really want to write a fic where Leon is totally down bad for reader, but readerâs just this emotionally detached jerk who couldnât care lessïŒïŒ
Just some late-night thoughts I had to get off my chest. Wrote this while I couldn't sleepâdon't take it too seriously (might expand on it later lol). :)
· I feel like Leon is the type who, once you've been living together for a while, and you're a chronic night owl who keeps saying you'll fix your sleep scheduleâand you make him promise to hold you accountableâbut you just can't help yourself, and it's 2 or 3 AM and you're still gaming or binge-watching something or just doomscrolling. He wakes up, reaches for you, finds your side of the bed empty. He finds you in the other room, still glued to your screen. And he knew it. He knew you'd do this. He gets this quiet kind of angryânot at you, but at you not taking care of yourself. He walks over with this cold, heavy presence, doesn't say a word, just hoists you over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carries you back to bed. You're squirming and making excuses, and he ignores every single one. He just wraps himself around you, locks you in his arms, and makes you sleep. He just wants you to live. To live a normal, boring, healthy life. To sleep like a normal person. To wake up like a normal person. Because that's exactly what he can't doânot after everything. Not after Biochemical terrorist incidents, not after being forced into becoming an agent. His training and his trauma have left him alert every single night, ready to get up and fight at a moment's notice. But with you? With you sleeping next to him? He actually gets those rare, peaceful nights. So maybe that overbearing, no-arguments way he makes you sleep is just his clumsy, gruff version of gentleness.
· High school Leon, your same-age boyfriend. He's always been the sensitive, caring type. The kind who'd actually take a baking elective or something. Nerd? Yeah. Adorable? Also yeah. He'd take the class because he wanted to make you something sweet. A labor of love, you know? He'd be one of the only guys in the classâeveryone else just screwing around for an easy credit, but he'd be there taking notes, following the recipe step by step, clumsy and so, so earnest. Apron tied around his waist, biting his lip over the oven timer. His first tries would come out kinda roughâmaybe a pie with burnt edges, or cookies that spread too thin. He'd be too embarrassed to show you. So he'd let his friends taste-test first, take their notes, practice in secret. And then, on some special day, he'd finally present you with the perfect batch. The kind he actually felt proud of. He'd stand there, nervous out of his mind, searching your face for approval with these big, sincere eyes. And when you said, "Wow, you're actually amazing at this"? He'd blush. His whole face. His ears would go red. And if you gave him a kiss as a reward? That red would spread all the way down his neck.
(I've never been to high school in the US so idk what I'm talking about lol.)
Just some late-night thoughts I had to get off my chest. Wrote this while I couldn't sleepâdon't take it too seriously (might expand on it later lol). :)
· I feel like Leon is the type who, once you've been living together for a while, and you're a chronic night owl who keeps saying you'll fix your sleep scheduleâand you make him promise to hold you accountableâbut you just can't help yourself, and it's 2 or 3 AM and you're still gaming or binge-watching something or just doomscrolling. He wakes up, reaches for you, finds your side of the bed empty. He finds you in the other room, still glued to your screen. And he knew it. He knew you'd do this. He gets this quiet kind of angryânot at you, but at you not taking care of yourself. He walks over with this cold, heavy presence, doesn't say a word, just hoists you over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carries you back to bed. You're squirming and making excuses, and he ignores every single one. He just wraps himself around you, locks you in his arms, and makes you sleep. He just wants you to live. To live a normal, boring, healthy life. To sleep like a normal person. To wake up like a normal person. Because that's exactly what he can't doânot after everything. Not after Biochemical terrorist incidents, not after being forced into becoming an agent. His training and his trauma have left him alert every single night, ready to get up and fight at a moment's notice. But with you? With you sleeping next to him? He actually gets those rare, peaceful nights. So maybe that overbearing, no-arguments way he makes you sleep is just his clumsy, gruff version of gentleness.
· High school Leon, your same-age boyfriend. He's always been the sensitive, caring type. The kind who'd actually take a baking elective or something. Nerd? Yeah. Adorable? Also yeah. He'd take the class because he wanted to make you something sweet. A labor of love, you know? He'd be one of the only guys in the classâeveryone else just screwing around for an easy credit, but he'd be there taking notes, following the recipe step by step, clumsy and so, so earnest. Apron tied around his waist, biting his lip over the oven timer. His first tries would come out kinda roughâmaybe a pie with burnt edges, or cookies that spread too thin. He'd be too embarrassed to show you. So he'd let his friends taste-test first, take their notes, practice in secret. And then, on some special day, he'd finally present you with the perfect batch. The kind he actually felt proud of. He'd stand there, nervous out of his mind, searching your face for approval with these big, sincere eyes. And when you said, "Wow, you're actually amazing at this"? He'd blush. His whole face. His ears would go red. And if you gave him a kiss as a reward? That red would spread all the way down his neck.
(I've never been to high school in the US so idk what I'm talking about lol.)
If you, in the midst of a passionate relationship, suddenly traveled back to a time before he ever knew you.
He came out of the shower as usualânaked from the waist up, a towel slung low around his hips, stray droplets of water trailing down the grooves of his abs before disappearing into the fabric.
Years of training had his senses on high alert the moment he stepped into the room. Something was off. A sweet, faintly floral scent lingered in the airâthe kind of fragrance from a girl's body care products. Delicate, cloying, impossible to ignore.
Someone was in his room.
Sure enough, there was a small lump in the center of his bed.
An intruder. But the windows were untouched. He'd chosen this apartment specifically for its security. Anyone who could break in without a trace was no ordinary threat.
His gun was in the nightstand. Having a weapon would put him at ease.
But it was right next to your pillow. So he approached quietly.
Up close, he finally got a look at whoâor whatâwas in his bed. Just an ordinary girl, sleeping completely unguarded.
Maybe it was some kind of honeytrap. Lull the target with an innocent face.
He was reaching for the nightstand when you stirred. You blinked awake, disorientedâthen your face lit up the moment you saw him.
His instincts told him to wait. Observe.
He watched you shuffle closer, inch by inch, until you sat up and wrapped your arms around his bare waist. You pressed your cheek against his chestâskin against skin, warm, soft.
He didn't know what to do. His arms hung in the air, as if afraid to touch you. He hadn't been close to anyone since being forced into government service. Training, missionsâthere was never time. The trauma of Raccoon City still hadn't healed. He wasn't ready to open up to anyone.
Years of solitude left him completely lost when faced with someone so warm, so soft, so trusting.
But the way you looked at himâlike he was home. If you were some honeytrap agent, your performance was flawless. Could he even still have a connection like this with anyone?
Your bodies were pressed so close. He could feel how soft you were, smell the faint sweetness of your shampooâthe kind only a girl would choose. It felt completely out of place in his cold, spartan bedroom.
Your hair tickled his chin.
His mind was going blank, overwhelmed by your presence and your scent, when you spoke:
"Leon, you took forever in the shower. I fell asleep waiting."
A teasing, affectionate tone. The kind reserved for a lover.
You said his name. That made him even more suspicious. His voice came out cold: "Who are you? Why are you in my bed? How do you know my name?"
For a split second, he saw hurt flash across your face. Then it was gone.
"What's wrong?! I'm your girlfriend! How do you not recognize your own girlfriend?! Did the hot water steam your brain or something?" You reached up to feel his forehead, but he caught your wristâfast. It was so slender. Not the wrist of someone who trained regularly.
"Girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend. Who are you, really?" His voice remained calm, measured. "What's your name? Why are you here? What do you want?"
"I told you, I'm your girlfriend!" You nearly yelled it. "I'm here because we live together! My purpose is toâ"
You stopped suddenly. Your eyes went wide.
"Ohâwait. This room." Realization dawned on your face. "This is your old bachelor apartment. Before we moved in together." A thought flickered across your expression. You weren't sure yet. You needed to confirm it.
"Leon! What year is it right now? I meanâwhat's the date?"
He gave you the exact date, down to the day of the week.
"Ha! That's it. Time travel!" You said it with absolute certainty, looking so smug that he couldn't help but think you resembled a satisfied predator. A small one. He didn't want to admit it, but it was... cute.
"I'm from four years in the future! And I really am your girlfriend there."
Time travel. Four years. Girlfriend. It sounded like the rant of a madwoman. Whatever softness he'd felt a moment ago evaporated. Before he could respond, you kept going, putting on an exaggerated serious face:
"Oh wait, I know what you're going to say. 'Time travel? Prove it. How can you prove you're my future girlfriend?'" You mimicked him perfectlyâhis cadence, his tone. He hated to admit it, but you'd quoted him verbatim. You knew how he thought. Only someone who'd spent a long time close to him would know that. It made you even more suspicious.
He wanted to argue, but all that came out was, "You don't sound anything like me."
"That was exactly like you! You were exactly like this four years agoâyou didn't trust anyone!"
Fine. He'd concede. "Let's say you are... my..." The word stuck in his throat. A lonely bachelor for so long, and now some girl appears in his bedroom claiming to be his future girlfriend. Anyone would need a moment.
"...girlfriend." He finally said it. "Then... how do you prove it?"
"Oh! I know you have a tiny mole on the lower left side of your back."
That was... an intimate detail. One he barely noticed himself sometimes. He started to wonder if you might actually be telling the truth.
When he still looked unconvinced, you pressed on: "And you have a scar on your inner left thigh. You said you got it climbing a tree to save a cat when you were a kid. And also..." A hint of smugness crept into your voice. "You actually prefer being submissive in bed, don't you?"
You knew. You knew that his job forced him to be in control at all timesâto anticipate every variable, to dominate every mission. So in intimacy, he wanted the opposite. He wanted to let go. To trust someone enough to follow.
Maybe it was all those "intimate" details that convinced him. Or maybe it was something elseâsome future connection already pulling at him. He felt an inexplicable... closeness to you. He wanted to believe you.
He shouldn't. He knew with absolute certainty that he'd never seen you before in his life.
"I'll trust you. For now." A pause. "You sleep here tonight. I'll take the guest room." His voice was clipped. An order. He needed distance.
It was hard to say whether that decision didn't carry some private, unacknowledged wish of his own.
But as he turned to leave, he heard a small, pitiful plea from behind him: "Can't we sleep together? đ„ș I'll be scared all alone..."
He turned, ready to refuseâand saw you with your eyebrows drawn up in a perfect worried slant, your eyes glistening, your hands pressed together in a begging gesture.
He was taller than you. Looking down at you, the angle only made your sad-puppy expression even more pathetic.
He thought to himself: if this is a honeytrap, I'm already caught.
"Fine. You take the inside. I'll take the outside."
"I knew you were the best, Leon! Love you the most!"
You said it so easily, like a declaration of love meant nothing at all. You didn't notice his ears had gone completely red.
He just said, "Yeah."
The first half of the night went fine.
But then morning came.
Ever since Raccoon City, he rarely woke up naturally. It was always nightmares or blaring alarms. But this morning, he woke up because he couldn't breathe.
Something was pressing on his chest. Not heavy, exactlyâbut insistent.
He opened his eyes and saw the top of your head first. Your face was buried against his neck, unruly strands of hair tickling his chin. It reminded him of the way you'd clung to him last night, your voice sweet and teasing. His ears burned at the memory.
Should he wake you? Or let you sleep? He didn't know. He didn't want to break the stillness between you.
"Mmm... morning, Leon," you mumbled, still half-asleep. On pure instinct, you kissed his chin.
His train of thought derailed completely. Only one thought remained.
He thought to himself: if this is a honeytrap, I'm falling for it. Willingly.
On a weekend morning, heâs already back from his run. It was just a light jog, but still, a thin sheen of sweat covers him. Strands of his fringe cling to his pale forehead, and sweat drips along his jawline. Disheveled, but with a certain raw beauty.
The exhilaration of the run hasnât faded, but something softer is already rising in his chestâthe desire to see you. To see his girlfriend, still buried under the covers, hibernating like a little bear.
He wants to go straight into your bedroom, climb onto the bed, and wrap his arms around you from behind. He wants to press his face into the crook of your neck, breathe in the warm, just-woken-up scent of you, kiss your shoulder, trail kisses up to your neck, âaccidentallyâ wake you, and watch you blink your hazy eyes open at him.
But he canât come near you smelling like sweat. He knows you like things clean.
So he steps into the shower and uses the body wash you picked out so carefullyâthe one you share. Thanks to that, you both end up smelling the same every day.
After his shower, he puts on his pajamas and walks quietly to the bed. He kneels on the edge with one knee and leans down close to you.
So close he can hear the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. So close he can see the shadow of your lashes in the morning light. So close he can catch the faint, sweet scent thatâs uniquely yours.
He lowers his head and presses his lips gently to your forehead.
So light. Like a feather brushing by.
You donât react at all. Still fast asleep.
Leonâs lips twitch, barely perceptibly. He moves lower, this time kissing the tip of your nose.
Your nose wrinkles slightly, like a small animal bothered by a tiny bug.
He finds it amusing. He goes lower still, aiming for your lips this time.
But just as his lips are about to meet yours, you suddenly stir. You turn your head slightly, avoiding his kiss, and let out a sleepy, grumbling protest: âMmm⊠stop itâŠâ
Your voice is soft and thick with sleep.
