know you were Secret Service by the way. Can't believe I learned it from my workplace instead of the man, the myth, the legend himself—"
He steadies you by your shoulders as you reach him. "That's enough," he interjects sharply, the coldness returning to his tone, clashing with his hold.
"Bold words from a boytoy—" you continue, not willing to back down in the face of his attempt to silence you.
"Stop talking," he commands, teeth gritted, patience wearing thin.
With a deep breath, he steps away, whipping out his phone and walks hurriedly towards the door. His demeanor shifts from cold and collected to urgent and focused as he makes a call. "Hunnigan, this is Kennedy. Sorry for calling in the middle of the night. We have a problem."
The overwhelming surge of emotions, combined with the numerous drinks you've consumed, takes a toll on your body, and you can no longer ignore the urge to be sick. Half-encouraged by the way Leon brushed you off, you stumble to your feet, feeling unsteady and disoriented. Your vision blurs as you make your way to the nearest bathroom, desperately trying to reach it in time. The cold tiles of the floor feel unforgiving beneath your feet, and you're grateful for the support of the walls as you try to steady yourself.
Finally, you make it to the toilet just in time, and without warning, you bend over and empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl. Each heave feels like a release of all the pain, anger, and disappointment that have been building up inside you. The room spins around you, and you close your eyes, trying to find some semblance of stability.
Leon's conversation in the hall becomes background noise to you as you struggle to regain your composure in the bathroom. The noises you've made reach him, and he finally realizes that you're not in your room anymore.
His footsteps are approaching fast. "Gotta go. Update me on it tomorrow. Yeah, got it. I owe you one.”
He enters the bathroom, and you're immediately filled with frustration and embarrassment at his intrusion. "Hey," he says, all that squabbling only for him to show concern.
You snap, your anger fueled by the discomfort of being caught in such a vulnerable state. "Get out, I'm vomiting my guts out for fuck's sake, why did you come in!?"
Leon ignores your protests. "Sshh, I got you," He moves closer and starts rubbing your back, trying to provide some comfort.
Despite your best efforts, another wave of nausea hits you, and you vomit once again. The embarrassment only intensifies, and you feel the heat of humiliation rising to your cheeks.
"Let it out. It's gonna be okay," Leon says reassuringly, his hand continuing to draw shapes on your back in a soothing gesture.
Your voice gurgles at the back of your throat, making it difficult to speak clearly. "No."
"I know, I know," he murmurs, his voice filled with understanding. He was just angry with you.
"Why did I drink that much?" you whine, feeling regretful and sick, wiping the tears away from your face.
He tries to lighten the mood despite the seriousness of the situation. "Don't I know?"
Not caring anymore, you rest your cheek on the toilet seat. "I swear I'm not drinking again.”
Leon stays with you, his presence a comforting anchor as you finally finish vomiting. He puts his hands in your armpits, trying to help you stand up.
"Alright. Up you go," he encourages gently, trying to get you on your feet.
But you comically lower yourself back down onto the cold bathroom floor, finding solace in the cool tiles beneath you. "Noooo, I'll just lie down, let me just..."
He begins to outright nag. "No, you can't sleep here,"
Your body is protesting any further movement. "I'm so tired."
"Let's get you to bed."
"This is my bed.”
"You'll get even more sick if you do that.”
This time, he doesn't bother getting your cooperation. With ease, he lifts you up, effortlessly carrying you to your actual bed. Despite your protests, you can't resist his strength, and you're grateful for the relief of being off the floor.
You find yourself lying on your bed, surrounded by the familiar comfort of your sheets and blankets. The world around you still feels a little hazy, but Leon's presence is a grounding force, providing a sense of safety amidst the chaos.
He tucks you in, ensuring you're warm and comfortable, and you can't help but feel a small twinge of gratitude despite the lingering anger and hurt.
"Rest now," he says softly, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face.
You nod, too tired and overwhelmed to say anything more. As your eyes start to drift shut, you feel Leon beside you, and for a moment, you allow yourself to be comforted by his touch.
iv. You step inside your cozy little flat with a heavy heart and a head full of the hangover from last night's events and the busy day you left behind in the dust. But all thoughts catch in your throat when you see that familiar silhouette slouched into your armchair, your favorite novel resting open across his lap. A flood of mixed emotions hits you – annoyance at finding him still there uninvited, happiness that he's still here, and anger at the conflicting emotions he stirs within you.
"Welcome back," he says, his voice unnervingly calm. You notice the way he fidgets with the corner of the book. "How are you feeling?" he asks, his eyes scanning your face, searching for any sign of distress or discomfort.
You remember how you practically teleported to your workplace this morning, wanting to avoid confrontation and the shame of having been witnessed going green from jealousy and in such a vulnerable state, believing he’d be gone when you came back, along with every trace of him. "Why are you still here?"
He sighs, placing the book on the coffee table and rising from his seat. He comes over to take your bag from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief moment. "Hop in the shower for now. I couldn't prepare a bath because I didn't know when you'd be home."
"Leon, why are you—" you start to question, but he cuts you off sharply.
"Later," He impatiently runs a hand through his slightly tousled hair, face showing his annoyance. "Go get refreshed. Have you had anything to eat?" he asks, trying to shift the focus away from the uncomfortable conversation.
"Not really..."
"I figured. Made you some food. It's just sandwiches, but they're decent," he says, his voice softening slightly as he tries to be helpful despite your reluctance.
He sets your bag aside to its designated place with gentle care, as if afraid to disturb you further.
"I appreciate the effort, but—".
"I said later. Now, go.”
With a heavy sigh, you decide not to push the issue for now, not when he’s being snippy with you. There's a part of you that wants to scream at him to leave, to get out of your life and stop playing with your emotions. But there's another part that appreciates his presence, his care, and his support in this moment of vulnerability.
This is getting so complicated.
In the end, you find yourself complying with his request and heading to the shower, trying to wash away the physical and emotional weight of the night.
You come back after a while to find him sprawled on the couch, his body tense, and his glare fixated on the ceiling. As you enter the room, he notices you lingering and propels himself up, sitting upright with a stiff posture.
"Come sit," he says, his voice low and controlled, motioning towards the empty space beside him.
You gingerly take a seat, facing him, his fingers drumming slightly on his thigh.
You try gauging his mood. "You're being weird. What is this about?"
"I said we'd talk, didn't I? We're talking," he replies, his tone guarded, his fingers now interlocking tightly, as if trying to contain his emotions.
You feel a bit uneasy under his scrutinizing gaze. "Okay. What about?"
"That was quite the stunt, you know? Don't ever do that to me again,"
Confusion clouds your features as you try to decipher his cryptic words. "What? Do what?" you ask, genuinely puzzled.
He sucks in a sharp breath. "Stop playing dumb," He leans forward slightly, his body language becoming more intense. "Don't ever not pick up my calls in a situation like that, in the middle of the night when I can't reach you or find you. I was about to go searching for you myself—fucking hell."
You try to process what he means by searching for you himself. "How would that even work?"
His lips press into a thin line, and he lets out a deep exhale, the tension in his jaw becoming more pronounced. "You'd be surprised how good I am at finding people." He alludes at something you have no idea about, his voice edged with frustration, shifting his weight, manspreading, hands coming on his thighs. Assertive. "Now, again, pick up my calls. Especially at night if you're out on your own.”
Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your own defensiveness mirror in your body language. "I'm not obligated to do that." You were safe, you knew how to keep yourself safe, what is he going on about?
Leon's eyes narrow, and he leans forward, one hand gripping the edge of the couch as if trying to anchor himself in the conversation, the other waving sharply between you and him. "Is this a joke to you? I was fucking worried sick," he spits, his voice tinged with restrained emotion, eyes burning, swallowing hard, trying to compose himself, his fingers tapping nervously against the upholstery. "This concerns your safety," His voice catches slightly. "Do you have any idea what kind of danger you were in? What if something had happened to you, I—-!" He pauses, his voice cracking with emotion, closing his eyes and taking a second to slow down. "A drunk woman walking all by herself after midnight without any protection—-" he continues after, eyes darting around the room, searching for the right words to convey his feelings.
Your shoulders are squared, chin lifted defiantly, a gesture of strength despite the turmoil inside. "I can take care of myself." You sniffle and look away in agitation, not wanting him to see you as weak or incapable.
"Oh, bullshit," he fires back, voice rising. "Don't take this personally, but you don't stand a chance against a man while piss drunk."
You raised an eyebrow, not willing to back down. "And now you're exaggerating. It was a safe bar just around the block—-"
Leon’s smiling but there’s nothing humorous in it. He points a finger at you, then. "Don't be a brat to me right now. I am serious," he says, tone shooting down. "I need you to acknowledge how stupid this was of you and never do it again. For yourself. Go out and drink however you like, whenever you like, with whoever you like, but be safe. Understand?"
“No.” You barely stutter it.
He’s right.
You can’t take that he’s right.
This topic has to be dropped.
“What do you mean no?”
“Just leave it.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps. You shrink from the barely held back glare he shoots your way. “Not until you agree to do as I say.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere, stop being so obstinate and drop it, please."
“Oh, you don’t understand, do you? No idea whatsoever how angry I am with you.” His voice is dangerously low, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll make you understand.”
With practiced ease, he wraps an iron grip around your waist, pulling you near. Your heart leaps against the wall of his chest as his arm encloses you in his hold, cradling you safely within its grasp. A swift intake of air catches in your throat and your whole fips upside down, an arm secured around the swell of your ass as you’re dangling upside down from his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. And just like that, you find yourself being taken away, carried effortlessly and unceremoniously towards the bedroom, taking in breath the freshness of Leon’s cologne and just how wide and strong his back is. Before you could utter or comprehend another word, he was already setting you down upon the plush surface of your bed – his commanding presence towering above you on all fours. His formidable frame pressed against yours, pinning you to the bed while a fervent expression of lust and veiled anger stared unabashed into your very soul.
Leon reaches down to undo the buttons of your bottom, deftly popping each one apart until they slide to the floor at the foot of the bed. His warm fingers caress your legs as he drags your pants away from your body and tosses them aside, exposing your bare feet and ankles which begin to curl under the duvet at the base of the bed. Your knees are parted further by the pressure of his palm cupping your inner thighs and guiding them wider apart, allowing him room enough to climb astride you where his weight presses heavily into the bed beneath you both.
“Only stupid thoughts behind those pretty eyes, huh? I’ll just have to fuck you dumb to the point where you just get it.” Beneath your panties, his large, roughened hands cup your sex — hot, slick flesh twitching and yearning toward fulfillment without shame or embarrassment. It only heightens the pleasure when he rolls his thumb against that little knot of heat, dipping down to rub slow circles around it — prodding with lazy delight. Even when his attention falls elsewhere to trace the curve of your belly and navel, your ardor rises despite such restrained attentions. You are lost to longing; helpless as a feather caught in a cyclone of wanton desire.
Leon's hand glides down, descending with lethal intention. With a silent growl born of frustrated passion, he breathes out, "So goddamn wet for me." He burrows into your jugular vein with a probing kiss, seizing your heartbeats hostage, but you have no complaints about how much the simple action arouses your heated body.
There’s no oral, so he has to use lube for this, coating his fingers, and he doesn’t look like he’s about to have sex, it’s like he’s off to a battle.
His anger is something you didn’t know would spur you on this hotly, each hard look shooting directly into your crotch.
Two digits delve into the depths of your awaiting cunt, sliding in seamlessly, filling you completely. Yes!
Your thoughts become hazy, the edges of your mind as raw as exposed nerves, consumed by a surge of heat that flows thick and slow like molten lava.
Delicately, the heel of his hand weighs upon your throbbing and hardened clit, providing a tantalizing pressure, while his fingers work you up and up, knowing just how to hurl you toward the edge.
You could come like this. If he just keeps going the way that he is now, you are so close.
However, this time, he opts to prolong the experience, deliberately massaging his fingers deep within you, unhurried yet uncontrollably thorough. It's as if he intends to extract every last drop of pleasure from your willing form.
You find yourself gasping for precious breath, your arousal flooding you with an intensity you've never felt under the coldness behind his piercing blue gaze. “Please,” you say, body instinctively curving towards his touch, and he eases on the pressure, making you softly whine. “No, more.”
“More? Alright. Like this?”
That sounds dangerous. You should read the moderated vexation, but you don’t.
And then he ups the intensity.
The immense pleasure overwhelms you, rendering you powerless in its wake. Your legs involuntarily jerk, your toes curling as they make contact with the sheets, there’s a frenzied urgency in the way grind against his palm, desperately craving that elusive climax hovering magnetically close but just beyond your grasp.
You teeter precariously on the edge of release, the climb to the impending orgasm has you trembling with anticipation, it’s just a final push away, and Leon is delivering it with flawless precision...
Until he isn’t.
His hand retreats, the fullness of his fingers slipping out of you, leaving behind an agonizing emptiness that your core clenches pathetically around. You're left yearning, aching for more, and you’ve been mercilessly dunked in ice water by a torturer, extinguishing the flames of ecstasy that had been building within you.
Your dumbfounded gaze remains fixed upon him, your breath perpetually caught in your chest, causing a painful tightness. His pink tongue comes out to lick his fingers, drenched in your ever-present slickness and the flavored lube, and the digits disappear behind his sensuous, kiss-reddened pink lips. A tremor courses through your chest, leaving you to pathetically inquire, "Why?"
“You know why.”
You adjust on the sheets, shifty, restless, trying your best to come back down and ignore the biting pleasure sinking like a ship. So he was really doing this.
And you were going along with it despite everything, craving everything he could give you.
“Now, look at me. Look at me,” he demands, gently turning your face towards him, his fingers still moist with your essence. “You know how this ends. Other than that, no means yes. Stop means keep going. Don’t means do it. Wait means continue. Struggling just tells me you like it.”
He generously allows you time to push him away, to draw the line and declare your unwillingness to continue this path.
"Leon—"
"What is your safe word?" he cuts you off, tone both commanding and measured. His eyebrows are low on his forehead, staring you down so hostile one would think you’re his enemy, chest broad, like he’s seconds from attacking.
"Rookie."
He kisses your temple. So loving against his cruelty just now. "Very well.”
It’s gone back to tumbling in bed together again, all two of you are capable of is avoiding whatever it is that you want to say and conveying the frustration through touch instead.
And he’s punishing you.
With all intents and purposes, Leon normally isn’t like this.
You didn’t know he’d snap just like that when all you did was a little push.
Leon's intensity and intimidating demeanor may seem at odds with his surprisingly indulgent and caring nature towards you. While his usual serious and frosty exterior can be off-putting to others, there is a different side of him — one that shows deep affection and thoughtfulness, albeit elusively. He runs on giving you whatever you want at the end of the day.
The first you noticed this was late one evening two years ago when you’d managed to snuggle up to him without him getting all stiff, as you sat together in the dark living room and watched a movie together, Leon's intense gaze softening as he observed you. You'd grown accustomed to his serious expression, but that night, you could see the faintest hint of concern in his eyes. You had yawned, feeling the exhaustion from a long day, and rested your head on his shoulder.
"You should get some rest," Leon said quietly, his voice hoarse and rough, yet gentle. "I can handle the rest of this."
"I'm okay, really," you replied, trying to suppress another yawn.
Leon's semi-frown had deepened as he reached for the quilt draped across the couch. Without a word, he had wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking it in snugly up to your neck. "Better," he said with a hint of satisfaction.
The small gesture had warmed your heart, knowing that despite his gruff demeanor, and tendency to not say anything, he genuinely cared for your well-being. As you had drifted off to sleep, he had remained by your side, watching over you in his silent but protective way.
In the following days, little surprises had started appearing around the house the more he came around. A new book you mentioned wanting to read, a set of cozy slippers, or a favorite snack tucked into the pantry. You had wondered where these gifts were coming from, but whenever you brought it up, Leon brushed it off as if it's nothing.
Yet, the repairs and chores he undertook in secret had been perhaps the most endearing. You had noticed the creaky door was now silent, the loose cabinet handle was firmly fixed, and the kitchen faucet no longer dripped. He would never mention these tasks, as if they were just a natural part of his day and you would think to yourself, It’s great to have a man around actually, wow. And it had nothing to do with the sex.
Another evening for example, after you had finished a hearty dinner, you had gotten up to clean up, but Leon had waved you off. "Relax," he’d said gruffly, "I've got it."
You’d decided to watch him from the threshold, curious about how he went about his chores, feeling weirded out by this busy man maneuvering around your kitchen like a housewife. He’d washed the dishes with care, meticulously drying each one before placing them back in the cupboard, cleaned the counters and even swept the floor with a focus when there was no need to.
He wouldn’t accept one praise or thanks for it, and you’d understood a bit late that this was his way of showing the affection he couldn’t with words.
It seems that the only context in which Leon feels comfortable enough expressing it is within sexual encounters; perhaps because the boundaries surrounding such actions are already defined. In these moments, his attention remains focused solely upon generating and maintaining your pleasure. His own satisfaction comes secondary to ensuring yours. And he finds control in it, pushing deep inside and striking rapid fire peak after another until you lay quaking beneath him, other times his ministrations fall closer to tenderness than intensity until even their quietest whispers roil across every part of you leaves you squirming through his attentions regardless of approach.
The thought alone puts you in the most compromising position possible: surrendering your body over to someone who just might leave you in ruins afterwards but whose mercy still tempts you nonetheless. There are times when his touch is harder than others and at other times, it's nothing short of achingly loving.
It’s hard to think straight whenever Leon is taking care of you. How could one possibly find it difficult to let go when you’re being spoiled by the best? Him and this whole arrangement had been giving you a lot of second thoughts while it lasted but you can never deny that every single time you collided together, it always ended in some form of relaxation and satisfaction with the help of the man who has proven that he knows what makes you feel good.
Even though he's not capable of saying his feelings out loud.
But that's never stopped him from making sure that you get all the spoils that he'd never allow anyone else to have in their lives. Maybe he liked to spoil you more than anything because he couldn’t give you much more. Maybe he felt a need to give back to you for staying silent and not wanting anything out of him.
