colene

leon kennedih

[epio1s]

Hihihi leon kennedy sketch😝

[modvvanilla]

GUYS PLS SUPPORT MY FRIEND @epio1s N HER LEON KENNEDY ART

[fentyhazard]

LEON S. KENNEDY

⋮ ⌗ ┆warning fluff . tattoo artist leon (side hustle) . possibly ooc . one night stand . female + slight shameless reader . nsfw . protected sex (at first) . age gap . mating press . minor breeding kink . vanilla sex turns into something more . horrible jokes . credits to vampyrbambi on tiktok! . 14.7k words

⤿ chapter O2 here!

The mattress dipped under the weight of the three of you, a familiar, comforting gravity. You were sprawled out, your head resting heavily in Maya’s lap while Chloe leaned against Maya’s shoulder, her eyes occasionally drifting toward your screen.

The soft glow of your phone was the only thing illuminating the room as you scrolled through Instagram, the sting of losing that drinking bet still fresh in your mind.

A bet was a bet.

… If you had to get inked, you were going to make sure it wasn’t some basement hack-job. ‘If I’m marking my skin forever because I can’t hold my liquor, it’s going to be art!’ you thought, your thumb pausing on a profile that finally checked all the boxes.

The portfolio was clean: bold lines, intricate shading, and a professional aesthetic that screamed high-end. Even better, the shop was practically a stone’s throw from your front door as you fired off a DM, requesting a reservation for tomorrow.

The response was almost immediate, asking if you had a design in mind. You bit your lip, typing back that you weren't sure yet, but you were committed to getting something.

Then, the three dots appeared… and disappeared, then appeared again. You waited, your heart doing a strange little skip against your ribs.

Two minutes passed.

“Come at 6:30am sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched. The word sweetheart felt heavy, almost feline in the way it purred off the screen. It was too informal for a business transaction, yet it didn’t feel entirely like a mistake. “Whoa,” you muttered, bolting upright so fast you nearly knocked Chloe over. “Look at this.”

Maya snatched the phone out of your hand before you could even finish the sentence, and Chloe was right there, hovering over her shoulder with a sharp, curious glint in her eyes. “6:30 in the morning?” Chloe read aloud, her voice rising in a mix of shock and amusement. “Is this guy for real? And sweetheart? Okay, Romeo.”

“Let me see, let me see!” Maya scrolled frantically through the account's feed. The three of you huddled together, suddenly wide awake, stalking the page like seasoned detectives. You looked for a ‘tagged’ photo, an ‘about me’ highlight—anything.

But the artist was a ghost. There were only photos of breathtaking tattoos, gloved hands, and the occasional shot of a sterile, dimly lit studio. “He’s totally mysterious,” Maya sighed, dropping her shoulders in mock disappointment.

“But think optimistically, he might be incredibly hot. Usually, the ones who hide their faces are either a disaster or a ten.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching out to reclaim your phone. “I’m not looking to fuck a tattoo artist, guys! I just want a tattoo that doesn’t look like a middle schooler’s notebook doodle. He’s probably just some tired guy who’s overbooked.”

‘But why 6:30 am…’ your inner voice countered. ‘That’s so early... ugh.’

The girls continued to tease you, making kissing noises and theorizing about his height until you finally groaned and climbed down from the top bunk.

You stretched your back, feeling the tension of the day begin to settle into your muscles. “I’m going to sleep,” you announced, tossing your phone onto your pillow and pulling the duvet up to your chin. “I have to be at a stranger’s shop before the sun is even fully up.”

As you closed your eyes, the word sweetheart lingered in your mind, sparking a nervous energy you couldn’t quite shake.

Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.

The Sunday morning air was crisp, but by the time you reached the address on your screen, you were breathless and nursing a slightly watered-down iced tea.

Walking had been your only option with your car still trapped in the mechanic's shop, and your legs were already feeling the trek as you pushed open the heavy glass door, a small bell chiming above you.

The scent of green soap and sterile steel hit you immediately, but your senses stalled the moment you made eye contact with the man standing behind the counter.

Holy fuck.

He was massive—easily over six feet—with broad, powerful shoulders that seemed to stretch the fabric of his dark shirt. His hair was a striking, natural slate grey, cropped short, and a dusting of silver stubble lined a jawline that looked like it had been carved out of granite.

He looked less like a tattoo artist and more like a mountain that had decided to pick up a needle. “Y/N?” he asked. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through your chest.

You felt your jaw slacken just a fraction before you snapped it shut, forcing yourself back into reality. “Yeah. That’s me,” you managed to say, extending a hand that felt suddenly very small and very shaky.

As he took your hand in his, his grip firm, warm, and calloused as you had a fleeting, frantic thought. ‘There is no way this man is tattooing me today. He is way too hot! I’m going to pass out or vibrate right off the chair.’

“Good to see you made it,” he said, giving you a small, amused smirk that reached his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if the 6:30 start would scare you off. Usually, people only see this hour if they’re coming home from the bar, not headed to a shop.”

He stepped out from behind the counter, and you couldn't help but notice the way his biceps flexed with even the simplest movement.

He gestured toward the back of the studio, and as you started to walk, you felt the heavy, steady weight of his hand settle against the small of your back. It wasn’t forceful, just a guiding touch, but the heat of his palm through your shirt made your skin prickle. “So,” he began, leading you toward a pristine workstation illuminated by a ring light.

“Did the walk over give you any flashes of inspiration, or are we still working with a blank canvas?”

“First timer nerves,” you admitted, gripped by a sudden wave of shyness. “I still don’t really know what I want.”

He chuckled, a low sound that felt dangerously intimate in the quiet morning shop. “Well, look at it this way: at least you can’t say I didn’t give you a ‘point’ in the right direction.” He held up a sterile needle cartridge with a wink. “Sorry. Jokes are free of charge. The ink, however, costs extra.”

You let out a startled laugh, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Do you at least know where we’re putting this mystery masterpiece?”

Your brain scrambled for a safe answer—an arm, a shoulder, maybe an ankle—but before you could filter yourself, your mouth betrayed you.

“My right thigh,” you blurted out.

The words hung in the air like a neon sign. Your inner monologue immediately went into a tailspin. ‘Oh my god, why did I say my thigh? I’m fucking stupid! I’m going to have to take off my jeans in front of this man! Why am I like this?!’

But then, you caught the way he looked down at your leg, his expression professional yet undeniably intense as he began to prep his station. ‘Actually,’ you thought, a rebellious heat rising to your cheeks.

‘I wouldn’t exactly mind him being in between my legs for a couple of hours.’

“Thigh, huh?” he repeated, his tone dropping an octave as he pulled on a pair of black nitrile gloves. The snap of the latex was loud in the quiet room. “Bold choice for a first one. It’s a big canvas… plenty of room for us to get creative.”

He gave a slow, measured nod, his gaze shifting from your face down to the denim of your jeans. “Fair enough,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a register that made your stomach do a slow, dizzying flip.

“Well, go ahead and take your pants off.”

Your heart hit your ribs like a trapped bird. ‘Huh? What did he just say?’

A hot, prickly flush crawled up your neck, and you stood there with a completely flustered expression, staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on your iced tea as you wondered if you’d accidentally walked into a different kind of establishment entirely.

He caught your expression and let out a sudden bark of a laugh—a rich, deep sound that crinkled the skin around his eyes. It was clear this was just a Tuesday for him, a standard part of the job that he didn’t even blink at. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching as he reached for a fresh roll of paper towels.

“You chose the thigh. I can’t exactly tattoo through denim, and I need a clear field of vision if I’m going to be working that close to your legs all morning. Unless you brought some very specific breakaway pants?”

The lightbulb finally clicked in your head. Right, that’s… common sense. “Right. Obviously,” you muttered, your face burning with an embarrassment so intense you thought you might actually melt into the floor.

You set your drink down with trembling fingers and began to unbutton your jeans. You tried to keep your movements clinical, but with him standing there—filling the room with his sheer size and that silver-grey hair—it felt anything but professional.

You stripped the denim away, your heart racing as you stood there in just your underwear. You kept making and breaking eye contact, looking at his boots, then his biceps, then the ceiling, anywhere but his direct gaze.

‘I am standing in my underwear in front of a man who looks like he could bench press a small car,’ you thought, a hysterical edge to your inner monologue. ‘Maya and Chloe are going to lose their minds when I tell them he actually looks like this!’

He didn’t say anything at first; he just stood there, his expression unreadable as his eyes tracked the movement. He seemed to be waiting for something, his silence stretching out until you realized you were just standing in the middle of the room like a statue.

“You planning on standing for the next five hours?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Because as much as I appreciate the view, it’s going to make the linework a bit shaky.”

“Oh! Yeah. Right. Sorry,” you stammered, scrambling toward the chair.

He moved with a surprising, fluid grace for someone so large, stepping in to adjust the leather seat as he hit a lever, making the chair lay back until it was almost flat.

You climbed onto it, feeling the cool material against your skin, and stared up at the ceiling lights. ‘Kill me. Just kill me now. This is the most embarrassing morning of my entire life,’ you thought, even as your eyes drifted back to him.

He was leaning over the station, the muscles in his back shifting under his shirt as he prepped the ink. ‘But if this is how I go out... at least the scenery is top-tier.’

“Comfortable?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at you. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a steady hand. I promise this won’t hurt... much.”

The shop was quiet, the low hum of a distant refrigerator the only sound until he snapped on a fresh pair of black gloves. He moved his stool between your legs, his sheer bulk making the space feel suddenly very small and very warm.

You felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the air conditioning when he pressed a cold, antiseptic-soaked wipe against your inner thigh. “Cold?” he asked, his voice a low vibration but he didn’t wait for an answer, his large hand steadying your leg with a firm, grounding pressure.

He began to sketch directly onto your skin with a surgical marker, his touch light and rhythmic. It tickled, a strange, electric sensation that made your toes curl slightly, but you found yourself leaning into the feeling.

You couldn’t help but stare down at him and from this angle, his shoulders looked like a mountain range, and every time he moved his arm to reach for a different marker, the fabric of his shirt strained against his biceps.

‘If those arms are that steady while drawing, I can only imagine what else they’re good for,’ you thought, a traitorous blush creeping up your cheeks.

You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on the dark ink blooming across your skin. “So... how did you get into this? The tattooing, I mean. You don’t exactly look like the ‘starving artist’ type.”

He didn’t look up, his focus entirely on the curve of your leg. “Let’s just say I spent a lot of years handling different kinds of equipment,” he replied vaguely, his tone suggesting a history he wasn’t about to unpack for a stranger at 7:00 am. “Eventually, I decided I wanted to leave another kind of mark on the world.”

“... One that didn’t involve quite so much paperwork.”