He pauses. He watches you burrow your face deeper into the pillow, curling into yourself until only the back of your head is visible. Your fingers instinctively clutch the edge of the duvet, as if fending off some disturbance in a dream.
He waits a few seconds, then leans in againâthis time gently brushing the hair from your cheek so your face is fully visible. Your brows are faintly knitted, as if youâve run into trouble in your dream.
He lowers his head and kisses your cheek.
Your skin is warm from sleep, soft. He canât help but linger for a moment.
âMmmâŠâ You make a sound again, this time with a hint of resistance. Your eyes stay closed, but your pupils are moving rapidly beneath your lids, as if youâre dreaming. Your hand emerges from under the covers and waves vaguely, like youâre trying to shoo away something annoying.
He watches your handâslender fingers, neatly trimmed nailsâand gently takes it in his.
Your hand looks tiny in his palm, warm and soft. He lowers his head and kisses your fingertips.
This finally seems to disturb your sleep.
Your lashes flutter a few times, then slowly lift. Your eyes are hazy in the morning light, pupils not yet fully focused. You stare blankly at him, so close, as if still trying to figure out if this is a dream or reality.
ââŠLeon?â you whisper, your voice hoarse and drowsy.
âYeah,â he replies, still holding your hand.
You blink. You finally wake up a little more. You sniff, then your brow relaxes, and the corners of your mouth lift unconsciously: ââŠYou smell good.â
Itâs the scent of his body wash.
He doesnât answer. He just lowers his head, and this time, finally, he kisses your lipsâjust a soft brush, like tasting morning dew. A kiss still thick with sleep. He feels how soft your lips are, a little dry. You tilt your face up to meet him, slow, light, as if kissing in a dream.
After a while, you start to stir gently, a kind of unconscious, cat-like squirm. You try to end the kiss, push him away, but you canât quite bring yourself to. So it turns into a playful mix of give and take. Only when heâs satisfied does he reluctantly pull back. When the kiss ends, your eyes have drifted shut again, as if youâre ready to go back to sleep.
âWhat time is itâŠâ you mumble, rubbing your face against his palm.
âStill early,â he says softly.
âMmmâŠâ you hum vaguely, shrinking further under the covers. But your hand still holds his, not letting go.
âGo back to sleep.â He kisses your forehead again. âI wonât bother you anymore.â
You open your eyes and look at him. Thereâs sleep in them, and something soft, something trusting. Then you let go of his hand, turn over so your back faces him, and curl up again.
He lies down behind you, gently wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you into his chest.
You let out a contented sigh, as if youâve finally found the most comfortable spot. Your back presses against his chest, your hips against his stomach.
He buries his face in the nape of your neck and breathes in deeplyârose, the warmth of the sheets, the laziness of sleep, and the scent of your skin.
LOVED We Canât Know Each Otherđ±. I feel this is how Leon and reader would interact with each other basically reader using him and he is submitting to her. I hope they meet again where reader already left the city maybe on a beach. I thought there was gonna be a twist where he was gonna feel guilty since he is married and his feelings are wrapped up in reader. If this gets a part 2 I will definitely read it.đ
Thanks for loving this piece!ïŒïŒ Unfortunately, I donât have plans to add that plotline here. Iâll write a separate fic for it down the line.đ«Ąđ«Ąđ«Ąâ€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïž
Sorry, the first time I copied this fic from my writing app, I didnât get the whole thing. Hereâs the full version now :)
1.
It really caught you off guard. When the chase first started, you just floored it, letting the hot wind scream past your ears.
On this deserted interstate, the distant sunset in the western canyons looked like molten gold, painting the entire sky and earth the same shade of orange-yellow, making the wilderness hazy and ambiguous.
Midsummer afternoon, even near dusk, the heat was brutal. The asphalt, having soaked up the midday sun, now radiated warmth without restraint.
You crouched by the blown rear tire, hitting the hubcap with a wrench out of sheer frustration.
Beyond the road stretched endless grassland, the dirt coarse as sand.
You pulled out your phone, trying to reach someone, but ended up staring at the "No Signal" in the top corner.
You'd been stuck here for two hours. Your lips were chapped from thirst, and the back of your T-shirt was soaked with sweat.
Just as you stood there, hands on your hips, drowning in despair and frantic thoughts, a black SUV appeared at the edge of your vision.
Your eyes lit up. You raised a hand to wave, but the car sped past without stopping. Furious, you flipped the bird at the black hunk of metal.
Then, not five seconds later, the car doubled back. You quickly hid your right hand behind your back, feeling guilty.
On this endless highway, spotting a girl's figure in the monotonous landscape surprised him.
A broken-down car, probably. Out here, strangers meant cautionâmaybe even unnecessary trouble. But seeing a girl stranded on a deserted interstate, he couldn't just ignore it.
You never expected the man who stepped out of that SUV to be a blonde with an almost perfect physique and a tired look on his face. Driving a car like that, you'd expected some middle-aged know-it-all.
When he approached, you instinctively stepped back, your right hand brushing the gun holster at your hip.
You stared at each other for two seconds. Then his gaze shifted to the jack. He said only, "You put it in the wrong place." His voice was low, raspy from a long drive.
He crouched down, repositioned the jack, and without looking up, said, "Wrench."
Those ice-blue eyes, set deep in his sockets, seemed naturally cold. The skin beneath them was faintly bruisedâprobably from all-nighters for work. Fine lines at the corners. You wondered what it would be like to kiss them.
You were still lost in admiring his face. At his voice, you snapped to attention like a student caught daydreaming, obediently handing him the wrench. He seemed to notice your distraction, his lips twitching slightlyâthough you were too out of it to see.
His movements were clean and efficient. He loosened the lug nuts one by one. The muscles in his forearm tensed with effort, set off by his sun-bronzed skin and the scars that hinted at untold stories.
All of it made heat pool in your belly.
His jaw was clenched in concentration, sharp-lined. Those short stubble marks would definitely prickle when you kissed him.
Western midsummer, even at dusk, the air was thick with dry heat. The flush on your skin must be from the weather.
Looking down from where you stood, the first thing you saw was his fuzzy golden head, which reminded you of a certain breed of retriever. His hair wasn't a bright, brilliant gold, but a grayish gold-brown. Now, in the dying sunlight, it shimmered with fine, sand-like sparkles.
The old tire, rusted from years of use, was stuck. He stood up and kicked it twice. On the third kick, you timed your own kick with his. When the tire finally rolled off, you pressed your lips together sheepishly. He glanced at you, said nothing, but couldn't quite hide a soft laugh. You saw it.
He mounted the new tire, tightened the last lug nut, then stood and pressed his right hand to his left shoulder out of habit.
You grabbed a bottle of soda from your car and handed it to him. "Here. It's not cold anymore."
He took it, glanced at it. The bright blue liquid looked eerie in the clear plastic bottle, bathed in the golden sunset, it even glowed with an unnatural red tint. The label read "Blue Storm."
He didn't drink it. Just set it on the hood of his car and asked, almost casually:
"Where are you headed?"
"West," you answered, deliberately vague.
"Two gas stations on this road are already abandoned. The next one is at least a hundred kilometers away."
You were silent for a moment. Finally, you managed, "Thanks for the heads-up."
He just nodded at you. For some reason, he seemed to want to prolong this time together. But in the end, he only said, "Be careful."
You said, "You too."
Just politeness.
You gathered your tools. He picked up the soda and got back in his car.
There was a strange, unspoken understanding between you.
2.
What you didn't know was that his destination was the very place you'd fled three days ago.
Following leads on a virus smuggling route, his informant's last known location was this third-rate nightclub. The buyers were meeting an intelligence broker named "Racheal Bluestone" here tonight.
He saw the obvious fake name and nearly smiled.
He wasn't the type to frequent places like this. Sure, he'd had a drinking problem early on, but he'd always stuck to quiet bars or his own place. This kind of noise wasn't his scene.
The moment he walked in, he saw you sitting at the bar. You wore a black slip dress that barely reached mid-thigh, and your hair was longer than when he'd seen you on the road a few days ago. A world away from the free-spirited girl in a white tank top and jeans.
"Well, well! The tire-changing old man!"
You spotted him immediately, raising your glass and shouting over the din. In this chaos, nobody noticed.
He moved closer naturally, leaning one elbow on the bar.
"So... Bluestone, huh?" He held your gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting in a barely-there smile.
"I knew we'd meet again."
You stared back at him with a goofy, drunken grin.
"I know... what you want... and I can give it to you... but how about a drink first?"
He didn't answer, just sat on the stool next to you and ordered a whiskey from the bartender.
It was the first time he'd really looked at your face. You were a bit more tanned than when you'd met on the highway. There was a small, fading bruise under your cheekbone.
"What do you want?" His tone was direct, blunt.
You tilted your head, tracing circles on the bar top with your finger.
"One night with you." You enunciated each word.
The music cut out for a beat at that exact second. In that brief silence, the words landed softly on his eardrums.
Leon's expression didn't change, but his hand paused on its way to his mouth for a split second. He was evaluating: the value of the intel, the cost, the time, the risk. A trap or a test?
"What do you mean?"
You didn't explain. You just smiled, hopped off the barstool, the hem of your dress brushing his knee.
You wobbled when you stood. He steadied you by the elbow out of instinct. You didn't pull away. Instead, you leaned against him.
"Come with me."
You took his hand. It was so much smaller than hisâa feminine hand that was dwarfed by his rough, calloused one. If he wanted, he could easily pin both your wrists in one of his.
The height difference meant you had to look up at him.
Your eyes glistened, reflecting red from the lights. Your cheeks were flushed an unnatural pink from the alcohol. You stared at him, eyes bright, tinged with a seductive color in the bar's hazy lighting. Like crystal glass. Like a kaleidoscope.
Like a kitten. The thought flashed through his mind unbidden. Before he could process it, you'd already taken his hand and were dragging him toward the door.
A tall, powerfully built, tired-looking blonde agent being led by the hand by a girl who barely reached his shoulder. Like a gentle giant of a dog being walked by its young owner.
You suddenly looked back at him, your eyes far too clear for someone who'd been drinking.
"...Don't touch my bag."
Your free hand clutched the small crossbody bag protectively.
3.
Three blocks, then up an old walk-up building with no elevator. The motion-sensor light on the second-floor landing had been broken since before you moved in.
You used your phone's flashlight to avoid stumbling in the dark. You always kept your guard up on these stairs at night.
At every corner, you stopped and looked back at him. He'd let you lead him by the wrist all this wayâhis wrist so much thicker than yours, skin rough. You could barely wrap one hand around it.
Inside, you turned on the light, dropped your bag, and said, "Make yourself at home."
A small apartment. Small space, simple furnishings, but tidy. A single bed against the wall with clean gray sheets. A long sofa. On the table: an old laptop, half a bowl of instant noodles, a ceramic mug holding three different colored markers. On the windowsill, a nearly dead succulent.
He stood in the doorway, not coming in. You looked back and said, "Relax, there's no one else." Then, as if remembering something, added, "And no cameras."
He didn't sit. He leaned against the wall by the door.
You sat cross-legged on the bed, hugging a pillow to your chest, resting your chin on it as you looked at himâthe pose made you look like a high schooler, but the way you spoke was something else entirely.
"You want the intel, right? It comes with conditions."
He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression briefly flickering with something like relief. Of course. It was always a transaction. You buy, I sell. Mutual consent.
You held up your fingers. He waited for you to name your price, his face showing the jaded expectancy of someone who'd seen it all.
"First: one million dollars. Non-negotiable. Your boss's budget is way bigger than that, right?" You held his gaze, eyes steady, as if the drunkenness from before had been an act.
He watched you, waiting with amusement. No reaction. Old man. Hard to read.
"Second..."
When you got to this one, the flush on your face spread quickly to the tips of your ears. They were completely pink, like a kitten's furless ears. He was staring at them. That infuriating, in-control look of his. It made you mad.
"Second..." You cleared your throat. "You sleep with me."
Your expression suddenly turned serious, but your lips curved up. "You're my type. Blonde, quiet, old scars, looks at people like he's calculating how to take them down in three seconds."
You tucked your finger back in. "I'm not gonna run into another guy like you. So... one-time thing. A clean buyout. One night, then you get your intel. You go your way, I go mine."
Your ears were burning red by the time you finished, but you held your chin up, not looking away.
"Both conditions. Non-negotiable."
He listened, and a strange sense of absurdity settled over him. He'd spent over twenty years surviving in the cracks between bioterrorism, conspiracy groups, and transnational crime. And now he was standing in an apartment that probably rented for less than eight hundred bucks a month, being treated like a "disposable commodity" by a girl in her twenties.
His face was perfectly still, completely unreadable. That forced calm of middle-aged men. You'd seen it on plenty of faces during your deals.
He wasn't the kind of person who did this casually. Years as an agent meant he didn't have the timeâor the mindsetâfor romance. Add a perpetually stern, cold poker face to the mix, and even with his looks, he didn't have much experience.
"How old were you when you started pulling this?" His voice was calm. No anger, no judgment. Impossible to read.
You hadn't expected that question. None of your predictions had included this. Relief, understanding, pleasureânone of the emotions you'd anticipated. His question caught you completely off guard.