He's a gentle man. Kind. Looks like a jawbreaker but is mushy inside.
You've made a mistake and he’s not going to let you off even if you say sorry.
Enthralled by this all, you don’t want him to.
As the anticipation crackles in the air, Leon's hands remove your ruined underwear, sliding them down your legs, leaving them discarded around your ankles. His hands travel up from your ankles to your calves, sensual in his caressing, and the way he touches the back of your knees has your core twitching, beginning the curling again.
Leaning down against you, his lips press languid, teasing kisses against the tender flesh of your breasts, interchanging between suckling, licking, and half-bites that you want would be stronger as one hand comes up to pay attention to the neglected one, giving you whiplash with the power behind his occasional squeezes and the punishing tugs and flicks on your nipple.
You don’t know how many minutes pass as he overpowers you and stops you from squirming and closing your thighs for any god-sent friction as they become the only things he pays attention to. It starts stinging at one point, aching sweetly that you want him to both keep moving and keep going.
“Stop, come on, please…”
“Why should I? I’m having a good time.” You can practically see the nipple that pops out of his mouth sizzle with soreness. “There you go again, saying stupid things.”
Oh, he’s mean.
He, somehow in a way that adds to the gratification, wrings a nipple that draws a yelp out of you. “My stupid girl. Acting like you’re not getting off on this when you know how to stop me.” With deliberate intent, his mouth embarks on a seductive exploration, trailing butterfly kisses along the path of your stomach. “Don’t use that mouth of yours other than making pretty noises for me, yeah?”
Each flick of his tongue against your hips sends a jolt of desire coursing through your body. Your legs instinctively respond, parting wider, asking for his touch.
There, just before the pinnacle of your thighs, he pauses, holding himself above you, his closeness tangible. He bites down on them, leaving temporary teeth marks this time, and you jolt upward against his mouth, but can’t properly move to satisfy yourself, your tiny moan eliciting a dark laugh from Leon. “That’s it, keep those sounds coming.”
The tip of his nose nudges against the delicate apex of your sex, provoking a surge of anticipation that consumes you. The whine for him to do something comes close to fly out of your throat but you know he’d do the opposite, so you lay there, hands coming down on his taut, strong shoulders and —
He’s still dressed. You didn’t even have a break to notice.
You’re zapped out of your head by the soft, warm breath rolling along your hypersensitive clit to your slit. It's a provocative, nowhere near enough of a drag, a delightful torment that he dangles in front of you. And then, he finally succumbs to his desire — your desire, his mouth descending upon your throbbing pussy and you can’t stop the drawn-out whine of satisfaction. “Oh my god! Yes, keep doing that, just like that, please!”
The sensation is overwhelming, a convergence of his roughened jaw tensing as he skillfully works you open. His tongue, slow and obedient, is a slick slide through your wet folds. He hums into you, the vibrations resonating deeply within your being and your legs attempt to clamp around his head, only to be stopped by the metal band that are his arms holding them down, and he bathes you in soft, slow, torturous caresses, parting you further, making his tongue delve in.
He doesn’t give you what you want. Not this time.
The pace of his relentless pussy-eating remains excruciatingly slow, as if he savors every moment, every lap of his tongue against your delicateness like he’s sipping up a beverage. The fusion of pleasure and pain are crackles that don’t explode into completion, pushing you to the very limits of your endurance.
In your desperate quest for release, your fingers instinctively scramble to clutch and tug at his soft hair, knowing that Leon relishes in the sensation, praying that he will reward you for doing that somehow.
The anticipation throwing a tantrum within you reaches a fever pitch, your entire being a symphony of quivering muscles and trembling limbs. Your body tenses like a drawn bow, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable crescendo. It wraps around you, about to release the arrow, while your gasps and squeaks fill the air.
You’re there, you’re finally there, finally.
Your thighs quiver uncontrollably as his grip is a vice around them, your stomach folding over itself inside in an uncontrollable frenzy, you’re being hurled toward the finish line with such speed intensity that it borders on pain.
Amidst the whirlwind of sensation you forget yourself. Your words dissolve into an incoherent babbling, your fragmented pleas begging for him to continue, to drive you to the brink of rapture and beyond. “Please, please, pleaseplease, almost—"
Each deliberate movement of his mouth, each calculated stroke of his tongue, sends waves of wax-hot ecstasy surging through your body.
Your senses are consumed by frustration and desire, the need to unravel in orgasmic bliss peaking to an almost unbearable level. It feels cruel, unjust, to be held in this suspended state of euphoria, teetering on the precipice of ecstasy without being allowed to take the leap.
And then, he takes all of it away.
What.
The maddening unfairness of it all engulfs you, rendering you speechless, frustrated beyond measure. It's a torment that cuts deep, leaving you trembling with unfulfilled desire. The ache within you intensifies, a cruel reminder of the pleasure withheld, and you find yourself helplessly grappling with the sheer agony of being denied what feels rightfully yours.
“No, nooooo,” you can’t help the pathetic sob. Want to slap his hand away when it comfortingly nestles against the apple of your cheek. “Fuck, this is so unfair!”
As you tremble like a leaf on the edge of frustration and craving, pulled back as the void you wanted to jump in getting smaller and smaller, caught between the pining for release and the ache of denial, Leon's voice reaches your ears like a calming balm. His soothing coos and the gentle stroke of his hands at both sides of your hips is a momentary respite from the overwhelming intensity. “You're doing so well. I’ve got you, sweet girl, you're okay, it'll pass.”
It’s his fault that it has to pass.
It angers you. He's only sweet to melt you like butter and take advantage of that again to fly you up only to make you fall, and catch you halfway so you won’t shatter into pieces.
He kisses up your stomach and peppers your collarbone and shoulders, but when he wants to capture your lips, you turn your face away, trying not to cry, attempts to push him off, futile. “Asshole, no, get away from me.”
He licks a stripe through the outside of your ear instead, and you buck your head toward the touch, ticklish. “Have to be one.”
The ache within you thrums, pricks of a thousand needles not hurting quite in the way you need, each one a reminder of the pleasure you crave. And he denied. You try to turn away, crawl out of the bed. So this is what you get for slipping up and wanting some dick. “Fuck you, let go of me...”
You only manage to flip on your belly when he presses down on you again, still clothed. He knows just how to soothe and alleviate the sting that prickles all over, kissing your nape. “Can’t. Sorry.”
Shivers go down your spine as he plants more kisses on your back, hooking an arm in front of your waist, palm pushing down on your navel and dizzying you again as he pulls you back to him. “You are not sorry—!”
His soft lips, like a healing touch, press against the corner of your shoulder, providing temporary relief as the ache subsides as his hands glide like soothing, cool velvet against your flushed, neglect-irritated skin.
He keeps doing that for a while, until your chest isn’t heaving anymore, and you’re face down, ass up on the mattress, comfortably floating in a state of bliss.
But just when you think you might it’s over, his thumbs peel open the lips of your pussy, and he blows on it to ignite stomped embers, compelling you to arch into his mouth, the dull ache blossoming from flavorless into ready for the ripe sweet. .
Leon shames you. “What’s that? You want more again?” You feel his fingers tracing alongside the outside of your entrance, not diving inside, teasing. “You know what to say.”
It’s all you’ve been saying this far, and you can’t think. “Please. Please!”
“Wrong answer.”
From then on, lost in a haze of pleasure and desire, the notion of time dissolves into insignificance, unable to tether you to the constructs of the world outside of his torture.
With each frustrating high you want to stop building, there comes a devastating low that starts to leave tears burning behind your eyelids until your vision blacks out. Leon skillfully takes you by the hand, a villain in a knight’s shining armor, rolling that boulder up the hill, only to let it come tumbling down to the bottom before it can reach the peak, watching blankly as you crumble.
It happens three more times before you lose all bodily control, knees unable to hold you up anymore, and he rolls you on your back again, sweat leaving the sheets so wet they could be transparent, and at the same time, you can’t focus on anything other than what’s going on between your legs, details blurring in your sensory overload, the world around you fading into a peripheral existence, the thick smell of arousal in the air suffocating.
In this state of surrender and exquisite agony, the pleasure ebbs and flows, slowing down, maintaining the heat that just isn’t burning enough. Any resistance that once flickered within you has now faded, leaving you utterly surrendered to Leon’s will as he moves you around like a ragdoll to his liking, a leg thrown over his shoulder and the other spread wide by an iron grip seizing the back of your knee.
You’re about to break. You don’t know how many times it’s been. “Fuck, Leon, please, please just let me go, let me come, please, I can’t anymore, I can’t, I need to come, I’m gonna go insane—please, please!”
"You're gonna go insane? You don't know what insane is," he states with a low rasp in his voice, his words laced with a sadistic edge. "Should've been there yesterday to see me."
Whining in response, you manage to release a series of broken pleas. "No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, fuck, please stop, please!"
He doesn’t care. It’s like he’s made of stone.
The raw intensity in his gaze, the thin ring of blue around the black pool of his pupils threaten to swallow you whole as he props himself up above you, the muscles in his arms bulging and tight, veins prominent. “What are you sorry for?”
An apology is what he wanted from the start, and you no longer care about the reasons behind it. You’re well past dignity and shame, the desire to come overrides all rational thought that you think you would start jumping on his cock the moment he asked you to. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I apologize, okay, just, ugh…"
"You know, I don't think you need to come that badly," Leon snarls, his lips curving upwards in a cruel and cold smile. He raises himself onto his knees, distancing himself from your desperate reach.
"No!" you cry out, a high-pitched noise of denial. Your hand stretches out towards him, desperately grasping at empty air. "Wait! Wait! I do need to come, you can't do this to me, I can't—!"
But he ignores your calls, the smile having fallen into something blank again. "Just so you know, you asked for this." He swiftly undoes his belt, causing his trousers to fall around his narrow hips and then pool around his legs. "Don't be a baby and take it."
He turns away momentarily, allowing you to feast your eyes upon the carved muscles of his arms and back as he removes his shirt. Naked before you, his skin adorned by bruises and lighter-toned scars of old and new alike.
All of them, so attractive.
“Told you I was gonna make you understand.”
You don’t hear him. Not really. Your focus narrows solely on the figure of Leon looming just ahead like an incubus haunting your dreams. The sight of his glistening, pre-dripping cock the object of your attention, instilling a hunger within you that eclipses any concerns or inhibitions that might have lingered within your mind.
"And you don't even seem close to it yet.”
However, your desperate desire overpowers any semblance of understanding at this point. The unadulterated need for him, for his stretch in you, consumes your thoughts, leaving little room for comprehension.
Suddenly, Leon's strong fingers encircle your ankles, and with an unforgiving yank, he pulls you closer, drawing you beneath him. He nibbles on your calves, smoothing your ankles, staring you down, so fucking hot and sexy, before the weight of his body covers yours, and you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, intensifying the expectation that drums inside.
The swollen tip of his cock hovers at the entrance of your slick folds, teasing the threshold of pleasure. You brace yourself, preparing for the inevitable penetration and the sweet stretch that will follow. Yet, it eludes you, leaving you uncomfortably longing for his deep, satisfying intrusion.
Driven by desperation, you roll your hips upward, searching for the angle that will guide him inside you. Confusion dances at the edges of your consciousness as you struggle to comprehend the delay, unable to understand why he hasn't already plunged into you, fulfilling the ache that pulsates within your body.
It seems like you’ve forgotten again what game he was playing with you.
“Want something, sweet girl?” Leon gazes down at you with the shadow of a smirk, reveling in your writhing form beneath him. It's evident that he takes pleasure in this power dynamic, flourishes in the control he holds over your desires. Fucking asshole. How long is this going to continue? “I'm listening.”
Panting and needy, you respond with an indistinct whimper. “Please.”
But Leon refuses to let you off the hook easily. His demand is clear. “Yeah?”
Fuck this guy. Oh god.
“Leon, please,” you can’t stop the tremor in your voice, both from desperation and the building fury.
“I hear you. Tell me what you need.”
So he could deny you it again?
The widened smirk on his face matches the wickedness in his voice, it's as if he celebrates the torment of restating your hunger all the way back up, taunting you. “I won't know if you don't tell me.”
As the words “You. You. I need you, Leon, I want you. Inside me, please.” emerge, your voice a delicate, unplanned balance of pleading and exasperation, Leon's eyes light up, gleaming with a potent blend of pride and an urgent hunger that surpasses mere desire.
The look that graces his face is captivating, drawing you deeper into the vortex of intimacy that swirls between you as Leon offers a husky, excited affirmation, “There’s my girl.”
Without hesitation, he surges forward, impaling you with his throbbing cock, and you’re gone, not even in your body anymore.
The initial glide of his length penetrating your depths transports you to a realm of unparalleled ecstasy. Waves of sweet, electrifying ache surge through your being, igniting pleasure that radiates along every nerve ending. Your thighs quiver and strain as they envelop his hips, nearly overcome by the torrent of blazing heat that overflows from your core. The stretch burns and stings so fucking good.
“Fuck,” you hiss, nails scraping red lines down his back. “Just like that, please, yes, so good. Move. Please move!”
Unable to contain the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins, your body instinctively presses up against Leon's, breasts crushed against his chest, shockwaves from your nipples shooting straight to the pool filling up in your stomach, responding to his presence without conscious effort.
Displaying his infuriating control, Leon allows you a brief moment to squirm around his cock, savoring the desperate feeling of connection, and stills.
Your hands instinctively find purchase on his shoulders, yearning to keep him close, to maintain the blissful fusion. A chaste kiss to the corner of your jaw follows.
And then, with a force that leaves you gasping, he withdraws almost entirely, threatening to sever the connection you crave and perhaps walk away again and you’re fucking terrified. Panic stirs within, and your hands tighten their grip on his shoulders, desperately clinging to the pleasure he provides, his warmth, his presence. You don’t even realize your breathing has gotten frantic.
His gentleness peeks through the blinds, a twinkle in the night. “It’s okay, it’s okay, calm down, you’re okay. I’m not going anywhere. Shit,” he curses, coming down to capture your lips in a consoling, soft tangle for the first time that day, and it almost erases all the shit he pulled on you today.
Almost.
Without warning, Leon thrusts himself back in with an intensity that makes your mind spin. The brain-melting, reason-flaying pleasure that ravishes you in that moment is so riveting, so overwhelmingly good, that your vision darkens, the world falling away. It's as if the very cosmos bear witness to the electrifying union, as you swear you see novas, their brilliance shimmering in your obscured sight.
With unyielding determination, Leon continues his relentless assault, driving himself into you with harsh, deep thrusts that leave you breathless. The pace is unforgiving, hard and fast, each movement becoming a seismic wave of pleasure that crashes through your entire being. The intense sensations cascade, spreading from deep within, coiling tightly around your being like a snake, tightening the knot of bliss that constricts with every stroke.
You can feel the peak of your orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure on the precipice of eruption. In a desperate quest for completion, you arch your body, meeting each of his thrusts with an eagerness that borders on desperation.
He notices. Of course he does.
Leon's hips press deep into you, holding there in a maddening stillness. It's almost enough, a flick of your clit away, so close that you can taste it, imagine it.
He denies you.
Again.
It slips away like sand through your fingers, surfacing in an anguished sob that escapes your lips.
As tears stream down your face, they merge into fat blobs and flow in heavy currents, distorting your vision. The profound sense of loss tightens its grip on your body, overwhelming you to the point that you fear losing consciousness.
The intensity of everything building within you becomes a terrifying force, leaving you petrified of surrendering to it fully, as though it may make you disappear entirely. The trembling that envelopes you is no longer connected to pleasure; it is a tremor borne of fear and vulnerability.
Your body stiffens involuntarily, breaths coming in shallow and rapid puffs. The room spins around you, blurring into a chaotic mess. Your voice, shaky and filled with desperation, falters as you utter your safe word, the syllables escaping your lips like uncontrollable vomit. "Rookie...shit...rookie, I'm gonna pass out. No more. No more."
He’s out of you immediately, everything coming to a halt.
With genuine concern etched upon his face, Leon's voice pierces through the chaos, calling for you through the momentary ear ringing, but you can see his eyes now filled with compassion.
He’s back.
His strong arms wrap around you, providing a secure embrace as he takes in the depth of your distress. He holds your cheeks and checks on you,shaking you a bit he doesn’t get a response, and relaxes only when you nod, he leans in, peppering your tear-streaked face with soothing kisses, his tender gestures offering comfort and solace.
But your alarms rise that he might start again reflexively, and try to push him off, and he takes that hand in his, kissing your palm, your wrist, your fingers, slow and one by one, murmuring softly, tone tranquilizing. “No more, alright? No more. It’s over. You’re safe.”
Amidst the emotional turbulence, Leon's reassurance remains steadfast. "I got you. I got you, you're okay," he whispers softly, his voice a warm blanket enveloping you. His unyielding support gives you strength to navigate the overwhelming sensations that had consumed you moments ago. The affection, warmth against the ice you went through with him is so comforting. "You did so good, sweetheart. You were amazing. I’m so proud of you."
His praise resonates deep within, calming you down significantly, that his anger isn’t out to get you.
With a gentle touch, Leon encourages you to sit. He instinctively reaches for a glass of water on the side table, offering it to you with care. "Here, take a sip. It'll help," he murmurs, his tone filled with tenderness, communicating his desire to provide you with the necessary aftercare, allowing you to physically and emotionally recenter yourself.
Sitting behind you and taking you between his legs, Leon hugs you from behind, thick arms engulfing you in the safest of embraces, ensuring that you feel his presence as a steady support. His hands encircle your trembling shoulders, offering a reassuring hold. "Hold onto me. I'm right here," he murmurs, his voice a soothing melody amidst the residual chaos of your emotions.
He gets you to lean back against his chest, making you aware of how it puffs up and falls down. "Breathe with me, okay? C’mon, feel me breathe." His words act as a gentle guide, coaxing you toward a calmer state of being, unconsciously synchronizing your breaths with his. “There you go. Doing so well.”
The moment he feels you’re not digging your fingers into his forearm around your middle anymore, he whispers, “More water?”
Your throat is so dry. “Yes please.”
