Summary: After a horrible day at work, you find a surprise at your job's doorstep.
Warnings: comforting leon, self indulgent, cute fluff, domestic!leon
Author's Notes: can you imagine just leaving work and seeing leon waiting on you outside???? 😭 to have dinner at your favorite restaurant?? gimme gimme please!! hope you enjoy your reading!
my leon masterlist
You look at the clock, frustrated. Time couldn't be passing any slower. It had been such an exhausting day, and you couldn't wait to get home, unwind on the sofa, watch your favorite tv shows, and eat a warmed-up old pizza. Alone, you thought. No call or text from Leon, your husband, in two days.
You knew Leon was busy with whatever he had to do in those secret missions of his, and you didn't want him to worry about you, so you didn't disturb him, for more than you missed him. Leon did warn in the last message he could go M.I.A. Since then, something heavy has installed itself in your chest.
It was always like that, anyway. You became useless at work, at home. You tried to use Leon's shirts to sleep or watch the silly videos he recorded for you in case you missed him.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
When it is finally time to leave, you walk toward the exit, checking your phone: Still no text messages. You sigh, typing that you would be leaving work and going home. That you loved him and couldn't wait to see him. For him to stay safe.
When you exit through the main doors, you first notice the sky. It is the start of the twilight, and it looks so pretty. You sigh, taking a picture. You may send that one to Leon. At least walking until the bus stop won't be so bad. If you want to get home soon, you must hurry.
You finally notice the man leaning against the building wall, eyes closed, hands in his pocket. Golden locks in front of his serene face, wearing his famous leather jacket. Standing there like an illusion.
"Leon?" You whisper, mortified. As if he would disappear or it was just your imagination going crazy.
Leon opens his eyes at the sound of your voice, giving a smile, the first one in days. You wait until he walks closer to you and hugs you, a sigh coming from his mouth.
"Hey, sweetheart," Leon whispers. Work had been horrible for him, and being unable to communicate with you made it much worse. Being close to you and feeling your heartbeat and presence instantly wiped all worries away. You are still frozen, not believing your husband is back. It takes you a couple of seconds before holding him back. Innahiling his smell and presence, all of him, "I missed you."
How much you missed his arms around you. His voice. His touch. You hide your face on Leon, not caring if you are outside work right now and anyone could see you. You can feel the tears forming in the corner of your eyes, and you hug Leon even more tightly. Leon wipes some of your tears when you separate, his eyes full of love.
"Wh-when did you come back?" You wonder as he checks your face, analyzing and admiring simultaneously.
"About an hour ago?"
"Fuck Leon, I have been worried sick about you. Why didn't you message me?"
"I wish I could have. My phone is gone, sweetie. It was just - fucked up this time, I guess."
You let out a sigh, feeling guilty. Leon looks fine physically: no visible bruises, no cuts. But you know, the inside must be a turmoil. You could see the pain in your husband's eyes, a pain you recognize well. You don't overthink that now, just glad he is home, placing a hand on his chest, another one to rub his cheek.
"I am sorry. Can we just leave?" You request, and Leon nods, holding your hand.
"Yeap. Just give me your car's keys, I will drive today."
"Wellllllll."
"What is it?"
"I didn't come to work by car. I came by bus," You admit, embarrassed to look at this face.
"Is something wrong with your car?"
"No. It is just...it makes the ride home longer. I tend to do that when you aren't here," You confess, feeling ridiculous. Then you quickly add, to not sound so desperate, "Also, it helps the planet, fewer cars in the streets, pollution, all of that!"
"My car is nearby, don't worry," Leon replies, his voice calm.
"There is also something else," You add before you can start walking. Leon stares back at you, his expression going a little worried. "We might need to get dinner on the way."
You don't look at Leon for his reaction, worried he might be disappointed with you. And he has all the right to be since you had promised him you would do your best to take care of yourself when he was away.
"I see. Your favorite, then?" Leon simply asks, maintaining the same calm tone from before.
You look at him, grateful and nodding. You are just happy you can have him in his arms again.
OMG imagine leon x reader and you sitting on the bathroom counter doing your makeup and he comes in and just stares at how beautiful you are and is talking to you about both your days
-Leon Kennedy x reader
Please I love this so much! He’s such a cutie!