He paused, looking up to catch your eye with a small, knowing smirk. “This might take a while, sweetheart. Since you came in with a blank slate, I’m building this from the ground up. There’s a fridge in the corner with snacks and drinks if you get restless.”

“Help yourself.”

“No thanks,” you said, your voice a bit breathier than you intended. “I’m good.”

‘I’m looking at a snack right now,’ your brain unhelpfully supplied. ‘A five-course meal, actually.’

“Suit yourself,” he chuckled, his silver-grey stubble catching the light as he turned back to your leg. “But don’t blame me if your stomach starts growling. I’ve been told I’m a bit of a perfectionist, so I don’t stop until the job is done right. You could say I’m pretty... ‘ink-clined’ to take my time.”

You groaned at the pun, but a smile tugged at your lips. “That was terrible.”

“I aim to please,” he murmured, his flippant tone shifting back into professional silence as he picked up the tattoo machine as the first buzz of the needle filled the room, a sharp, rhythmic sound. He braced his forearm against your skin, his muscles flexing with the tension of the movement.

You watched the ink settle into your skin, the silence between you feeling less like a void and more like a heavy, shared secret.

Thirty minutes bled into an hour, and your muscles were screaming. You had been holding yourself so still, terrified that even a heavy breath would make his needle slip, that you felt like a piece of frozen rebar.

He paused, the hum of the machine dying down as he looked up at you, his silver-grey brows furrowing slightly. “Relax, sweetheart,” he rumbled, his voice like low-grade thunder. “I’m not going to break you. If you stay this stiff, you’re going to wake up tomorrow feeling like you went ten rounds in a boxing ring.”

You let out a long, shaky breath and finally slumped back into the leather.

After another few minutes of silent sketching, he stood up, towering over you as he wiped away the excess ink and gestured toward the full-length mirror. “Go take a look. See if that’s something you can live with.”

You stood up, your legs a bit wobbly, and turned toward the glass. Your breath caught. Spread across your thigh was a cluster of spider lilies, their long, delicate petals curling around your skin with a lethal sort of elegance.

… It was breathtaking.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, turning back to him with wide, excited eyes. “Seriously, how did you do that so fast? It’s beautiful!”

He leaned against his workstation, crossing those massive arms over his chest, his biceps bulging enough to make your throat go dry.

He looked at the drawing, then his eyes drifted slowly up to yours. “I know,” he said. His voice had dropped into this dreamy, bedroom-only tone that felt like a physical caress.

‘Wait, did he just mean the drawing? Orrr… me?’ you wondered, your heart doing a frantic little tap-dance. ‘No, don’t be a delusional idiot! A man who looks like a literal god is not flirting with a college student in her underwear at seven in the morning.’

‘He’s out of my league, and I’m probably young enough to be his... well, his father’s best friend’s very attractive daughter…’

You climbed back into the chair, and the real work began. For the next several hours, the needle became a constant, stinging companion.

The silence in the shop was heavy—no radio, no background chatter, just the rhythmic bzzzz of the machine and the sound of his steady breathing.

It was killing you.

“Is it always this quiet here?” you asked, wincing as he hit a sensitive spot near your inner leg. “I thought there’d be, like, heavy metal or something playing.”

“I find the noise... distracting,” he muttered, his focus absolute.

Since you figured you’d never see this man again, you decided to fill the void with your own voice. You started ranting as you told him everything—about how your biology professors were trying to drown you in lab reports, how your internship felt like a fever dream, and how the university seemed determined to bleed you dry with loans.

“And don’t even get me started on the cafeteria food,” you groaned, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other gripped the chair.

“It’s like they’re trying to see how much mystery meat a human can consume before they develop a second head. I’m basically paying for a degree and a future case of food poisoning.”

He let out a deep, chesty chuckle that made the chair vibrate. “Sounds like you’re having a ‘ruff’ time,” he said, glancing up with a glint of mischief. “But hey, look on the bright side. At least you’re ‘studying’ the fine art of survival.”

“That was a reach,” you laughed, feeling a strange sense of comfort settle over you. “But seriously, the loans? I’m going to be paying these off until I’m your age. No offense.”

“None taken,” he murmured, his hand sliding slightly higher on your thigh to steady the skin. “Though, if you’re looking for a way to pay them off, I might know a few high-risk, high-reward career paths. But you seem a bit too sweet for that kind of trouble.”

“I can be trouble,” you countered shamelessly, staring down at the top of his head. ‘I’d definitely be trouble for you.’

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, his voice dropping low again as he looked up, his face inches from your leg. “In fact, I think you’re exactly the kind of trouble I should stay away from. But here I am, stuck between your legs for the next four hours. Tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting for a second. ‘Did he just... no. He’s probably just being friendly!’ You just nodded like a total knobhead and went back to complaining about your student portal login issues, completely oblivious to the way he was smirking at the floor.

The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the studio floor. The six-hour mark had come and gone, and you were officially a physical wreck.

Every time the needle lifted, you let out a soft, involuntary whine, your muscles twitching with a deep, pulsing soreness. Your phone was practically vibrating off the side table with frantic texts from Maya and Chloe—likely planning a search party—but you could barely bring yourself to care.

You had spent the last two hours raiding his snack cabinet, shamelessly munching on crackers while he worked, and the conversation had shifted from your academic misery to something much more... charged. “Alright, sweetheart. We’re done,” he rumbled, clicking off the machine.

The sudden silence felt deafening.

He stood up, stretching his massive frame, and you watched the way his shirt pulled taut across his chest. He looked down at the masterpiece on your thigh—the spider lilies looking vivid and lethal against your skin—and then he looked at you.

“Think you can stand?” he asked, reaching out a hand to steady you.

As you swung your legs off the chair, your knees buckled slightly from being in one position for so long. He caught you instantly, his large hands gripping your waist to keep you upright.

The heat of his palms through your skin made your breath hitch. “Easy there,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register. “Don’t go falling for me just yet. I haven’t even given you the bill.”

You laughed breathlessly, trying to ignore how perfectly your waist fit in his grip. “I think the walking-here-and-back part of my day is officially canceled. I’m dead.”

‘I am literally half-naked in a shop with a man who looks like he’s met Shakespeare himself,’ you thought, your heart hammering. ‘and he is still holding my waist. This is not a drill.’

He began to walk you through the standard aftercare—washing, ointments, what to avoid—but he stopped mid-sentence, his eyes tracking the way you were swaying slightly.

The shop was empty now, the other customers having long since cleared out, leaving the two of you in the dim, intimate light of the closing hour. “You know,” he started, his thumb grazing the side of your hip in a way that felt entirely intentional. “It’s almost closing time, and I’m a bit worried you’re going to forget everything I just told you. You seem... distracted.”

“I’m just… tired,” you countered, though your eyes were fixed on the silver stubble of his jaw. “Tell you what,” he said, leaning in just enough that you could smell the faint scent of cedar and expensive soap.

“I’ve got the proper supplies back at my place. Better lighting, better seating. Why don’t you come over? I can show you the aftercare... much more vividly. I’d hate for such a beautiful piece of art to get ruined because you weren’t paying attention.”

Your brain stalled. ‘Vividly? Is he— is he actually asking me back to his place?’

“Is that part of the service package?” you managed to squeak out, your shameless side finally surfacing. “Because I don’t remember seeing ‘home visits’ on the Instagram page.”

He let out a low, dangerous chuckle, his eyes dark with amusement. “Consider it a specialized consultation. I’m very hands-on with my best clients.”

He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second. “Besides, you look like you could use a drink that isn’t lukewarm iced tea. And I promise, my ‘service’ is a ten out of ten. I’m quite the... ‘ink-redible’ host.”

You groaned at the terrible joke, but you didn’t pull away. In fact, you leaned in a little closer. “You’re really leaning into the dad jokes, aren’t you?”

“Only the ones that work,” he whispered, his hand sliding just a bit lower toward the new ink on your thigh. “So? Are you going to keep your friends waiting, or are you coming with me?”

‘Maya and Chloe are going to have to wait,’ you thought, a thrill of pure adrenaline masking the soreness in your leg. ‘I am definitely going home with the hot tattoo artist.’

You reached for your bag, fumbling with your wallet to finally settle the bill, but he just caught your wrist with a gentle, firm hand. “It’s alright,” he rumbled, his thumb grazing your pulse point for a beat too long.

“Let’s head out to my place. You can pay me there. I’m not worried about you running off.”

You let out a nervous little laugh, your heart doing a high-speed skip. “If you say so.”

You turned around and bent over to grab your discarded jeans from the stool, completely oblivious to the view you were giving him. As you leaned down, your shirt rode up, revealing your white panties dotted with tiny black polka dots.

Behind you, his gaze darkened, his eyes lingering on the curve of your hips with a heavy, unshielded intensity. He didn’t look away; he just took a slow, steady breath, his jaw tightening as he watched the fabric strain against your skin. ‘Cute,’ he thought, though his expression remained that of a man who was very much enjoying the view.

‘Wait,’ you realized, clutching your pants to your chest as you turned back to face him. “Is it really okay for me to sit… well, like this… in your car? I don’t want to get ink or ointment on your seats.”

A faint, uncharacteristic dusting of red touched the tips of his ears as he met your eyes. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a bit more strained than before. “I’ve got leather. It wipes clean.”

“Alright, whatever,” you shrugged, flashing him a cheeky grin. “As long as it’s not an expensive car like a Porsche or something, then it’s fine! I’d hate to ruin a masterpiece with my masterpiece.”

He let out a short, dry laugh—one that sounded like he knew something you didn’t as he moved with efficient grace, locking the front doors and killing the studio lights.

The shop plunged into a low, atmospheric gloom before he led you through a heavy steel door toward the private parking area in the back.

The evening breeze hit your fresh ink, and you hissed, the cold air stinging against the raw skin of your thigh. You hugged your jeans to your chest, shivering slightly, until you rounded the corner and saw the lone vehicle sitting under the security light.

Your jaw practically hit the pavement as a Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT sat there, its dark, matte finish gleaming like a predator in the shadows. It was wide, aggressive, and looked like it cost more than your entire university tuition combined. “What the hell?!” you shrieked, your eyes darting from the car to him.

“You have a Porsche? Since when does tattooing people buy you a Turbo GT?! Are you secretly a hitman or something? Because if so, please take me under your wing! I need the career change.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and resonant in the quiet alley as he clicked the key fob. The headlights flickered to life, illuminating his silver hair and the wicked smirk on his face.

“I told you, I’m exhausted from all the hard work,” he joked, winking at you. “And don’t worry about the seats. Just get in before you freeze.”

You didn’t have a choice as you climbed into the passenger side, the interior smelling of expensive leather and the same cedarwood scent that clung to his skin.

As the engine roared to life with a terrifyingly powerful purr, you leaned back into the seat, feeling the luxury wrap around you. “Do you have a mansion, too?” you asked, half-joking but mostly serious as you watched his large, tattooed hands grip the steering wheel.