"Did it ever occur to you," his voice was low, as if afraid of disturbing the moment, "that I might actually be a bad guy?"
"I have good instincts. And I don't think a guy who stops to help a stranger change a tire on a deserted highway is a bad guy."
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Looking at you. Saying nothing.
"What are you thinking?" you asked.
"I'm thinking about whether you know what you're doing."
You gave a soft laugh, carrying a calmness that didn't belong to your age. "I know more than you think."
Silence. A temporary silence. You could hear the TV in the next room, muffled as if through water.
"Don't you thinkâ" he started.
"Think what?" you interrupted. "Think you're too old? Think you shouldn't?" You rested your chin back on your knees, your voice softening. "It's not like I'm asking you to marry me. I just..."
You trailed off, suddenly self-conscious, and looked down, picking at the pills on the blanket. Then you looked up and glared at him. For the first time since you'd met, you showed a crack in your armor. You fidgeted with the blanket, with the hem of your dress, avoiding his eyes.
You couldn't finish the sentence. The part you didn't say was: I just wanted to spend one night with someone who makes me feel safe before I leave this city. But that sounded too much like begging. So you'd changed the wording.
He just looked at you. The way you picked at the blanket. The red tips of your ears. The bruise under your cheekbone. The cold noodles on the table.
He didn't say "yes." He didn't say "deal." He just came closer, sat on the sofa, and finished the water in the cup.
"Give me half the intel first. I'll confirm it's real. Then the money transfers. You tell me the rest tonight."
That was his way. Give a little, but keep the line.
That meant yes.
You stared at him for three seconds, then your face split into a grin. The same smile from the highwayâlips pressed together, eyes bright. Having gotten the answer you wanted, you immediately regained the confidence you'd shown at the bar.
You reached under your pillow, pulled out a USB drive, and tossed it to him.
"First seven names. That's enough for you to confirm."
You got off the bed and walked toward him, barefoot on the scratchy rug. You climbed into his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"So... about the rest... how are we going to finish that tonight?"
Your voice was deceptively innocent, almost sweet. Your arms were already around his neck, your nose nearly touching his. He could feel your warm breath on his skin. His hands found your waist.
4.
You could feel his breath on your face, warm, much hotter than your own.
The ceiling light in this apartment had long since died. The room wasn't bright, just a warm, cozy apricot yellow. You thought to yourself: once you had the million, you'd leave this city, find a better apartment for a safe house. One with a working light at the top of the stairs. A working ceiling light inside.
This warm light softened the sharp lines of his face, though. This close, you could finally see him clearly. Long eyelashes, casting dark shadows on his cheeks. His eyes⊠gray-blue? Or misty blue? You didn't have the presence of mind to tell.
The fine lines at the corners added to his already tired face, a kind of age-induced sexiness all its own.
Those stubble marks on his jawâyou'd wanted to kiss them since the first time you saw him. Now you were getting your wish.
You cupped his face in your hands, your lips hovering near the corner of his mouth, not quite kissing him yet. Your hot breaths tangled together, thick with the scent of whiskey. He didn't resist, didn't fight for control. He let you do whatever you wanted.
When you finally kissed him, it was deeply satisfying. It was exactly as you'd imagined: those short stubble marks scratched against your skin, just a little ticklish.
It reminded you of when you were little. Your father would come home, scoop you up without warning, and kiss your cheek. His fresh stubble, not yet shaved, would scratch your delicate child's skin. You'd always make a face, push his cheek away with your little hand, and whine for him to stop.
The truth was, the man in front of you did look a bit like your father. Especially the straight nose and the shape of his eyes. Maybe you weren't remembering clearly. Maybe you were wrong. The last impression you had of your father was a black-and-white photo you'd seen over a decade ago.
You quickly swept those thoughts aside, pulling your mind back to the present, focusing on the body you were straddling.
His lips were softer than you'd imagined. The moment you kissed him, a shiver ran through your entire body.
You were getting cocky, thinking you had him completely under your control. Then the hand that had been resting behind your head suddenly pressed you harder against him. A large hand slid to the small of your back, yanking you close. His body was so hot you almost felt like you were burning. You couldn't resist at all, just let him lock you in his arms.
A healthy, strong male body, pressed tight against your soft, delicate one. Firm, full muscles, a hard solidity hidden beneath softness. Masculine pheromones, carrying an unspoken coldness and rigidity. Too much pheromones, like too much imagination. You felt like you were drowning in something tangible.
Before you could react, his soft, agile tongue pushed past your teeth, swept across your palate. A ticklish sensation that made your knees weak, sent a tremor through your body. He felt it, pulled you tighter against him.
His tongue moved in your mouth, steady and unhurried, each stroke making your body go a little softer. That flexible muscle tangled with your tongue. You couldn't control anything, just let him take, not even noticing the drool escaping the corner of your mouth.
You were afraid you'd actually suffocate if this kept up. Your face was flushed red, tears welling at the corners of your eyes. You beat your hands against his back, but he didn't let up. So you just let him do what he wanted, drowning in the near-suffocating pleasure.
Your right hand came up behind his head, fingers brushing the short, stiff golden hairs at his nape. Those soft, lovely golden strands weren't as hard as they looked. They felt ticklish under your fingers.
When the kiss finally ended, you were a puddle in his arms, chin resting on his shoulder, gasping for air. Your arms were still around his neck. You could feel his hand stroking your back, steady and gentle, through the thin fabric of your dress. Like he was soothing a kitten.
When you'd caught your breath, you looked up at him, naked desire melting in your eyes. You wore a triumphant smile. It lasted maybe three seconds before he grabbed your waist, flipped you over, and pressed you down onto the sofa.
One of his large hands pushed your dress up to your chest, revealing the lace-trimmed string panties you'd carefully chosen. The scrap of fabric barely covering you was already soaked, clinging like a second skin to your swollen lips, almost transparent.
You wondered how he'd react when he saw that little piece of lace. Would he be pleasantly surprised? Would he smile knowingly?
Nothing. He just hooked a finger under the thin bow tied at your hip. The moment his fingertip touched you, you felt the rough callus there. Hard. Gritty. Impossible to ignore.
You thought he'd pull it off right then. He didn't. He always kept you guessing. Even now.
The frustration of not getting what you wanted made you restless. Just as you started to squirm, to try and take control, he tugged slowly at that pitifully thin string. The silk ribbon bit into the tender flesh of your thigh, leaving a faint red mark. Your hips bucked up, eager to rub against his fingers, but he pressed you back down with the palm of his hand.
He lowered his head, his lips almost touching your earlobe. "Do you really want to..."
Before he could finish, your hips were already writhing impatiently. The thin fabric of your panties was completely soaked. As you moved, it rubbed against his straining groin, leaving a faint damp mark on his pants.
He hadn't expected someone who'd seemed so innocent when you first met to act like this in bed.
He sighed, his right hand gripping your waist to stop your movements. He was so much stronger than you. One hand could circle most of your waist. You saw him close his eyes for a few seconds, then open them again. Those gray-blue eyes looked at you, his voice calm, firm, dominant: "Finish your sentence."
That commanding tone made you shiver all over. You felt another rush of wetness between your legs.
How pathetic. One low, husky command, and your body reacted like that. How embarrassing.
So you had to turn the tables. You heard your own voice say, "...I... I don't want to!"
Your mouth said no, but your body was a traitor. You couldn't stop yourself from grinding against him, the slick entrance of your cunt eagerly seeking the head of his cock through that thin, wet scrap of fabric. You rubbed against him, desperate to take him inside.
He let you do it, just raised an eyebrow. Then he propped himself up and slowly, deliberately pressed two fingers against your soaked entrance through the wet lace. He pushed gently, pressing that almost transparent fabric into your soft flesh. He rubbed your clit through the smooth, wet silk. The rough callus on his index fingerâfrom years of holding a gunâmade it even harder to bear. The torture of it made you jerk, your cunt clenching uncontrollably, leaking more thick, sticky fluid. The wet fabric caught, pulling at your lips with every small movement. The slick, wet sounds made your own ears burn.
"Don't want to?" He chuckled low, his thumb pushing aside the edge of the lace, his fingernail scraping lightly over your already peeking clit. The sudden shock made you tremble, a short, sharp cry escaping your throat.
He'd expected that reaction. He looked almost pleased, the corner of his mouth twitching up almost imperceptibly.
His thumb slid slowly along the thin string, the tip grazing that tiny nub. You jerked like you'd been electrocuted.
"Ahâ don't, don't touch me there..." Your voice cracked. Both your hands grabbed his forearms, nails digging in, but you couldn't push him away even an inch.
He teased your swollen clit, unhurried, watching you bite your lower lip, watching the tears well in your eyes, watching your body arch toward him despite yourself.
His thumb slid down, pressed gently against your entrance twice, then he held up his finger, glistening with your own wetness. "Then what's this?"
You bit your lip, your eyes red with desperation, tears clinging to your lashes. But your legs spread wider, heels digging into the edge of the sofa, your hips lifting off the cushion, offering yourself to his hand.
Sweat beaded on your forehead. Your face was flushed a deep, lustful red, your eyes an unnatural, watery crimson, tears pooling but not falling. You pressed your forearm against your mouth, trying to stifle your moans.
Your breathing was ragged, your legs spread as wide as they could go, your dress pushed up to your waist, revealing the lingerie you'd carefully chosen. That tiny scrap of lace below was soaked through with your own juices.
And he was still breathing steadily, still fully dressed. Even his shirtsleeves, rolled to his elbows, weren't rumpled.
He pulled his hand away, wiped his wet fingers on your inner thigh, then gripped his own already-hard cock. He ran the tip along your slick slit, from perineum to clit, from clit back to your entrance. He pushed in just a little, then pulled out. Over and over. Never going inside.
You were so frustrated you almost cried. You reached down, trying to guide him in yourself. Before you could even touch him, he grabbed both your wrists and pinned them above your head. Then he leaned down and kissed away your tears. You hadn't even realized you were crying. And even now, he kept rubbing against you, slow and steady.
"Just... just put it in..." you finally said, your voice soft and trembling.
"Put it where?"
Your face burned. You couldn't break free. Finally, you just gritted your teeth and spread your legs as wide as they would go, exposing your dripping, messy cunt. Your slick-coated lips glistened in the dim light. Your entrance clenched and relaxed, clenching and relaxing, swallowing nothing but air.
"Th... there..." you stammered, barely audible. "Fuck me... fuck me with your big cock..."
He hadn't expected you to be so blunt, so filthy. When he'd first met you, you'd seemed so innocent and harmless. A world away from the demure, obedient girl of a few minutes ago. You said the dirtiest things in the most pitiful voice, your eyes swimming with tears as if the words themselves made you want to cry.
But he couldn't deny it. Those words stirred something pleasant in him.
His eyes darkened. He pushed his hips forward, slowly.
Too tight.
You were so tight, so hot inside. He couldn't get even halfway in before you were strangling him, making his scalp prickle. He could feel every fold inside you. Tight. Wet. Soft. Wrapping around him in layers.
You weren't having an easy time either. He was bigger than anyone you'd been with before. You gasped in pain, but you didn't pull away. Honestly, with him pinning your wrists and holding your waist, you couldn't have pulled away even if you wanted to.
You spread your legs wider, forcing your body to relax, trying to take him deeper.
He stopped halfway, waited. Felt your inner walls spasm, then slowly ease into a gentle, sucking motion. Then he pushed his hips forward, sinking in to the hilt.
The sudden stretch made you let out a short, sharp cry, then your voice went hoarse. Your lips parted, your eyes closing instinctively. A faint bulge showed on your lower belly.
He looked down at where you were joined. The contrast was almost cruel. That small, tight opening of yours, stretched around his thick cock, no space left between you. The soft flesh of your entrance was pulled taut, flushed an obscene red. Your juices were being squeezed out, running down your perineum onto the sofa. The thin string of your panties had been pushed aside, digging into your lips. With every thrust, it pulled, rubbing against your clit, making you tremble, your fingers twisting into the sofa cover until your knuckles went white.
He sped up. Each time, he pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in. His balls slapped against your perineum, a wet, rhythmic sound. Your body responded by producing more slick, more wetness, enough to run down the crack of your ass and stain the sofa. He drove into you so hard you slid up the cushion, only for his big hand to grab your waist and yank you back down, impaling you even deeper.
You grabbed his shirtsleeve, your nails digging into his forearm. When you finally let go, you left small marks behind. They were nothing compared to the real scars on that arm, though.
Your toes curled. Your throat made small, sobbing sounds. Your soft breasts bounced with the rhythm of his thrusts, your nipples blurring with the motion.
The pleasure building deep inside made you want to close your eyes. Your lids felt heavy, stuck together with tears. But you forced them open. Your vision blurred for a second, then focused on his face.
His sweaty blond fringe was plastered to his forehead, a few loose strands hanging over his brow. His face was flushed a deep, lustful pink, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. It added a touch of color to his usually cool, stoic features.
His eyelashes were trembling. He didn't know it, but you could see it. Every time he pushed into your deepest point, his lashes would flutter. An instinctive, uncontrollable reaction.