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Leon walks into the bathroom shirtless with only a pair of sweats on, he watches you so intently as you perch yourself on the bathroom counter rummaging through your makeup bag, he walks behind you his chin resting on your shoulder careful not to disturb you too much.
He watches you through the mirror smiling at how concentrated you are, how your eyebrows slightly tie together as you look for a certain product, and he’s taken back at just how beautiful you look as the early morning sun beams through the window dusting your skin in a natural glow.
“Good morning pretty thing” he whispers kissing your shoulder and you can feel the slight stubble scratch against your skin sending goosebumps up your arm.
“Morning handsome” you smile turning your head to kiss his cheek before continuing to apply your foundation to your skin, the slightly cool product sends a small shiver through your body.
Leon's hands settle on your lap and his naked chest is pressed against your back, and he continues to pepper small kisses to your neck and shoulder, “Got any plans today?” He asks hot breath brushing past your skin.
“Yeah, Claire said she wanted to get some things for her new apartment, then we’re going out for lunch, she found this cute little cafe” you smile and his heart flutters with happiness at your excitement. You’re so precious to him.
“Sounds good baby,” he says, his hands slip under your shirt and they settle against your belly.
“How ‘bout you?” You ask as you study yourself in the mirror.
“Nothing much doll just gotta fix my motorbike” he answers admiring you through the mirror.
“Oh? Now I’d pay to see that” you smirk as he chuckles at you, saying something about how he’d ‘give you free tickets, front row seats and all’ and it makes you giggle.
Comfortable silence blankets you and Leon as you bask in each other’s warmth, his arms still tucked around you and his chin resting on your shoulder, “You’re so pretty” he whispers as you finish up doing your makeup.
“Thank you my love” you smile as he reluctantly pulls away from you letting you jump down from the bathroom counter, and Leon admires you once again still not believing that you’re his.
summary: Leon reflects on how things turned out this way. The months leading up to your death, and the grief-stricken aftermath.
words: 1.7k
warnings: death, suicidal ideation, bad coping mechanisms, alcohol, mentions of blood
notes: i strongly suggest reading HOST. because you’ll miss out on a lot of context, seeing as this is leon’s pov of those events. also idk if i did this idea justice but i’m still sorry lmao
I. FRESH
Rebecca calls late into the night, a few days after your funeral. Your body was dissected, picked apart, burned inside the facility’s furnace. He wasn’t even allowed your ashes. Buried an empty casket, had to play pretend, hide his true feelings—god, it reminds him of the love he swallowed. The years wasted paddling waterlogged boats. If he would have told you sooner, he would’ve had more time.
This is what he deserves. For not telling you, not keeping you safe—you asked, prodded, outright begged him on a few occasions, and he should have indulged your curiosity. You wouldn’t have gone to the door, and you wouldn’t have drank the wine, and you would still be alive. With him.
He lets the phone ring and curls up on the couch. Your blood still stains the floor, a dried patch of pitch-black tar. The table still dents the wall. Your warmth finds no home here. He recalls your old apartment, how everything—the sheets, cushions, towels, clothes—permeated with your smell. He always appreciated the comforter you gave him during those nights on your shitty couch. Because it smelled of you, of sunshine and peace and good things and maybe, if people like you still existed then he still had reason to fight.
He sleeps on the couch tonight. No choice, given the state of the bedroom. The phone rings again: Chris.
Still, he doesn’t answer.
They probably talk amongst themselves in a panic. Leon’s gone and killed himself. He’s in trouble. We need to help him.
He doesn’t deserve shit. Can’t deny, though, that the thought appeals to him, which makes him feel even worse. You wouldn’t want this. His moping, his grief, to experience the state of his thoughts in your absence.
You used to hold him after the nightmares. Leon, wake up. You’re dreaming. Maybe… maybe if he falls asleep, he’ll open his eyes to you. The tenderness you reserved for him, a balm for all the chaos rattling around within his brain. The regret.
He regrets not holding you more often. Not telling you how much he loved you, what you meant to him. Staying away so long, and—fuck everything, let it all burn—he realizes what his job stole from him, what he allowed it to, and it’s too late to take it back. Too late to right his wrongs. To make things different.
You’re dead and it’s all his fault and he needs to feel you hold him again. You’re dead and his heart died with you and he wishes his body had, too.