“Is there a helipad? A moat?”

He didn’t answer as he simply shifted the car into gear, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips as he kept his eyes on the road. The silence was louder than any confirmation.

‘Oh, he definitely has a mansion,’ you thought, your eyes wandering from his sharp profile down to the way his thighs filled out his own trousers. ‘I am going home with a rich, massive, silver-haired man who looks like he could snap me in half… gosh I’ve never been more excited to learn about ‘aftercare’ in my life.’

“You’re very quiet over there,” he murmured, glancing at you as he navigated the dark streets. “Regretting the decision?”

“Not even a little,” you said, your voice dripping with a newfound confidence. “I’m just wondering if the ‘vivid’ part of the aftercare involves those hands of yours.”

He didn’t miss a beat, his grip tightening on the wheel. “You’ll find out soon enough. We’re almost there.”

The high-octane purr of the Porsche was the only thing filling the cabin until you couldn't take the quiet anymore. You reached for your phone, pairing it to the car's Bluetooth before he could even protest.

A second later, the bubbly, high-energy beat of: ‘Rude! by hearts2heart’ exploded through the high-end speakers. It was a jarring, sugary contrast to the dark, lethal interior of the Cayenne and the stoic, silver-haired man sitting next to you.

You didn’t care as you rolled the window down, sticking your head out into the night air like a golden retriever, the wind whipping your hair into a chaotic mess.

You were laughing, the adrenaline of the day finally boiling over into a manic sort of fun. Behind the wheel, he kept his eyes on the road, but his gaze drifted toward you every time you shifted.

He couldn’t help but stare at the curve of your back and the playful peek of those polka-dot panties. A small, almost invisible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Finally, the chill became too much for your fresh ink, and you pulled back inside, sliding the window up with a hum. You were still buzzing, your eyes bright as you turned in your seat, the seatbelt straining against your chest.

You leaned toward him, batting your lashes with a mock-innocence that you knew was absolutely transparent. “So,” you started, your voice trailing off as you reached out. You let your fingers graze the massive swell of his bicep, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath the fabric.

You squeezed, just a little, your eyes widening at the sheer scale of him. “Is this part of the ‘tattoo artist’ starter pack? Or do you just spend your off-hours lifting actual boulders? Because this doesn't feel like ‘drawing’ muscle.”

He didn’t pull away, in fact, he flexed slightly under your touch, the muscle jumping beneath your fingertips. “I’ve had to do a lot of heavy lifting in my time, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that dangerous, gravelly low.

“Different jobs require different… strengths.”

“Vague again,” you teased, your fingers lingering on his arm. “Are you sure you aren’t a secret agent? You’ve got the car, the muscles, the mysterious past. All you’re missing is the suit.”

“A suit would just get in the way of the ink,” he countered, glancing at you with a predatory glint in his eyes. “And trust me, you wouldn't want me ‘undercover’ anyway. I’m much better when I’m out in the open.”

‘Oh, I bet you are,’ you thought, your mind flashing to a very vivid image of those arms pinned over your head. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing exactly how ‘open’ you can get…’

“You’re a terrible flirt,” you said aloud, though your face was heating up. “I’m not flirting,” he said, the Porsche slowing as he turned into a private, gated driveway that looked exactly like the mansion you’d joked about. “I’m being ‘arm-nest.’ Get it? Because of the muscles?”

You let out a loud, pained groan, dropping your head back against the headrest. “That was the worst one yet. I’m taking back everything I said about you being hot.”

“Too late,” he chuckled, the car coming to a smooth stop in front of a sprawling, modern estate. “We’re here. Time to see if you can handle the ‘vivid’ part of the evening.”

The living room was exactly as you had imagined—minimalist, expensive, and dimly lit by recessed warm lights that made the vast space feel smaller and far more dangerous.

You were perched on the edge of his deep charcoal leather sofa, stripped down to your oversized shirt and those polka-dot panties, while he took his place on the floor as he sat squarely between your legs, his massive frame making the high-end furniture look like dollhouse decor.

He had a specialized ointment in his hand, and the air smelled faintly of unscented healing cream and his own intoxicating cedarwood scent. “First rule,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, focused rasp as he looked up at you.

“Keep it clean. No soaking it in a tub, and definitely no swimming for at least two weeks. You understand, sweetheart?”

As he spoke, he dipped two fingers into the tin and began to apply the cream to your right thigh. His touch was firm yet incredibly careful, his large, calloused fingers tracing the delicate lines of the spider lilies with a precision that made your breath hitch.

Every time his hand brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, you flinched, a small, involuntary shiver racking your frame. “Easy,” he murmured, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. He didn’t pull away; instead, he let his hand linger, the heat of his palm seeping into your skin.

“I told you I was hands-on. If you can’t handle the aftercare, maybe I shouldn’t have given you such a ‘thigh-gh’ quality tattoo.”

You let out a soft, shaky laugh at the terrible pun, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you felt a surge of shameless confidence. You reached out, your fingers disappearing into the thick, slate-grey hair at the back of his head.

It was softer than it looked, and you began to slowly caress the nape of his neck, your nails lightly grazing his skin.

The effect was instantaneous as his jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck cording as he stared up at you from between your knees.

The professional veneer was stripping away, replaced by an intensity that made your stomach flip. ‘Holy shit,’ you thought, your heart hammering against your ribs. ‘I’m petting a man who looks like he could break a door down with his bare hands, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room…’

“You’re supposed to be listening to the instructions,” he rasped, though he didn’t move his hand from your leg. In fact, his thumb began to make slow, agonizingly deliberate circles just inches from the hem of your underwear.

“I’m listening,” you whispered, leaning forward until your face was just inches from his. “You said no soaking. I think I can manage that. What’s the second rule?”

He stayed quiet for a long beat, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. The air between you was thick enough to choke on.

“Second rule,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “is that you don't touch the artist unless you’re prepared for the consequences. I’m a very busy man, but I think I can make an exception for you.”

You smiled, your fingers tightening slightly in his hair, pulling him just a fraction closer. “I think I’m okay with those consequences.”

The air in the living room felt like it was vibrating as you pulled him upward, your fingers tangling deeper into his thick grey hair to guide him from the floor.

He didn’t need much convincing as he moved with a heavy, predatory grace, looming over you before his weight settled between your thighs on the leather cushions.

When his lips finally crashed against yours, it wasn’t the tentative kiss of a stranger.

It was hungry and authoritative.

You met his tongue with your own, the taste of him—dark coffee and something metallic—sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

“Mm… fuck…” you whimpered into his mouth, your hands sliding up those massive, boulder-like biceps. You squeezed them hard, feeling the rock-solid muscle flex and jump under your palms as he braced himself over you.

He wasn’t shy; his large hands began to roam your body with a possessive heat, kneading your waist and wandering up to the curve of your breasts over your shirt.

“You’re so much trouble, sweetheart,” he growled against your lips, his voice a ragged, gravelly mess. “I knew the second you walked into my shop I was going to end up right here.”

He pulled away just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one fluid motion. You shivered as the cool air hit your skin, but the cold didn’t last long.

He leaned down, his silver-dusted jaw rough against your collarbone as he began to pepper kisses down your chest. ‘God, he’s so big,’ you thought, your head tossing back against the sofa. ‘I feel like he could swallow me whole.’

He moved lower, his movements slow and deliberate. He was a professional, after all; even in his hunger, he was hyper-aware of his work.

His hands stayed clear of your right thigh, guarding the fresh ink of the spider lilies as if they were the most precious things in the room… but everything else was fair game.

He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, his stubble grazing your skin until you were squirming beneath him.

When he reached the waistband of your polka-dot panties, he didn’t stop as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic, pulling them down just enough to expose the sensitive dip of your hips.

“Mm… please,” you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He hummed, a deep vibration that you felt in your teeth, before burying his face against the thin fabric covering your heat.

He kissed the hem, then the center, his hot breath soaking through the cotton. When his tongue flicked out to lap at you through the cloth, you let out a high, broken whine as the sensation was overwhelming—the softness of his tongue combined with the rough, masculine sand-paper grit of his stubble pressing against your pussy.

You began to grind your hips upward instinctively, seeking more of that friction, your heels digging into the sofa cushions. “Patience, sweetheart,” he muttered against the damp fabric, his hands sliding down to your knees.

He slowly, firmly began to pry your legs further apart, creating a wide, inviting path for himself. “I told you… I like to take my time with the details.”

He looked up at you then, his eyes dark and blown out with a heat that made you feel completely consumed. “And right now, you’re the only detail that matters.”

The friction of his stubble against your inner thighs was already driving you to the brink, but then he hooked a single, thick finger into the elastic of your polka-dot panties.

He didn’t strip them off; he simply tugged the fabric aside, exposing your soaking heat to the cool air of the living room for only a second before he replaced it with his own warmth.

You watched through hooded eyes as he leaned down, and the sound of him slicking his fingers—a blunt, wet noise—made you flinch.

Your hips gave a sharp, involuntary jerk against the leather. “Easy, sweetheart,” he rumbled against your skin, his voice a vibration that traveled straight to your spine. “I’m just making sure everything is… ‘slick’ and span. Standard procedure.”

“Mm… agh—..” you whimpered, your head thumping back against the sofa cushion. ‘He’s still making jokes while he’s down there. How is he like this?’

Before you could even process the pun, his tongue made contact. He swiped upward with a firm, rhythmic pressure that centered right on your clit as you let out a high, broken moan, your fingers tangling desperately into his silver-grey hair, pulling him closer.

Then, you felt the first stretch as he slid two fingers inside you, the transition from the soft wetness of his tongue to the internal invasion of his hand making your breath hitch.

He started slowly, his large knuckles grazing your entrance as he pushed in, testing your depth. The sheer size of his hand was overwhelming; you could feel every bit of his strength as he began to move, his fingers sliding in and out with a steady, agonizingly perfect friction.

“You’re so tight for me,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your wetness. He pulled his fingers nearly all the way out before plunging them back in, his thumb staying anchored to press against your hood.

“Does that feel like a ‘hole’ lot of fun, Y/N?”

“Shut up,” you gasped, a sob of pleasure catching in your throat as you began to thrash your head from side to side. “Just… mm… don’t ngh.. stop.”

He didn’t.

He picked up the pace, his tongue attacking your clit with a newfound ferocity while his fingers worked deep inside you. The sound of the friction—the wet, rhythmic slap of his palm against your thigh and the messy squelch of his fingers—filled the quiet room. “Ah—!”

Your legs shook, your left one hooking over his broad shoulder to give him better access, while you kept your tattooed right leg carefully braced away.

He noticed the movement, his hand shifting to grip your hip with enough force that you knew there’d be fingerprints there tomorrow. “That’s it,” he growled, his tongue darting out one last time to swirl around your most sensitive spot.