His lips were slightly parted. Fine sweat beaded on his nose. His breathing was fast but restrained. You could only hear the occasional low grunt. He was holding back. The tightness of your body was almost too much for him. Every time he pushed in, he had to clench his jaw.
Your cunt suddenly clenched around him, hard. He sucked in a breath. He slowed down, switching to deep, grinding thrusts. The head of his cock pressed against your most sensitive spot, grinding slowly, making your whole body shake, your legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him deeper.
You just whimpered and sobbed, not answering. But your body answered for you, another rush of wetness spilling out around him.
He rolled you onto your side, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, pushing in from the side. This angle let him go even deeper. You tried to squirm away, scared, but he grabbed your hip and yanked you back, slamming into you.
You couldn't fight him at all. You could only take it, let him hold your hips and legs, your pelvis pinned beneath him, each thrust hitting your deepest point.
The overwhelming pleasure made silent tears stream down your face. Your mouth was open, but no sound came out. Until he hit a soft, plush spot deep inside. Then you let out a long, drawn-out moan, your cunt spasming, gushing fluid. The hot liquid splashed against the head of his cock, running down the shaft.
When you came, your inner walls pulsed around him, dozens of tiny mouths sucking at him, making the small of his back tingle. He held back, didn't come. He waited for your orgasm to fade, then rolled you onto your hands and knees. He ground his cock against your deepest point as he turned, the sensation almost making you come again immediately.
Your tight channel was completely stretched around him. Every thrust hit that soft, plush spot at the very back. At first, you could still whimper and cry. Then you couldn't even do that. Just vague, slurred words tumbled out of your mouth. "Can't... can't anymore..." "I'm gonna die..." Then, jumbled, broken: "Daddy... daddy... daddy... daddy..."
Like a broken toy. A malfunctioning voice box. You weren't even aware you were saying it. It just came out. Maybe because you remembered how those young, stupid boys you'd been with before always loved it when you called them that in bed.
Your voice was soft as melted honey, the end of each word lifting in a plaintive little lilt. Unconscious. Instinctive. The kind of sound only made when you're fucked out of your mind.
His temples throbbed. His hands tightened on your ass, leaving fingerprints on the flesh. He thrust harder, faster, pounding against that plush spot.
You lurched forward, your arms giving out, your face pressing into the sofa cushion, your ass in the air, taking it. This angle let him go deeper than ever before. The head of his cock hit a place he'd never reached. That soft, fleshy little mouth of your cervix. After dozens of hits, it finally opened just a little, the soft flesh wrapping around the head of his cock, sucking him in, a warm, soft ring clamping down on the most sensitive part of him. For a moment, he thought he wasn't going to last.
"Fuck..."
He swore under his breath. The head of his cock was caught in that tight little opening, being squeezed, making him ache.
He locked his hands on your hip bones and kept thrusting against that spot.
"Don't... don't go there..." You were finally scared, trying to crawl away. He grabbed your waist, pulled you back, and slammed into that spot again.
You screamed, a clear fluid spraying from you, soaking the sofa cushion. Your inner walls clamped down, that deepest little mouth sucking greedily at the head of his cock. The tight, wet grip made him groan, veins standing out on his forehead.
The last few thrusts, he gritted his teeth and pushed deep, the head of his cock forcing its way past your softened cervix. He came in thick, hot pulses, flooding you. The heat of it hit your womb, making your whole body shake. You came again, gushing, then went limp, a boneless puddle on the couch.
He came down over you from behind, his sweat-damp chest pressing against your sweat-damp back, kissing the soft spot behind your ear. You shuddered and curled into him. You were still clenching around him, refusing to let go, your inner walls pulsing gently.
He wasn't completely soft yet. Buried inside you, being sucked like that, he was getting hard again. You felt his body tense behind you and whimpered, "No more... please... no more..."
He didn't say anything. He rolled you over, pulled you onto his lap, facing him. He held your ass, slowly lowering you down.
You braced your hands on his shoulders, looking down at him. Your eyes were red, your nose was red, your lips were swollen from biting them. You looked so pitiful. But your body obediently sank down onto him. When you were seated all the way, you shuddered, tears falling onto his chest.
He wiped your tears away. You bit his finger. Then you started to move, rocking your hips in small, tight circles. He watched you, watched your red face, watched you take him even though you were already past your limit, watched your breasts sway with each small movement.
He pulled you down to the floor, onto his jacket. He was hard again, pressing against your ruined, muddy entrance. This time, he didn't rush. He pushed in slowly, bit by bit. You looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, your body already eager and sucking him in.
5.
He woke first the next morning. Habit carved into his bones. He looked down at the person in his arms: hair spread across the pillow, eyelashes resting quietly, breathing light and shallow, curled into a small ball, unconsciously holding onto one of his arms.
Like a child.
Last night's images flashed through his mind: your trembling fingertips when you'd leaned in, your feigned composure when he'd pinned you down, the way you'd curled into him like a small animal when it was over. The two images overlapped, making his throat tighten.
An inexplicable... guilt.
He knew too well what his hands had touched. Her cleanliness was real. A nearly fifty-year-old man, covered in old wounds, who couldn't even sleep soundlyâhe shouldn't be here, watching her sleep so peacefully.
He carefully extracted his arm. He moved slowly, deliberately, but you still stirred, mumbled something, and turned over.
He got up and bent to pick up his shirt from the floor.
You woke to sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, falling warm on your bare shoulder bladeâthe part not fully covered by the blanket.
First, the rustle of fabric as someone dressed. You cracked open your eyes. He was standing by the bed, buttoning his shirt one by one.
So it wasn't that the curtains weren't drawn properly. The thing floating in front of the window, separating the room from the outside, was a thin layer of white fabric with a lace trim, swaying in the morning breeze like an active, milky-white jellyfish.
"You opened the window?" you asked, your voice still soft with sleep, stating the obvious.
Even on a summer morning, there was a slight chill in the air. Fresh outdoor air drifted into the room on the breeze. You thought you caught the scent of flowersârich and sweet.
"Yeah. Fresh air is good for you in the morning." He didn't look up, fastening his last button. He picked up his jacket from the floor, shook off any dust, and prepared to put it on.
"You're leaving now?Here I thought..."
He straightened his collar, waiting for you to finish.
"...that you came here for me." Your voice trailed off with a hint of hurt, almost a whine.
You deliberately put on a pitiful expression, clutching the blanket to your chest with your right hand, sitting half-upright in bed, looking up at him.
He knew how one-night stands worked. Even if this was his first in over thirty years. Two consenting adults, a matter of mutual desire born from initial attraction. No responsibility. Go your separate ways the next day, never bother each other again. Maybe only this one encounter in a lifetime.
Except that wasn't it. But looking at your expectant eyes, he softened. He reached out and patted the top of your head. The movement was stiff, like someone doing it for the first time.
"You know that's not true," he said. His voice was resigned, husky with the morning.
Then a warm, naked body pressed against his back. Small, soft. Your breasts pressed against his shoulder blades.
Your arms came around him from both sides, locking at his waist. Your fingers were cold.
He froze.
You stood on your tiptoesâit was all you could doâyour lips close to his ear, your breath carrying the heat of just waking up. "Actually... I want do it again..."
A pause. As if gathering courage. Or testing his reaction. Your lips were almost touching his ear now. Your voice was deliberately low, with a sticky, drawn-out ending.
"...Daddy?"
He could feel his entire back tense up.
Not because of the word itselfâhe'd heard worse in bars. It was the way you said it: tentative, testing, with a hint of mischievous glee. Like a kid sneaking a spoonful of salt into an adult's coffee, waiting to see them frown.
His hand stopped buttoning. He glanced down at the two thin arms around his waist.
A very clear thought crossed his mind: She's playing with fire. And she knows it.
He took a deep breath.
He raised his hand, wrapped it around your wrists where they crossed at his stomach. Your bones were so thin that his thumb and index finger overlapped when he circled them. He didn't squeeze. Just held. Slowly pulling your hands away from his body.
He turned around.
You looked up at him. Your amber eyes were clear, your face still flushed from sleep, your lips slightly puckered. Your expression was childishly smug.
He looked at you for two seconds. Then he took off his black jacketâthe one he'd just put onâand draped it over your shoulders. It was so big it practically swallowed you, leaving only your face and feet visible.
His voice was a little rough, but not harsh.
"...Not that."
Then he turned back around and kept dressing, his movements a little quicker than before. The tips of his ears were slightly red. You saw it, but you were smart enough not to call him out.
You tucked your chin into the collar of his shirt and sniffed. It smelled like him: gun oil, old leather, and a hint of last night's lingering scent, mixed with your own perfume.
You didn't say anything more. You just sat back on the bed, wrapped in his jacket, swinging your legs, watching him gather his things.
He was almost at the door when you finally spoke again, unhurried.
"See you next time."
His footsteps paused for just a moment.
No response.
You watched him walk to the door, go through the motions. Heard the door close. Then you let your mind come back to this small apartment, back to your own life.
You looked down at the oversized jacket on your shoulders, pulled it a little tighter, and smiled.
â ïžThis work is set entirely in an AU separate from canon. Leon never gets married in this timeline, so thereâs no affair whatsoever. I have a separate concept for canon-compliant affair fanfic, which Iâll write sometime later.â ïž
Would this count as spoilers? My bad if I spoiled anything.ïŒïŒ
Some plot written for smut purposes :)
Sorry, the first time I copied this fic from my writing app, I didnât get the whole thing. Hereâs the full version now :)
1.
It really caught you off guard. When the chase first started, you just floored it, letting the hot wind scream past your ears.
On this deserted interstate, the distant sunset in the western canyons looked like molten gold, painting the entire sky and earth the same shade of orange-yellow, making the wilderness hazy and ambiguous.
Midsummer afternoon, even near dusk, the heat was brutal. The asphalt, having soaked up the midday sun, now radiated warmth without restraint.
You crouched by the blown rear tire, hitting the hubcap with a wrench out of sheer frustration.
Beyond the road stretched endless grassland, the dirt coarse as sand.
You pulled out your phone, trying to reach someone, but ended up staring at the "No Signal" in the top corner.
You'd been stuck here for two hours. Your lips were chapped from thirst, and the back of your T-shirt was soaked with sweat.
Just as you stood there, hands on your hips, drowning in despair and frantic thoughts, a black SUV appeared at the edge of your vision.
Your eyes lit up. You raised a hand to wave, but the car sped past without stopping. Furious, you flipped the bird at the black hunk of metal.
Then, not five seconds later, the car doubled back. You quickly hid your right hand behind your back, feeling guilty.
On this endless highway, spotting a girl's figure in the monotonous landscape surprised him.
A broken-down car, probably. Out here, strangers meant cautionâmaybe even unnecessary trouble. But seeing a girl stranded on a deserted interstate, he couldn't just ignore it.
You never expected the man who stepped out of that SUV to be a blonde with an almost perfect physique and a tired look on his face. Driving a car like that, you'd expected some middle-aged know-it-all.
When he approached, you instinctively stepped back, your right hand brushing the gun holster at your hip.
You stared at each other for two seconds. Then his gaze shifted to the jack. He said only, "You put it in the wrong place." His voice was low, raspy from a long drive.
He crouched down, repositioned the jack, and without looking up, said, "Wrench."
Those ice-blue eyes, set deep in his sockets, seemed naturally cold. The skin beneath them was faintly bruisedâprobably from all-nighters for work. Fine lines at the corners. You wondered what it would be like to kiss them.
You were still lost in admiring his face. At his voice, you snapped to attention like a student caught daydreaming, obediently handing him the wrench. He seemed to notice your distraction, his lips twitching slightlyâthough you were too out of it to see.
His movements were clean and efficient. He loosened the lug nuts one by one. The muscles in his forearm tensed with effort, set off by his sun-bronzed skin and the scars that hinted at untold stories.
All of it made heat pool in your belly.
His jaw was clenched in concentration, sharp-lined. Those short stubble marks would definitely prickle when you kissed him.
Western midsummer, even at dusk, the air was thick with dry heat. The flush on your skin must be from the weather.
Looking down from where you stood, the first thing you saw was his fuzzy golden head, which reminded you of a certain breed of retriever. His hair wasn't a bright, brilliant gold, but a grayish gold-brown. Now, in the dying sunlight, it shimmered with fine, sand-like sparkles.
The old tire, rusted from years of use, was stuck. He stood up and kicked it twice. On the third kick, you timed your own kick with his. When the tire finally rolled off, you pressed your lips together sheepishly. He glanced at you, said nothing, but couldn't quite hide a soft laugh. You saw it.
He mounted the new tire, tightened the last lug nut, then stood and pressed his right hand to his left shoulder out of habit.
You grabbed a bottle of soda from your car and handed it to him. "Here. It's not cold anymore."
He took it, glanced at it. The bright blue liquid looked eerie in the clear plastic bottle, bathed in the golden sunset, it even glowed with an unnatural red tint. The label read "Blue Storm."
He didn't drink it. Just set it on the hood of his car and asked, almost casually:
"Where are you headed?"
"West," you answered, deliberately vague.
"Two gas stations on this road are already abandoned. The next one is at least a hundred kilometers away."
You were silent for a moment. Finally, you managed, "Thanks for the heads-up."