You spent the last few months hating him. God, the things you said—he tries to believe that they weren’t true, that you fell victim to the rot of your insides, but he knows better. Because you’re right. He left you, knew you were sick, hoped you would’ve been better by the time he came home. He should’ve known. Should’ve recognized the symptoms. The anger so unlike you—you, who wished him sweet dreams each night, who cooked his favorite meals without complaint, who held him when he needed.
But he was so goddamn tired. Hell in the field, hell at home. You wore him down, stretched him thin, and near the end, when nothing he did mattered and all you did was scream, he admits. Fuck, he admits it: he didn’t care.
Leon wakes the next morning from a bad dream to an even worse reality.
The first thing he does is call Rebecca. He has questions, and she can give the answers.
“I have a question.”
“Whatever you need, Leon.”
He fucking hates it. The pity of her voice. The sweet way she addresses him. He doesn’t deserve it. You were the one who suffered.
“With these viruses, can they make people… say or do things they normally wouldn’t?”
She sighs as if she knows why he asks, and he thinks to hang up. To save himself the embarrassment. How fucking pathetic of him.
“It usually happens in a much shorter timespan, but yes. I’m sure you’ve seen aggression in people before they actually turned.” He has. Marvin. He should’ve known. “Listen, there was nothing you could have done, and if you’re upset about anything they said, please don’t blame them.”
He doesn’t. He blames himself. “No, that’s not why I… why I asked.”
Silence rings tense over the line. Elephants in too-small rooms. Sniffed-out lies.
“If you need to talk—“
“No. No, I’m fine.”
She starts to speak again, but he hangs up. Done speaking about it. About you.
II. BLOAT
He lapses into a new routine. Drowns himself in alcohol, until the burn inside his chest becomes physical and the hole in his heart mends. Not for long though, and when it bursts open (it always does), it’s even more painful than the last. infection leaks tar and noseblood, vomit and rot.
He drinks to silence your voice, to snuff out the nightmares. When your words (“It never lasts. You left anyway. I’m dying, aren’t I?”) won’t leave his head. When he gets the urge to pull out your clothes or lift up the rug or piece together your cellphone.
He has to get over it. It’s time. It’s enough. Let it go.
He goddamn knows better.
He calls you when he gets this way. When there’s more alcohol than blood in his system. You don’t answer, because of course you don’t, but he speaks to the graveyard of your voicemail. He doesn’t have the heart to deactivate the number.
Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now! Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
He pretends that he doesn’t cry when he hears your voice. Every single time. The last piece of you—the you from Before—that he still has.
His voicemails range from grief-stricken to neutral to angry. He barters your return. Updates you on what you’ve missed out on. Blames you for drinking that goddamn wine.
He’s not proud of it. Any of it. Thinks he might be going crazy. His head hurts, and he questions the state of his own body. If he’s infected, too.
III. PUTREFACTION
Fighting B.O.W.s don’t satisfy like it used to. He sees your face in all of them, hears your final wail—the uncanny growl of his own name—in their noises.
You called for him. In your final moments, bathed in blood, clutching viscera, muscle and tendon between your teeth—half-monster, you still recognized him. Still sought his comfort.
The guards dragged him halfway across that facility as the gunshots fired off. His agitation bloodied one of their noses, left the other man limping. He tried to tell them that this wasn’t you, that you were sick, that you could still be saved. Whole lot of good it did. Look where you are—not here. Not anymore.
Chris talks some sense into him. Drags him to a bar, pays for his beer. One Leon doesn’t touch. Out of respect, solidarity. If anyone understands, it’s Redfield.
“I’ve been where you are now. Lost a lot of people to this shit—people I cared about.” Chris sighs, slumps heavy against the bar. “Carry that weight for as long as you want, but you don’t have to drown in it.”
He thinks about that long after he gets back home. Doesn’t know where to start, because he is drowning. In regret and anger and grief, and he thinks it’s time something changes.
IV. ADVANCED
He finds comfort in the weight of his gun. The cool metal in hand. And he considers it. Death. How easy it would be. Peaceful, nothingness.
He dreams about it. Fantasizes while he eats, showers, dresses, cleans the house. It consumes him and he hates himself for it.