“Give it all to me. I want to see exactly how much ‘ink-spiration’ I can get out of you.”

The speed of his fingers increased until the wet, squelching sound of him working inside you was the only thing you could hear over your own ragged breathing.

His tongue was relentless, flicking and swirling against your clit with a precision that made your entire lower half feel like it was melting. “Ah! Nnghh— fuck!” you cried out, your back arching so sharply off the leather that only your heels and shoulders remained pressed down.

Your eyes rolled back into your head as a massive, white-hot wave of pleasure crashed over you, your internal muscles clenching around his fingers in a desperate, rhythmic pulse.

You had just hit your first orgasm, your body shaking with the aftershocks, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he doubled down.

His fingers continued to pump in and out of your soaking entrance, and his tongue didn’t lose its rhythm for a single second. “Wait— stop, please,” you sobbed, your voice breaking as you reached down with trembling hands to try and pry his wrist away.

You were too sensitive, every touch feeling like an electric shock to your overloaded nerves. “I can’t— I’m done, I’m done!”

“I didn’t say you were done, sweetheart,” he rumbled against your inner thigh, his voice thick with a dark, commanding heat as he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with just one of his massive hands, leaving you completely exposed and twitching.

You tried to bring a hand to your mouth to stifle the loud, ugly sobs of pleasure escaping you, but he nudged your arm away. “Don’t cover it. There are no neighbors out here to hear you, and I want every single sound you’ve got.”

He pulled back for a second, but only to lick every drop of your spent juices from his fingers and your skin with a slow, shameless swipe of his tongue.

You were crying uncontrollably now, your chest heaving and your skin slick with sweat, but he wasn’t finished. He raised his hand and delivered a sharp, stinging slap right against your swollen, pulsing clit. “Ah!” You let out a strangled shriek, your hips bucking wildly.

It was too much, the sensation bordering on pain but still so heavy with pleasure that you couldn’t stop the fresh heat pooling between your legs.

“Look at that twitch,” he chuckled, the sound deep and vibrating in his barrel chest as he watched your pussy flutter in the wake of the slap. “You’re a natural at this, aren’t you? But we’ve just barely finished the first round.”

He moved with a sudden, surprising gentleness, hooking his arms under your waist to flip you over onto your stomach. He was incredibly careful with your right leg, making sure your fresh tattoo didn’t touch the sofa or his own rough denim.

You were left face-down in the cushions, your ass arched up in the air, trembling and leaking as he hovered over you like a mountain. ‘I am literally going to die in this mansion,’ you thought through the haze of your tears, your fingers digging into the charcoal leather. ‘He’s going to break me—!’

“Now,” he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over the back of your neck as he pressed his heavy chest against your back. “Let’s see how you handle the ‘rear’ view.”

The rustle of foil was the only sound in the cavernous room as he reached for a condom from the pocket of his discarded jacket. He moved with a calm, surgical precision that only made the situation feel more intense.

He shucked off his shirt, the fabric straining over those mountain-range shoulders before it hit the floor, followed quickly by his pants and underwear as you turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse, and your breath hitched so hard it felt like your heart had stopped.

‘Holy mother of…’

He was built like a tank, every muscle defined and scarred in a way that spoke of a very dangerous life. But your eyes traveled lower, and you felt your jaw slacken. He was huge—the sheer girth of him making your pulse throb in your throat.

You let out a soft, involuntary whine, the sound of a woman who knew exactly what she was about to be dealing with as he caught your expression, a dark, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he rolled the protection onto his hardening length.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he rumbled, his voice like gravel and velvet. “I’ve had a lot of practice with heavy equipment. I’ll make sure it’s a perfect fit.”

He didn’t waste any more time. He reached down, hooking his large hands into the waistband of your polka-dot panties and pulling you toward him until your heat was flush against his thighs.

He settled his weight between your legs, his chest a solid wall of heat against your back, “Wait,” you gasped, your face burning as you remembered the messy state of the couch from just moments ago. “I’m… I’m sorry about the mess. I didn’t mean to… squirt like that. It was just so fast—”

He let out a low, chesty chuckle, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t be embarrassed for doing exactly what you were meant to do. In fact, I’m completely impressed. It just means I’m doing my job right.”

You groaned at the pun even as your toes curled as he guided the tip of himself against your entrance, and you flinched, your sensitivity still dialed up to a ten. He felt it, pausing instantly, his hand moving to the small of your back to steady you.

“Slowly,” he whispered. “One bit at a time.”

He began to push in, just the head at first, the girth of him stretching you until you were sure you couldn't take another inch.

You let out a long, broken moan, your fingers digging into the leather of the sofa. It was vanilla—slow, rhythmic, and incredibly intimate—but the sheer scale of him made it feel like anything but. ‘Mm… fuck…’ you thought, your eyes fluttering shut as he slid in another digit’s length. ‘He’s so thick. I can feel every single vein, every bit of him—!’

“There you go,” he rasped, his own breathing beginning to hitch as he felt how tight and wet you were for him. “Just keep breathing for me. You’re doing great.”

He pushed in deeper, his biceps flexing as he braced himself over you, his silver stubble grazing your shoulder. Every inch was a battle and a victory, the tension in the room reaching a breaking point as he finally seated himself fully inside you.

The slow, careful rhythm evaporated the moment he was fully seated inside you as he let out a low, guttural growl that sounded less like a man and more like a predator finally claiming its prize.

His large hand hooked into the side of your polka-dot underwear, yanking the fabric roughly to the side to clear a path for the sheer girth of him.

With his other hand, he reached around to cup your breast, his palm heavy and warm even through the lace of your bra, squeezing you with a possessive strength that made you gasp.

Then, he began to pound into you. “Ah! Nnghh— fuck!” you shrieked, your fingers clawing at the leather sofa as he hit your depth with every unapologetic thrust.

He was massive, stretching you to your absolute limit, but he didn’t give you a second to adjust as he snaked his hand down, his silver-grey hair brushing against your skin as he found your swollen, pulsing clit as he he delivered a sharp, rhythmic slap with two fingers that sent a bolt of white-hot electricity straight to your brain.

You jerked upward, your hips slamming back against his groin in a desperate, involuntary reaction. “That’s it,” he rasped against your skin, his voice a jagged mess of heat and gravel. “Arch for me, sweetheart. I want to feel every bit of you clenching around me.”

He slapped your clit a couple more times, the stinging friction and the heavy thud of his hips creating a sensory overload that had your eyes rolling back.

He moved with a terrifyingly controlled power, his biceps bulging and corded as he braced himself over you, his sweat dripping onto your back.

Despite the sheer intensity, he remained a professional to the core. Even as he hammered into you, he kept his body angled just right, his heavy thighs never once grazing the raw, inked skin of your right leg.

He was protecting his work while he destroyed you.

He reached down again, his fingers sliding into the messy, soaking heat where you were joined. He started fingering you while he continued to thrust, his knuckles rubbing against your entrance with every deep stroke.

The combination of his girth and the internal friction of his fingers was too much. “Pleasee— mm… it’s too muuch!” you sobbed, your head tossing wildly. “I’m going to— I’m goingg to cum again—!”

“You’re not going to break,” he groaned, his pace turning frantic, the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin echoing through the mansion’s living room. “You’re just going to increase your capacity. Stay with me.”

You felt the tension in your lower stomach coil into a tight, vibrating knot. Your back was arched so high it was a miracle you didn't snap, your toes curling into the sofa.

The world narrowed down to the feeling of him—the massive, rhythmic invasion and the sharp, stinging slaps against your clit.

‘I can’t breathe…!’ you thought, a hysterical sob escaping your throat as the next wave of pleasure began to tower over you. ‘I’m going to cum again because of him!’

“There it is,” he whispered, his own breathing coming in harsh, ragged bursts as he felt you begin to tremble. “Give me everything. Don’t you dare hold back.”

The rhythmic, wet slapping of his hips against yours filled the high-ceilinged room, a primal soundtrack to the way he was systematically dismantling your composure.

He was relentless. Every time he drove into you, he hit a depth that made your vision white out, a stark reminder that this man was built differently than anyone you’d ever encountered back on campus.

“Nghh! Ah— Ah! Fuckk!!” you shrieked, your fingers scrambling blindly across the leather before reaching down to his hand. You tried to pull his wrist away, your smaller fingers wrapping around the corded muscle of his forearm, but it was like trying to move a steel beam.

His grip didn’t budge; he only pushed two fingers deeper into your soaking heat, hooking them to find that perfect, agonizing spot internally while he continued to hammer into you from behind.

“You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice a jagged, low vibration against the back of your neck as your legs were turning to water, your knees shaking so violently against the sofa cushions that you weren’t sure how you were still upright.

The sheer girth of him was stretching you to the limit, a constant, heavy pressure that made every nerve ending in your lower body scream.

But as the friction built—your slick mixing with the sweat dripping from his chest—the pain gave way to a desperate, clawing need. “Mmmff!!” You buried your face into a throw pillow to stifle a particularly loud sob of pleasure, but then you turned your head, your hair a damp mess across your face.

“Fa— faasterr,” you choked out, the word barely a whisper through your ragged gasps. “Pleasee… mmff… just go fasterr!”

He let out a low, dark chuckle that sounded more like a growl. “Careful what you wish for. I’m a fast learner when it comes to what you like.” He shifted his weight, bracing his massive biceps as he picked up a terrifyingly powerful pace.

He began to pound into you with a ferocity that had you bouncing against the leather, his fingers matching the speed of his thrusts. The friction was overwhelming; you were a mess of heat and sensation, your back arched so high it was a miracle you didn’t snap.

“Ah! Ahh! Holy shiitt!” You were begging now, your voice broken and high-pitched as you bucked your hips back against him, trying to take every single inch of him.

‘I can’t… I’m going to…’ you thought, your mind fracturing into a thousand pieces of pure, unadulterated heat. He felt the change in you, the way your internal muscles began to squeeze and ripple around him in a desperate, pre-orgasmic clench.

He didn’t slow down; he drove even deeper, his thumb finding your clit one last time to deliver a sharp, rhythmic pressure that sent you over the edge. “That’s it,” he groaned, his own breathing turning into harsh, shallow hitches. “Take it all. Don’t you dare stop now.”

The pace was no longer a rhythm, it was a desperate, and heavy bombardment that had you clinging to the leather of the sofa for dear life.

You could feel the shift in him—the way his massive biceps corded with a final, straining tension and the way his breath hitched into deep, guttural growls. “That’s it... almost there,” he rasped, his voice breaking into a ragged moan that was louder than anything you’d heard all night.

He gripped your hips so hard his knuckles turned white, his thumbs digging into your skin to anchor you. “Don't you dare stop. Cum for me, sweetheart. Right now!”