He just nodded at you. For some reason, he seemed to want to prolong this time together. But in the end, he only said, "Be careful."
You said, "You too."
Just politeness.
You gathered your tools. He picked up the soda and got back in his car.
There was a strange, unspoken understanding between you.
2.
What you didn't know was that his destination was the very place you'd fled three days ago.
Following leads on a virus smuggling route, his informant's last known location was this third-rate nightclub. The buyers were meeting an intelligence broker named "Racheal Bluestone" here tonight.
He saw the obvious fake name and nearly smiled.
He wasn't the type to frequent places like this. Sure, he'd had a drinking problem early on, but he'd always stuck to quiet bars or his own place. This kind of noise wasn't his scene.
The moment he walked in, he saw you sitting at the bar. You wore a black slip dress that barely reached mid-thigh, and your hair was longer than when he'd seen you on the road a few days ago. A world away from the free-spirited girl in a white tank top and jeans.
"Well, well! The tire-changing old man!"
You spotted him immediately, raising your glass and shouting over the din. In this chaos, nobody noticed.
He moved closer naturally, leaning one elbow on the bar.
"So... Bluestone, huh?" He held your gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting in a barely-there smile.
"I knew we'd meet again."
You stared back at him with a goofy, drunken grin.
"I know... what you want... and I can give it to you... but how about a drink first?"
He didn't answer, just sat on the stool next to you and ordered a whiskey from the bartender.
It was the first time he'd really looked at your face. You were a bit more tanned than when you'd met on the highway. There was a small, fading bruise under your cheekbone.
"What do you want?" His tone was direct, blunt.
You tilted your head, tracing circles on the bar top with your finger.
"One night with you." You enunciated each word.
The music cut out for a beat at that exact second. In that brief silence, the words landed softly on his eardrums.
Leon's expression didn't change, but his hand paused on its way to his mouth for a split second. He was evaluating: the value of the intel, the cost, the time, the risk. A trap or a test?
"What do you mean?"
You didn't explain. You just smiled, hopped off the barstool, the hem of your dress brushing his knee.
You wobbled when you stood. He steadied you by the elbow out of instinct. You didn't pull away. Instead, you leaned against him.
"Come with me."
You took his hand. It was so much smaller than hisâa feminine hand that was dwarfed by his rough, calloused one. If he wanted, he could easily pin both your wrists in one of his.
The height difference meant you had to look up at him.
Your eyes glistened, reflecting red from the lights. Your cheeks were flushed an unnatural pink from the alcohol. You stared at him, eyes bright, tinged with a seductive color in the bar's hazy lighting. Like crystal glass. Like a kaleidoscope.
Like a kitten. The thought flashed through his mind unbidden. Before he could process it, you'd already taken his hand and were dragging him toward the door.
A tall, powerfully built, tired-looking blonde agent being led by the hand by a girl who barely reached his shoulder. Like a gentle giant of a dog being walked by its young owner.
You suddenly looked back at him, your eyes far too clear for someone who'd been drinking.
"...Don't touch my bag."
Your free hand clutched the small crossbody bag protectively.
3.
Three blocks, then up an old walk-up building with no elevator. The motion-sensor light on the second-floor landing had been broken since before you moved in.
You used your phone's flashlight to avoid stumbling in the dark. You always kept your guard up on these stairs at night.
At every corner, you stopped and looked back at him. He'd let you lead him by the wrist all this wayâhis wrist so much thicker than yours, skin rough. You could barely wrap one hand around it.
Inside, you turned on the light, dropped your bag, and said, "Make yourself at home."
A small apartment. Small space, simple furnishings, but tidy. A single bed against the wall with clean gray sheets. A long sofa. On the table: an old laptop, half a bowl of instant noodles, a ceramic mug holding three different colored markers. On the windowsill, a nearly dead succulent.
He stood in the doorway, not coming in. You looked back and said, "Relax, there's no one else." Then, as if remembering something, added, "And no cameras."
He didn't sit. He leaned against the wall by the door.
You sat cross-legged on the bed, hugging a pillow to your chest, resting your chin on it as you looked at himâthe pose made you look like a high schooler, but the way you spoke was something else entirely.
"You want the intel, right? It comes with conditions."
He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression briefly flickering with something like relief. Of course. It was always a transaction. You buy, I sell. Mutual consent.
You held up your fingers. He waited for you to name your price, his face showing the jaded expectancy of someone who'd seen it all.
"First: one million dollars. Non-negotiable. Your boss's budget is way bigger than that, right?" You held his gaze, eyes steady, as if the drunkenness from before had been an act.
He watched you, waiting with amusement. No reaction. Old man. Hard to read.
"Second..."
When you got to this one, the flush on your face spread quickly to the tips of your ears. They were completely pink, like a kitten's furless ears. He was staring at them. That infuriating, in-control look of his. It made you mad.
"Second..." You cleared your throat. "You sleep with me."
Your expression suddenly turned serious, but your lips curved up. "You're my type. Blonde, quiet, old scars, looks at people like he's calculating how to take them down in three seconds."
You tucked your finger back in. "I'm not gonna run into another guy like you. So... one-time thing. A clean buyout. One night, then you get your intel. You go your way, I go mine."
Your ears were burning red by the time you finished, but you held your chin up, not looking away.
"Both conditions. Non-negotiable."
He listened, and a strange sense of absurdity settled over him. He'd spent over twenty years surviving in the cracks between bioterrorism, conspiracy groups, and transnational crime. And now he was standing in an apartment that probably rented for less than eight hundred bucks a month, being treated like a "disposable commodity" by a girl in her twenties.
His face was perfectly still, completely unreadable. That forced calm of middle-aged men. You'd seen it on plenty of faces during your deals.
He wasn't the kind of person who did this casually. Years as an agent meant he didn't have the timeâor the mindsetâfor romance. Add a perpetually stern, cold poker face to the mix, and even with his looks, he didn't have much experience.
"How old were you when you started pulling this?" His voice was calm. No anger, no judgment. Impossible to read.
You hadn't expected that question. None of your predictions had included this. Relief, understanding, pleasureânone of the emotions you'd anticipated. His question caught you completely off guard.
"Did it ever occur to you," his voice was low, as if afraid of disturbing the moment, "that I might actually be a bad guy?"
"I have good instincts. And I don't think a guy who stops to help a stranger change a tire on a deserted highway is a bad guy."
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Looking at you. Saying nothing.
"What are you thinking?" you asked.
"I'm thinking about whether you know what you're doing."
You gave a soft laugh, carrying a calmness that didn't belong to your age. "I know more than you think."
Silence. A temporary silence. You could hear the TV in the next room, muffled as if through water.
"Don't you thinkâ" he started.
"Think what?" you interrupted. "Think you're too old? Think you shouldn't?" You rested your chin back on your knees, your voice softening. "It's not like I'm asking you to marry me. I just..."
You trailed off, suddenly self-conscious, and looked down, picking at the pills on the blanket. Then you looked up and glared at him. For the first time since you'd met, you showed a crack in your armor. You fidgeted with the blanket, with the hem of your dress, avoiding his eyes.
You couldn't finish the sentence. The part you didn't say was: I just wanted to spend one night with someone who makes me feel safe before I leave this city. But that sounded too much like begging. So you'd changed the wording.
He just looked at you. The way you picked at the blanket. The red tips of your ears. The bruise under your cheekbone. The cold noodles on the table.
He didn't say "yes." He didn't say "deal." He just came closer, sat on the sofa, and finished the water in the cup.
"Give me half the intel first. I'll confirm it's real. Then the money transfers. You tell me the rest tonight."
That was his way. Give a little, but keep the line.
That meant yes.
You stared at him for three seconds, then your face split into a grin. The same smile from the highwayâlips pressed together, eyes bright. Having gotten the answer you wanted, you immediately regained the confidence you'd shown at the bar.
You reached under your pillow, pulled out a USB drive, and tossed it to him.
"First seven names. That's enough for you to confirm."
You got off the bed and walked toward him, barefoot on the scratchy rug. You climbed into his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"So... about the rest... how are we going to finish that tonight?"
Your voice was deceptively innocent, almost sweet. Your arms were already around his neck, your nose nearly touching his. He could feel your warm breath on his skin. His hands found your waist.
4.
You could feel his breath on your face, warm, much hotter than your own.
The ceiling light in this apartment had long since died. The room wasn't bright, just a warm, cozy apricot yellow. You thought to yourself: once you had the million, you'd leave this city, find a better apartment for a safe house. One with a working light at the top of the stairs. A working ceiling light inside.
This warm light softened the sharp lines of his face, though. This close, you could finally see him clearly. Long eyelashes, casting dark shadows on his cheeks. His eyes⊠gray-blue? Or misty blue? You didn't have the presence of mind to tell.
The fine lines at the corners added to his already tired face, a kind of age-induced sexiness all its own.
Those stubble marks on his jawâyou'd wanted to kiss them since the first time you saw him. Now you were getting your wish.
You cupped his face in your hands, your lips hovering near the corner of his mouth, not quite kissing him yet. Your hot breaths tangled together, thick with the scent of whiskey. He didn't resist, didn't fight for control. He let you do whatever you wanted.
When you finally kissed him, it was deeply satisfying. It was exactly as you'd imagined: those short stubble marks scratched against your skin, just a little ticklish.
It reminded you of when you were little. Your father would come home, scoop you up without warning, and kiss your cheek. His fresh stubble, not yet shaved, would scratch your delicate child's skin. You'd always make a face, push his cheek away with your little hand, and whine for him to stop.
The truth was, the man in front of you did look a bit like your father. Especially the straight nose and the shape of his eyes. Maybe you weren't remembering clearly. Maybe you were wrong. The last impression you had of your father was a black-and-white photo you'd seen over a decade ago.
You quickly swept those thoughts aside, pulling your mind back to the present, focusing on the body you were straddling.
His lips were softer than you'd imagined. The moment you kissed him, a shiver ran through your entire body.
You were getting cocky, thinking you had him completely under your control. Then the hand that had been resting behind your head suddenly pressed you harder against him. A large hand slid to the small of your back, yanking you close. His body was so hot you almost felt like you were burning. You couldn't resist at all, just let him lock you in his arms.
A healthy, strong male body, pressed tight against your soft, delicate one. Firm, full muscles, a hard solidity hidden beneath softness. Masculine pheromones, carrying an unspoken coldness and rigidity. Too much pheromones, like too much imagination. You felt like you were drowning in something tangible.
Before you could react, his soft, agile tongue pushed past your teeth, swept across your palate. A ticklish sensation that made your knees weak, sent a tremor through your body. He felt it, pulled you tighter against him.
His tongue moved in your mouth, steady and unhurried, each stroke making your body go a little softer. That flexible muscle tangled with your tongue. You couldn't control anything, just let him take, not even noticing the drool escaping the corner of your mouth.
You were afraid you'd actually suffocate if this kept up. Your face was flushed red, tears welling at the corners of your eyes. You beat your hands against his back, but he didn't let up. So you just let him do what he wanted, drowning in the near-suffocating pleasure.
Your right hand came up behind his head, fingers brushing the short, stiff golden hairs at his nape. Those soft, lovely golden strands weren't as hard as they looked. They felt ticklish under your fingers.
When the kiss finally ended, you were a puddle in his arms, chin resting on his shoulder, gasping for air. Your arms were still around his neck. You could feel his hand stroking your back, steady and gentle, through the thin fabric of your dress. Like he was soothing a kitten.
When you'd caught your breath, you looked up at him, naked desire melting in your eyes. You wore a triumphant smile. It lasted maybe three seconds before he grabbed your waist, flipped you over, and pressed you down onto the sofa.
One of his large hands pushed your dress up to your chest, revealing the lace-trimmed string panties you'd carefully chosen. The scrap of fabric barely covering you was already soaked, clinging like a second skin to your swollen lips, almost transparent.
You wondered how he'd react when he saw that little piece of lace. Would he be pleasantly surprised? Would he smile knowingly?
Nothing. He just hooked a finger under the thin bow tied at your hip. The moment his fingertip touched you, you felt the rough callus there. Hard. Gritty. Impossible to ignore.
You thought he'd pull it off right then. He didn't. He always kept you guessing. Even now.
The frustration of not getting what you wanted made you restless. Just as you started to squirm, to try and take control, he tugged slowly at that pitifully thin string. The silk ribbon bit into the tender flesh of your thigh, leaving a faint red mark. Your hips bucked up, eager to rub against his fingers, but he pressed you back down with the palm of his hand.
He lowered his head, his lips almost touching your earlobe. "Do you really want to..."
Before he could finish, your hips were already writhing impatiently. The thin fabric of your panties was completely soaked. As you moved, it rubbed against his straining groin, leaving a faint damp mark on his pants.
He hadn't expected someone who'd seemed so innocent when you first met to act like this in bed.
He sighed, his right hand gripping your waist to stop your movements. He was so much stronger than you. One hand could circle most of your waist. You saw him close his eyes for a few seconds, then open them again. Those gray-blue eyes looked at you, his voice calm, firm, dominant: "Finish your sentence."
That commanding tone made you shiver all over. You felt another rush of wetness between your legs.
How pathetic. One low, husky command, and your body reacted like that. How embarrassing.