You wouldn’t want this. If you were you, the you he tries not to forget, you would tell him to heal. It’s not his fault. Don’t dwell. Keep living. It’s okay.
But he’s tired. The rot reaches him, too. You devour even in death.
He hates you for it. For making him
this way. For making him hate himself. He hates… fuck, he hates a lot of things.
He reclines on the couch sometimes and just stares at his pistol, set all pretty on the coffee table. It would be so easy. Would only take a single bullet. He wouldn’t be around for the cleanup, and this house reeks of death anyway.
He wants to give up. Wishes to see you again, so badly his heart threatens to burst inside his chest.
It’s never-ending. He can’t catch a break. No peace in sight. What’s the point?
He swallows his pain. Bears it with clenched teeth, because life goes on and everybody suffers and that is life for him now.
But he wakes and falls asleep and continues his work and pretends pretends pretends until his teeth begin to chip because he always has an out.
One bullet in the chamber.
V. SKELETONIZATION
“You hate me, don’t you?”
“No. God, no, I could never.”
You ask him often, once you’ve regained your wits and the guilt sets in. He knows exactly what you’ll say next, like you’re reading off a script, settled deep into a battlefield mindset.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
He doesn’t know what to say, because he knows this isn’t you and you aren’t what he hates. He hates your anger, the way you wield words like sharpened knives. Shield yourself with insults that he knows some part of you means to cause pain.
“But I don’t.”
“You will.”
You were right, toward the end. You refused to let him catch a breath. Sharpened your teeth on his pain.
He should've known.
It wasn’t like you, but he doesn’t know when you weren’t you anymore. One day he left and one day he came back, and in between, something changed. He hates himself for not knowing more than anything.
He doesn’t even know who came to visit, who infected you in the first place.
He staggers from the cold sheets of your bed, showers your ghost from his skin (tries to), dresses in his usual clothes, starts his day like always, and he knows. Nothing ever works. You’ll haunt him until the day he dies.
leon protects gn!reader with his body (warnings: protective leon, description of injuries)
You can hear Leon screaming your name, but you can’t move. Your head is probably bleeding, and you don’t know where you are. You try to mumble, “It is okay, Leon,” but no voice comes from your throat. Leon sounds so close and away at the same time.
Leon is panicking as he runs to you. He counts 1, 2, 3 to every breath, focusing solely on you. He had tried to warn you the floor felt unstable, but you, stubborn as you were, went first. Leon watched as you dropped, his heart sinking inside his chest. And to make matters worse, he notices debris dangling; if they fall, they will fall on top of you. He can’t let that happen.
Note: I saw Scream 6 last night and remembered I'm attracted to men who want to kill me, beware ye who enter here etc.
Contents: NSFW, 18+, 3k words, LeonxReader, knife kink, home invasion roleplay, cnc with enthusiastic consent, Dom!Leon, ambiguous era, masochist reader, very slight blood, bdsm, hair pulling, choking, rough sex, degradation, threats, crying, insults (bitch, slut, whore), glove kink, boot kink, primal kink (adjacent?), spoilers for Scream 2, no y/n.
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"Yeah okay, so basically she's the mom of one of the killers from the first film," you told him, grabbing another hand full of popcorn, "and what's really fun is their last name Loomis is a reference to the doctor in Halloween, anyways, their whole purpose as killers is to make a point about how people are violent by nature and not because of movies, and how people are more likely to kill because the media glorifies murderers."
"You really like these movies, huh?" Leon asked.
He was, admittedly, a little bit bored. Slasher flicks never did it for him. But what he had was an opportunity to cuddle up on the couch with you and watch you get passionate about something.
Passionate was definitely one way to describe it. The way your breath quickened during the chase scenes and the way your mouth hitched up into a smile whenever Ghostface caught a victim didn't go unnoticed by him. When Ghostface was taunting the victims over the phone, your eyelids got a little heavy, your face a little red.
"What's your favourite part about them?" He asked, watching for your reaction.
You take a long moment to ponder it. The way they act as a mirror to the cultural zeitgeist of the time, reflecting fears, values, and cinema of the era was up there. The kills were always legendary too, just really brutal. But if you were being honest with him?
"The chase," you admitted, your cheeks reddening just a bit.