“Nghh! Oh! Ahh—!” Your body finally gave way, a violent, high-voltage climax ripping through you that had you squirting for the second time, your heat drenching his fingers and the base of his length.

At that exact moment, he let out a long, choked-off groan, burying himself as deep as he could go as he came into the condom. The pulsing sensation of him filling you—even through the latex—was the final blow to your overstimulated nerves as the room fell into a heavy, charged silence, broken only by the sound of your combined, frantic panting.

You slumped against the cushions, your skin slick with sweat and your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

He stayed there for a moment, his heavy chest heaving against your back, before he slowly, carefully pulled out.

You felt the sudden, cold void of him leaving you, and you turned over with a weak, shaky movement to face him. You were breathless, your hair a damp curtain across your face, but your eyes stayed locked on him.

He was sitting back on his heels, his silver hair messy and his jaw set and without a word, he lifted his hand, the one still glistening with your shared juices and brought his fingers to his mouth as he licked them clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

‘Holy... fuck,’ you thought, a fresh shiver running down your spine despite the exhaustion. ‘He is actually going to be the death of me.’

He reached down to strip the filled condom off, the sight of his seed captured in the latex making your throat go dry.

He tossed it aside onto the hardwood floor with a careless flick before leaning over you once more. He didn’t go back for the heat this time; instead, he hovered inches from your face, his hand coming up to cup your cheek with surprising tenderness.

“You’re a ‘stroke’ of genius, Y/N,” he whispered, a faint, sleepy smirk touching his lips as he leaned in to kiss you.

It was a gentle, lingering taste of him that felt like a promise as you smiled against his mouth, your fingers tracing the incredible curve of his bicep one last time.

“The couch is a bit... crowded,” you murmured, your voice a husky wreck. “Maybe we should continue the ‘aftercare’ in your bedroom?”

His smile widened, a low chuckle vibrating against your lips as he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “I think I can manage that. I wouldn’t want to be ‘bed-ly’ behaved and keep you out here all night.”

He stood up, his massive frame silhouetted against the dim lights of the mansion, and reached down to scoop you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all.

The transition from the living room to his bedroom had been a blur of heavy muscle and whispered promises, but the reality of his bed was far more intense than you’d bargained for.

You were now pinned in a brutal mating press, your legs shoved up toward your own shoulders and held there by the crushing weight of his chest.

To make matters even more overwhelming, your wrists were secured to the heavy, cold metal of his bed frame. You had seen the cuffs earlier and figured they were just cheap plastic toys for some BDSM aesthetic, but the way the cold steel bit into your skin told you otherwise.

You were completely immobilized, rendered useless beneath him as he loomed over you like a silver-haired titan as he didn’t waste a second. He began to pound into you again, the condom-clad length of him hitting your depth with a relentless, rhythmic violence.

Because of the way he had you folded, he was hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. You watched, your eyes wide and glazed, as your lower belly actually bulged slightly with every deep, agonizingly perfect thrust.

“Ah! Nnghh— fucckk! Stopp— wwait!” you sobbed, though you weren't actually trying to get him to quit. You were just overloaded, your mind fracturing as you drooled uncontrollably, the spit slicking your chin as your head thrashed against the pillows.

He looked down at you, his silver hair messy and his eyes dark with a cold, predatory satisfaction. He looked like a man who had done this a thousand times and knew exactly how to break a woman down.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a condescending, dark rumble that made your toes curl.

He leaned down, his silver stubble grazing your ear as he drove into you even harder, the bed frame groaning under his sheer mass. “You’re so cockdrunk, aren’t you? Aren’t you, sweetheart? You can barely even keep your eyes straight.”

“I— mmff!!” You couldn’t even form a sentence. You were just a mess of noise and shaking limbs, your body reacting to him with a desperation that was almost embarrassing. “You’re such a good little blank canvas,” he continued, his tone a mix of a compliment and a taunt.

He reached up, his massive bicep flexing as he gripped the headboard right next to your cuffed hand, using the leverage to bury himself even deeper. “I think I like you better like this—quiet, pinned, and completely ‘stuck’ on me. It’s a ‘pressing’ matter, wouldn’t you say?”

‘I am literally being dismantled by a man who makes dad jokes while he ruins me,’ you thought, a hysterical, needy sob escaping your throat. ‘but fuck, I want him to do it for the rest of the night…’

The friction was unbelievable. You were sweating, your skin sliding against his as he hammered away at you, his breath coming in short, hot bursts against your neck.

You tried to arch your back, but with your legs pinned and your hands cuffed, you could only soak in the sensation of him filling you to the point of bursting. “That’s it,” he growled, his pace turning into a frantic, heavy bombardment.

“Keep drooling for me. Show me exactly how much of a mess you are. You’re doing such a ‘vivid’ job of following the aftercare, Y/N. I might have to keep you here permanently just to make sure you don’t… miss a spot.”

The bedroom was filled with the rhythmic, frantic sound of skin slapping against skin and the heavy, metallic rattle of the cuffs against the headboard.

He was no longer being gentle; he had shifted into a gear that felt less like lovemaking and more like a total takeover. “Ngh! Ah! Agh—! Ahhh!!” Your moans had turned into short, sharp gasps, your lungs burning as you panted and huffed like a dog in heat.

You were completely overwhelmed, your head tossing back and forth against the pillows, eyes rolled so far back that all you could see was white.

He didn’t slow down. If anything, the sight of you—completely rendered useless, drooling, and shaking under his weight—seemed to fuel him.

He braced his massive biceps against the mattress on either side of your head, his silver-grey hair damp with sweat as he drove into you with a terrifying, mechanical power.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, condescending growl that vibrated through your entire ribcage. “Staring at me like you’ve forgotten your own name. You’re so pathetic like this, aren’t you? Just a little mess waiting for me to finish.”

“Mmmff— please!— Ah!” you sobbed, your hips bucking instinctively against him, trying to take more of the girth that was stretching you to your limit.

“Please what, sweetheart?” he mocked, a dark, playful smirk tugging at his stubbled lips. He hit your depth so hard your breath hitched in a silent scream. “You can’t even form a sentence. You’re so incapable of thinking right now. It’s almost sad how easy you were to break.”

He leaned down, his heavy chest crushing yours, forcing all the air out of your lungs as he picked up the pace even further. The friction was white-hot, centered right where your belly was bulging from his intrusion. “You’re just a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he whispered harshly against your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe.

“Walking into my shop at 6:30 in the morning just to end up pinned to my bed like a butterfly in a display case. You’re so cockdrunk you’d probably let me do this all day if I asked.”

“Ah! Ahh! Fuckk— Fuckk!” You let out a high, broken cry as the tension coiled so tight you thought you might actually snap.

You were nodding frantically, unable to even deny it, your body a slave to the rhythm he was dictating. “That’s it,” he groaned, his own voice finally breaking as he felt the first tremors of your climax.

“Keep panting for me. Show me how much of a record you can set. You’re exactly where you belong—right under me, taking every bit of what I'm giving you.”

The rhythmic, wet slapping of his hips against yours was the only sound in the room until a sharp, synthetic chime shattered the atmosphere.

Your phone, tossed carelessly on the nightstand earlier, was screaming with an incoming call as you flinched, the sudden noise cutting through the haze of your pleasure but he didn’t stop his assault, but he reached out with one massive, corded arm, grabbing the device.

He held it up, his silver-grey hair messy and his eyes dark with a wicked, playful glint. “Maya?” he read aloud, his voice a low, gravelly rumble as your eyes widened, your heart hammering against your ribs for a completely different reason now.

You tried to lunge for the phone, but the cold steel of the cuffs yanked your wrists back, pinning you firmly to the headboard. You were completely at his mercy, splayed out and pulsing around him. “Cancel it,” you wheezed, your voice a broken wreck. “Pleeasee, just— mmph!— can… cel it!”

He didn’t listen, instead, he began to pound into you with a sudden, brutal aggression that had you sobbing into the pillows. He was hitting your depth with every thrust, the girth of him stretching you until you were sure you’d snap.

“Tell me what you want me to do, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning over you until his heavy chest crushed yours. He slowed down, almost stopping entirely, leaving you twitching and empty. “Open that pretty mouth and tell me. Do we answer? Or do we keep going?”

You opened your mouth to beg him to hang up, but before a single syllable could escape, he lunged forward as he slammed back into you with everything he had, the force of the impact sending a white-hot jolt of electricity straight to your brain.

“Ahhh—! Fuck!” you shrieked, the sound tearing from your throat as your back arched off the mattress. Your head thrashed back, your tongue lolling out in a state of pure, overstimulated shock.

You were panting like a dying woman, your vision blurring into static. “Wrong answer,” he chuckled, his thumb sliding over the ‘accept’ icon.

He placed the phone right next to your ear on the silk pillowcase. You could hear the muffled sounds of the dorm—the TV in the background, the familiar rustle of snacks. “Y/N?” Maya’s voice came through, loud and suspicious. “Where the hell are you? It’s pitch black outside!”

“Even for a big tattoo, this is taking forever. Chloe says you probably hooked up with the guy. Please tell me you aren’t actually doing that.”

The humiliation hit you like a physical weight as you were pinned, cuffed, and being systematically dismantled by a man who looked like he belonged on a recruitment poster, all while your best friend was on the line.

He didn’t stop as he began to move again, a slow, deep, and agonizingly deliberate grind that made you want to scream as he leaned down, his silver stubble grazing your ear as he whispered, “Answer her, sweetheart. Tell her how the aftercare is going.”

“I– I’m...” you gasped, your voice trembling as you fought to keep a moan from escaping. You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, your fingers curling into tight balls within the cuffs. “I’m still... nghh... at the shop, Maya. It’s... ahh it’s a lot of detail.”

“You sound weird,” Maya countered, her voice sharpening. “Are you out of breath? Are you running?”

‘I am being fucked senseless just like you said I would,’ you thought hysterically, your eyes rolling back as he delivered a sharp, heavy thrust that hit your cervix. “Just... tired,” you managed to choke out, your voice hitching as he reached down to flick your swollen clit with his thumb. “Long day. I’ll... ah... I’ll see you later.”

He let out a low, silent chuckle against your neck, his biceps bulging as he braced himself to pick up the pace again.

He was enjoying this far too much, the predatory glint in his eyes telling you that he wasn’t going to let you off the hook until you were completely spent.

The moment the words “see you later,” left your lips, he decided he’d played the silent partner long enough. He shifted his weight, his massive chest pressing you flat against the mattress as he reached over and snatched the phone from the pillow.

“She’s going to be a little later than expected,” he rumbled into the receiver, his voice a deep, dark velvet that sounded nothing like a tired tattoo artist. “We’re still... finalizing the details.”

There was a stunned, deafening silence on the other end of the line for exactly one second before Maya’s voice exploded through the speaker. “I knew it! Y/N, you absolute—!”