So you had to turn the tables. You heard your own voice say, "...I... I don't want to!"
Your mouth said no, but your body was a traitor. You couldn't stop yourself from grinding against him, the slick entrance of your cunt eagerly seeking the head of his cock through that thin, wet scrap of fabric. You rubbed against him, desperate to take him inside.
He let you do it, just raised an eyebrow. Then he propped himself up and slowly, deliberately pressed two fingers against your soaked entrance through the wet lace. He pushed gently, pressing that almost transparent fabric into your soft flesh. He rubbed your clit through the smooth, wet silk. The rough callus on his index fingerâfrom years of holding a gunâmade it even harder to bear. The torture of it made you jerk, your cunt clenching uncontrollably, leaking more thick, sticky fluid. The wet fabric caught, pulling at your lips with every small movement. The slick, wet sounds made your own ears burn.
"Don't want to?" He chuckled low, his thumb pushing aside the edge of the lace, his fingernail scraping lightly over your already peeking clit. The sudden shock made you tremble, a short, sharp cry escaping your throat.
He'd expected that reaction. He looked almost pleased, the corner of his mouth twitching up almost imperceptibly.
His thumb slid slowly along the thin string, the tip grazing that tiny nub. You jerked like you'd been electrocuted.
"Ahâ don't, don't touch me there..." Your voice cracked. Both your hands grabbed his forearms, nails digging in, but you couldn't push him away even an inch.
He teased your swollen clit, unhurried, watching you bite your lower lip, watching the tears well in your eyes, watching your body arch toward him despite yourself.
His thumb slid down, pressed gently against your entrance twice, then he held up his finger, glistening with your own wetness. "Then what's this?"
You bit your lip, your eyes red with desperation, tears clinging to your lashes. But your legs spread wider, heels digging into the edge of the sofa, your hips lifting off the cushion, offering yourself to his hand.
Sweat beaded on your forehead. Your face was flushed a deep, lustful red, your eyes an unnatural, watery crimson, tears pooling but not falling. You pressed your forearm against your mouth, trying to stifle your moans.
Your breathing was ragged, your legs spread as wide as they could go, your dress pushed up to your waist, revealing the lingerie you'd carefully chosen. That tiny scrap of lace below was soaked through with your own juices.
And he was still breathing steadily, still fully dressed. Even his shirtsleeves, rolled to his elbows, weren't rumpled.
He pulled his hand away, wiped his wet fingers on your inner thigh, then gripped his own already-hard cock. He ran the tip along your slick slit, from perineum to clit, from clit back to your entrance. He pushed in just a little, then pulled out. Over and over. Never going inside.
You were so frustrated you almost cried. You reached down, trying to guide him in yourself. Before you could even touch him, he grabbed both your wrists and pinned them above your head. Then he leaned down and kissed away your tears. You hadn't even realized you were crying. And even now, he kept rubbing against you, slow and steady.
"Just... just put it in..." you finally said, your voice soft and trembling.
"Put it where?"
Your face burned. You couldn't break free. Finally, you just gritted your teeth and spread your legs as wide as they would go, exposing your dripping, messy cunt. Your slick-coated lips glistened in the dim light. Your entrance clenched and relaxed, clenching and relaxing, swallowing nothing but air.
"Th... there..." you stammered, barely audible. "Fuck me... fuck me with your big cock..."
He hadn't expected you to be so blunt, so filthy. When he'd first met you, you'd seemed so innocent and harmless. A world away from the demure, obedient girl of a few minutes ago. You said the dirtiest things in the most pitiful voice, your eyes swimming with tears as if the words themselves made you want to cry.
But he couldn't deny it. Those words stirred something pleasant in him.
His eyes darkened. He pushed his hips forward, slowly.
Too tight.
You were so tight, so hot inside. He couldn't get even halfway in before you were strangling him, making his scalp prickle. He could feel every fold inside you. Tight. Wet. Soft. Wrapping around him in layers.
You weren't having an easy time either. He was bigger than anyone you'd been with before. You gasped in pain, but you didn't pull away. Honestly, with him pinning your wrists and holding your waist, you couldn't have pulled away even if you wanted to.
You spread your legs wider, forcing your body to relax, trying to take him deeper.
He stopped halfway, waited. Felt your inner walls spasm, then slowly ease into a gentle, sucking motion. Then he pushed his hips forward, sinking in to the hilt.
The sudden stretch made you let out a short, sharp cry, then your voice went hoarse. Your lips parted, your eyes closing instinctively. A faint bulge showed on your lower belly.
He looked down at where you were joined. The contrast was almost cruel. That small, tight opening of yours, stretched around his thick cock, no space left between you. The soft flesh of your entrance was pulled taut, flushed an obscene red. Your juices were being squeezed out, running down your perineum onto the sofa. The thin string of your panties had been pushed aside, digging into your lips. With every thrust, it pulled, rubbing against your clit, making you tremble, your fingers twisting into the sofa cover until your knuckles went white.
He sped up. Each time, he pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in. His balls slapped against your perineum, a wet, rhythmic sound. Your body responded by producing more slick, more wetness, enough to run down the crack of your ass and stain the sofa. He drove into you so hard you slid up the cushion, only for his big hand to grab your waist and yank you back down, impaling you even deeper.
You grabbed his shirtsleeve, your nails digging into his forearm. When you finally let go, you left small marks behind. They were nothing compared to the real scars on that arm, though.
Your toes curled. Your throat made small, sobbing sounds. Your soft breasts bounced with the rhythm of his thrusts, your nipples blurring with the motion.
The pleasure building deep inside made you want to close your eyes. Your lids felt heavy, stuck together with tears. But you forced them open. Your vision blurred for a second, then focused on his face.
His sweaty blond fringe was plastered to his forehead, a few loose strands hanging over his brow. His face was flushed a deep, lustful pink, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. It added a touch of color to his usually cool, stoic features.
His eyelashes were trembling. He didn't know it, but you could see it. Every time he pushed into your deepest point, his lashes would flutter. An instinctive, uncontrollable reaction.
His lips were slightly parted. Fine sweat beaded on his nose. His breathing was fast but restrained. You could only hear the occasional low grunt. He was holding back. The tightness of your body was almost too much for him. Every time he pushed in, he had to clench his jaw.
Your cunt suddenly clenched around him, hard. He sucked in a breath. He slowed down, switching to deep, grinding thrusts. The head of his cock pressed against your most sensitive spot, grinding slowly, making your whole body shake, your legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him deeper.
You just whimpered and sobbed, not answering. But your body answered for you, another rush of wetness spilling out around him.
He rolled you onto your side, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, pushing in from the side. This angle let him go even deeper. You tried to squirm away, scared, but he grabbed your hip and yanked you back, slamming into you.
You couldn't fight him at all. You could only take it, let him hold your hips and legs, your pelvis pinned beneath him, each thrust hitting your deepest point.
The overwhelming pleasure made silent tears stream down your face. Your mouth was open, but no sound came out. Until he hit a soft, plush spot deep inside. Then you let out a long, drawn-out moan, your cunt spasming, gushing fluid. The hot liquid splashed against the head of his cock, running down the shaft.
When you came, your inner walls pulsed around him, dozens of tiny mouths sucking at him, making the small of his back tingle. He held back, didn't come. He waited for your orgasm to fade, then rolled you onto your hands and knees. He ground his cock against your deepest point as he turned, the sensation almost making you come again immediately.
Your tight channel was completely stretched around him. Every thrust hit that soft, plush spot at the very back. At first, you could still whimper and cry. Then you couldn't even do that. Just vague, slurred words tumbled out of your mouth. "Can't... can't anymore..." "I'm gonna die..." Then, jumbled, broken: "Daddy... daddy... daddy... daddy..."
Like a broken toy. A malfunctioning voice box. You weren't even aware you were saying it. It just came out. Maybe because you remembered how those young, stupid boys you'd been with before always loved it when you called them that in bed.
Your voice was soft as melted honey, the end of each word lifting in a plaintive little lilt. Unconscious. Instinctive. The kind of sound only made when you're fucked out of your mind.
His temples throbbed. His hands tightened on your ass, leaving fingerprints on the flesh. He thrust harder, faster, pounding against that plush spot.
You lurched forward, your arms giving out, your face pressing into the sofa cushion, your ass in the air, taking it. This angle let him go deeper than ever before. The head of his cock hit a place he'd never reached. That soft, fleshy little mouth of your cervix. After dozens of hits, it finally opened just a little, the soft flesh wrapping around the head of his cock, sucking him in, a warm, soft ring clamping down on the most sensitive part of him. For a moment, he thought he wasn't going to last.
"Fuck..."
He swore under his breath. The head of his cock was caught in that tight little opening, being squeezed, making him ache.
He locked his hands on your hip bones and kept thrusting against that spot.
"Don't... don't go there..." You were finally scared, trying to crawl away. He grabbed your waist, pulled you back, and slammed into that spot again.
You screamed, a clear fluid spraying from you, soaking the sofa cushion. Your inner walls clamped down, that deepest little mouth sucking greedily at the head of his cock. The tight, wet grip made him groan, veins standing out on his forehead.
The last few thrusts, he gritted his teeth and pushed deep, the head of his cock forcing its way past your softened cervix. He came in thick, hot pulses, flooding you. The heat of it hit your womb, making your whole body shake. You came again, gushing, then went limp, a boneless puddle on the couch.
He came down over you from behind, his sweat-damp chest pressing against your sweat-damp back, kissing the soft spot behind your ear. You shuddered and curled into him. You were still clenching around him, refusing to let go, your inner walls pulsing gently.
He wasn't completely soft yet. Buried inside you, being sucked like that, he was getting hard again. You felt his body tense behind you and whimpered, "No more... please... no more..."
He didn't say anything. He rolled you over, pulled you onto his lap, facing him. He held your ass, slowly lowering you down.
You braced your hands on his shoulders, looking down at him. Your eyes were red, your nose was red, your lips were swollen from biting them. You looked so pitiful. But your body obediently sank down onto him. When you were seated all the way, you shuddered, tears falling onto his chest.
He wiped your tears away. You bit his finger. Then you started to move, rocking your hips in small, tight circles. He watched you, watched your red face, watched you take him even though you were already past your limit, watched your breasts sway with each small movement.
He pulled you down to the floor, onto his jacket. He was hard again, pressing against your ruined, muddy entrance. This time, he didn't rush. He pushed in slowly, bit by bit. You looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, your body already eager and sucking him in.
5.
He woke first the next morning. Habit carved into his bones. He looked down at the person in his arms: hair spread across the pillow, eyelashes resting quietly, breathing light and shallow, curled into a small ball, unconsciously holding onto one of his arms.
Like a child.
Last night's images flashed through his mind: your trembling fingertips when you'd leaned in, your feigned composure when he'd pinned you down, the way you'd curled into him like a small animal when it was over. The two images overlapped, making his throat tighten.
An inexplicable... guilt.
He knew too well what his hands had touched. Her cleanliness was real. A nearly fifty-year-old man, covered in old wounds, who couldn't even sleep soundlyâhe shouldn't be here, watching her sleep so peacefully.
He carefully extracted his arm. He moved slowly, deliberately, but you still stirred, mumbled something, and turned over.
He got up and bent to pick up his shirt from the floor.
You woke to sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, falling warm on your bare shoulder bladeâthe part not fully covered by the blanket.
First, the rustle of fabric as someone dressed. You cracked open your eyes. He was standing by the bed, buttoning his shirt one by one.
So it wasn't that the curtains weren't drawn properly. The thing floating in front of the window, separating the room from the outside, was a thin layer of white fabric with a lace trim, swaying in the morning breeze like an active, milky-white jellyfish.
"You opened the window?" you asked, your voice still soft with sleep, stating the obvious.
Even on a summer morning, there was a slight chill in the air. Fresh outdoor air drifted into the room on the breeze. You thought you caught the scent of flowersârich and sweet.
"Yeah. Fresh air is good for you in the morning." He didn't look up, fastening his last button. He picked up his jacket from the floor, shook off any dust, and prepared to put it on.
"You're leaving now?Here I thought..."
He straightened his collar, waiting for you to finish.
"...that you came here for me." Your voice trailed off with a hint of hurt, almost a whine.
You deliberately put on a pitiful expression, clutching the blanket to your chest with your right hand, sitting half-upright in bed, looking up at him.
He knew how one-night stands worked. Even if this was his first in over thirty years. Two consenting adults, a matter of mutual desire born from initial attraction. No responsibility. Go your separate ways the next day, never bother each other again. Maybe only this one encounter in a lifetime.
Except that wasn't it. But looking at your expectant eyes, he softened. He reached out and patted the top of your head. The movement was stiff, like someone doing it for the first time.
"You know that's not true," he said. His voice was resigned, husky with the morning.
Then a warm, naked body pressed against his back. Small, soft. Your breasts pressed against his shoulder blades.
Your arms came around him from both sides, locking at his waist. Your fingers were cold.
He froze.
You stood on your tiptoesâit was all you could doâyour lips close to his ear, your breath carrying the heat of just waking up. "Actually... I want do it again..."
A pause. As if gathering courage. Or testing his reaction. Your lips were almost touching his ear now. Your voice was deliberately low, with a sticky, drawn-out ending.