He doesn’t let you take the glass, bringing it to your lips himself insead. “Drink slow,” is a gentle order as your own hands wrap around the cup over his. “Anything you need? Bath? Shower?”
“I want to continue.”
“Are you sure?”
“I need to fucking come Leon, I can’t sleep today if you let me go like this.”
“Alright, okay. I did say anything you need. How do you want it?”
“Comfortable.”
“Wanna flip over? Here, hug these.” You’re handed a couple pillows to keep holding to prop your upper up a little, and he slips one underneath your hips, angling them in a comfortable position. “There. No need to lift your hips.”
You can just rest your head on the pillows like this, it’s designed to make you stay still. “You’ll lie on top of me?”
“I won’t crush you, don’t worry. Leave it to me. You can snooze a bit if you like.”
“Funny.”
Your eyes flutter closed as Leon lowers himself onto you, his weight pressing down on your lower half. He's careful not to push too hard or hurt you in any way. Instead, he holds himself above you, giving you space to breathe and relax. You feel his warmth emanating from him, the moisture of his breath fanning your nape, as he slowly settles over your body, making himself as close to you as possible. It's an intimate act that makes you flush with embarrassment, but you find yourself enjoying how secure and safe it makes you feel, the whole body pressing down on you is delectable, like some weighted blanket. You mewl into the pillows as he slips his cock in, not punishingly languid and calculated this time, but slow, gentle, and sweet.
“Comfortable?”
“Hmm,” you exhale.
As Leon begins to move inside you, you take a deep breath and hold tightly to the pillow beneath your cheek. His movements are deliberate and measured, not harsh not to toss you up the bed, each stroke sending waves through your entire body. You can feel your muscles being kneaded with desire as he works his magic between your legs.
"This feels so good," you hum, craning your neck as best as you can to try maintaining eye contact with him, to see how he’s doing.
Leon is holding back.
You hear a deep rumble coming from him, almost like a purring sound as he rolls his hips into you like gentle sea waves hitting the shore, you can feel him getting harder and swell inside, pulsing. His fingers gently caress your skin, tracing lines across your arms and shoulders before coming to sneak underneath your torso and loosely cup your throat. Slowly, he begins kissing and nibbling on the sensitive area behind your earlobe, sending shivers through your entire body. In response, you arch your back slightly, pushing against him in search of something you barely understand yet desperately crave, feeling the way the plane of his stomach spasms in rhythm with his thrusts.
Leon grasps your waist firmly, pulling you impossibly closer to him, rubbing himself along your curves until your whole body sings with sensation. This is it. This is nice, warm, rolling like ribbons of thick caramel. All at once, you feel like you are drowning in a syrup of desire and sweetness that seems impossible to escape. And yet, somehow, you never want out. For now, right here and nowhere else, all that matters is the soft touch of Leon's hand over yours, fingers lacing with your own, guiding you deeper into a world where only he exists.
“Feel like sleeping yet?”
“As if you ever let me sleep…” Can anyone be fucked into sleep when every single cell is alerted to this degree?
The hand around your throat travels up a little to tip your head back so the crown of your head can rest on his shoulder and he has better access to mark up your neck “Still wanna come, sweet girl?” He nips at the path along your jaw. “Be nicer to me.”
There’s no space left between you and the bed from his weight for him to stimulate your clit, so Leon goes for a position change, making you sigh in disappointment as he slips out of you for the moment.
Your heart leaps at how he combs his damp hair. He looks like a completely different person when his hair is slicked back, and it stays that way because of how wet the strands are from sweat.
Taking charge, Leon gets you to lie on your back, positioning your body in a way that maximizes comfort and intimacy. He gently guides one of your legs to extend straight while bending the other at the knee, lifting it up for ease of access. With careful precision, he positions himself alongside you, lying on his side.
Drawing you closer, he slips his hand under your head, creating a makeshift pillow of support. His arm bends at the elbow, allowing his hand to rest on your breast, his touch gentle and attentive. The warmth of his body pressed against yours generates a sense of security and closeness, and you can reach to cling to his nape and kiss him like this.
His other hand finds its place on the thigh of your bent leg, providing stability and further fostering a sense of connection. His left leg aligns itself along the length of your extended leg, while his right leg is carefully positioned, pushed in between your lifted leg, cock nestled against your pussy, his hips restless, grinding against you.
“Ready?”
He actually lets you grind back, and you can cry from relief. “Yeah.”
“I’ll go slow.”
“Just make me come, please.”
As he releases his hold on your breast, his hand rises to gently tip your chin, guiding your focus back to him. His warm lips meet yours in a languid, passionate kiss, expressing the depth of his desire. Slowly and deliberately, he eases himself into you, letting you feel every inch of his girth and length. The sensations overwhelm you, and your moan mingles with his as pleasure blossoms between you.
His little whiny grunt does something to the ache in your stomach. “Doesn’t feel great to be left hanging, does it?”
“No, no, fuck," You're refusing, but a roll of his hips manage to hit a good spot inside you, and the thought is an aborted prompt in your head. "Yeah, right there…” You open your eyes to find him drinking your bliss in, and remember what you were going to say. “I’m sorry, ah, god, I’m so sorry.” You manage between gasps and moans, your vulnerability and remorse mingling with the intense pleasure. “I was just drunk and I didn’t want to talk—”
In the heat of the moment, Leon's hand skillfully navigates your body, moving downward to the sensitive area where you're connected. His touch expertly pulls up the hood of your clit, allowing his middle finger to press against it with unwavering pressure, all the while continuing his thrusts into your wetness. His question suggests he'll only move if he gets the answer he wants from you. "Will you do that to me again?"
Your hands fly to his forearm, an instinctive response to keep him exactly where he is, lost in the throes of pleasure. "No. No, never, never again," you assert, begging.
With a hint of satisfaction, Leon acknowledges your response, affirming your words with admiration. "Yeah? What will you do, then?" he groans, low and needy. The electricity between you lingers in the air, everything reeks of sex, humid and hot, charged with a sense of possessiveness and mutual longing.
Leaning into the pleasure coursing through your body, you find it difficult to form coherent words, but manage to respond. "Gonna answer all your calls," Your gasp cracks with a particularly strong thrust. "Stay saf-e!"
With his fingers still expertly circling your sensitive, hardened nub, fulfilling your desires, spoiling you with what you need, Leon finally gives in to his own need. He devours your lips in desperate, sloppy kisses, immersing you in the chaos of passion. Breathless and lost in a haze of pleasure, he shares fragmented sentences in between the urgent connection of your mouths. The mingling of your sighs and gasps intertwines. "Just need you to be safe," he murmurs, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and longing. "Need to know you're okay. Don't leave me out like that — don't — fuck, fuck, fuck!" He bites back a grunt that threatens to become a high-pitched moan. You feel him shudder. "You take it so well, so fucking perfect for me," he downright growls. “Shit, I’m close.”
His voice, accompanied by rapid panting, is raw and husky. “I’m right here sweet girl. Come for me. You need it, don’t you? You’ve been dying for it all night. Break. Come all over my cock. Give it to me—ah god!”
The overwhelming intensity of the moment makes it impossible for you to form coherent words in response. Instead, hold onto him for an anchor in this hurricane as every fiber of your being vibrates, coming close to something, rising, close, close—.
When release finally washes over you, it's a torrential wave that transcends your wildest expectations. The pleasure explodes, the light shining first and the sound spilling forth afterwards, blasting your senses in a cacophony of rippling ecstasy. The experience is chaotic and overwhelming, all the more devastating from having been built up for so long.
As the waves of pleasure ebb and flow through your body, you wait for a moment of respite, hoping that the intensity will gradually subside. However, to your surprise, Leon's rocking maintains the pace, pushing deep into you without slowing down. Your attempts to get away from the overstimulation is vain, as the intensity only escalates. Pleasure intertwines with a sense of urgency and biting, sensitive ache, leaving you unable to catch your breath, unable to control the uninhibited and primal sounds escaping from your lips.
The fullness takes on a new dimension. The line blurs between whether this is a second orgasm or if your initial release has never truly ceased. The pleasure is heightened, potent, whetted, cutting, and you’re lost in the abyss of ecstasy that keeps dragging you down, you’re convulsing around his length uncontrollably.
In this overwhelming state of sensory overload, you cry out Leon's name, mingling with whimpers and moans, meanwhile, undeterred by your sensitivity, Leon relentlessly continues with his powerful strokes, chasing his own peak, ending up making you slide toward the edge of the bed with one final, powerful ram, then he bursts into you, his shout strangled, and it feels as if the moment stretches out indefinitely, his body winded like taut wire and heaving beside you, release seemingly endless, shuddering gasps rattling his ribcage.
After what feels like an eternity, Leon finally stills, his body collapsing. And he pulls you into a hug with post-orgasmic trembling hands, and breathes into your hair as you bask in the afterglow.
Leon's affectionate gesture leaves a path of mellowness in its wake, and you find yourself leaning into the softness of the moment. His lips part from yours, but instead of pulling away abruptly, he lingers for a moment, his breath mingling with yours. “I’ll be right back.” And this time, when he pulls away, it’s not anxiety-inducing that he’ll leave you hanging, and you can relax.
As you lie there, wrapped in the comforting cocoon of warmth and post-coital heaven, the world around you blurs and fades at the edges, you can’t keep your eyes open to wait for Leon, but keep fighting the pull of sleep as it gently tugs at your consciousness. Every fiber of your being craves the soothing embrace of slumber, and you end up surrendering to the honeyed drowsiness.
A gentle blink and Leon is there again, his caring eyes fixed upon you, looking so, so young. In his hands, he holds a warm, damp towel, and you watch with a mix of admiration and affection as he moves with fluid grace to gently wipe you down. His hands look like they’ve been made to handle stranger violences, but they are tamed for you. With every tender stroke, he murmurs quiet praise and affection, his voice a soft caress that wraps around you like a warm blanket, and you drift off listening to the velvet smoothness.
You begin to stir, not knowing how much time has passed, slowly awakening from your deep sleep, when you become aware of gentle movements and moving about nearby. As you open your eyes and rub the lethargy away, you find the door of the bathroom that adjoins your bedroom open, the aroma of fragrant bath oils filling the air. The soft glow of candles casts flickering shadows that are visible from where you are, creating a serene ambiance that envelops you.
Leon comes into view, standing by the bathtub, somehow able to tell right away you woke up, a caring smile playing on his lips. He has taken the time to prepare a luxurious bath for you, filling the tub with warm water and adding petals that float delicately on the surface. The room is filled with a sense of tranquility as he pours some scented bath oils and swirls them into the water, their fragrance enveloping the space.
“You’re up. Morning, night owl. Rest well?” As Leon strides toward you with a towel hanging from his hips, the steam from the bath clings to his glistening, bare upper body. Your eyes instinctively drink in the sight of him, as if they can never grow accustomed to the sheer beauty in front of you. His presence is a work of art, his form seemingly sculpted from the smoothest marble, exuding an aura of strength and grace.
You sit up, the soreness pulling at your muscles, vagina basically weeping with ache. A good kind. “I slept like a log. I wish I never woke up, though. Ouch.”
There’s nothing apologetic in his hoarse laugh.
Your gaze roams his physique, appreciating every chiseled detail, never tiring of the sight. The way his biceps bulge in the sleeves of his clothing, or the way the fabric stretches over the expanse of his chest, captivates your attention endlessly.
“Prepared you a bath.” Gently, he extends his hand, inviting you to join him in the soothing embrace of the tub. “Hopefully that’ll help. Need a ride?”
You allow him to princess carry you, blushing like a schoolgirl, feeling the warm water caress your skin as he lowers you into its embrace. The groan that comes out of you is sinful.
Leon unravels the towel around his hips and slips right behind you, legs bracketing yours, careful your lower half doesn’t touch his but you can lean back to his chest, presence exuding a sense of serenity and comfort. Leaning against the smooth tub's edge, he reaches out with tenderness, slowly taking a washcloth and soaping it up. With delicate motions, he begins to wash your body above the water, his touch almost lulling you to sleep once more..
He breaks the silence, planting a kiss at the crown of your head. "This feels nice, doesn't it?" he murmurs, his words carrying a warmth that matches the water surrounding you.
You nod, relishing in the intimate connection forged by this simple act of tenderness. "Yes, it does," you reply softly, gratitude filling your voice. “Thank you, Leon.”
He hums in response. You can feel the soft smile on his lips when he presses a delicate kiss against the nape of your neck, leaving a lingering warmth that resonates through your entire being.
You don’t know what the hell this is.
But you want all of it.
“Ashley isn’t like you to me.”
God, you could evaporate from shame and make the water boil over. He remembers you going off on him because of that. Oh no.
His chin rests atop your head, drawing you closer. “I was tasked to save her when she was kidnapped—”
“Hold. Hold.” You twist around to look at him, the water around you rippling, petals swimming. “What do you mean you were tasked to?”
He answers like it’s a road trip for a festival to the next state. “I was sent to Spain for that. On a mission.”
“Mission.” You’re searching for any sign of being fucked with. Leon looks weary all of a sudden, jaded, zoning off, it’s like the circles under his eyes deepen to show you. “Like. An agent?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re an agent? Like a federal agent or a secret agent?”
“A special one.”
“Oh, fuck.” The pieces fall into place. His skilfulness in fighting, his built body, the scars and bruises renewed between absences, the inability to relax and just be in crowds. The White House. PTSD. Nightmares. You had an inkling. Just thought he was a bodyguard with an obvious military background, though. Never would have thought it went as deep as this. You sink a bit into the water. “So that was it.”
He gets you to lean on him again, wrapping his arms around you, perhaps, seeking comfort.
He’s spilling all the beans, there’s no reason not to probe further, albeit with care for what would be a sensitive topic for him. “So she was kidnapped?”
One arm draped under your arm, coming up to hold onto your shoulder, Leon’s fingers begin tracing shapes into your skin, his other elbow is propped up against the side of the tub, wrist resting on his bent knee. “Yeah.”
“They sent you? What, like some one man army superhero?” His chest lowly rumbles with a laugh. “Oh my god, you’re serious? That’s what you do?”
“You knew before you came to me.”
“I had theories, but… Spy stuff? For real?”
He hesitates before answering, forehead nestling on your shoulder and nuzzling. “Not spy stuff. I work with bioterrorism.”
Your mind is rapidly trying to generate information and remember global events. “Bioterrorism… Like. Like, in Terragrigia? Monsters? Zombies?”
“And those who make them,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“Oh, damn… That sounds tough… I’m sorry.” You have no idea whatsoever how to respond to that. It’s so heavy that it hangs heavier than the steam in the bathroom, and he sounds thoroughly spent just by talking about it —
“Don’t be. I’m trained for it.”
But he still gets hurt. You see him hurt all the damn time. Miserable and sleepless and depressed.
“Stop getting sad, please?” Leon kisses your neck, adoring, damp hair making you ticklish. “I promise, it’s all fine.”
You can’t stop thinking about it. And you just heard of this now. You’ll never be able to sleep sound the way you did oblivious to the world ever again. “It’s not fine.”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
“You fight monsters. How can you say that? I know it’s wearing you down—”
You can’t see his face, but know he’s smiling to reassure you despite the fact. Tired. Tired. “That’s just how it is. Every field comes with its baggage. I’m okay. I have you.”
Oh, that’s… That’s big, actually. Your face heats up. Saying that is nothing to him, but hearing it is enough to make you jittery.
You allow your logic to carry you to the blatant conclusion to get away from the feeling, playing with one particular petal in your grasp. “All of that is confidential, I assume.”
Water sloshes around as he bends his other knee up as well. “Very. That’s why they got rid of that one guy who came after Operation Javier.”
Your movements still. He’s talking about the senior you’ve looked up to and came across the legacy of after his suicide.
A shiver shakes you. Leon hugs you tighter. It was suicide.
Suicide.
Got rid of?
They killed him? The government?
“Does… does that mean, if I—”
He’s short in his answer, like he doesn’t want to talk about this out of all things he’s revealed. “Yes.”
Your first encounter with Leon replays in your head. It was in a playful and straightforward meaning you’d taken the, ‘You know how this ends’ icebreaker, he was fucking talking about being offed? “So, you saved me?”
His answer is more unsettling. “I helped reroute you.”
All this time, his subtle meddling and intervening to guide your attention to other fields were to keep you from getting killed and not out of flirtily invested interest?
Oh, god.
“You saved me. I could have died.”
He’s not particularly grateful to receive your thanks. “You’re welcome.”
You’re still imagining things. All the ways they could have set up a self-inflicted death on you. You push out a whooping sigh. “Holy shit—”
“Hey. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” His hold is grounding and safe, and he means what he says, talking like some goddamned hero and you actually feel somewhat okay. “Nobody knows you were looking into it.”
“No found hanging at home headlines for me… Yay…”
He tilts your head to stare you in the eye, the intense, determined look eliciting butterflies in your tummy. “Don’t be scared. Seriously, I’m here. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll protect you.”
You blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Like Ashley?”
Leon kisses the tip of your nose. “I don’t think of her in the way you think I do. We’re not like that.”
You’re positive you can’t hide the way you perk up at that. “Would have been crappy of you to ask me for dinner if you were.”
He’s supposed to laugh at you, but it doesn’t come. “Yeah. Dinner…” There’s a brief silence. “So, when do we go?”
He has some absurd, untimely, irrelevant responses to things sometimes.
“We’re talking about dinner, really? I just confirmed you were a monster-fighting super agent and two whole years suddenly make sense and you’re talking to me about dinner?”
“...Do you want to go or not?”
“I want Indian food.”
v. With coffee cups in hand, the warmth of the beverages provides a welcome contrast to the cool morning air, and you and Leon stroll along the sidewalks, enjoying the chorus of chirping birds. The city is still relatively quiet, with only a few passersby hurrying along, and you cling to the serenity of the moment shared with him. You don’t expect Leon to surprise you with a steaming cup of coffee after leaving you alone for a few minutes, the aroma of roasted beans wafting up to your senses. "Here, your favorite," he says, handing you the cup.
"Thanks," you say, taking a sip of your coffee, which is sweetened and creamed to your liking.