He didn’t give her the chance to finish, with a wicked smirk, he tapped the screen to end the call and tossed your phone across the room, where it landed with a soft thud on a leather armchair.

You were mortified, your face burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the friction between your thighs. “You... you absolute asshole!” you shrieked, or at least you tried to.

It came out as a muffled, incoherent mess of a shout because the second the phone was gone, he slammed back into you with a renewed, terrifying vigor.

“Ah! Nnghh— fuck! Stop— waitt!” Your insults were drowned out by the rhythmic, wet thwack of his hips hitting your ass.

He was punishing you now, his thrusts so deep and heavy that you felt them in your very marrow. “What was that, sweetheart?” he mocked, his voice a condescending purr against the back of your neck.

He gripped your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your waist as he drove you forward into the pillows. “I can’t quite hear you over the sound of how much you’re enjoying this. You’re such a loud mouth when you aren!5 on the phone, aren’t you?”

“Ah! Ahh! Mmmffuckk—!!” You buried your face into the silk sheets, your body shaking uncontrollably.

Every time you tried to gather enough breath to yell at him, he hit a spot that sent your thoughts scattering like glass. You were twitching in the cuffs, the metal rattling against the frame in a frantic, desperate beat. “Look at you,” he chuckled, his silver-grey stubble grazing your shoulder blade.

“Cursing me out while you’re begging for more with your hips. You’re so conflicted, Y/N. Maybe I should just stay inside you until you learn some manners.”

‘I am going to kill him,’ you thought, even as your back arched and your toes curled into the expensive duvet. ‘I am going to kill him right after I come again. How is he so bi—? How am I still alive?’

He picked up the pace, his biceps corded and slick with sweat as he hammered away at you. He was a force of nature, a mountain of a man who was systematically stripping away every bit of your dignity and replacing it with pure, unadulterated heat.

“That’s it,” he growled, his breathing turning into harsh, jagged hitches. “Keep making those pretty noises. Forget about your friends. Forget about the shop... just— oh fuckk, just focus on how well I’m taking care of you.”

The second wave of his release hit you like a physical weight, his low, guttural growls vibrating through your chest as he filled the condom for the second time.

You were a complete wreck, falling forward onto the sweat-dampened sheets as the metal cuffs finally clattered against the headboard, the tension in your arms vanishing as he clicked them open.

Your body was shaking uncontrollably, your vision swimming. You were right on the edge, teetering on a climax that felt just out of reach because your muscles were too exhausted to cross the finish line. “I’m... huff... I’m done. I’m actually dead,” you wheezed, your voice a raspy shadow of itself. “You’re a— ngh, a fucking monster..”

“Compliments will get you everywhere, sweetheart,” he murmured, though he didn’t sound tired at all as he shucked off the spent condom and tossed it, his dark eyes tracking the way your pulse was still hammering in your throat.

He reached down, adjusting your polka-dot panties back into place with a surprisingly steady hand, but he didn’t stop there. He knelt between your shaking thighs, grabbing the fabric of your underwear and pulling it taut against his hardening length.

He began to jerk himself using the silk of your panties as a buffer, the friction of the cloth against his skin making him hiss through his teeth. “Wait— no! You’re edging me!” you cried out, a needy, frustrated whine escaping you as you watched him.

The sight of his massive hands working against your own underwear was almost too much to handle.

“Just the tip. Pleasee... I can’t handle another round.”

“Just the tip, huh?” he cooed, his voice dripping with a condescending sweetness that made your toes curl. He leaned over you, his heavy chest casting a shadow over your face.

“You’re such a ‘tip-ical’ girl, Y/N. Always wanting just a little taste.” He nudged his head against your reddened, throbbing entrance, teasing the opening but never fully committing. “Does that feel better? Or are you just ‘tip-sy’ from all the fun?”

“Shut up,” you sobbed, your hips bucking instinctively as he let out a sharp breath, his patience finally snapping.

He reached for the bedside table, fumbling for the very last foil packet in the drawer as he ripped it open with his teeth, his movements impatient and jagged as he rolled it on. “Last one,” he promised, his voice a ragged growl. “I’m a man of my word, remember?”

“No, no, no—! I can’t! I’m literally going to break!” you protested, even as your legs fell open for him.

“You can do it for me, c’mon baby,” he whispered, his tone shifting into that devastatingly soft, encouraging rumble that made your resolve crumble into dust. “You’re so good at taking me. Just one more.”

You caved.

… You always did.

He took your hands, lacing his fingers through yours and pinning them gently to the pillow as he guided himself in. He was being patient now, the tip sliding in a digit at a time, stretching you slowly until you were gasping for air.

But just as he made the final, heavy plunge to seat himself fully, a sharp, rubbery snap echoed in the quiet room.

He froze.

“Shit,” he hissed, pulling back just an inch. He looked down, his jaw tight as he saw the shredded latex. “That was the last one. I have to pull out.”

He started to retreat, but your hands acted before your brain could as you reached down, your fingers locking around his thick, corded wrist with a desperate strength. “Nno! Don’t. You’re already in!”

He looked at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and a dark, rising heat. “Are you sure? Y/N, if you get pregnant... that’s not a joke.”

You let out a shaky, defiant laugh, your eyes rolling back as you felt the heat of him directly against your skin for the first time.

“Then you better come up with a good answer as to why their father is decades older than their mom.”

The air in the room shifted instantly. You could see the flash of raw, primitive thrill in his eyes—the idea of breeding you, of marking you internally without any barriers, clearly hitting him harder than any of the games you’d played so far.

He looked nervous for a split second, but it was quickly buried under a wave of pure, masculine hunger. “Fine,” he rasped, his grip on your hands tightening as he began to move. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you about the costs.”

He started to pound into you with a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm, his skin-on-skin contact making you scream into the quiet of the mansion.

He was being careful, his thumbs occasionally reaching up to rub the reddened, raw skin where the cuffs had been, his touch a strange mix of apology and possession.

‘Oh my god,’ you thought, your mind finally snapping as you felt him hit your depth without the latex. ‘I am actually going to carry this man’s child if he doesn’t stop...! Oh my god—!’

The sensation of him without the barrier was a total system shock. The friction of his bare skin, the prominent ridges of his veins, and the sheer, unyielding girth of him felt like it was rewiring your brain in real-time.

“Nghh! Ah! Ahh—!” Your mouth hung open, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you tried to process the feeling of him hitting your cervix with every unapologetic thrust.

You were too far gone to close your jaw or even think of a coherent sentence.

You were becoming a mess of pure, physical reaction.

“Hngh— ohh fuckk…!”

Suddenly, a sharp, clear-hot spike of pleasure shot through your lower stomach but you didn’t even have time to warn him before you squirted again, the sheer force of the friction sending a spray of heat across his hardening abs and the base of his length.

He let out a low, rough growl, his eyes darkening as he felt the slickness drenching him. “Look at that,” he rasped, his voice a jagged edge of desire and mockery. “You’re such a ‘leak-y’ faucet, sweetheart. I haven’t even finished the plumbing yet.”

He didn’t slow down. If anything, the mess made him more aggressive as you reached up, your fingers tangling desperately behind his thick neck, while your legs locked around his massive hips to pull him as deep as he could go.

Every time he slammed into you, your back arched off the silk sheets, a thin, broken whine escaping your throat and into his ear. “You’re so pretty like this, aren’t you?” he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over your skin as he leaned down.

He began to pepper your ear with condescending little comments, his tone dripping with a dark, satisfied weight. “Look at those eyes. You’re completely dumbed for me now, aren’t you? Just a little doll taking exactly what she was made for.”

‘I can’t... I can’t think,’ you thought, your head lolling back as your vision blurred. He shifted his weight, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he looked down.

From his vantage point, he could see the way your lower belly was visibly bulging with every deep, rhythmic intrusion of his length.

The sight of it seemed to snap something inside him—a raw, territorial instinct that had his biceps corded and his jaw locked. “You’re taking every inch,” he groaned, his pace turning into a frantic, heavy bombardment. “You’re so full of yourself right now, aren’t you, baby?”

He was fastening his pace, his thrusts turning into a blurred, wet slapping of skin on skin as you were drooling, your eyes rolled back as the tension in your body coiled into a tight, vibrating knot.

He was hitting that perfect, agonizing spot over and over, his forehead slick with sweat as he prepared to finally break you for the last time tonight.

The room was thick with the scent of salt and cedar, the only sound the rhythmic, desperate slapping of his hips against yours as he reached his breaking point.

He let out a low, tortured growl, his grip on your waist tightening until it was almost painful. “I’m going to— sweetheart, I’m fucking coming,” he rasped, his voice a jagged edge of pure need.

In a blind, instinctive reaction, you wrapped your legs even tighter around his massive hips, pulling him in as deep as he could possibly go. “Fuckk, please— bre… breed me–!”

You felt him hitch, his entire body cording with tension before he groaned, a long, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire chest. The sensation of him coming inside you—raw, hot, and seemingly endless—was a total system shock.

Without the latex, you could feel every throb, every pulse of his heat filling you up. Your toes curled so hard they cramped, and a high, broken whine escaped your throat as your own climax finally ripped through you, leaving you completely hollowed out.

“Mm... fuck...” he breathed, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he finally went still. You were both panting in sync, the air in the room heavy and humid as you felt the strength leave your limbs as you fell back into the pillows, your vision swimming.

You were on the absolute verge of passing out, the exhaustion of the six-hour tattoo session and the hours of relentless ‘aftercare’ finally catching up to you.

He didn’t pull away immediately, instead, he began to pepper your face with soft, lingering kisses, his silver stubble grazing your skin. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with a dark, satisfied affection. “You did such a good job for me. Look at you... just a perfect little cumdump, aren’t you? Taking every bit of it.”

He gently shifted, laying you down on your side but keeping his massive body pressed flush against your back. He didn’t pull out; he was too tired—and clearly didn’t want to—leaving himself seated deep inside you as the initial heat of his seed began to slowly leak out against your thighs.

Within seconds, the darkness claimed you as you passed out into a deep, dreamless sleep, your hand still loosely curled around his bicep as he stayed there for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, his hand reaching out to stroke the hair away from your face.

He was about to get up to find a cloth for actual aftercare, but the sharp, insistent vibration of a phone—not yours this time—broke the silence.

He reached for the encrypted device on the nightstand, his expression hardening instantly into something cold and professional. “... Speak,” he rumbled into the phone.

The voice on the other end was clipped, authoritative—a direct line from the U.S. Government. “We have a situation. RPD is requesting immediate oversight on a new containment protocol. You’re needed back in the field.”

He stayed silent for a long beat, his gaze lingering on your sleeping form, specifically the way the moonlight hit the spider lily tattoo on your thigh.

A faint, bittersweet smirk touched his lips. “Understood,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m on my way.”

He looked at you one last time, the dangerous man beneath the tattoo artist’s mask flickering to the surface before he quietly disentangled himself from the bed.