You two finished out the movie, and because it was your turn for Movie Marathon Night, you put on Scream 3. Leon waited until the moment when Ghostface was stalking a victim through their home before leaning close to you.
"I could do that to you," he said, his voice a low roll.
Your breath hitched in your throat, surprised and immediately turned on at the rumble of his voice. You looked up at him.
"Yeah?"
"If you wanted me to."
You thought about it. Leon's heavy boots on the hardwood floor, his strength contested against yours, the glint of a blade against your throat...
"I definitely like the sound of that." You agreed, and then, sheepishly, "I like the knife too."
"I know," he said, and you burned in embarrassment.
It was a few weeks later that you were putting groceries away, the whole conversation (disappointingly) forgotten, when your phone rang.
Unknown Caller
Your eyebrows cinched together in confusion. Who could be calling you? You propped the fridge door open with your hip and answered the phone.
"Hello?" You ask, reaching over to the counter to grab the carton of eggs.
"Hello, sweetheart." The voice on the other end was deep, a little raspy.
"Leon?"
"Wouldn't you like to find out," Leon the Caller responded. "Do you want to play a game?"
"That's Jigsaw," you teased, excitement bubbling up in your stomach.
He didn't answer for a while. Long enough to make you double check the call wasn't dropped.
You pulled the phone back from your ear.
Still on. Full bars.
"Did I ruin the-"
"You didn't answer my question," he said, slowly, sharply.
You grin. "Okay, I'll play."
"Excellent. How about hide and seek?"
"What?"
"I'll give you ten seconds to find a place to hide, and then I'll come find you."
"Are you home right now?" You ask, straining your ears to hear anything in the house.
"Ten."
"What if I find you first?"
"Nine."
A prickle of fear slid up your back. His voice was sharp, serious. You'd never heard it like that before, and it made it so easy to believe that he wanted to hurt you.
You leave the kitchen, pace getting quicker as you scan for places to hide.
"Eight."
The coat closet was too small. The linen closet where you kept the board games too obvious.
"Seven."
Was he in the house? Do you lock the door to keep him out or does that just trap you?
"Six."
You start up the stairs at a creeping pace to keep quiet, thinking you could probably slip into the bathroom unnoticed if you were quiet enough. The stair creaked under your weight.
"Five. You'll have to be quicker than that, sweetheart." The taunting in his voice was unbearable. Smug, confident, and a fully loaded threat all at once.
A spurt of adrenaline. Your body is bolting up the stairs before you can think better of it.
"Come on," he groaned. "Too loud. You're making this too easy for me."
Your hands turn the bathroom knob and he chuckled over the phone.
"The bathroom? Really? A second-story dead end. You're smarter than this. Three."
"Shut up," you sputter out, pulling the door open defiantly.
He's standing there behind the opaque shower curtain. He tears it open, prying it off the bar entirely. He's wearing a tight black t-shirt and tactical cargo pants, tucked into military boots. You don't miss the knife holster on his shoulder, or the black gloves on his hands. His icy blue eyes meet yours and he feigns disappointment.
"Two," he says, over the phone and to your face. His voice is ice cold. He steps out of the shower slowly. Purposefully.
You expect the heavy boots to make some kind of noise, but he moves like a fucking ghost.
"One."
He drops the phone and charges.
You slam the door just before he meets it. His body slams into it and you feel the force shudder through the door and into you. You hear the doorframe crack. He didn't even have a lot of time to gain momentum, that was just his raw strength. Real adrenaline is floods your brain.
You turn tail and run faster than you've ever run before. The bathroom door swings open behind you. He's catching up with easy, effortless strides.
You make it to the bedroom and slam the door behind you. Your hands shaking as you go to turn the lock.
The doorknob moves under your hands. It won't lock if it's half turned. You struggle with it, fighting with both hands, your sweaty palms making it hard to get a grip.
You manage to wrestle it back just long enough to lock it.
Silence.
You back away from the door, your hands shaking. Your breath comes in quick, harsh breaths. Just when you start to relax, hard pounding at the door kicks you off again. Again. Again. Again again again again - he's going to break the fucking door down!
Silence.
You hear something metallic touch the doorknob. Something pops. It starts to turn.
You do the only think you can think of and dive underneath the bed.
The door swings open. You watch his boots, massive and impossibly fucking quiet cross the threshold.