Leon, however, raises an eyebrow playfully. "Sweet as dessert, huh?" he teases.
You grin, knowing that he prefers his coffee black and strong. "Well, I like a little sweetness in my mornings."
“Poor choice in companion today, then.”
“Oh, shut up,” you grimace while smiling, hitting him lightly on the side.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the crisp scent of the city, creating a comforting ambiance, and as you sip on your morning coffee, you relish the warmth of the cup in your hands and Leon's presence next to you. He is still wrinkling his nose at your choice of drink but silently enjoying the simple pleasure of walking together in the early morning light. The quiet intimacy between you two feels cozy, and you are almost tempted to reach for his hand, but something holds you back. The moment feels delicate, and you don't want to disturb the magic that surrounds you, wary of him still.
As you reach the metro station, the automated announcement chimes, indicating that the next train is about to arrive. You quickly finish your coffee, savoring the last sweet sips, while Leon looks on with amusement-hid fondness.
"Just in time," he says, glancing at the approaching train, deeply contemplating something, the wind coming from the train making his blond hair dance in the air.
The station is still relatively empty, with only a few early risers waiting for the train. You hug Leon tightly, not wanting the morning to end just yet, well aware you’re giving him mixed signals.
But this time, it’s different. This time, you know he wants this.
"I had a great time," you whisper, looking into his eyes.
His e cups your cheek, thumb gliding over your cheekbone. "Me too."
He is thinking again, staring at you in that kind of way, and his gaze shifts to your mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing. You step inside the train, and share awkward waves with him despite being an arm’s reach from each other.
About ten seconds before the doors begin to close, Leon leans in, capturing your lips in a tender, lingering kiss, licking outside your lips. Your heart misses a beat, the surroundings fading into the background as the moment feels suspended in time. “Too sweet. As expected.”
So he just wanted to taste your coffee—?
Then, with a soft yet confident voice, he says, "I love you. Have a nice day," barely audible over the train's announcements.
You freeze.
Huh?
But before you can respond, the doors close shut, leaving you dumbly staring at him smiling beautifully through the glass, and the metro lurches forward, leaving you shell-shocked, heart pounding, and narrowly able to keep your balance. You clutch a pole nearby for support, your mind reeling with the revelation that has just unfolded, the bombshell he’s just dropped on you.
As the metro picks up speed, you press your hand to your lips, still tingling from the unexpected kiss — from the confession.
His frame is getting smaller, his face giving way to something vulnerable as he watches you quickly drift away with the train, as if he has just set free a piece of himself he had kept guarded for so long.
Too sweet. As expected.
He was! He was—!
You remember the words of the lady in red just then. Think about it carefully. How do you want this to end?
summary: A marriage built upon convenience, marked by unspoken tensions and subtle moments of connection, where silence fills the spaces more than conversation. Every little touch seems to blur the invisible lines, and the question remains: how much can be said without words and what happens when you finally find the courage to speak?
A story of two lonely people learning to live together.
series word count: 29.5K
tags: angst, smut, marriage of convenience, strangers to spouses, grief/mourning, depictions of depression and anxiety, touch-starved leon (kinda), a bit of fluff, non-linear timeline, mentions of canon-typical violence, alcohol and cigarette consumption, p in v, minor original character, minor character death, jealous leon, pet names, unprotected p in v smut, no use of y/n
my soul to keep ♡ vampire!leon kennedy x virgin!reader
nsfw (18+) - minors. dni or i will call ur mom. and also the cops
word count: 6.4k
tags/warnings: romantic vampire leon, virgin/innocent f!reader, leon turns reader into a vampire, some religious allegory, bloodplay (obviously), gravedigging, some gory descriptions but not a whole lot, one instance of overeating (reader's learning, leave her alone </3), manipulation kinda, praise, fingering, p in v, creampie
description: leon creeps into your village at night for a quick drink, only to find himself infatuated with an angel like you. it's a good thing he possesses the means to preserve you for himself.
a/n: yes this is the vampire leon fic i started like a year ago don't look at me <33 i'm just proud of myself for getting it finished before halloween this year AAAAAAAA
divider by @saradika-graphics !!!!
my masterlist ♡
my ao3 ♡
fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ;w;
-venus ♡
The last time Leon remembered feeling this alive, well… he was still living, and that was a long time ago. When lonely and undead as long as Leon has been, it can be difficult to show restraint upon first contact with anything that evokes such emotion.
But he did, for a while. You were just too cute, he thought as he stood over your slumbering body that first night. It wasn’t something he liked to make a habit of, but a light hunting season for him meant starvation through the winter, and he didn’t have much choice but to go wandering into the nearby little village for a quick bite to eat.
Until he found you.
You looked like a cherub sleeping there in your plush little bed, buried beneath a quilt he could only assume you made yourself. Precious, fragile. You looked especially fragile.
And humans are so fragile, he thought. You smelled so sweet, it made his teeth ache just standing there staring at you without acting upon his festering need to sate his appetite, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t want to scare you, or worse, lose control of himself and kill you.
He wandered silently around your little cottage in hopes of learning more about you. It was tidy but lived in, well-kept in a way that made him think you were probably a good homemaker. Your old leather boots sat by the door, dirtied by years of garden work and general wear. There was a little handmade ceramic candle holder on your bedside table, the candle in it burned nearly down to the base, and he wondered if maybe you’d held onto it because the piece was sentimental to you. Carefully arranged bouquets of flowers were strung together and hung up above the cracked window, likely to dry them out and preserve them.
And suddenly he realized that maybe he would like to preserve a flower for himself.
He couldn’t allow himself to feed from anyone in your village that night. If word spread around about a vicious animal attack or some other form of brutality, it would only hinder his ability to ultimately get to you, and he couldn’t risk that. Weak and delirious and ravenously hungry as he was, Leon forced himself to bid you adieu and stalk off into the night, back to his crumbling old castle in the middle of the woods… but not before leaving you a gift.
His gift. The gift.
Your lips parted in a dreamy sigh as you slept, rolling over onto your back. He admired your face for a moment before he couldn’t take it anymore— if he didn’t leave now, you were going to become dinner, and he couldn’t have that. Hastily, he bit down on the meat of his palm and squeezed, watching as his old crimson blood bubbled up to the surface, and then he held it up over you.
Drip. Right between your rosy, plush lips. Even in your slumber your face scrunched up at the foreign taste, your heavy arm coming up to swipe at yourself like you were just trying to get your hair out of your eyes.
And just like that, he was gone, having taken his leave through the very same open window that gave him the idea.
He wasn’t a monster, of course. He kept an eye on you as you experienced the very same pain he felt decades ago.
The next day, you woke up later than usual feeling quite lousy. Your whole body was sore and weighty and, reasonably enough, you chalked it up to poor form while tending your garden the day before. It was an easy mistake to make from time to time, after all. But as the day dragged on, you only felt worse, so you retired to bed right after supper that evening.
The day after that, you woke up in the early afternoon feeling awful. Your head was screaming with a migraine and your heart was beating slow and hard in your chest. You were sweating and shaking and could barely even open your eyes because the light hurt so bad. A friend stopped in to check on you after noticing how late of a start to the day you were getting, and almost as soon as she stepped in the door, she was rushing back out to the apothecary, begging the village healer to come check on you.
The village healer loaded you up with tricks and tinctures and anything she could think of to break your fever or at least ease your pain. Dried herbs and poppyseeds and fungus ground up in the mortar and pestle, the paste slathered under your nose, on the bottoms of your feet, steeped into tea that was too hot for you to drink. None of it worked. At a loss for advice to give, the village healer urged you to drink plenty of water and rest, and to quarantine yourself. Couldn’t risk passing whatever you had to the rest of the community.
You woke up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night and didn’t even have time to throw your quilt aside as you doubled over the side of your bed and vomited. This continued for a few moments until you could barely breathe, tears dripping from your eyes as your face reddened with strain and you inwardly resented yourself, knowing you would have to drag your sick body out of bed to clean up the mess you’d just made. You struck a match and lit the candle at your bedside and hesitantly peered down to survey the damage, only to be met with the image of your beautiful wooden floors drenched in blood. Reaching up to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand yielded the same result.
As you stared at your own blood in horror, Leon stared at you in adoration from the other side of the window. For a moment your bleary eyes caught on the glass and he wondered if you saw him, but if you did, you didn’t react.
Even at a distance he could hear your heartbeat continuing to weaken. Soon enough you would be just like him, a beautiful preserved flower, and better yet, you couldn’t be harmed. You wouldn’t change, you wouldn’t grow, you wouldn’t die.
Although your village certainly thought you did. It was a dreary, overcast day when the village healer decided to stop in and check on you, only to find you completely lifeless and splattered with blood where you laid. She had to be the one to break it to your family that you had lost your battle with whatever illness plagued you. Leon watched from the shadows as your father lifted your limp, blood-soaked body from your bed and held you close, sobbing, hesitating to admit to himself that you were gone.
By the end of the afternoon, as the sun went down and the drizzling rain refused to let up, the entire village was standing over your grave, watching you get lowered into the soft, soggy ground.
Once everyone had paid their respects, Leon watched them all retreat to share a drink in your honor, hushed whispers revealing just how unsettled everyone was by your untimely demise. You were so young, they said, so bright and healthy and undeserving of your fate. They wondered what it meant for themselves, and only Leon knew it didn’t mean anything at all. Your illness wasn’t going to spread because he had what he wanted now, and that was you.
As soon as the final candle was blown out for the night, Leon took a shovel from your garden and began to dig, the metal piercing easily through the soaked earth until it revealed the handmade box you’d been laid to rest in. He popped the top off and looked at you, your arms still crossed delicately over your chest with a beaded rosary tucked beneath your palms, a pale flower in your hair. Your family didn’t need to know they’d be spending the rest of their lives praying over an empty coffin in the ground.
Leon scooped you up into his arms, cleaned up after himself and set off into the woods with you clutched to his chest like a princess.
It was a few days before you finally roused. Leon had barely taken his eyes off of you the entire time you slept, and admittedly, he was a bit grateful it had taken you so long, for your own sake. He watched over you and cared for you as the last of your body heat drained out and your fangs descended behind your lips. From what he remembered, that was the most painful part of the transformation, and you were lucky to have slept through the worst of it.
When your eyes finally shot open, he could barely contain his excitement. In one swift movement you sat up on the couch, bringing one hand up to clutch at your pounding head, the other massaging your sore jaw as your worried eyes darted around the room to drink in your surroundings. Then and only then did your gaze finally land on Leon.
The fright and confusion on your face were evident. He knew you would have a lot of questions, and he was prepared to answer them.
“There you are, darling,” he greeted you warmly, the first words he’d ever spoken to you. “How are you feeling?”
"W-Where am I?" You rasped, throat sore and shot from vomiting up blood the other day. Once your new condition fully set in, you would heal, but for now you were still a touch miserable. "Who are you?"
“I’m Leon,” he was gentle in introducing himself, taking your cold, shaking hand in his own so he could brush a polite kiss over your knuckles, “and this is your new home.”
You blinked slowly at him, brows furrowed as you mulled over what he meant, and you came up short. Tears welled up in your bloodshot eyes and you hesitated for a moment before asking him a question you were afraid to know the answer to; “Am I… Did I die?”
Leon wasn’t quite sure how to answer that at first. He imagined that question being posed much later in the conversation, so it sort of caught him off guard. He took a breath and then replied gently, “Something like that, yes.”
“Huh?”
“Shh, don’t worry,” he whispered, kneeling on the floor beside the couch so he could get on your level, his cold, pale fingers tracing gently over your lifeless skin. “You’re safe, your family is safe, your village is safe. I’m just here to take care of you, my beloved, to guide you in this tricky space between life and death. Do you trust me?”
Strangely enough, you did-- or, rather, you felt compelled to.
But that didn’t make the implications of your condition any easier on you. You were such a frightened little lamb, your cheeks hollowing and your eyes glowing like rubies and your skin tone taking on more and more of a pallid quality by the day as you refused to feed. He knew you would have some difficulty with this at first— after all, you were just far too sweet to kill anything— but he also knew you would only become weaker and more agitated if you continued to starve, and perhaps more grim, you would remain stuck in this odd limbo between death and vampirism.
He tried everything he could think of. You wouldn’t drink animal blood, from the body or in a glass, and you certainly refused human blood in either form too. Every time he broached the topic of sating your hunger you would cower away from him and shake your head, eyes screwed shut as you continued to deny the reality of your situation. Starvation brought forth only misery, that much Leon knew, misery and longing and weakness and worse, everything he didn’t want for you.
For two weeks you pushed back on the topic, insisting that if you couldn’t truly die, you would rather starve than take the life of another. As much as it pained him to see you this way, Leon appreciated that you could be so stubborn about your morals. He just wished it wouldn’t come at the cost of your own well-being.
He left you at the castle one night to go hunting himself. It wasn’t often he’d stumble into humans in these woods, especially during the winter, but he hoped he would get lucky for himself anyway. Leon burned a few hours stalking through the trees and all he had to show for it when he returned home was a few small animals that wouldn't last him more than two light meals, but it was better than nothing, he thought.
Then he stepped through the creaking castle doors and his nose perked up to the familiar rich scent of human blood-- thick and heady in the air, cloyingly sweet and indulgent. Intoxicated by it for the moment, it didn’t really dawn on him immediately what that meant… until he followed the scent from the foyer to the living room and found you.
You were on your knees in front of the fireplace, hunched over the writhing body of the village healer, her eyes wide and glassy as she choked out gurgled sounds of agony and clawed weakly at you to let her go. You didn’t even seem to notice Leon as he entered the room, a concerned grimace on his face, though it was accompanied by a tangible sense of relief that you were finally feeding.
“Sweetheart,” he said lowly, causing you to blink with confusion and look up at him through your lashes, the poor village healer’s carotid still clenched tightly between your teeth. “Easy now, you’ll make yourself sick.”
Your brows furrowed and you bit down a little bit harder, siphoning out a few final greedy gulps from the woman before dropping her from your grasp, your eyes still trained on Leon as her weak body flopped limply to the floor. His eyes softened with empathy as he looked you over, gore dribbling down your chin and the front of your white dress, your stomach puffy like an engorged tick. Now that you weren’t feeding anymore it would seem you made the same realization he had, the fog of desire clearing in your brain to make room for the shame and discomfort. With a soft whimper, you reached for him with both arms outstretched, but otherwise didn’t move.
Leon gave you a nod of understanding before scooping you up into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he carried you out of the parlor. “My poor baby,” he sighed softly, “It gets easier, I promise. I’m so proud of you.”
He ran a hot bath for you and left you to soak for a while as he got to work cleaning up the mess you’d made. The village healer was barely clinging to what remained of her life, and while he was extremely tempted to nurse her back to health and keep her around to continue feeding on, he knew it would hurt you. He could already tell you hated yourself for victimizing her in the first place, the very same woman who’d tried so hard to save your life just weeks ago and who was responsible for ensuring the health of the entire village, which included your friends and family.
So he mopped up the blood, bottled what he could and wrapped her wounds to the best of his ability before compelling her to forget, dumping her just at the edge of the trees outside the village so someone would find her in the morning.
When he returned again, tired and dirtied from hauling an unconscious woman through the woods on your behalf, you were still relaxing in the tub. The water was tinted pink from all the blood and you still looked a bit swollen in the middle, but the color was returning to your skin and the expression on your face was one of such complete exhaustion that he wasn’t sure if you were actually conscious at first, until your gaze fluttered up to meet his.
Leon let out a deep, sweet sigh, sitting on the bench beside the porcelain clawfoot bath as he took your hand in his and whispered, “What am I going to do with you, huh?”
“I-I’m sorry,” you said just as quietly, bottom lip quivering as you continued to drift back down from your blood-induced daze. “I d-didn’t want to h-hurt her…”
“Shh, shh, I know, darling,” his other hand came forward to pet gently through your wet hair. “She’s going to be alright, I made sure of that. But this can’t happen again, okay? I’ll help you get control of your urges, I promise, but you have to listen to me.”
You were nodding along as he spoke, clutching his hand and shivering in the hot bath. Even transformed you were still fragile. Leon wanted nothing more than to care for you like the fine china you were.
It was fun watching you learn how to walk, so to speak. You were like a baby deer, taking careful steps and looking back at him for reassurance after each one, like his guidance was all you could think to cling to. While your gingerly approach to things was incredibly endearing, he loved watching you grow to love your new abilities with an innocent sense of excitement that he hadn’t seen in a long time, not in himself or in anyone else, really.
You’d taken to exploring the rafters and the view of things from the ceiling, leaving the candles in your room unlit all night just so you could bask in how odd and cool it felt to see so well in the dark. It scared the moonlight out of him every time, when he would scour every inch of the castle in search of you just to find you perched criss-cross on the ceiling, lost in a lengthy novel in a pitch black room.
But he would never scold you, never tell you ‘no.’ In his mind that was a very important lesson for you to learn, one that would open you up to endless possibilities and happiness in an otherwise bleak state of consciousness.
So, when your small voice chimed in from the parlor ceiling one night and startled him more than he’d like to admit, and you asked him a deceptively simple question– “What now?”-- he knew exactly how he wanted to respond.
“Indulge,” he said just as simply, sitting calmly down on the chaise lounge to look up at you, hanging from the rafters by your knees. “Let me ask you this. What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”
You took pause, humming in thought for a moment. All your life you were never much of a forward thinker because you didn't really have to be. You lived your little old life moment by moment, taking extra special care to appreciate the here and now. You had good friends, a loving family, a beautiful community, food on your plate and a warm bed to return home to every night. That didn’t leave you wanting for much.
Finally, you spoke shyly, "I guess I always wanted to fall in love."
It was so quiet, if he was still human, he wouldn’t have heard you. But he wasn’t, and he did. The corner of his lip tugged up into an endeared and somewhat amused expression, baring the sharp edge of his right canine.
Leon adjusted his posture, sinking back into the couch to gaze up at you, trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking between your legs where your upside-down position left your skirt flipped up nearly to your waist. He cleared his throat softly and cooed, “You poor thing, you’ve never loved before?”