The scene faded to the quiet stillness of the mansion. You were alone in the massive bed, the silk sheets tangled around your legs, sleeping peacefully in the shadows of a room that still tasted like him.

The sunlight hitting your face felt like a physical weight, pulling you out of the deepest, most bone-deep sleep of your life.

You reached out instinctively, expecting to feel the warm, solid mass of his chest or the rough grit of his stubble, but the bed beside you was cold. The only thing remaining was the lingering scent of cedarwood and the faint, dull throb of your fresh ink.

Your eyes snapped open, and the luxury of the mansion felt jarring in the morning light. You scrambled for your phone, wincing at the soreness in your hips, and nearly dropped it when you saw the screen.

9:15 AM.

“Holy shit!” you hissed, your voice a raspy wreck.

You had an advanced biology lecture starting in fifteen minutes, and you were currently across town in a stranger’s—well, a very hot stranger’s—mansion.

You ignored the mountain of notifications from Maya and Chloe; you could already hear Maya’s “I told you so!” echoing in your head, and you weren’t ready to face it as you swung your legs out of bed, your knees buckling slightly.

On the velvet armchair nearby, a set of clothes had been laid out with military precision: a soft, high-quality black t-shirt, a pair of athletic shorts that wouldn’t irritate your thigh, and—to your absolute shock—a fresh set of underwear and a bra that looked like they’d been plucked straight from a high-end boutique.

‘How did he even know my size?’ you thought, a shiver of both heat and nerves running down your spine. ‘Actually, don’t answer that. He spent six hours mapping every inch of me.’

You didn’t have time to dwell on the ‘vivid’ aftercare or the fact that he was nowhere to be found as you shoved your limbs into the clothes, the fabric feeling ridiculously expensive against your skin.

You did a quick scan for your own things, but your polka-dot panties were still lying in a crumpled, messy heap on the floor by the bed—a blatant souvenir of exactly how ‘cockdrunk’ you’d been just hours ago.

“No time, no time,” you muttered, grabbing your phone and charging toward the door. You didn’t have time to think about Leon, as you just knew that if you missed this lecture, your biology teacher was going to have more than just ‘worms’ to talk about.

You burst out of the mansion and into the driveway, your heart hammering as you realized the Porsche was gone, replaced by a sleek black SUV with a driver already waiting to door-open it for you.

‘He really is a freak,’ you thought, sliding into the back seat as the car peeled away.

‘... A very, very hot freak.’

The high-end SUV pulled up to the curb of the university campus with a level of stealthy precision that made a few passing students double-take.

You practically tumbled out of the backseat, your legs still feeling like jelly and your right thigh throbbing with a dull, insistent reminder of the spider lilies—and the man who had etched them there.

You sprinted toward the lecture hall, your heart hammering against your ribs. You burst through the heavy oak doors just as the professor was clearing his throat to begin.

Sliding into the row next to Maya and Chloe, you tried to act invisible, but their heads snapped toward you instantly, their eyes wide and predatory. “Look who decided to join the living,” Maya whispered loudly, leaning over so far she was nearly in your lap.

Her eyes drifted down to the expensive black shirt you were wearing—definitely not the one you’d left in. “Nice shirt. Did it come with the tattoo, or was it a… parting gift?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, your face heating up to a brilliant shade of crimson as you fumbled with your laptop. “I’m late. I’m just trying to focus on biology.”

“Biology?” Chloe snickered from your other side, her eyebrows wiggling suggestively. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Because you look like you’ve been through a physical therapy session. Or a war zone.”

You bit your lip, trying to ignore the way your seat felt a little too firm against your sensitive skin. ‘If they only knew about the handcuffs,’ you thought, a hysterical bubble of laughter threatening to escape.

‘They’d never let me hear the end of it.’

“So?” Maya nudged you hard in the ribs. “Give us the details. Was he actually hot, or did you just have a lapse in judgment because of the adrenaline?”

You looked down at your notes, but the image of his massive biceps and that silver-dusted jaw was burned into your retinas. You let out a soft, shaky breath, your voice dropping into an embarrassed, airy whisper. “He was… he was really hot. Like, ‘should-be-illegal’ hot.”

“No way,” Chloe gasped, leaning in closer. “Prove it! You didn’t even get a name, but you’re telling us he’s a god?”

You hesitated for a split second, glancing at the professor to make sure he wasn’t looking.

Then, with trembling fingers, you pulled up your hidden photo album.

You had snapped a quick, candid shot when you first walked into the parlor—he had been leaning over his station, his back to you, the muscles in his shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt to its absolute limit as he prepped his needles.

“Oh my god,” Maya breathed, her jaw literally dropping as she stared at the screen. “Y/N, that’s not a tattoo artist. Look at the size of him!”

“And the grey hair? Dude, he’s beekeeping age!” Chloe whispered, her eyes wide. “He looks like he could bench press a house. You actually went home with that?”

“He was very… persuasive,” you murmured, quickly locking your phone as the professor tapped his pointer against the board.

‘But at least I have the spider lilies. And the shirt. And a very, very vivid memory of exactly how he uses those hands…’

“You’re glowing, by the way,” Maya added with a final, wicked grin. “Whatever ‘aftercare’ he gave you… it definitely worked.”

chapter O2 — HERE

art credits: all are from the official game: Resident Evil Requiem

[modvvanilla]

hes so fine mmmmm im drooling.. so silly

[modvvanilla]

worst behavior

part one: first impressions

summary: after landing an internship at a powerful firm, you quickly catch the attention of a man you can’t quite place, until you realize he’s leon s. kennedy, the company’s coo… and now your boss. what starts as subtle hallway tension turns into something far more dangerous once you’re placed directly under him and he makes it very clear he’s been watching you the whole time.

tags: re9!leon!coo!leon x intern!reader | age gap, workplace dynamics, boss x employee, slow burn, tension-heavy, mutual attraction, subtle flirting, leon notices everything, reader gets flustered, eye contact, intimidating leon, composed leon, office setting, first meeting reveal, understated obsession (leaning), build-up

a/n: hi… office leon just hits different idk 😭 this is more on tension + buildup and their dynamic (it only gets worse from here)

The glass doors of the Kennedy Global headquarters didn’t just open; they hissed with a quiet, expensive precision that suggested everything inside was perfectly under control. For a woman who had spent the last four years clawing her way through business school and internships, that sound was more than just mechanical. It was the sound of arrival.

She stepped onto the polished marble floor of the lobby, her heels clicking with a steady, rhythmic confidence. She liked the way her reflection followed her in the dark stone, sharp, professional, and entirely composed. Her strength had always been her ability to watch and learn without being noticed. While others in her orientation group were busy trying to out-talk one another or impress the HR coordinators with loud questions, she remained silent. She observed the way the senior partners moved, the subtle hierarchy of who held the elevator for whom, and the way the air seemed to grow heavier and more serious the higher the floor.

By the third day, she felt like she was finally starting to map out the internal geography of the place. The office was a labyrinth of frosted glass, dark wood, and the constant, low-level hum of high-stakes productivity. It smelled faintly of expensive coffee and fresh toner. She had spent the morning running through protocols and memorizing the digital filing system, and now, she was taking a moment to explore the executive wing on the top floor before her official assignment began.

The hallway was quiet, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sound of her footsteps. She was looking down at a stack of orientation memos, flipping through a page about security clearances, when she turned a sharp corner near the executive lounge.

The impact was sudden and solid. It wasn't like hitting a wall; it was like hitting something warm, firm, and immovable.

"Whoa, oh," she gasped as her hands flew up to steady herself.

The papers in her grip didn't stand a chance. They fluttered through the air like wounded birds, scattering across the dark carpet in a chaotic white fan. She stumbled back, her heart hammering against her ribs, and immediately dropped to one knee to gather the mess.

"Sorry, I didn’t see you there," she said, her voice breathless but still maintaining that core of professional politeness she had practiced for years. "I was miles away."

"It’s a long hallway to be lost in," a voice replied.

The voice was low, smooth, and carried a weight of authority that made her hands pause for a split second. She gathered the last two sheets of paper and looked up, ready to offer a standard corporate apology.

The words died in her throat.

The man standing over her was tall, his frame filling the hallway with an effortless, commanding presence. He was dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit that emphasized the broad line of his shoulders. But it was his face that stopped her breath. He had sharp, handsome features and a head of dark blonde hair that fell slightly over his forehead. Most striking of all were his eyes, a piercing, crystalline blue that seemed to see right through the surface level of her apology.

He wasn't moving to help her, but he wasn't being rude, either. He was simply standing there, watching her with a faint, amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a man who was rarely surprised and never hurried.

She felt a flush of heat creep up her neck, but she didn't look away. Instead, she stood up slowly, squaring her shoulders and smoothing her skirt. She decided to lean into the confidence she usually used as a shield.

"I guess I’m a little clumsy this morning," she said, offering him a subtle, knowing smile. She tilted her head just a fraction, her eyes meeting his. "You must be used to people rushing into things around here."

The man didn't blink. His smirk widened by perhaps a millimeter, a silent acknowledgment of her boldness. He didn't speak immediately, instead letting his gaze drift down to the papers in her hand and then back up to her face. The silence wasn't awkward; it was charged. She felt a quiet thrill, a spark of electricity that had nothing to do with her job description.

"I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important," she continued, her voice gaining a playful edge she hadn't intended. "Although I suppose some interruptions are worth noticing."

He finally moved, shifting his weight slightly and crossing his arms. The movement made the fabric of his suit jacket pull tight against his chest.

"Not at all," he responded, his voice like velvet over gravel. "Just unexpected."

She stepped a bit closer, just enough to be within his personal space without being unprofessional. "Unexpected can be… interesting."

He let out a short, quiet huff of a laugh, more of a breath than a sound, and his smirk became a full, knowing smile. He didn't ask her name, and he didn't tell her his. He simply stood his ground, observing her with a level of focus that made her feel like the only person in the entire building.

"Get to where you're going," he said softly, though it sounded more like an invitation than an order.

She nodded, her heart still racing, and walked past him. She could feel his eyes on her back until she turned the corner. She didn't know who he was, but she knew she wouldn't forget those eyes.

Over the next few days, the memory of the encounter stayed with her like a low-grade fever. She saw him again, though never as close. Once, he was a shadow behind a glass wall in a high-level meeting, leaning back in a chair while three other executives gestured wildly at a screen. Another time, she caught a glimpse of him in the executive kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of black coffee, looking entirely too relaxed for a man in such a high-pressure environment.

Each time, she made sure he saw her. She would offer a faint smile, a lingering glance, or a subtle tilt of her head as she walked by. And each time, he noticed. He would pause, his blue eyes tracking her movement, that same smug, quiet smirk appearing on his face. He was studying her just as much as she was studying him. She noted the way he carried himself, the jaw tilt, the narrowed eyes, the way he moved with a controlled ease that suggested he was always the most dangerous person in the room.