"...Daddy?"
He could feel his entire back tense up.
Not because of the word itselfâhe'd heard worse in bars. It was the way you said it: tentative, testing, with a hint of mischievous glee. Like a kid sneaking a spoonful of salt into an adult's coffee, waiting to see them frown.
His hand stopped buttoning. He glanced down at the two thin arms around his waist.
A very clear thought crossed his mind: She's playing with fire. And she knows it.
He took a deep breath.
He raised his hand, wrapped it around your wrists where they crossed at his stomach. Your bones were so thin that his thumb and index finger overlapped when he circled them. He didn't squeeze. Just held. Slowly pulling your hands away from his body.
He turned around.
You looked up at him. eyes were clear, your face still flushed from sleep, your lips slightly puckered. Your expression was childishly smug.
He looked at you for two seconds. Then he took off his black jacketâthe one he'd just put onâand draped it over your shoulders. It was so big it practically swallowed you, leaving only your face and feet visible.
His voice was a little rough, but not harsh.
"...Not that."
Then he turned back around and kept dressing, his movements a little quicker than before. The tips of his ears were slightly red. You saw it, but you were smart enough not to call him out.
You tucked your chin into the collar of his shirt and sniffed. It smelled like him: gun oil, old leather, and a hint of last night's lingering scent, mixed with your own perfume.
You didn't say anything more. You just sat back on the bed, wrapped in his jacket, swinging your legs, watching him gather his things.
He was almost at the door when you finally spoke again, unhurried.
"See you next time."
His footsteps paused for just a moment.
No response.
You watched him walk to the door, go through the motions. Heard the door close. Then you let your mind come back to this small apartment, back to your own life.
You looked down at the oversized jacket on your shoulders, pulled it a little tighter, and smiled.
A/N: Saw a post talking about how the visible veins on a man's lower abdomen are really hot, so I wrote this. Has some personal headcanons.
This was the umpteenth time Leon stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, his golden hair still dripping, droplets tracing the line of his neck down to his collarbone.
He usually wore just a dark grey towel, loosely tied below his hips.
After being together for so long, you'd seen him in all sorts of states: the rebellious blonde strands sticking up when he was sleep-dazed, the damp muscles of his back after a workout, the skin still seeping blood through bandages when he was injured, even the small, dark mole on his left upper arm.
But right now, your gaze was magnetically, irrevocably locked onto his lower abdomen â the subtly raised, bluish veins starting from the edge of the towel and tracing upwards along the defined grooves of his taut stomach muscles.
The warm light from the bathroom behind him cast shadows in the dips of his abs, making the veins stand out in sharp relief. Undried water droplets clung to their surface, quivering slightly with his breath, like morning dew weighing down blades of grass.
He was drying his hair with a towel. As he raised his arms, the muscles along his flank tightened, and the veins pulsed faintly in response â proof of life, of blood rushing beneath the surface.
You knew those veins carried blood that had survived shrapnel, filtered biotoxins, yet still stubbornly sustained his life. And now they were exposed before you in such a fragile, beautiful form.
He lowered the towel, noticing your unusual silence and the focus of your stare. He glanced down at his abdomen â no wounds, no new scars, towel secure. His mind ran a quick analysis of your abnormal behavior: Unwell? (But her complexion is fine). Did she see something frightening? (No visible threats in range). Is she⊠staring at my abs? (Not the first time).
He wanted to know the reason. So he tested the waters. "What's wrong?"
You snapped back to reality, shaking your head, your voice a bit distant. "N-nothing⊠just⊠the veins are so prominentâŠ"
"Low body fat percentage. Thin subcutaneous fat layer. High vascular visibility," he explained in that tone he used for medical briefings, then walked over and knelt on one knee before you, meeting your eyes. "Did it scare you?"
"Not scaredâŠ" you murmured, your fingers finally giving in, lightly brushing against the most prominent vein on his lower abdomen. The skin under your fingertip was warm, and you could feel the faint thrum of blood flow.
"...It just feels tooâŠ" You struggled for the right word. "...too alive."
He took your hand, pressing your palm fully against his lower abdomen. The skin was warm there, the veins beneath your hand like subterranean rivers.
"This is the inferior epigastric vein," he guided your finger along the path of one vein. "Connects the external iliac to the femoral vein. If injured here, the rate of blood loss would beâ"
"Don't talk about injuries!" You cut him off, curling your fingers. "...I don't want to hear it."
"Then what do you want to hear?"
"...Does it usually⊠beat this fast?" You felt the steady pulse under your palm, slower than a heartbeat, but intensely present.
"It's above average right now," he answered honestly. "Because you're touching it."
Your face flushed a deeper shade.
You pulled your hand back, burying your face in his shoulder. "...Unfair."
"What's unfair?"
"You're not doing anything⊠yet I feel like I'm the one being ambushed."
He chuckled lowly, picking you up and heading towards the bedroom (the towel miraculously stayed put). "Then consider this an official ambush. As compensation."
...
In the days that followed, whenever you found yourself staring again, he would ask calmly:
"Want to hear about venous return principles today, or just feel the flow rate directly?"
"Both," you'd say, leaning in to press your ear against his lower abdomen, listening to the inaudible yet very real rush of blood. Then you'd whisper:
"This⊠is my favorite 'scar' of yours.
"Because it's not a scar. It's 'in the process of healing' â proof that life itself, after overcoming all harm, still beats strong and vibrant."
At that, he would stroke your hair and think:
Maybe she was right. These veins weren't so prominent just because of a low body fat percentage.
It was also because, since meeting her, the blood pumped by his heart truly did seem to run hotter, faster, more desperate to reach every place that could be warmed by her gaze or her touch.
That's why, even after countless times of seeing each other completely bare, those veins could still make you blush and your heart race â because what you saw wasn't just blood vessels. It was his life, accelerating for you.
And that realization was more profound, more intimate, and made this once loneliness-accustomed man feel more deeply seen and cherished than any act of skin-on-skin inti
Personal kinks unleashed! Leon with a slightly dom vibe.
a/nïŒWhile digging through my writing app, I found this one. Never posted it before, so I tweaked it a bit and here it is.
1.
Heâs sitting in the small armchair near the balcony, reading.
Youâve been watching him for a while. His brow is relaxed, his guard practically non-existent.
The afternoon sun streams through the balcony window, painting him in a warm, hazy, golden light.
You were reluctant to disturb such a peaceful scene, but then, a plan hatches in your mind.
You tiptoe up behind him and cover his eyes with your hands, deliberately lowering your voice. "Guess who?"
You were expecting a sweet, playful moment. You thought heâd laugh and say your name, and then youâd just wrap your arms around him and settle into his lap.
But you completely forgot about his professional instincts as an agent.
His body reacts faster than his mind. The moment his vision is obscured, combat reflexes kick in.
Before you can process it, the world tilts. He grabs your wrist and, with a clean, effortless motion, flips you from behind him onto the couch.
Your hands are pinned behind your back, held firmly by one of his. His other hand presses your shoulder down, your cheek half-buried in the soft cushion of the couch back. You can feel his knee lightly pressing against the back of your thigh.
Strangely, after the initial shock fades, your cheeks flush and your breathing quickens. Your clear eyes hold a mix of surprise, excitement, and a flicker of fascination.
The position doesnât allow you to see his face. If you could, you might be even more thrilled. For a split second, his eyes were cold and focusedâthe sharp, dangerous look of an agent facing a sudden threat.
The moment he realizes who heâs pinned, his gaze instantly softens. He eases his hold but doesnât let go immediately, his voice a mix of fond exasperation and lingering concern as he murmurs your name.
But you immediately speak up, your tone laced with novelty and challenge. "So⊠you really have been going easy on me all this time, Agent?"
No complaints or hurt feelings as he expected. Instead⊠is that enjoyment he detects?
Seeing the unusual blush on your cheeks and the glint in your eyes, he narrows his own. He leans closer, his voice dropping lower, carrying a hint of danger and curiosity near your ear. "You seem⊠to be enjoying this quite a bit?"
Instant shame, like a fire banked in a hearth, burns your face crimson. You can only double down, burying your face deeper into the couch, your voice muffled. "I⊠I am not!"
He might have believed you if he couldnât see the scarlet tips of your ears.
"Let⊠let me go, you idiot Leon!" you sputter, mortified, squirming slightly against the restraint.
"Alright, alright," he releases your wrists, his knee moving away from your leg. "Just donât do that again, okay? Hasn't anyone ever told you not to 'sneak up' on a trained agent from behind? Sweetheart?"
"Itâs your fault for being too alert!" Youâve always been prone to unreasonable accusations with him.
Through your long relationship, heâs learned arguing is futile. The best course is to indulge you. In the early days, he might have protested, but now, he just wants you happy.
"Right, my mistake. My mistake for maintaining situational awareness in my own home to protect my girlfriend," he says, a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
"To make it up to you⊠strawberry cake?" He stands looking down at you seated on the couch, his expression a blend of resignation and tenderness.
"Thatâs more like it," you pretend to reluctantly accept.
2.
While shopping, you got a free lipstick. The color is all wrong for you, so you figure youâll just stash it away, never to be used.
But when you get home and see him dozing quietly on the living room couch, a new plan forms.
You quietly twist the lipstick open, a sly smile on your face as you creep closer. If he were awake and saw that smile, heâd know he was the one about to be in trouble.
His agentâs hyper-awareness means he senses your approach. But he just cracks an eye open for a split second, then quickly closes it again. He wants to see what youâre up to.
You unhurriedly straddle his lap. By the time he instinctively tries to lean back, itâs too late. You cup his face in your hands, holding his head steady, locking eyes with him decisively. "Donât move!"
He resigns himself to your whims. All he hears is a soft mwah as your lips press against his cheek. He can even smell the shampoo in your hair.
After the kiss, you hold his face, tilting it left and right. Hmm⊠not bad: youâve left a clear, if slightly crooked, lip print on his cheek.
Pleased with your first "trophy," you get excited and launch a continuous "assault":
Mwah â on his other cheek.
He tries to stop you, gently grasping one of your wrists, his tone weary. "Youâd better know what youâre doing."
You just give him a silly, beaming smile, eyes sparkling, and plant another kiss on his forehead.
Seeing your excitement, he decides to surrender, sighing in resignation at you.
He closes his eyes, letting you have your way with his face, only a faint, indulgent curl at the corner of his mouth betraying him.
Emboldened by his permission, you grow even more brazen, marking his nose, chin, and even the tip of his nose with your "love stamps."
Satisfied, you cup his face again to admire your masterpiece. Seeing the usually stern, handsome Agent Kennedy now sporting a face full of bright, chaotic lip prints and that uniquely his brand of exasperated smile is simply too amusing. You even consider pulling out your phone for a commemorative photo.
As youâre angling for the perfect shot, he grabs your wrist holding the phone. With his face still a canvas of vibrant red, his eyes turn intensely predatory.
You hear his low, suggestive tone. "Had your fun? Now⊠itâs my turn."
With that, he pulls you tightly against him, ignoring your token resistance, and presses his cheek against yours, transferring some of the red marks back onto your skin.
In the end, it was you who carefully wiped his face clean with makeup remover wipes, holding his chin.
And that lipstick was, predictably, forgotten in a corner of the couch.
3.
Usually, in the mornings, he makes breakfast and comes to wake you. Youâd slowly stir, yawning your way to the bathroom. Heâd always watch your sleepy shuffle with an impossibly soft smile.
But today, for once, you wake up around the same time. Now, youâre just gazing absently as he changes by the foot of the bed: the drowsy morning look, a few rebellious golden strands sticking up, the dawn light through the curtains falling on his bare torso, gilding that strong, athletic frame in an amber glow, like flowing honey.
You canât help but purse your lips, looking him up and down with an "art criticâs" eye, a hint of provocation in your tone. "Hmm⊠not bad overall. Shoulders are broad enough, arm definition is good. But⊠itâd be perfect if the waist were a bit slimmer."
He sees the mischievous glint in your eyes as you say this, clearly picking a fight. Just as he raises an eyebrow, ready to retort with his usual dry sarcasm, your eyes light up as a brilliant analogy strikes you. You grin. "Like this though⊠itâs like⊠like a sturdy little chubby cat! Solid! Cute!"
You know perfectly well his body is all honed muscle from training and combat, his weight due to muscle density, his core rock-solidânot an ounce of fat, just dense, well-defined muscle. It has nothing to do with "chubby." But you want to say it anyway. You just want to tease your adorable Agent.
Hearing your words, he freezes for half a second, then narrows those calm blue eyes. His gaze turns sharp and "threatening."
With just one hand, he effortlessly catches your ankle, pulling youâas you try to scramble awayâback towards him, trapping you in the small space between the mattress and his body.
Then he pins both your wrists with that same hand, his voice a low rumble, a smile playing on his lips. "'Chubby cat,' huh? And how does it feel to be completely at the mercy of said 'chubby cat,' little mouse?"
His nose brushes against yours. With nowhere else to look, you surrender, gazing into his deep blue eyes, even feeling a flicker of inexplicable fear.
Your breaths mingle, the warm air gently caressing your skin with each exhale.