Your face burned and you avoided his eyes, stretching your arms out toward the floor just to give yourself something to do. “N-No,” you began, smoothing your skirt out over your thighs just to watch it ride up again. With a short huff of breath you pulled yourself back up into a normal sitting position on the rafters, staring up at the ceiling. “I guess I just never had the chance.”
“What, not enough fish in your little pond?” He teased, quirking an eyebrow at you.
You laughed, appreciating the way he eased the tension, but he wasn’t exactly wrong. “I mean, yeah, the dating pool made for a better puddle.”
“I figured as much.”
A comfortable silence blanketed over the parlor, broken only by the gentle crackling of the fireplace. You swung your feet idly back and forth, watching the warm flame as you asked aloud, “So… What does it feel like, then?”
“What does what feel like?” He responded, but he knew what you meant. He just wanted to hear you say it.
“Y’know…” You kicked your frilly socked feet, “Love?”
“Well, sweetheart, that’s quite a broad question,” Leon began, patting the space next to him in an attempt to beckon you down from the rafters, and to his delight, the gesture succeeded. You dropped gracefully to the ground and fixed your skirt before curling up beside him on the other side of the couch, your legs tucked up beneath you. You couldn’t possibly be more adorable if you tried.
As you situated yourself at his side, he continued, “There are many different kinds of love. You love your family, and you love your friends, but you don’t love your family in the same way you love your friends, and vice versa. Correct?"
He watched your expression for a moment to ensure you were following along, and surely enough, you were. Your posture was relaxed but you remained dutifully at attention, just like a good little doll should.
Leon felt a pang of pride when you nodded.
“It’s the same thing, just a different kind of love. I’m not sure I know how to describe it, really,” he said, tracing his fingertips along your knee casually. “But I could show you?”
“Show me?” Your head tilted with that innocent curiosity he loved so much about you, and his heart melted all over again. “Show me how?”
He said something lowly and it took you a second to register it because right after, he took your chin in his hand and drew you in for a kiss. Only after your lips collided did your brain recognize his words as, ‘Like this.’
With one hand cradling the back of your head and the other still tracing little shapes on your leg, Leon’s embrace felt all-consuming and overwhelmingly safe. Through it all, you really did trust him. Your fangs knocked together as he pulled you closer to deepen the kiss, making your head spin and your brows furrow in concentration. It felt incredible, unlike anything you’d ever experienced before, but the nerves kept you tense and you couldn’t help but fear you were doing a poor job.
So you let him lead. You resigned yourself to the feeling of his cold lips on your own and his tongue exploring your waiting mouth, his broad hands keeping you pressed against him and feeling slowly up the length of your thigh. His touch made you shiver and tingle in unfamiliar but exhilarating ways and when he eventually pulled away, you were left panting for breath and wanting for more.
He watched your face in an attempt to gauge how you were feeling, and it was evident you enjoyed it. Leon felt a rush knowing he had effectively just turned a new leaf in your training.
You had finally learned to walk. Now it was time for you to sprint.
Leon brushed your hair away from your shoulder, baring your neck to him. He’d waited so long for this moment, for the chance to sink his teeth into you. He wished he could have tasted you fresh, when you were still living, but he would settle for the alternative, and truthfully, it didn't even feel like settling. Especially not when your syrupy sweet blood hit his tongue and pulled a deep, guttural moan from the core of him, his pearlescent eyes rolling back in a display of momentarily mindless rapture. It was unexpectedly hot to see him react to you in such a way. No one had ever expressed such intense need for you, and you were so hung up on it that you barely noticed your thighs subtly shifting together.
But Leon was observant as ever, of course, the movement in no way making it past his keen attention-- you were too precious, too virginal for your own good. He wanted to ruin you, he wanted to tear you apart piece by piece and savor you like holy communion, to pump your undead heart with his own two hands until the end of time, his beautiful baby, his fragile little doll, his corpse bride, his darling and beloved consort.
You were both gasping for breath as he pulled away from your throat, remnants of your tart cherry blood smudged around his pallid lips. Blessed be the gift of undeath, Leon thought to himself, for it granted him the ability to feed from you without consequence-- and vice versa-- to strengthen your bond in the most intimate way imaginable time and time and time again. It still made you dizzy, of course, light and a bit tingly all over, but Leon didn't see that as a bad thing, and as it stood, you didn't seem to either.
He was just trying to come up with a smooth way to tempt you into tasting his own blood, but found himself pleasantly surprised by your initiative.
"Can I try?" You practically purred, your sweet voice all hushed and breathy as your dainty little hand crept up his shoulder, palm coming to rest at the leftmost side of his strong neck.
As you caressed the pad of your thumb over the icy expanse of his skin, you couldn't help but notice the faint, scarred over marks that were dotted about, barely-there dips and craters telling a story that suggested decades of indulgence like this, decades of past lovers, and your heart inexplicably clenched in your chest. Suddenly you were overtaken with the desire to leave your own mark there, much more prominent and recent than any of those faded old others.
Leon was quick to give you his consent, of course, and that was all it took for your mind to snap into a completely different mode of function. The highest points of your mouth were flooding with saliva and the lowest points were pooling with it, slicking your puffy lips as your tongue fell forward to drag a deep, wanton lick up the length of his cold carotid. Then, as anticipated, you helped yourself to a healthy bite of him.
And just like that, you had discovered a new infatuation, as he knew you would. You were bonding yourselves to one another in real time, creating a connection that not even true death could break.
You nearly went weak with how overwhelming it felt, like drinking down pure heaven, hardly even noticing you were moving for a moment as you crawled mindlessly into his lap to straddle him, grinding deep and slow. The pheromones in his sap made your head spin, bringing about the kind of spontaneous sensuality that you'd only ever felt after one too many glasses of mead, the kind that loosened your bones and tinged at your cheeks, the kind that called warmth to bloom at the pit of your stomach.
The flavor of him was coppery and rich, but balanced, a bit dull from undeath but otherwise magnificent. That it was faint only made you want for more.
"Easy, easy," Leon grunted quietly in your ear, reaching a hand up to card through your hair at the back of your head. "Don't drink too fast, little princess... just breathe..."
But it would seem you weren't really listening to him, and that needed to change. Thankfully, Leon knew just the way to grasp your attention.
Letting one arm slip between your two bodies, he wedged his hand down, down, down, until it dipped beneath your skirt to close his palm over the sticky cotton of your panties. That you were already leaking through the fabric like a busted faucet was perfect. You were an absolutely perfect little untouched virgin, and thanks to him, your body would remain that way forever, ripe for his plucking.
Bringing down some pressure on your clit with the base of his palm, testing your reaction, he reveled in the way you whimpered on his throat and unlatched to finally suck in a breath, rutting to meet his attention without a second thought, so easily captivated by such slight stimulation. He couldn't wait to show you more, but he'd need to work you open first. He didn't want your first time to be painful, after all.
Leon took you at the waist and moved to put you on your back, hovering above your spread out form on the chaise lounge and pinning you there in the most delicate way possible. Every bit of that attention to detail paid off.
"My precious doll... my most delicate princess," he sighed reverently, stooping low to breathe you in at the neck again, laving his tongue over the bite he'd left just moments ago. "This is what true love feels like, and I wish to share it with you for eternity..."
He let you ponder that as he continued, working you carefully out of your clothes, finding it cute how you seemed to shift and arch along with him to help him get you naked, like you just couldn't wait. In your pretty doe eyes, your undead life had just begun.
It was a bit strange at first, feeling his finger sink into you, but it wasn't long before Leon was seeking out your soft spots and doing an excellent job of it, no less. He curled and pumped one finger carefully in you until he was sure you were comfortable, until he felt any remaining tension in your muscles melt away, and then he introduced a second. You were so wet and so absorbed by the feeling of it all that you almost didn't notice at first, but that delicious stretch was impossible to miss.
"O-Oh," you quivered, head falling back against the plush velvet beneath you as you bucked into his hand.
With an appreciative hum, Leon allowed himself to become a little less careful with his ministrations, watching your reactions with interest as he worked you open on his fingers, his infatuation with you growing more and more with every moan and whine, every flutter of your silky walls.
"There you go, little one," he cooed, "you like that, don't you?"
Your response was barely more than an airy nod, but it delighted him anyway. How could it not? You were just too sweet for words, too cute to handle. You could've done or said anything in that moment and he would have adored it all the same.
Nipping playfully at your throat, fingers still pumping dutifully in and out of your drippy cunt, his lips trailed up to your ear so he could ask in a sultry whisper, "Think you can take more?"
The next several seconds were a blur of impassioned movement, each of you weaving around one another to shed the elder vampire of his own ensemble, revealing his carved marble frame piece-by-piece. You were amazed by the strength in his shoulders, how smooth and soft his skin was from being kept away from the sun for so long, the dark blonde trail of hair that disappeared below his belt, only for its path to be revealed upon the long-awaited removal of his trousers.
Leon's cock was painfully hard, tip flushed red and weeping with milky beads of precum as he freed himself from his confines at last. He felt the intense need to give it a few strokes with how pent up he was at this point, but he didn't see a point in wasting any time pleasuring himself when you were right there, skirt hiked up to your waist while you laid there panting and leaking your arousal all over his nice furniture. With a pout that pretty, it would be a disservice not to fuck you until you cried.
He angled your hips with one hand and lined himself up with the other, pushing in slowly. Your expression screwed tight for a short moment as the swollen head of him caught at your hole, an opportune moment of distraction for him to sink in deeper, stretching you out until he hit the root, drawing a shocked cry from your throat that gave way to a pleasured whine just as quickly as it came.
So he began to move, wanting to draw out that gorgeous sound for as long as you would allow him to hear it. Your cunt was so fucking tight, pulsing and squeezing around his shaft like you were made for it, made for him, delivered to him by fate so that he might just get to fuck you like this forever and ever, and in that moment, he knew he made the right choice in sharing his gift with you. For the first time in recent memory, the future felt bright.
"L... L-Leon..." You babbled, hooking one leg over his hip for purchase just to find out it allowed him to prod that much deeper. You went boneless at the feeling, finding strength only in your ability to claw at his shoulders for dear life, the faint scent of his blood lingering in the air and making your head spin. "Feels... g-good... so good... don't stop..."
He wouldn't dream of it.
Fingertips printing into your thighs, he pulled your legs up to rest over his shoulders instead, driving you down into the soft couch in a firm mating press. You were nose to nose, needy lips catching and fangs clacking between filthy words and gasps for breath as you felt his presence envelope you fully. Leon was in you, on you, around you...
Leon was your home now. Leon was where you laid to rest.
For the first time in your undead life, you felt your body licking with heat, temperature rising steadily at the pit of you and threatening to hit a fever pitch. Every inch of him lit you up from the inside.
"Oh, my baby," he groaned, letting go of you with one hand just to swipe his silvery blonde hair away from his face so he could gaze at you like a work of art. "You're getting close, aren't you? Squeezing me so tight like that..."
"Yeah," you whined, even though you weren't fully sure what it even felt like to be close. You weren't dumb, you knew what orgasms were, you'd just never had one yourself, and as such, you had no basis for comparison.
Leon aimed to fix that, to make damn sure you familiarized yourself with the feeling over the course of your shared eternity.
His thrusts picked up with renewed vigor, the legs of the old chaise lounge scratching against the hardwood floors with every push forward, and he didn't even care. Everything else about life felt so worthless in comparison to you, the new center of his universe. The whole entire house could collapse and he would still be content, so long as he had you.
And every time he remembered that he did have you, that you were here with him right now, squirming and rutting on his cock so beautifully, that he was all you had... it just drove him that much crazier, made him that much more determined to make your first time one you would never forget. He couldn't be happier to spend the entire rest of his endless life topping the last performance.
You were losing your grip, struggling to keep your eyes open and eventually sinking your itching fangs into what you could reach of his throat just to push yourself a little higher, a little closer. The flavor alone made you purr against his skin, jaw clenching tighter, and the delicious sting of it was pushing him forward too. Now his biggest concern wasn't just making sure you came, but making sure that you came first.
So he withheld, even as his balls drew up tight and ached to release, focusing instead on getting you there.
"Don't be shy, princess, I've got you," Leon moaned into your ear, "let it happen... just let it happen..."
Tears pricked at your eyes, the overabundance of stimulation rendering you down into a tearful little puddle, but it wasn't until he spoke up to encourage you that you realized you really were holding back, stalling yourself at the precipice like it was wrong to let go.
But it wasn't wrong. It was divine. It was indulgent.
Sucking back a mouthful of his blood, you unlatched from Leon's neck just to press your forehead against his own, your jaw stuck open in stilted whines and gasps for breath as that molten heat in your belly finally boiled over, and you discovered exactly what it was you were close to.
Your spine drew up into an arch, toes curling over his shoulders as you came on his length with a cry, thighs trembling with strain. Leon had never been baptized before, but it felt like he was just now. He'd never felt so close to God as he allowed himself to finish deep inside your perfect pussy.
You collapsed together in the afterglow, the parlor going quiet again as you both caught your breath and your bearings, a heaping pile of mess on velvet.
"Leon," you whispered, kissing some of the excess blood away from his cold skin as you innocently and earnestly admitted, "I... I think I love you."
He cracked a fond smile at this, if only because he knew you would catch up in time. After all, you still had much to learn, and he didn't want to overwhelm you more than he already had for one evening.
☾ summary ➼ mornings with Leon make the rest of your day better.
☾ content/warnings ➼ fluff, smut (MDNI), afab!reader, p in v (wrap it before you tap it bbys), head (f!receiving), praise, usage of the term "baby"
☾ a/n ➼ I want soft mornings with him and I just really want his mouth all over me. Also I kept this as an ambiguous Leon but I did visualize RE4R and DI Leon.
☾ wc ➼ ~1k
Morning sex with Leon is one of the best things in the world to you.
In every moment he spends with you, inside and outside of the bedroom, he never fails to make you feel loved.
Cherished.
Treasured.
Whether it was from quick temple kisses or gentle pinches on your ass as he walks by, he was there to remind you just how precious you were to him.
But there was just something so wonderfully different about a sleep-addled Leon. He was slower, more deliberate.
With his hair is all tousled, cheeks tinged pink with bleary blue eyes that hold so much warmth despite the cool toned color. He gives you lazy grins as he nuzzles into your cheek or your nose, whatever is closest to him at the moment. His lips meet yours with the gentlest care, moving against yours like you both had all the time in the world. Breathy sighs from you are swallowed up as his hands map your body.
Then he’s trailing open mouthed kisses down your jawline and the column of your neck, just as lazy as his grins were. There are a few nips, but nothing more than a simple love bite. He’s humming happily, inhaling your unique scent and relishing in the saltiness of your warm skin – a reminder that you were here and you were alive.
Soon those kisses make their way down your sternum and right in the valley of your breasts, not before clumsily tugging off your chosen sleepwear, of course. The shared sound of your sleepy giggles and his breathy chuckles had filled the room as you both struggled to undress in the warm glow of the morning sun filtering through the blinds.
His lips don’t hesitate to tickle down your soft stomach now, blowing a little raspberry into it before leaving another bite as you squirm under him with yet another laugh.
Then he gets to your hips, and your legs fall apart as if he held the keycard to your body. Those soft lips of his place a kiss just right above your most sensitive spot as he inhales what he’s done to you. You were a mess as soon as his mouth had connected with your own just moments ago.
You whine at him, telling him to stop teasing you. He just smiles up at you, his laziness now replaced with his signature cockiness.
“Patience, baby. Need you to know how much I love every inch of you.”
He can’t even take his own advice.
You’d laugh if you weren’t so busy moaning from his face buried deep into your cunt. The flat of his tongue slides up your slit, collecting the arousal that he had worked so hard to build up – not like it took long though. As his nose bumps your clit, your hands go flying into his soft hair, fingers tangling as you’re bucking your hips into his face in the hopes for more friction.
Leon aims to please, so he does just that. His lips, that godforsaken magical mouth of his, closes around your swollen clit and sucks gently as two of his fingers slide into your warm depths. The mewls that he can get out of you are as addictive as your taste.
“Fuck, baby. Can’t get enough of you.” He mumbles against your folds that drip not only with your slick but his saliva as well, and the vibrations of his voice are enough to make your eyes roll in the back of your head. As his thick fingers start to pump in and out of you, he groans at how responsive you are to him. His free hand splays on your stomach and pushes you down into the mattress, holding you as he devours your sweet taste.
That patience though, god Leon really needed to work on that double standard.
Because now, he has you on your stomach with a pillow right under your hips as he lazily ruts into your tight pussy while whispering sweet nothings into your ear.
“Look at how well you take me, baby. So fucking perfect.”
Both of his thighs wall your legs together, his heavy body on top of yours as his hands hold yours on each side of your head. His calloused fingers intertwined with yours, holding you down as his hips slap into your ass rhythmically.
The sounds of your muffled moans in the soft sheets and his soft grunts in your ear grow louder, and it’s no mystery why. Both of you were so close. Those lips yet again trail kisses along your shoulders, and this time his bites aren’t soft.
“Cum with me baby, wanna feel you around me.”
He rests his sweaty forehead against your back, perspiration from both of you mixing together. His grunts have turned into whines as he fights to hold back – he was selfless like that. He wanted to make sure you were satisfied first before he’d let himself enjoy anything.
And of course he knew how to make you cum from this position. All it took was one rough thrust and a hard suck on the spot between your sensitive neck and shoulder and you were seeing stars. Your muffled cries and the tight spasming of your walls push him off the ledge. His erratic thrusts slow down with each spurt of hot cum he shoots into your depths, and after a few deep breaths later, he’s collapsed on top of you.
You can only take a few seconds of that before you’re squirming under him and laughing at him to get his heavy body off of you because you couldn’t breathe. He peppers playful kisses along your neck and back as he chuckles hoarsely.
“Why? If I do then you’re just going to get up and leave me.” He mutters with a grin.
Despite his banter, he slips out of your warmth before rolling off and onto his side. He wasn’t kidding about not letting you go though, because suddenly his arms are wrapped around your waist and tugging you into him so that your back hits flush against his sweaty chest. You heartbeats mirror each other, one on top of the other.