The tension was building, a secret language shared in the hallways of a billion-dollar company. It was a game, and she was enjoying it far more than she should.

On Monday morning, her supervisor called her into the main office.

"You've done excellent work on the data entry and the preliminary reports," the supervisor said, not looking up from her tablet. "The executive branch is short-staffed this month. You've been tapped for a direct assistant role. It's a trial, but if you do well, it’s a massive career jump."

She felt a surge of pride. "Thank you. Who will I be reporting to?"

"Leon Kennedy. He’s the Chief Operating Officer. His office is at the end of the hall on the fiftieth floor. Don't be late."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Leon Kennedy. She had read the name in the company handbook, seen it on internal emails, but she hadn't put a face to it. Until now.

She walked toward the fiftieth floor with a sense of impending doom and exhilaration. When she reached the heavy mahogany door at the end of the hall, she took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, and knocked.

"Come in."

She pushed the door open. The office was massive, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. Behind a desk carved from a single piece of dark wood sat the man from the hallway.

Leon didn't look up immediately. He was signing a document, his focus intense. But as she stepped further into the room, he raised his head. His blue eyes locked onto hers, and within a second, that familiar, faint smirk appeared.

She froze. Her pulse spiked, a heat rising from her chest to her cheeks. The realization crashed over her: she had been flirting, subtly, but definitely flirting, with the COO of the company. The man who held her entire future in his hands.

She forced a long, professional exhale, trying to regain her footing. "I… I’ll get started," she managed to say, her voice slightly higher than usual.

Leon leaned back in his leather chair, his smirk widening. He didn't look mocking; he looked like he had been waiting for this moment. He didn't say anything about their previous encounters, letting the silence stretch out until the air in the room felt thick enough to touch. He was fully aware of her discomfort, and he was clearly enjoying it.

Finally, he tapped a stack of files on his desk. "Alright. I’ll walk you through the basics. Filing, tracking reports, managing communications. Accuracy is key, not speed. Understand?"

She gripped her notebook, her knuckles turning white. "Yes, absolutely."

He stood up and walked around the desk. As he moved closer, the sheer physical presence of him became overwhelming. He was tall, and he smelled of sandalwood and expensive soap. He began pointing out the different filing cabinets and the digital organization system he preferred.

"Active projects go here," he said, his hand hovering near hers as he pointed to a drawer. "Completed reports there. Keep everything labeled and timestamped."

He moved with a controlled ease, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal forearms that were surprisingly toned for a man who spent his days in boardrooms. She tried to focus on the labels, on the dates, on anything other than the way his voice vibrated in the small space between them. But her eyes kept drifting, to the line of his jaw, to the way his watch caught the light, to the strength in his hands.

"Do you… always keep them organized this way?" she asked, desperate to say something that sounded intelligent.

Leon glanced at her, his eyebrow arching. "It saves time and confusion. Precision is important."

She nodded quickly. "Makes sense. You seem… very precise." She paused, the word intimidating hovering on the tip of her tongue. She bit it back just in time.

Leon didn't miss the hesitation. He turned fully toward her, leaning one hand against the filing cabinet, effectively pinning her in place with his gaze. "Intimidating?" he asked, his voice a low, knowing purr.

She felt her heart thudding against her ribs. She shrugged, trying to look casual despite the fact that she was vibrating with nervous energy. "A little. But in a good way. Keeps everyone on their toes."

He didn't respond. He just stood there, observing her. The weight of his gaze was heavy, physical. He was looking at her the way a predator looks at something it has already caught, but there was a softness in his eyes that made her stomach flip. She felt her focus fluttering, her professional mask slipping just enough for him to see the fluster beneath.

"Good," he said finally, his voice dropping an octave. "I like people who stay on their toes."

He turned back to the desk, but the tension didn't leave the room. It stayed, coiling around them like smoke. He continued giving instructions, explaining the nuances of his schedule and the way he liked his briefings summarized.

She struggled to keep up, her pen flying across the page of her notebook, but her mind was a whirlwind. Every time he shifted his posture, every time he leaned in to point at a line of text, she felt that same quiet thrill she had felt in the hallway. Only now, it was amplified by the realization that he was her boss.

He paused, resting his arms on the desk as he looked at a calendar. The smirk was still there, lingering like a secret. He didn't have to say anything for her to know that he had noticed her distraction. He had seen the way her eyes lingered on his arms, the way her breath hitched when he stepped closer, and the way she was currently fighting to keep her hands from shaking.

She took a slow breath, trying to steady herself. On the outside, she looked like the perfect, professional assistant, back straight, notebook ready, expression neutral. But on the inside, she was a mess of heat and nerves.

Leon Kennedy wasn't just a boss. He was a challenge. And as he looked up from the desk, his blue eyes catching hers with a look that was both a question and a promise, she realized that her worst behavior in the hallway was only the beginning. He knew exactly what she was doing, and he was going to make sure she knew he was watching every move she made.

"Any questions?" he asked, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm.

"No," she whispered, then cleared her throat. "No, Mr. Kennedy. I think I have everything I need."

"We'll see," he replied, and the way he said it made her feel like the real test hadn't even started yet.

[epio1s]

are we gonna stay like this?

[modvvanilla]

not slowin’ me down

summary: after a mission goes wrong, leon finds himself stuck in a quiet safehouse with you, his younger partner who tries a little too hard to keep up. as the silence settles in, so do your doubts. but leon, ever observant, reminds you in his own quiet way that you were never a burden to begin with.

tags: re9!leon!agent!leon x younger!partner!reader | age gap, slow burn, hurt/comfort, protective leon, observant leon, soft leon, safehouse setting, post-mission tension, emotional vulnerability, reader overthinking, quiet intimacy, no confession (yet), hand holding, comforting hug, leon notices everything, mutual trust, understated feelings

The safehouse was supposed to feel like relief.

Instead, it felt like silence had teeth.

The mission had gone sideways hours ago—too many variables, too many things Leon couldn’t control—and now the both of you were holed up in a dim, half-abandoned structure that smelled faintly of dust and rust. A single flickering light buzzed overhead, threatening to go out at any second. Outside, the world was still dangerous. Inside… it was just quiet enough for your thoughts to get loud.

Leon stood near the window, one hand resting against the wall beside him as he scanned the perimeter for what felt like the hundredth time. His posture was rigid but familiar—shoulders squared, head slightly tilted, every muscle tuned to the possibility of danger. Even at rest, he wasn’t really resting.

You watched him from across the room, knees pulled slightly toward your chest as you sat on a worn couch that had definitely seen better days.

He looked… tired.

Not just physically. That kind of tired ran deeper. It was in the way he exhaled a little heavier when he thought no one noticed. In the way his grip lingered just a second too long on his weapon, like letting go wasn’t something he trusted himself to do.

You wondered how long he’d been like this.

And then, inevitably, your thoughts turned inward.

You were quieter than usual. He noticed that too.

Of course he did.

“Something on your mind?” Leon’s voice cut gently through the silence, low and steady, not looking at you yet—but fully aware.

You hesitated, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Just thinking.”

“Yeah?” he said, finally glancing over. His gaze softened the moment it landed on you. “Wanna share?”

There it was—that openness he didn’t offer easily to others.

You shook your head lightly. “It’s nothing.”

Leon stared at you for a second longer than necessary.

Then he pushed himself off the wall and walked over.

Slow. Careful. Like approaching something fragile.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he muttered, stopping a few steps in front of you.

You let out a quiet breath, something between amusement and defeat. “You’re one to talk.”

“Difference is,” he said, crossing his arms loosely, “I know when I’m doing it.”

Your lips pressed together, but your gaze dropped.

That was enough for him.

The shift in your demeanor—the way your shoulders curled in just slightly, the way your voice had lost its usual edge—Leon recognized it instantly. Not weakness. Not incompetence.

Just… weight.

And you were carrying too much of it.

He sighed softly, running a hand through his hair before lowering himself onto the couch beside you. Not too close at first. He gave you space—but not distance.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said quietly.

You frowned a little. “What thing?”

“The ‘I’ll deal with it on my own’ thing.”

You didn’t respond.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

“It’s not your job to carry everything,” Leon continued, his voice gentler now. “You know that, right?”

A small, humorless laugh left you. “Kinda feels like it is.”

He turned slightly toward you, his expression more serious now. “Why?”

You hesitated, then shrugged weakly. “Because I’m the younger one. Because I’m supposed to keep up. Because if I don’t—”

“Hey.” His voice cut in, firmer this time.

You looked up.

Leon’s gaze had sharpened—not in anger, but in something protective. Something grounded.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” he said. “This isn’t some competition you have to win.”

Your throat tightened slightly. “Easy for you to say.”

He exhaled, softer now. “Yeah… maybe it is.”

There was a brief pause before he continued, quieter:

“But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

The room fell silent again, but this time it felt different. Less suffocating. More… held.

You stared at your hands for a moment before speaking again, voice smaller now.

“I just don’t want to slow you down.”

Leon blinked.

And then, very subtly, his expression changed.

Something almost incredulous crossed his face—like the idea hadn’t just surprised him, it had offended him a little.

“You think that’s what you are?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

Leon shook his head, letting out a quiet breath before shifting closer—closing the space between you this time.

“Look at me.”

You hesitated, then did.

His eyes were steady. Warm, but firm.

“You’re not slowing me down,” he said. “If anything, you’re the reason I don’t completely lose my mind out here.”

Your brows knit slightly. “That’s… a lot of pressure.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Didn’t say it was your responsibility. Just telling you how it is.”

Your chest felt tight again—but not in the same way as before.

Softer this time.

Quieter.

Leon studied your face for a moment, then his expression eased.

“C’mere,” he said gently.

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

You shifted closer, and he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in against his side. His hold was steady, protective—but careful, like he was always aware of how much strength he had and how gentle he needed to be with you.

Your head rested against his shoulder, and for the first time since the mission went wrong, your body started to relax.

He noticed that too.

“See?” he murmured. “Not so bad, leaning on someone.”

“…Don’t get used to it,” you mumbled, though there was no real bite behind it.

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Too late.”

His hand came up briefly, resting against the back of your head—not pushing, not forcing—just there. Anchoring.

Grounding.

“I’ve been doing this longer than you,” he added after a moment, voice quieter now. “Doesn’t mean I’m better. Just means I know what it feels like to think you have to handle everything alone.”

You stayed quiet, listening.

“You don’t,” he said.

A simple statement.

But it landed.

You shifted slightly, your hand brushing against his without thinking. For a second, neither of you moved.

Then his fingers turned—just enough to gently hold yours.

Not tight.

Just enough to say:

I’m here.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore.

It was calm.

And for once, Leon didn’t pull away first.