He knows every single one of your ticklish spots. He keeps you pinned on the bed, launching a merciless "tickle attack." Youâre laughing uncontrollably in his arms, breathless, begging for mercy while still foolishly calling him "Leon Kitty."
"Okay, okay, I give up!" you say in a "pleading" tone, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of your eyes.
"Good. Admitting a misjudgment is a commendable quality in an agent," he says, climbing off you and offering a hand to pull you up. "Now, breakfast time. Come on. I made those pancakes you like."
A/N: I haven't had time to write long-form fanfics lately, but I've got all these ideas swirling around, so... here we are again with these little snippetsâunconnected, context-free brain dumps.
Lately Iâve seen everyone discussing what model of Porsche Leon drives in re9. Upon learning the astronomical price tag, this little brainwave/basically an outline, not a full fic, came to be.
Let's just assume in this universe he's not a âvehicle killer"!
So, I'm poor. Leon, could you "spare" some change? (just kidding)
Contains teasing about the sugar daddy/baby dynamic.
When your relationship reached the point where you were visiting his home for the first time, the car pulled into the underground garage of a seemingly ordinary but heavily secured, modern-design luxury apartment building.
You'd been curious since getting in the car. It wasn't until he drove into the garage that you finally couldn't hold back. You looked up the car's price on your phone. Seeing the figure, you instantly froze.
You looked at the interiorâminimalist but with premium materials. You turned to look at Leon's profile, focused on driving. Finally, your gaze landed on the subtle emblem on the steering wheel.
You voiced the ultimate question, holding up your phone for him to see the screen, your voice trembling. "Leon... this 'pretty nice' car... is it... that...?!" You were so shocked you couldn't even say the full brand name, but that price tag was already exploding in your mind.
He let out a slight sigh, a "so the secret's out" expression on his face.
"It accelerates fast, handles well. Can... extract itself from trouble when necessary." (He didn't specify that "trouble" meant "gunfights" and "escaping B.O.W.s.")
"The frame is reinforced. The glass is special. Tires are puncture-resistant." Each point sounded like a justification for the exorbitant price, yet each one hinted at the dangers of his world.
Finally, under your sustained, wide-eyed stare đź, he would add helplessly, softly, "...And it's solid. When I'm driving you, I need that." It was the closest thing to a romantic confession, directly linking the luxury car to "protecting you."
Even with his explanation, you remained in a state of shock. Sitting in the seat, suddenly everything felt different. The faint engine rumble sounded like money roaring. The seat's embrace felt like "premium ergonomic value." Even his smooth driving style seemed to hint at a "fear of expensive repair bills" (though really, it was just his professional habit).
But before getting out: You'd pat the seat solemnly and say, "Goodbye, Mr. Precious Mobile Fortress. Thank you for the ride service today."
And he'd just offer a helpless, affectionate smile behind you.
Upon entering his apartment, you saw:
A minimalist, functional, masculine space with distinct "safehouse" characteristics. The palette was strictly grey and black. Impeccably tidy, with almost no extraneous items beyond essential furniture and daily necessities. It felt more like a showroom.
The space gave off a cool, almost severe sense of order, and a sense of being "ready to evacuate at any moment."
Until you saw the wine cabinet.
It was a built-in, climate-controlled smart cabinet with a glass door, understated, with soft amber lighting inside. The collection wasn't vast, but each bottle lacked flashy labels; some were even unadorned.
You blurted out, "You even have a wine cabinet?!" Your tone wasn't envy, but astonishment at the huge contrastâa man who seemed to only drink coffee and beer, owning a professional wine cabinet.
You leaned in for a closer look, only recognizing the minimalist bottle shape of a certain Bordeaux First Growth.
"Wait, is this bottle that...?" you said, secretly checking the price on your phone. Your pupils dilated with shock once more.
"Leon Kennedy! This bottle costs as much as my tuition for a year! And you just let it gather dust here?!"
He, who was pouring water for you in the kitchen, paused at your words, a subtle âoops, forgot about that" expression flashing across his face.
He walked over, stood beside you, looking at the cabinet, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. "Some are... souvenirs from mission-related occasions. Some were gifts from friends."
Then he opened the cabinet, took out a simply packaged whiskey, and said, "This is what I usually drink. Those... not so much."
Hearing his explanation, you could sense these bottles carried weight far beyond their monetary value. They were like silent witnesses to another dimension of his life: rewards for success, dangerous mementos, tokens of connection, and a kind of lonely inability to truly relax and enjoy them.
Thinking this, your feelings shifted from "shock" to "understanding."
So you asked him softly, âThen... is there one bottle you'd actually want to open and drink?"
Leon would be silent for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping over the bottles before finally landing on your face, filled with curiosity and concern.
He wouldn't choose the most expensive one, but rather a bottle with a slightly worn label, not necessarily the priciest, but one with a story (e.g., a gift from Chris or someone after a particularly tough mission).
He'd say, âMaybe we can try this one today." Then he'd hand you the corkscrew. "You open it."
The gesture was highly symbolic: inviting you into his closed-off space full of heavy mementos and giving you the power to âopen" it.
Youâd open it clumsily but earnestly. Heâd prepare two ordinary glasses.
The wine was excellent, but to your palate, accustomed to affordable drinks, it didn't taste like its astronomical price. He'd simply tell you its origin. "An old friend gave it. Said to drink it for a celebration."
You raised your glass, your eyes under the light like the amber liquid in the glass, and said with a smile, "So what are we celebrating now? Celebrating that on my first visit, I discovered your secret treasure?"
He'd clink glasses with you naturally, looking into your eyes, and say, âCelebrating... that today is a good day."
The two of you sat on the sofa, sharing that astronomically priced but "just okay-tasting" wine. The atmosphere relaxed, and you, slightly tipsy, leaned against his shoulder.
With obvious teasing and a hint of playfulness, you looked up at him with bright eyes, poking his chest with a finger.
âSo, Mr. Kennedy... did I accidentally land myself a super top-tier Sugar Daddy? Hmm?" Not letting him object , you continued, âShould I call you Daddy? It'd be literally true now, you know."
'Sugar Daddy'âyou tried to use this exaggerated joke to dissolve the huge economic gap between you, afraid it would become an unspoken barrier.
Hearing your words, he visibly choked, making a sound somewhere between a cough and a sigh. The accusation was so outrageous, completely missing the essence of his actions.
Frowning, he said in that serious-yet-helpless tone of âyou know that's not true," emphasizing the words, ânot true."
Then, with his signature dry humor, he explained:
"As for the 'Sugar,' I've never put enough sugar in your coffee." (Every time he saw you drink that liquid dessert you made with copious milk and sugar cubes, he even worried about your blood sugar.)
"As for the 'Daddy,' I haven't signed any unlimited credit cards for you."
As if that wasn't convincing enough, he added, "A Sugar Daddy wouldn't teach you how to handle a gun or disable a tracker."
That was the weightier, more equal, even "dangerous" part of your relationship.
Finally, looking at you, meeting your eyes, he said slowly, "...And besides, a Sugar Daddy usually doesn't pick a sugar baby who can identify the price of all his gear at a glance and tease him about it in return."
His humorous yet earnest explanation made you instantly drop the playful act, turning serious and gentle. You reached up to smooth his slightly furrowed brow, then cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. Looking at him, you spoke your truth. "I know you're not. Silly."
Leaning back against his shoulder, your voice softened. "If you really were, I'd have run away long ago. What I like... is the guy who wears a ridiculously expensive jacket while picking out weird-flavored chips for me at the supermarket, drives a crazy-expensive car just to cruise around with me, shares fancy wine with me like it's beer... Leon."
You were telling him clearly: "I see everything about you (including the wealth), but what I love is still just you." You knew, for someone used to people depending on or being in awe of his persona, this was an incredibly precious affirmation.
In the end, "Sugar Daddy" became the highest-level between you two. Only in the most intimate, relaxed moments would you use it to deliberately tease him, enjoying his flustered, speechless expression.
And he would "retaliate" at times. When you finally received that job offer from the company you wanted, he'd give you a giftânot expensive, but meaningful. He'd say with a straight face, "Congratulations. From your non-Sugar Daddy."
A/N: I want to write a healthy, normal, equal age-gap relationship. So, it's not a sugar daddy setup, sorry. Haven't even figured out the pre-story yet, so just writing the parts that make me happy for now. Can't even call it an outline.
I'm totally into the sugar daddy trope too â definitely gonna write something with that vibe when I have the time.
Idk why my brain decides to be a total fic idea generator EXACTLY when Iâm too busy to actually write anything down. đ
Been swamped lately,no time for long fics. Just got a spark of inspiration and had to drop a little ramble.
RE9! Leon x fem! reader
tagsïŒDDLG , Mdom/Fsub.
You are his puppy girl (a grown adult!), hence a
touch of childish playfulness. He calls you "puppy"; you call him "Daddy."
1.
Sex is always,entirely, under Leon's control. It begins with gentle, soothing touches that gradually harden into an undeniable command. He reads you like an open book-the flicker of your fluffy tail, the tilt of your ears, the faintest tremors running through you-gauging your state with precision. But the pace,the progression, remains firmly in his hands.
2.
His commands are low,clear, and clipped.
"Turn over, puppy.""Look at me.""Say it." Your response-whether verbal or the immediate obedience of your body-directly shapes what comes next: a reward of pleasure, or the suspended tension ofcorrective control.
3.
Despite the power exchange,Leon established a clear safeword from the start.The moment it leaves your lips, everything stops-instantly replaced by pure comfort and holding. He drills this into you, ensures you know you hold the ultimate veto, though he's equally sure you'll almost never use it,so deep runs your trust and surrender.
4.
He knows every sensitive spot,especially the
ones tied to your canine traits. The stroke from the base of your ear down your neck,the grip and slow comb through the roots of your tail-each draws out reflexive shivers and soft whimpers. But he metes out the stimulation, using it as a tool to fine-tune your state.
5.
Leon has a strong marking instinct.He loves
leaving bites and bruises (just enough to sting, never to harm) along your nape, your shoulders, the inside of your thighs. LaterïŒwhen he washes you himself, his fingers trace each mark-a silent, possessive reaffirmation.
6.
If you' ve been particularly"naughty" during
the day, the night may carry a tone of discipline. Edging without release, holding a position until he allows a change. But if you' ve been good? He rewards with indulgent affection-letting you curl against him as you come, or drawing out the
aftercare until you're boneless and sated.
7.
He often orders you to look at him.Those
sharp, weary blue eyes that have seen countless horrors-in these moments, they hold only you. Filled with focused desire and something deeper. This gaze is a powerful anchor: it assures him of your complete presence, and wraps you in the certainty of being wholly seen and owned.
8.
Here,the names "Daddy" and "puppy" carry their heaviest weight. He repeats them against your ear, low and steady, especially as you near your peak or melt into total submission.
9.
Afterward,he always carries you to clean up himself. He checks meticulously for any unintended marks or soreness (however unlikely), tending to you with focused care. This ritual is both tenderness and an extension of his control-from start to finish,you remain under his watch.
10.
Once you're dried and wrapped in a large towel,he carries you back to bed,settling you against his chest. One arm curls around you, hand resting over your stomach or heart; the other slowly strokes your hair or ears. You fall asleep like this-
entwined, protected-your tail often draping unconsciously over his leg.
OMGGG I canât believe Andy Samberg was playing a character with daddy issues ten years ago (Brooklyn 99), and now heâs still playing one in Zootopia 2⊠pawbert is just a little kitten!!! What bad thoughts could he even have?? And itâs not like heâs doing âbadâ stuff for no reason â he just wants his daddy and his family to accept him đ Heâs such a babyboy.
I need someone to edit a one-hour supercut of Bobert saying âdaddyâ RIGHT NOW!!! đ„
Alright, alright, Iâm thinkingâLeon from RE9, with that age gap in mind (youâre in your 20s, heâs 49). When youâre together, heâs in his usual dark jacket, his expression relaxed but still carrying that hint of stern coolness, while youâre dressed in something bright and playful, almost childish. The moment some stranger mistakes you two for father and daughter, you immediately loop your arm through his, rest your head against his shoulder, and say in a sickly-sweet voice, âRight, Daddy?â Or maybe you deliberately ask in a childlike tone, âDaddy, can I get that?â
His mouth twitches almost imperceptiblyâcaught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. He knows you too well, recognizes this as your way of teasing him. So he brushes it off and tells you, âBehave. Go pick out what you actually want.â
Once the mistaken passerby is gone, you drop his arm and puff out your cheeks. âDo I really look that young?! And you, Leon! Couldnât you have said something?â
Calmly, without looking up from the menu, he replies, âCorrecting them would require an explanation. Explanations take time. And in my experience, itâs better to prioritize your current needâwhich is food. Besides⊠âDaddyâ sounds slightly more reasonable than being mistaken for your bodyguard.â
You mutter something under your breath before leaning in suddenly, studying his face closely. Then it slips out: ââŠYou know, on closer look, you really are showing your age. So many wrinkles.â
He shoots back, âAt least thirty percent of which are your doing.â That shuts you up.
After paying the bill, he takes your handâfingers lacing with yours, the way lovers do, not how a father holds a childâand says lightly as you head for the door, âLetâs go. Any later and âDaddyâ wonât buy you ice cream.â
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