More kisses, more laughs, more lazy snuggles.
Morning sex with Leon meant the world to you, and you don’t think anything could ever top it.
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summary: your car breaks down on a deserted road at midnight. you have no signal, it’s getting colder, and you are five miles away from help; you’re stranded. a stranger offers his help to you, and you find a way to pass the time.
pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader
word count: 7.8k
warnings: smut, oral (male recieving), bondage (very softcore), don’t trust strangers this much
a/n: i kind of hate this title and i also don’t love this one but I hope i made it work. going to immediately start one that i’m actually into. this one’s shorter than the last one, but they might all fall around the same word count from now on. again, i can’t stress how thankful i am for the love on ‘the assistant’ as well as my headcanon blurbs, 900+ notes on the fic and 300+ on the headcanons, you guys are too nice. i can’t wait to come back soon with the next fic! enjoy :3
You thought back for a brief second, clearing your head as best you could to gauge your current situation.
In the backseat of a tinted SUV, you were straddled over a thick set of thighs, that of which belonged to a man twice your build, who was bound at the wrists in front of him. The waistband of his jeans were dangerously low and his shirt was somewhere in the front seat. His breathing was shaky and he was looking at you with hooded eyelids, loving every moment of this situation.
What was the catalyst to this exact interaction? Let’s see…
–
Earlier
As badly as you wanted to scream, to cry, to blame everyone else but yourself, this was all on you, and you knew it. There were plenty of ways to avoid this situation.
Your car was toast. Literally. The steam was coming out in soft puffs, and you were thanking every deity up there that it was only steam and not smoke, because it was dead winter, too cold for even snow to fall, and you did not want to get out of your car. How can a car even overheat in 10 degree weather?
The road trip back home was close to three hours and you were nearing the second one when a light started flashing on your dashboard. Inclined to ignore it, but knowing the risks of doing so, you pulled over, hoping for a brief stop.
The road was dark. It made you a little cautious to step out, but this wasn't a common place for people to pull over, but you were unsure if you could make it the next five miles to the rest stop. It was only a two lane road, trees on both sides of you. The worst, you decided, was a deer deciding to dash out and body slam you. You should move quick enough to avoid that.
Looking behind to make sure no one was suddenly driving by, you briskly opened your door and walked to the front of the car. Finding the latch and pulling it aside, you lifted the hood, and a puff of metallic smelling steam hit your face. You backed up, letting it clear, before going in again. Well, you observed, the engine is definitely still there.
Shutting it and shuffling back to your car, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. Should you call a tow service? You didn't know where you were. Should you call the police? They would probably tell you to call the non-emergency line and then tell you to call a tow service. Should you call your friend? She would probably call you stupid, then tell you to call a tow service. That one was the most comfortable, though.
It was, after all, her fault you were here. It’s easy enough to cast the blame on the friend that moved this far away that you had to plan out a whole weekend just to hang out. But, once again, it was on you for deciding to leave this late.
She answered after one ring. “Hey, I’m in trouble.”
“Of course you are. What happened now?” She didn’t sound incredibly concerned.
“I don’t know. I think my car’s overheating. I’m scared to keep driving it.”
She gasped. “It’s only been like… an hour and a half? You’re probably in the woods.”
“If darkness and trees means woods then yes, that’s precisely where I am.”
“You need to get a tow, or something.” Knew it. “Do you see mile markers?”
You leaned forward in your seat, straining to see something that isn’t there. “No, I can’t see. I don't remember passing any either. I’m a few miles away from a rest stop, but, I really don’t–”
Dial tone.
Pulling your phone away from your ear to look at the screen, you wanted to scream even more now. “Fuck!” You shouted out to nobody. No service. You wasted your last few moments of contact, and now you had nothing.
You sat for a moment, stilling your beating heart and trying to think rationally. Walking was out of the question. You nearly froze just going to open the hood. You could wait for service to come back, probably in waves, you might lose a call again. It was the only choice. The call to 911 would be quick, and if you lost service, they would know where you are from pinging you, and if they couldn’t reach you again, they would come find you. It was the best you could hope for.
Settling back into your seat, the last few wisps of orange light disappearing behind the trees, you were ready to wait.
–
You dragged your hands up and down the man’s torso, watching his muscles constrict and hearing delicious whines pour from his lips. He threw his head back onto the seat behind him, unable to look away from your body for even a second, even to blink. You could see the way his jaw tensed and relaxed, you could tell he wanted to say something, but he obeyed you, and he didn’t say a word.
You knew he was staring at the way your body curved and dipped, the way your frame was visible as you had also taken your shirt off, left in only a bra and the jacket that he had put on over you. He was probably ready to cum untouched at just the idea of you wearing his jacket alone, nevermind with nothing on underneath.
Your fingers teased at the waistband of his pants, flitting your fingertips back and forth over the button of his jeans. You could see the way his erection was pressing hard through them, twitching ever so often as you kept your eyes on him. You, yourself, were desperate to pull it out and put your mouth on it, but you couldn’t let him see that.
“It’s tempting,” You whispered into the space between you two. “I want to take it right now,” He strained again, both his hard cock and his upper body, his arms slightly tugging at the restraints. “But I need you to beg for it…” You palmed his dick hard, and his lips parted in a moan. The sound made you even wetter than you already were. His hips bucked upward, moving the both of you, but with one steady hand to the chest, he was still.
You knew well enough that he could bust out of the restraints at any second, he was strong enough to do that and probably tie you up even more securely than you had tied him. But, the mere idea that he was sitting there, being a good boy for you and letting you have him as he was, well, that idea alone had you foaming at the mouth, wanting to take control of him.
This wasn’t the first time you were making someone sit still and be a good boy for you, but it was the first time that a man had you dizzy trying to enforce those rules in the first place.
“Tell me,” You spoke, a sultry look in your eyes, you leaned in just a tad to get in his face. “Do you need it?”
He sighed out as if he had been holding his breath. “Yes, please, I need it so bad…” He nearly tripped over his words trying to force them out, showing you how bad he needed you to touch him, to suck him off, to ride him. Yes, you needed it to, but you couldn’t give it to him without a little bit of teasing involved.
“Do you now…” Your hands wandered up his torso again, fingers gently wrapping around the base of his neck, now even squeezing, and he tipped his head back with a sigh. You peeled your hands off, tracing his shoulders, his biceps, his forearms, and settled your hands over his. “If you keep being good, you can be released and touch me.” You felt his muscles strain again. “Not yet, though.”
He swallowed with the implication. Moving your hips forward, you grinded down onto him, making him screw his eyes shut and groan. Your own heartbeat quickened at the action, and for your own sake as well, you were going to need to speed this up.
You leaned forward once more, mouth next to his ear, lips ghosting around the shell. “You’ll be my good boy and let me suck it, won’t you?”
A shrill whine, then, “Yes, yes, I’ll be your good boy, I promise, please, you can suck it. Please,” His voice was cutting in and out between a whisper and its full depth, you could tell he was worked up, and while you loved the chase of it all, you couldn’t help but to give in and treat yourself, as well.
Your hands fell to his jeans again, hovering over the button. You pressed a kiss into his jawline. “Good boy.”
–
Earlier
This was much more boring than you anticipated. You wanted to scroll through your phone so badly, but you knew you needed to conserve battery. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment in your car, merely your overnight bag in the back with your clothes in it, your laptop buried at the bottom for work, and your water bottle which was almost empty now. You kept checking every 5 minutes for a service signal, watching as the percent in the corner slowly ticked down.
It was growing colder by the minute in your car, and you had a blanket over your lap trying to conserve what you could. You felt like you were trapped in the wild, stranded with no food, no communication, when realistically you were only a hair outside of the nearest civilization.
No one had driven by yet. It was odd for no one to be taking this road at this time, at least one or two people would be coming by, maybe even a freight truck, but so as your luck worked out, there was not a soul tonight.
You were getting tired now, but your nerves were too lit up to allow yourself to fall asleep. Resting your head back against the car seat, staring out into darkness, your mind began to wander.
How many deer were out in these woods right now? Probably none, with the way your eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness now, you could spot one a mile away. It would be the only movement. What was your friend doing? Was she still trying to call you? Clearly she hadn’t called anyone for help, as it’s been a rough 30 minutes since you lost service, and the nearest city was just outside of where you sat. They would have gotten there in 15 max. Was it possible to freeze to death in just a few hours within the confines of your car, even though you were nowhere near that point yet?
Just then, your head shot forward as you spotted light behind you. Finally, a person! You straightened out and pulled the blanket off of you, debating if you should step out or not. That would definitely get their attention, but what if they were in the right lane and they hit you? Surely there would be no point in waiting for signal after that.
You didn’t even need to make a decision, as you put your hand on the door handle to step out into the brisk air, the headlights suddenly swerved and became aligned with you. They grew bigger and bigger, you were sure they were going to hit you, but they stopped.
You stared, scared, but knew this was your only shot at help. You stepped out.
The car that pulled up behind you stayed running, lights still shining, and you squinted to see past them. It looked like an SUV, much bigger than your own sedan, and could definitely do this drive without overheating no problem.
The driver’s side door opened, but you only saw the silhouette of it, still trying to block the headlights. You lifted your hand to your eyes to do so, and you saw a man get out. Ideally, for safety, you would have wanted a woman, but you couldn’t be picky when this was the first person you saw for almost an hour.
He walked over to you, and placed himself in front of the headlight so you could see him. Now, backlit, you could see the bulky build of a man, donned in a leather jacket with a fur collar, long hair falling down to his cheekbones, his breaths rolling off in slow puffs. He stood a good distance away from you, probably aware of how you might be feeling in this situation.
“You need help?” No shit, you wanted to answer, but couldn’t choke the words up.
“Uh, yeah, I got stuck.” You turned briefly to look at the car. “It overheated. I lost signal to call for help.”
The man nodded, walking around you and over to the hood of your car. He bent over and lifted it, messing around in there for a few seconds. You took one step closer to him, hugging yourself for warmth, now missing the inside of your car.
He shut it suddenly and walked back over. “You probably just have no antifreeze left. I don’t have any in my car, though. Do you know if you happen to have any?”
You stood staring at him for another second. “I’m gonna guess no, considering I’m not totally sure what you mean.” You could see him clearly now, standing in front of his headlights. His face was covered in dark shadows from his hair and the contours of his face, his deep brow casting darkness into his eyes, but you could still see they were blue. He had on a dark t-shirt, and it didn’t leave much to the imagination to picture the figure underneath. You met his eyes again.
He just nodded. “That’s alright. Not something you tend to prepare for.” He walked closer to you, but you stood your ground and let him approach you. “Want to come down the road with me to get some? There’s a 24/7 convenience just a few miles away. I can have you out of here within the hour.” You said nothing. You weren’t sure if you entirely wanted to do that, but you also didn’t want him to not come back at all. As if sensing your inner turmoil, he stuck his hand out towards you. “Leon Kennedy. I work for the state. I’m on the way home from a detail.”
You slowly extended your own hand, telling him your name. His hand was warm. You didn’t want to let go. “Detail? Are you a cop?”
He shrugged. “Sort of. I don’t want to leave you here. You should warm up.” You looked back at his car, still running, positive that the heat was blasting, and you gave in.
“Okay. But don’t think about trying anything. I can put up a hell of a fight, you know.”
He laughed. “You have my word.”
You walked around to the passengers side and hopped in, hoisting yourself up into the surprisingly high cabin. You looked at the dash as he settled in, getting comfortable with the space. This was a much newer car than you were used to.
His phone was connected to the bluetooth, music rumbling quietly out of the speakers. Deftones. Maybe I can trust him for now.
You subconsciously settled into the seat, the warmth enveloping you. The ride was much smoother than your own car, and you knew you weren’t going to stop the comparisons until this experience was over. You kept an eye to the left of you, still needing to be alert, you were in a stranger's car after all, even though you knew his name and job, that didn’t mean anything.
You saw him sneak a glance over at you, and you shot your eyes back down to the display on the dashboard.
“You like them?” He hit a button on the steering wheel and turned the volume up a few notches. You could still hear him clearly.
“Of course.” You let the silence hang for a second. Testing the waters, “If it was country, I might have had to pull a tuck and roll.”
He barked another laugh. At least he wasn’t stoic. “You’re lucky you didn’t catch me on a Wednesday, then.” You giggled. After saying nothing else, he continued. “What brought you to this position anyways?”
You sighed. “One of my good friends lives out here, about an hour away or so. I was on my way home. I know I shouldn’t have left this late, but in my defense, I didn;t know my car was going to overheat, so…”
He hummed. “That’s not your fault. It happens. Can’t prepare for those things, again.”
You looked out the window to the pitch black nothingness as you rode past. You looked back over at him, he had his right forearm on the console while his left hand steered. “You seemed too prepared to stop, though. What if I killed you?”
His mouth quirked, and you couldn’t help but repeat it. “I could handle it if you tried to.”
You shrugged. “I don’t know, I could have surprised you. I’m stronger than I look. Men love to doubt the ones that are smaller than them.”
The smile on his face didn’t falter. “And what are you capable of against a man like me, then?”
“I don’t think you want to find out. I’m dominating, you know.” Wait… what? You truly didn’t mean it to sound like that, but you couldn’t suck the words back up. You just furrowed your brows in frustration at yourself, and blamed the lack of sleep, the cold, your aggravation, whatever you could. Regardless of the words you couldn’t take back, Leon didn’t stop smiling. He turned his head a degree in your direction, and you could still see him out of your peripheral.
A few minutes later, the convenience came into view and he pulled into the lot. You squinted at the bright lights of the parking lot.
“Hang tight, I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
You only nodded, watching him stalk away into the building. You decided, seeing his full body in the lights, if you had met him under any other circumstances, you wouldn’t peg him as the helpful type of guy. His gait was strong, like it said Don’t fuck with me, or else. It almost made you giddy, knowing that you were the one being helped when he wouldn’t have otherwise. Like, in a romance book, when the bad boy doesn’t like anyone, but likes you.
It wasn’t as uncomfortable as you had thought it would be. Maybe he was lightening up his personality so he wouldn’t scare you on purpose. If he really was just a helpful guy, the last thing he would want is to scare a young girl in the middle of nowhere at midnight.
You were getting comfortable in the seat now, the heat wrapping around you, making you dread having to go back out into your cold car. You sighed even harder when you remembered that you still had a long ride to go before you could even go to bed.
Leon walked out of the store and back to the car, bottle of antifreeze in hand, and you tensed up when the cold air hit your skin as he opened the door.
He watched you as he lowered himself into the seat. “I didn’t mean it literally. You could have moved.”
You shrugged with a smile as he closed the door again. “I didn’t need to.”
After a few minutes of chatting and listening to music, you arrived back at your car after needing to loop around to get back onto the right side of the road. You sighed and hit your head back against the seat of the car.
“What’s the sigh for? You get to go now.” Leon unblocked his seatbelt and took the bottle from where he left it on the console.
“Yeah, but it’s cold. I don’t want to get out.”
Leon grinned softly. “So don’t. I’ll be right back.”
You sat and soaked up the heat while he went back over to your car, popped the hood, and disappeared behind it for a few minutes. You could only wonder how cold he must have been right now. Probably not very, maybe only his hands and neck, that jacket looks warm enough. You were stupid to only put a zip up on.
You looked down at your lap, then your gaze wandered to the interior of the car. It was very clean here. Leon did seem like the type to want to take care of his vehicle, and you were afraid to make any sort of move in case you put dirt on anything.
The backseat was empty, not even an extra piece of clothing (which there was plenty of in your own backseat), and you wondered how it was even possible for someone to be this neat.
You looked back through the windshield to see that Leon was still working in your hood. Your eyes fell lower to the glove compartment.
Realistically, this wouldn’t be the worst thing you could do right now, since you didn’t know Leon, and you could pass it off by wanting to assure yourself that you were safe, but at the same time, you felt guilty even thinking about it, since Leon had been nothing but nice to you so far. He trusted you enough to leave you alone in his pristine car while he helped you out.
That alone made you shift your gaze back up, pushed the thought of snooping down, and settled in to see Leon walking back to his car.
“Alright, you should be all set now. Hopefully it doesn’t happen again for another long while.” He shut the door next to him, and you gazed out at your car, making no moves.
“How much?” You rolled your head over to look at him.
“Huh?” He furrowed his brow.
“The antifreeze. How much was it?”
He breathed out a laugh, not moving much. “I don’t want your money.”
You shrugged. “You didn’t need to do this for me, this is the least I could do for your help.”
Leon simply looked at you. “I stopped because I wanted to help. I don’t want your money.”
You stared at him. His eyes were half lidded, a small smile was gracing his features. He was lit up from the light of his display screen, still softly playing Deftones. You could see the texture of his face, his lips, his hair. He was unmoving under the scrutiny of your gaze; yet so were you.
“I can put up a fight. I’ll make you take it.”
His smile grew. “So the legend goes, as you’ve told me.” He moved his right arm to come back and rest on the console in between you two. “I’m not going to accept it, though.”
“So, what? Am I gonna have to force you to take it? Cause I’m not leaving until you do.” You settled right back into the seat. Leon kept smiling at you. “I’m defiant. And I’ll get my way. If I have to slap you around to take it.” Leon hummed and quirked an eyebrow at your words. It only added fuel to your confidence fire. “Even if I have to tie you down to prevent you from fighting.”
You looked at him with your eyebrows raised, showing you meant business, but he remained still. “Is that so?” You nodded. You saw him tighten his grip around the steering wheel, but the action didn’t frighten you. You could hear in his tone that he was mostly relaxed. You almost felt bad for being like this– it was late at night and he, too, was on his way home, but you simply couldn’t let this good deed go unrewarded.
“Open that.” His voice cut through your thoughts, his tone light, but his voice deep. You met his eyes to see where he was looking, which was in the direction of the glove compartment. See, you told yourself, good karma can aid curiosity. You looked at it and hesitated a moment, trying to scan your brain as quickly as possible to see if this would be a trick. After a few seconds, when you thought of nothing, you reached over.
Tumbling forward as soon as you swung the compartment open was a small black bag, maybe about the size of a water bottle. It stopped on the door itself, and you made no move to grab it. You simply looked over at Leon.
He was watching you intensely, his smile had disappeared, but his look was not stern or angry. It made your stomach twist with… something, but what exactly, you couldn’t tell. You slowly swung your gaze back over to it.
“I hope those weren’t empty threats you were throwing at me.” You kept your eyes on the bag, but the pieces started falling in place around you. In a whisper, barely loud enough for you to hear, Leon said, “Can’t you show me what you are capable of?”
Ice and fire ran through your veins simultaneously as you reached out to grab the bag, noticing upon touching it that it was smooth, silky. Holding it in your hands, you rotated it to find the opening. You could feel Leon staring at you.
Finding the opening and flipping it downwards, you held onto the bag as you dumped the contents into your hands. A tightly wound bundle of black rope fell out.
You couldn’t form words for a minute, struggling to find air in your lungs. The rope was just as soft as the bag was, and you knew exactly why, exactly what the use intended for this was. You turned your head slowly to look over at Leon again. His head had rolled back to rest on the back of the car seat, but his gaze never left yours.
You found the energy to speak. “You come prepared for these types of situations?”
A slow smile blossomed on his features again. “I don’t usually need it. I guess, I never find myself wanting to use it.” He turned his head, looking back at the dash now, almost embarrassed at his words. A smirk was fighting its way through on your features. He licked his lips, then turned back to you. “I think now… maybe I do.”
You breathed a laugh, and turned the bundle over in your hands. “How am I going to hold up to my word if you want to use this on me?”
Leon leaned forward just a tad, looking you deep in the eyes. The blue light coming off of the digital display screen lit up his face, and though color was distorted, his cheeks had more hue to them.
“I don’t want to tie you up…” You tilted your head up at the sudden realization. You held eye contact.
“A big man like you? I didn’t imagine you’d be wanting me to do that to you…” You spoke slowly, not trying to give the impression that you were against the idea. Because, truly, you weren’t, at all. The idea of having him bound for you made your lungs cut the air supply short and had your knees weak. The power you felt sitting in this seat was immeasurable, hearing that the man who was twice your size wanted you to remove his sense of control, well, it had you thrumming with anticipation.
Leon huffed a laugh. He looked down, obviously slightly ashamed at having admitted this. “Well, you haven’t had much time to get to know me.”
You shifted in your seat, turning to him, bending slightly to get him to look into your eyes again. “So tell me, then. I have the time to listen.”
He attempted a shrug, and leaned back at the same time so you could see his face clearer now. Some of his hair was covering his eyes, but you left it, though you did think about moving it for him. “I’m 27, I used to be a cop, still affiliated though, I do some late night stuff at the station…” He looked over. “I did just want to help you. Even if there was no one in the car, I probably would have stopped anyway.” You nodded, listening to every word. “I…” He trailed off, looking for the words to say. “I don’t… do much else. I’m not that interesting.”
“You have no girlfriend or wife?” You whispered, and though you knew, hoped, the answer would be no, you wanted to know why he thought the answer was no.
He shook his head, as predicted. “I don’t seem to have luck.” He laughed lowly, almost in a self-deprecating manor.
“Well, I hope this isn’t always how you try to pick up women, it’s kind of scary, you know.” You laughed, and he smiled with you.
“I never particularly bothered to go looking. I just figured they would come around.”
“You can’t always bet on fate like that, it might not get you anywhere.” You shrugged.
He raised an eyebrow. “It did tonight, though.”
You nodded, seeing the irony in the night. After a second of silence, you slightly shifted your position again. “So, now what? A man like you has me in your car, holding rope, that you already had in here, by the way, and you’re telling me you want me to use it to show you what I’m capable of.”
He shrugged and leaned back, breaking eye contact for a moment. A small smile played on his lips. “Well…” He sighed. “I think it will keep you warmer than you would be in your car.”
The two of you migrated to the backseat without another word. Something shifted in the air, some silent agreement had settled in between you two, and the moment the doors shut behind you, mouths on one another, heat rising, hands slithering in between, leaving no inch of skin left untouched. Leon was quick to snake his warm hands up your shirt and hike it over your head, but you let him, followed quickly by his own. His lips were soft and warm, the kiss became sloppy, greedy, you would have succumbed to it then and there if there wasn’t a promise to uphold.
You raked your hand through his hair, soft as silk, and gripped at the base of his head, making him moan into the kiss. The hand he placed on your waist gripped the flesh, and with one swift movement, you swung your leg over his to straddle him. It was already like he was at your mercy before you even took anything away from him, and it only made him look all the more desperate for you.
The kiss broke, and for a second the two of you were just staring at each other. You watched the rise and fall of his chest, which you had discovered with your hands before even seeing it, that it was incredibly toned, and you almost didn’t even want to stop touching him. HIs hands rested on your hips, holding you in place on top of him, eyes full of lust.
He shook his head slowly, forming a thought. “Are you sure you weren’t in charge of fate to make me find you tonight?”
You grinned, running your hands up his torso, you just couldn’t stop yourself. “If I was, don’t you think I would have made it a little more convenient for us?”
He sighed at your touch, head rolling backwards, closing his eyes. After a low hum of satisfaction, he replied. “I guess so… What about fate the second time around?” Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the texture underneath your palms, all of the skin and bone and muscle. You pushed yourself down into his lap, already feeling his hardening dick through his jeans, making him groan louder, and you sigh in relief.
“We haven’t even gotten started and you are already thinking of round two…” You leaned in, teasing a breath along his neck, then gently licking on his jawline. The skin of your stomach felt the heat that he was producing, and you pressed your bodies together, the contact feeling like bliss.
“I already know I’ll need you again.” He said in a whisper, and the sheer intensity that it caused within you made you lean in and bite the tender skin under his jaw, and he moaned, gripping your waist even tighter.
Your hands kept running along his skin, desperate to get even more contact between you two. Your mind was getting foggy with desire, needing to be as close to Leon as possible, as much as the small space in his backseat would allow. His fingers were starting to dip below the waistline of your pants, and while you almost let him slide them past, you grabbed onto his hand and pulled it out, remembering the reason you were in the backseat in the first place.
“Don’t forget why we’re here…” You mumbled into his ear, where you were still pressed up against him. You heard him sigh, as well as felt it, and finally pushed yourself off of him.
He looked up at you from under his half-lidded eyes. “Tell me what you want me to do, then. I’ll do anything.” His voice was breathy and low, and his hands came down to rest on the top of your thigh. You sat up as straight as you could, feeling all of the control get handed over to you in that one second. Involuntarily, a chill ran through your body. Cold air had hit your heated skin as you parted, as well as the added sensations that Leon was contributing to. He pushed himself up, leaned past you to the front seat, one hand steadying you on your lower back. When he fell back, he put the shoulders of his jacket over you.
He sighed as he leaned back, examining your frame as it rested over him, straightening your posture as the warmth fell around you. “Looks better on you anyway…”
You stared at him for another moment before your brain kicked into action. “Hold your hands out,” You whispered, and he obeyed. You reached behind you and grabbed the bundle of rope. “You’ll behave if I tie you up like this?”
“Yes…” He breathed out, watching your hands as they wrapped and knotted the rope around his wrists, not too tight, but he couldn’t slip out of it too easily. You felt a surge of confidence at the mere premonition of you tying up a huge, muscled man, submitting to your dominance. You felt heat pool in between your legs as his head fell back, his chest flexed, and the feeling of his hard cock poking you through his pants. You were suddenly glad your car gave out on you on this random night.
This brings you to your current position. Everything playing an equal hand in getting this man in his own backseat underneath you, staring up with sinful eyes. You weren’t sure what to do first, you wanted to do everything to this man, and let him do everything to you.
He had already professed his need for you to take him in your mouth, and you were itching to keep teasing him, but as a reward for not leaving you stranded, you were going to play nice with him.
HIs breathing was ragged and his eyes were locked on you, not daring to look away as your hands snaked closer and closer to the button on his jeans. Your fingers flitted over the tent in his pants, the sensation barely registering with him, and he bucked his hips up, but you pressed them back down by his hips.
“Patience… patience baby…” You murmured, not looking up from where your hands were dancing around letting him loose. He whined, and the sound traveled straight to your core, making you all the more desperate. As a second reward for obeying your command, you pressed your palm fully into his hardened cock, and he groaned and threw his head back. You smirked in response, now needing the skin on skin contact.
Your hands made quick work of the button and zipper, and he lifted his hips when you pulled down his waistband of both his jeans and underwear. His erection sprang out, slapping his toned stomach, and you felt saliva pooling in the corners of your mouth, slick gathering in between your legs, and Leon was almost shaking with anticipation.
You wrapped a delicate hand around his dick and he whined again, his chest shuddering with shallow breaths, sighing out profanities at the contact. He was so warm and hard in your hand, and even just the ginger strokes you were delivering had him crumbling under you.
The other hand that wasn't wrapped around him came up to brace yourself on his chest, and his skin matched the temperature of his throbbing girth. His tip was leaking profusely, and you brought your thumb up to press through it and spread it, which elicited another whimper from within him. The friction was dry, and you were sure it didn't feel the best for Leon, but there were no signs of pain in his expression, and if you kept this up long enough, he might cum from this alone.
He was of average length, but you were never one to complain, especially not in a situation like this, and it was a benefit when the attempt to deepthroat him came along, knowing it would make it easier. You couldn’t wait any longer, and even though watching him writhe under you was more pleasure than you expected, you needed more.
You leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to his neck, coated in a thin layer of sweat. You made a brief note of how hot it was in the car now, probably all from him, and though it was completely dark outside, you were sure the windows were foggy. He sighed at your lips on his skin.
“Thank you for being so good to me,” You spoke softly to him, and you lifted your head to press your lips together, which he hungrily accepted. Your body fell forward slightly, your hand still balancing on his hard chest, and you could feel his arms in between the both of you, but he was not protesting.
You pulled away, but hovered over his face and pressed your foreheads together. He whispered, “Need you so bad…” heavily breathing onto your lips. You grinned, seeing he was quickly reaching the brink of his patience.
“I got you baby,” Another quick kiss, but you pulled away before he could deepen it. “You’re being a good boy for me.” He quietly moaned at the praise, and let you remove yourself from on top of him. You hopped off his lap and sunk to your knees in between his legs, looking up once last time to see his pretty face before ducking your head, and licking a thick stripe up the length of his cock.
His groan was louder than it had been before, and you felt his whole body shudder with his breaths. The saliva that had been gathering in your mouth coated him easily, and when your tongue met the tip, with a swipe to collect the precum (which resulted in another sharp whine), you let all of your spit pour over your lips and leak down the sides, which you hastily swept up with your hand, and continued to pump his dick with.
Every breath that he released was paired with some sort of noise, whether it be a groan, a whine, a whimper, anything that you were doing to him right now was causing him to quickly become unwound, and just seeing him fall apart under your hands was causing your strokes to become harder, quicker, and you stopped refusing him to buck his hips in your hand because you loved seeing how desperate he was becoming. You could see the veins in his forearms and biceps, the flexing of his arms against the rope around his wrists, and it made you weaker to know he was the only person keeping him within those restraints, and he could flip the power dynamic at any moment if he wanted to. But, he didn’t, and he let himself be dominated.
With another lick from base to tip, your lips closed over his head, our tongue dipped and swirled around the soft skin, the tangy salt of his precum coating your tastebuds, and at once, you took his entirety into your mouth. A rough gasp came from Leon as you swallowed him whole, pressing your tongue against the underside of his cock, feeling every ridge and bump. Your hand continued to work below where you could reach, giving gentle squeezes, and your other hand occasionally worked his balls, causing him to throw his head back every few seconds.
You were reveling in his taste at this moment, every bead of precum that spurted out of his tip was lapped up instantly, mixing in with your spit as you took him in your mouth, your tongue studying and memorizing his shape and size. You sucked him down like it was your last moment to ever be with him, hoping you would be able to find yourself in this position with him again.
“Fuck… fuck, you feel so good…” Leon couldn’t contain the words spilling out of his mouth, he was losing sanity it seemed with every movement you made with your tongue, every stroke your hand delivered, and every time you opened your throat to shove him as far back as you could. He would whimper every time you stifled a gag at trying to deepthroat his length, loving the way you worked past pain just to have more of him.
You could feel so much heat and wetness within yourself, and as much as you wanted to relieve your own pressure, you knew you wouldn't be done with Leon after you made him cum.
After another hit to the back of the throat with his tip, you heard him whine out, “I’m so… I’m so close, fuck–” paired with more gasps and whimpers. His fists were balled up so tight, the rope was straining against his flexing, and his mouth hung open as he watched you take him all.
Your hand that wasn’t on his cock was gripping his thick thigh, feeling it twitch underneath your palm. You gripped it tighter, deciding against an urge to want to edge him, not able to fight your own need to taste him.
After another lick, you released him from your mouth and resorted to stroking him so you could talk and breathe for a moment. “How close are you, baby?” Your breathing was heavy, and you could feel the spit hanging off your lips, still connected in thin strings to his tip.
He gasped again at the feeling of cool air touching his wet dick. “So… so close,” He bucked his hips again into your hands and you let him, liking watching him chase his own release.
“Where do you want it, huh? I’ll let you decide.” You kept working his dick while he tried his hardest to contain himself.
He groaned, clearly struggling to speak through all of the sensations. “I… I, oh, god, anywhere…” His head was back against the seat again, and this time it seemed to stay there while you kept touching him. Underneath his arms, you could see his torso tensing and relaxing with the way his whole body was pulsing, and even through the darkness you could tell he was toned, insanely so, you could see the rigid outlines of ab muscles where his arms weren’t blocking them. Sharp lines contoured his hips where they dipped into his pelvis, akin to a rainbow with a pot of gold at the end that you currently had in your hands, dripping with precum and saliva. You couldn’t take it. You needed to see him blissed out.
You moved your hand back down to the base and planted your flat tongue on the underside of his cock, licking all the way up to the tip. “Come on, cum for me, I’ll let you…” With quick movements and the occasional lick to his tip, you brought him closer and closer to his release, and you could see it written all over his face whenever he put his head back up to look down at you. His brows were furrowed, his mouth open, and you could see the glint on his face from sweat.
“Shit, oh, fuck, I–I’m coming,--” Leon rasped out as much as he could through his thick breaths, body convulsing the second he hit the threshold of his release. You felt it the same time you saw it, his dick throbbed under your palm and a rope of hot white cum spurted upward, landing on his stomach, some on his hands, and yours. You hastily pressed your mouth to the tip, feeling it coat your tongue, the roof of your mouth, drip to the back of your throat. You kept your tongue pressed to the underside of the head, feeling that, too, pulse with his orgasm. He was groaning in tandem with this happening, and you lapped up everything he had to offer, the salty, hot, viscous liquid sitting heavy in your mouth. You choked back a gag with the swallow, but it made it down, and you cleaned your hand, his twitching dick, and wherever it landed on him by licking it up. He whimpered at the feeling of your tongue on his hands.
“You looked so good for me,” You whispered into the air as you slowly rose from your position, and hovered over him. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me like this…” You looked down at him, spent, panting, eyes lazily making eye contact with you, but you could see so much more in his gaze.
A second passed before either of you spoke again. Without moving too far, you brought a hand down to untie the rope, and his hands came to rest over your thigh once they were free. The rope lay discarded on the floor.
“We still have the rest of the night… don’t we?” Your stomach turned at his implication, he still wanted you, and he was still ready to keep going. Your hand came up to gently touch the side of his neck, thumb tracing the edge of his jawline.
“We have however long you want. I’m not done with you.”
He grinned, his eyes opened a little further this time, and his hands left your thighs to hold your face as he kissed you deeply, blissfully ignoring your phone incessantly ringing, abandoned in the front seat.
💜 i hate ai sites bro they SUCK if only c.ai didn't have that nsfw filter, it might be salvagable. anyways spending a couple hours on those apps only made me realise that ff writers really do it better, ai is definitely not gonna be snatching our jobs anytime soon 😭 anyways here's some leon smut based off of a conversation (borderline fight) i had with a bot on chai <3 also pls be kind smut isn't really my forte, i just wanted to try something silly (:
cw: reader has female anatomy and is described as a woman, oral (f receiving), wall sex, partners to lovers, possessiveness if you squint
"Where were you last night?"
Walking into your bedroom, you're immediately met with the sight of your partner. Leon's expression matches the low timbre of his voice as he backs you into a wall, caging you between his arms.
You're silent.
There had always been a strange tension between you and your partner, but it came to a head when you'd slept together almost a week ago. Your heart skips a beat when you recall the night. Though, of course, that doesn't make you lovers -- you'd both simply given into a moment of passion.
Having been through so much together, you had simply written it off as something that was bound to happen. After all, you share so many emotions, so many unique experiences that can only be traced back to the explosive pair that had escaped Raccoon City alive.
Often, your bond is the closest thing to the relief that either of you can get.
But, you know well that Leon isn't someone who truly loves. He doesn't forget birthdays, picks up on distress like it's second nature, and never misses the chance to be kind. But, kindness is not love.
Occasionally you wonder if your friend even knows the meaning of the word.
The government agent is a secretive man, after all, often leaving for days at a time only to return a little dimmer than before. But, you know well that your line of work demands respite no companion can provide; it was something you'd seen firsthand over the years.
Any woman lucky enough to gain his attention is eventually left unsatisifed, wondering if the tired drag in his voice will ever cease -- if he will ever promise more than a snippet of his time to them.
An apologetic look is all you can ever provide them, though, as they stumble out of your shared apartment with their shirt clutched over their torso. Because you are the same. Only, unlike Leon, you don't delude yourself into thinking that a regular relationship is possible.
If there is someone out there that is waiting for you, you have long surmised that it's better for them to wait. To find someone they can have without any catches, or long nights away. Someone that can be there for them the way they deserve.
Leon's familiar face hangs inches away in that moment, light eyes holding yours. You swallow harshly.
But in truth, there is one other reason you'd chosen to remain alone. You'd been working with Leon for nearly 7 years, but you have been in love with him since the moment he saved your life in that grimy gas station in Raccoon City.
There is something so intimate about owing the deepest parts of you to someone -- about knowing that the people you value, the thoughts that run through your head, and the love that remains in you is all due to the actions of one person.
It was thanks to him that you'd made a career out of helping the innocent, making it a routine to do the things that many people strive all their lives for. And despite all of the ways it drags you down, the end result is always worth it.
You appreciate your partner in a similar way. Leon is a good person, if not to a fault. It's undoubtedly why he stands in your bedroom now, because he's noticed something you hadn't thought to hide well enough.
You attempt to avoid his gaze as you say,
"Does it matter?" You sigh, trying to ignore the way your body pulses with habitual desire. It's wrong, and you know it, to lust over someone so deeply engrained in your life.
It was supposed to only happen once.
"It matters a lot." He admits quietly, voice dark but soft. Bit by bit, you feel your resolve cracking inside you.
Your words come out in a whisper, ghosting against the skin of his cheek as you try your best to avoid his gaze. "It shouldn't. Even if I was with someone, it shouldn't..."
You trail off when you meet his eye in a moment of weakness. You've seen a lot of emotions in your partner, but the inexplicable mix that floods his face in this moment is almost extraordinary.
It's as if your statement had brought him pain.
Voice falling into a stutter, your face flushes embarrassingly.
"So it matters." You amend breathlessly.
Leon lets out a humourless laugh that mixes with his words. "It matters to me"
Experimentally, he inches forward. Your heart pounds as you watch his lips get closer and closer to yours, merely centimeters away from breaking the resolve you'd spent so long working up the courage to mend.
But, in the end, you're the same person you've always been.
The manner he kisses you in is deep, almost probing. It's as if he searches for a truth within you as he moves, offering a challenge of sorts. You give in and push back into him, draping your arms around his neck.
"...Why? Worried about someone else taking what you want?" You tease quietly, breath hot against his lips. The accusation is damning, but most of all, it's brave.
Leon is only a man. You wouldn't blame him if he were merely seeking company in the arms of the woman he trusts the most, playing a dangerous game with the fate of your partnership.
But, as he kisses you again, your thoughts dissolve into nothing. If anything is worth breaking the friendship you have, what better than this?
"Maybe." He concedes softly, lips just barely brushing yours as he says, "Can't blame me for wanting something that belongs to me."
Your heart pounds in your ears, world lighter for a moment as his words settle into you. His gaze pierces through yours once again, conveying his determination. Leon isn't going to give up even an inch when it comes to you, and suddenly, everything becomes clear.
His lack of interest in other women, the tearful gazes of the people walking out locked onto you. The quiet nights you would spend between missions, pitiful attempts at trying to enjoy life as normally as you could -- all of these moments he would have been locked away if it were someone else were spent with you.
Leon isn't a stranger to love at all. In fact, he's overflowing with it.
Something in your eyes shifts. Your arms tighten around his neck as you whisper unsteadily, "...I belong to you? Prove it, then."
A guttural groan rumbles in his throat as his lips find yours once again, hands leaving the wall beside your head in favour of your hips. You can almost taste the force of his need for you.
The mere idea of such a thing pushes warmth through your body.
His breathing grows ragged as your mouth opens wider, coaxing his tongue to entwine with yours. Your bodies are drawn impossibly close, and suddenly, every familiar corner of his body is something entirely new.
The broad planes of his chest press against your front as you fight against his tongue avidly, moaning at the way his lips devour yours.
He attempts to force himself away from you at the sound, the first few times unsuccessful as you keep his head anchored with your hands. A muffled laugh escapes him when you finally let him go, a thin string of saliva connecting you as he rests his forehead against yours.
Laboured breathing fills the small space.
"...Why didn't you tell me?" You pant, head falling onto his shoulder as you recall his words. "This whole time, I-"
You cut yourself off.
“I didn’t think you would ever feel the same.” You whisper.
He's quiet as he listens, fingers playing loosely with the fabric of your shirt that rests over the small of your back.
"I didn't want to burden you with anything." Leon admits, shaking his head over yours as he rasps, "You do so much for me already, to admit something like that would just be selfish."
Your grip tightens around him as sadness writhes in your chest.
"That's not, it's not... I never..." You stumble to find the correct way to describe your surprise. You lift your head to look him in the eye, brows pinched in disbelief as you let out a small laugh.
"You? Selfish? Come on, Leon..."
A small smile drags upon his lips as he looks at you, tired smile full of life. Finally, you place the unique happiness that lingers in him; the very same he'd never deigned to give anyone else.
Your heart is full as you kiss him again. For a moment, it is soft and sweet, embodying everything left unsaid between you. But, it quickly grows back to the intensity he had dragged you away from.
One of his hands raises up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging gently until you lean into the wall behind you. The action is tame, hardly anything to complain about, but it still sends a quiet moan tumbling out of your mouth all the same.
There is no hesitation, no stutter as his lips move against yours.
When you pull away to take a breath, your eyes are half-lidded as you murmur, "Please. Make me yours."
"...It's not that simple." Leon shakes his head between kisses, voice breathy. His hands roam freely over your body, slipping around areas that have your skin screaming under his touch.
You part briefly as you slip your shirt over your head, immediately reconnecting. "Why not?"
Leon stops just before his lips reach you, hands playing with the waistband of your pants as he waits for your approval. "...Because if you give me this chance, ___, that's it. You won't be able to get rid of me. I'll follow you like a damn dog."
You don't even get the chance to answer him fully, mindless words of affirmation slipping into whines as his hand delves beneath your waistband.
Your hands brace against his shoulders as his fingers push your panties aside, gathering the slick that pools there. A gruff sigh leaves his mouth at the sensation.
"So wet for me, aren't you?" He groans, voice clouded with want. You moan in response.
Your knees tremble as he slips one thick finger inside your heat, curling the digit as you cry out. You can't remember anyone else who has touched you like this, old boyfriends and hookups quickly fading from your memory as your partner adds a second finger.
Groaning out his name, the only response you get is a hushed laugh.
"That's it." He sighs, free hand wrapping around your waist to keep you steady between him and the wall at your back. "You're taking my fingers so well, baby."
You let out a whine at the crude words, pushing your nose into the pale skin of his neck. The pace Leon sets is intoxicating. But the memories of your night a week ago keep attempting to invade your mind, only heightening your lust for more.
Your nails cling onto his shoulder tightly as you attempt to grind on his fingers, the movement almost finally bringing his touch to your throbbing clit.
"If I didn't know any better," Leon rasps into your ear, voice ragged as his pace increases. "I'd say you were trying to fuck yourself on my fingers."
Unsteady breaths escape your mouth as you shake your head feverishly. You're unable to respond due to the sheer amount of pleasure shackling you down, even if you both know your actions betray any defence you could make.
His lips save you from your fate, though, nearly consuming you as he begins to thrust his fingers harder into you. A muffled plea escapes you as you begin to feel your wetness dripping over his knuckles and through the confines of your thin pants
"Someone's eager..." He teases, breath tickling against your ear. A short whine escapes you as his fingers find a particular soft patch inside you, curling against it relentlessly.
His head dips to place gentle kisses on the expanse of your neck. The action causes your features to tighten as you lean away from him, hands clutching the taut fabric of his shirt.
"Last night." You murmur, voice strained with pleasure as you recall the question that had brought you to this point. His lips stutter on your skin. "I wasn't with anyone, I-"
A soft groan tumbles out of you as his thumb finally finds your clit. The slightest touch sends a shiver up your spine.
"I-I just couldn't be near you anymore." You stammer, the confession tight in your throat. It seems odd to say aloud, like the words were never meant to be vocalised -- not that you ever would have told him on your own, anyway.
You lean back into him again, relishing in the intimate contact of his nose against your cheekbone. Leon's breath grows ragged in your ear.
Raising a hand to the back of his head, you make sure to hold him close as you breathlessly admit, "You've been driving me crazy."
A deep laugh rumbles through your ear as he processes your words, and in that moment, you know you both recall the same things. The helpless touches and longing gazes leading up to this moment, the memories of the night you'd shared flooding your memories each time your eyes met.
The way his head had nestled perfectly between your thighs, piercing your insides and ripping orgasm after orgasm from your writhing body. How he had managed to hit every spot inside you so well, rough hands exploring your body in a way they never had before.
In a way that you want to experience again and again.
Your partner leans away from you then, a teasing smile still ripe on his mouth, just enough to meet your eye.
His expression nearly knocks the wind out of you.
You'd seen Leon in many different lights before, at his worst and best alike. And before tonight, you would have bet anything that there was no part of him you were unfamiliar with.
The way he looks at you is unlike anything you've ever seen before. A poetic mixture of need and want wrestle in his eyes, focused wholly on you who stands in front of him. Something in your chest stirs as he places a slow kiss on the corner of your mouth.
"You're perfect." He murmurs, sending a hot rush through your body. "So perfect, just for me."
You whine as he slips his fingers out of you, but your heart steadily picks up its pace when he kneels down, graciously taking the sticky bottoms you wear with him.
Your eyes follow him as you pant above him. "Gonna help me with that?"
A calloused hand wraps around the meat of your thigh, getting rid of your pants completely. A silky thread of arousal pulls and snaps from your cunt, and the evidence of his presence only spurs him forward as he pulls your leg over his shoulder.
“If you ask nicely.” Leon teases. "I might think about it."
But, you both know that any chance of rational thought in his head has already long passed. No matter your answer, his face will still draw closer. You'll still brace yourself on the wall behind you as he places messy kisses near the apex of your thighs.
Your world shatters when his lips meet your cunt, thighs shaking as he runs his burning tongue along your folds.
Impatient hands grip his hair as he laps at anything he can reach. A small chrous of moans leave your mouth as his hands raise to grab at your hips, pulling your heat impossibly closer to him.
"Leon." You whisper, head bowing forward as he licks shamelessly, addicted to the slick that drips down his chin. The way you shake in his hold only proves to encourage him, keeping your legs spread open with an iron grip as his tongue dips into your throbbing entrance.
A strangled noise escapes you.
The already thin wire in your stomach stretches dangerously, its strength only fading faster the more he plays with you, the more he devours your cunt as if it's the last time he'll get the chance to do so.
You moan suddenly, hips jolting as his nose brushes against your clit.
Praises leave his busy mouth indistinctly as he grasps onto your hips tightly, holding you still against him.
"Easy..." His voice lowers to a groan, the vibrations of his words running straight up your spine. You have no choice to obey, though, as his fingers raise to pinch at your swollen bud.
A stuttered whine leaves your abused lips when you come undone. Your entire body flushes with heat as your release floods into his mouth, illicting a growl from deep in his throat.
But, even as you shudder from the aftershock, Leon's tongue still works between your folds, drunk on your taste. Your fingers grasp tightly at his hair.
"So good." You pant, heartbeat picking up when his eyes flicker to yours from where he kneels. "So good-!”
A warm hand makes its way up your shaking body, cradling you as he resumes his usual towering position over you. His lips capture yours in a kiss that's the most intense yet, nearly the picture of passion itself.
Your hands land on his shoulder then, crawling impatiently to his neckline. You stand nearly bare against him, save from the thin fabric of your bra, whilst he remains fully clothed.
"Get it off." You whisper against his lips, heartbeat picking up when you notice his face beginning to darken with pigment. "Or I will."
Leon listens to your request without objection, breaking your connection just long enough to peel off the compression shirt he wears. When he returns to you, his skin is warm.
His nose brushes lightly along the junction of your neck.
"You're a tease."
You lean back onto the wall, smile playing at your lips as your eyes rise to the ceiling.
"Me?" You look back down at where he places gentle kisses on your collarbone. "Says the man who's been playing with me for the past week?"
Leon laughs softly. "I wasn't playing with you, I think you just want me more than you want to admit."
With that, your arms fall from his shoulders, pulling his attention to your face.
"I don't think I ever downplayed how much I want you."
His lips find yours with gentle ease, but there is a hint of something else beneath the action that has your knees trembling beneath you. You're suddenly glad for his support.
A deep breath enters your nose as you kiss him back, revelling in the moan that escapes him as your hands latch onto his belt. The thick material feels hot under your fingers as you pull his torso into yours.
A rough gasp escapes him. He strains for you against his pants, physical evidence of your effect on him.
His brows pinch in concentration as his eyes droop, "I need you."
The words are spoken quietly, hesitantly, and in that moment, you're reminded of who you're talking to. Your peerless friend and partner, someone you look up to and make fun of in the same breath, who knows you better than you know yourself.
You let out a whine. There is no one else you'd rather risk your livelihood for.
"Then have me," You beg, eyes screwing shut as all sense leaves your mind, thoughts led only by the gorgeous man above you. "I'm already yours."
A quiet sigh escapes him at your admission, fingers rubbing delicately on your hips before he takes your hands.
He leads your nimble fingers forward, slowly dragging your attention to his belt buckle. Your breath hitches. His lower half is still confined within his pants, but even now, he feels so big.
With his steady hands over your shaky ones, you undo his belt together. Your heavy breaths mingle before Leon captures your lips in a bruising kiss, the shared action only pushing him further into your hand.
You moan into his mouth as his hands find your waist.
"You're mine, huh?" Leon murmurs it into the corner of your lips, perhaps sensing your surprise. Your cunt throbs when you envision your partner finally giving you what you'd waited years for, but now under no guise, with no promise to stop, and only wholehearted honesty.
You nod quickly and wordlessly, not wanting your words to betray your eagerness. But you know he can see it on your face regardless when a quiet laugh escapes him.
"How are you going to prove it?" He teases, thumb swiping across your cheek as his opposite hand finally frees his cock from the confines of his pants.
"You're cruel." You shudder out a laugh as you lean into his hand, closing your eyes briefly when he lines his tip up with your dripping entrance.
He hums, gathering the slick that still drips actively from your cunt as a moan tumbles from your mouth. You brace yourself on his broad shoulders.
"Am I?" Leon questions, voice tinged with strained laugher as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your expression pinches in pleasure as he continues to tease you, not entering you completely, but giving you just enough of him that you feel you're unable to complain.
You're breathless as you whisper into his ear, words hot against the bare skin of his neck. "Yes. You're a tease."
He doesn't answer you at first. You think he might be doing this on purpose, until a ragged sigh escapes him.
"You have no idea what you do to me..." Your name leaves his mouth so quietly you nearly write it off as your own imagination. Yet, by the time you've registered the implication of his words, he's already buried himself inside you.
You cry out, nails digging into his skin as you buck your hips into him.
Leon hisses. His arm flexes against you as he rests a hand on the swell of your ass, steadying your movements.
"Steady." He rasps.
His pace begins torturously slow, accompanying the way his chest shakes with each breath. It's as if he's reeling from the fact that this is really happening; that you're actually beneath him, taking him so well.
"Leon." You moan your partner's name, cheek leaning against his shoulder. Your shoulders collide slightly with the wall as his thrusts begin to pick up speed, but any pain is dulled by the sensation of the tip of his cock hitting so deep inside you.
But, in true Leon fashion, he notices immediately -- his hand lowers from its rooted place on your collar to your upper back, the area that is most subjected to his now ruthless pace.
"What is it, baby?" He whispers breathlessly, breath hot on your ear. You whine when he hits a particularly spongy patch inside you.
Your lips are already close to his ear when you stammer out your pleas for him to move faster, to give you more of him. Your nails mark angry red half-moons into his delicate skin.
A small laugh leaves his mouth.
"I knew you couldn't get enough of me." Leon says it into your hair as his tempo increases, confidence lining his voice. You resist chewing him out for bringing up the night you'd spent together a week ago at a time like this, even if his statement rings true.
You lean back slightly as he bounces you in his grip, looking at him with half-lidded eyes as you retort, "You're a hypocrite"
A sharp moan mixes with a laugh as he nods.
"So I wanted you just as much, what's the big deal?" Leon whispers, arms tightening around you as his pace stutters. He's close, and so are you.
"You're still the one beneath me."
Your body pulses with want at the words.
He hums, thrusting into you particularly hard as your concentration begins to wane. Warm lips meet the side of your neck. "You're so beautiful like this, just for me."
You whine, repeating his words gladly. "Just for you."
To see your partner reduced to a man consumed by his need for you, expression pinched so perfectly when you clench over his length, it turns you into an equal mess. You've known Leon for years, but all you can wonder now is how you held out for so long -- why you ever thought it would be a bad idea to want this.
"I'm-" You cut yourself off abruptly, head leaning on the wall behind you as you gasp. "I'm gonna-"
Leon whispers vague words of encouragement into your ear, masking the slow action of his hand leaving your upper back. He trails lower before you can even notice.
A sharp cry escapes you when his calloused fingers find your puffy clit, rolling the bundle of nerves between his fingers. Your breathing quickens as he chases your lips.
Every part of your body aches obscenely. For him, for pleasure, for relief.
Your hands roam down to his shoulderblades, pulling him flush against you. The action gives him the leverage he needs to finally catch your lips in a kiss so powerful, so honest, that you can't hold back any longer.
The tight coil in your stomach snaps under his actions, and from the way his thrusts stutter, you can tell he knows. His name leaves your mouth in tiny pants as he chases his own high.
"Come for me." You mumble, hand raising to tangle in his hair. A struggled sigh leaves his mouth. "Let it out."
Ignoring the sensation of oncoming overstimulation, your mind takes in nothing but the pleasure he offers you in favour in favour of letting him feel the same bliss you do.
"Inside." You beg, legs tightening around his waist. Your partner groans at the thought. "Please."
He doesn't even stop to think at your words. It's as if your plea had reached only the surface of his thoughts, batting away any consequence if it meant he could have you. His own release comes out with a deep groan, the hot liquid nearly burning the inside of you in its intensity.
Your heavy breaths mix briefly as he lets your legs slide out of his grip, arms tightening sweetly around you when his raspy voice sounds in your ear.
"There. You have your proof."
Your mind goes back to your earlier snide comment, daring him to prove his commitment to you. An embarrassed laugh escapes you as your head falls into his chest.
Leon's arms tighten around you, smile evident against the shell of your ear as his body shakse with silent laughter.