"Sweetheaaart," he coos. "You don't think you can really hide from me, do you?"
You gently put your hand over your mouth and nose to muffle the sounds of your shaky, terrified breath.
You watch as he crosses over to your shared closet. He opens it. Then, with the unhurried confidence of someone who knows they'll get what they want eventually, he turns. One step, then another, he walks towards your hiding place.
His boots stop just shy of the bed. Just inches from your face. Impeccably polished, but undeniably beat up.
You hear the rustle of fabric. He tosses the blankets on to the ground, blocking your view.
This was bad.
You could just barely hear him cross over to the other side but, from the angle you were at under the bed, couldn't see it. For a painfully long moment, nothing happens. You debate bolting for the door.
A hand wraps around your ankle!
He begins to pull you out from under the bed, the leather of his gloves giving him grip against your bare skin.
"No!" You cry out, instinct taking over. You kick at him and he releases you.
You scurry out from under the bed, fighting against the blankets in your way. You hear him step up onto the bed as you come out from under it. You half- crawl, half- run towards your escape, looking back to see him jumping down, completely unbothered. Your legs are unsteady, everything in your body just trying to get away without really thinking about how.
You brace yourself against the door frame and use it to propel you forward.
His hands are on your shoulders, yanking you against him.
You struggle in vain, a massive arm wrapping around your waist. Your hands try to pry his grip off your hips but his gloved hands don't move. You try to find purchase on the ground but he lifts you until your toes can just barely touch.
He isn't even breathing hard, you realize.
This is easy for him.
"Let me go!" You are try to sound defiant but the high pitch of your voice betrays your fear.
"Let me go isn't our safe word," he says in your ear. You feel him relax against you a little, only just enough to hold you in place.
"Fuck you," you take advantage of his kindness and work your way out of his grasp. You dash for the stairs again but don't even make it a couple of steps before there's a sharp pain in your skull.
A gloved hand is gripping the hair at the base of your head. Electricity echoes through you. You whimper, body freezing up at the pain.
He's almost dragging you backwards. Your body hits another wall, hard enough to make your head spin.
Leon's hand is on your throat. His eyes are wild and dark, and you can tell by the way his gaze rakes over your body that he likes the chase just as much as you do.
His free hand reaches up to pull his knife from it's holster on his shoulder.
You forgot about that.
Your pulse roars in your ears, your body squirming against his grip on your neck. He tightens his grip. For a few seconds, everything becomes light and airy. Then he relaxes, and the oxygen floods back into your brain with a rush of endorphins.
"If you keep squirming like that, I'm going to really hurt you." Fuck, his voice so low and threatening... It genuinely scared you, and the fear just made him hotter.
Sharp, unforgiving features tower over you as he brings the knife point to your abdomen. He traces the hemline of your pants before tucking the curved blade under the hem of your shirt. He pressed in enough that the skin bends beneath the blade, threatening to slice open if you move.
"No," you whimper. "Please don't."
He pulls the knife away, eyes softening and meeting yours.
"No isn't our safe word," he says, but this time there is no mocking tone. His gaze is gentle, genuine, asking a question without asking it.
The fear settles in your brain as you meet his eyes. He would never hurt you if you didn't want him to, you trusted him with your life. The vulnerability is given willingly, as much as you act like it's being taken.
This makes you bold. You spit in his face, trying to turn your thrilled grin into a snarl and failing.
"Fuck. You."
Your spit runs down his cheek. His features harden. He looks like he could fucking kill you.
"You little bitch," he mutters through gritted teeth.
The knife is there against your skin again, a cold pinpoint threat. And then it's gliding up your body, tearing your shirt with it. He pushes the knife back into its holster and stares at you, exposed and cold.
Then he's wrestling you to the ground. You try to resist until your muscles ache with the effort. He does it easily anyways. If his combat training didn't tell him exactly how to manhandle you like a doll, he would still easily overpower you.
One hand pins you down by your back, while his other tears painfully at your denim shorts. You struggle against him, lifting your hips and "accidentally" making it easier for him to drag them off you.
"You're making it too easy for me," Leon taunts you. You try to get to your knees but he pushes you back down with a mocking tsk.
"Oh, look at this," he says. You feel the leather of his gloves pressed against your hole. He drags a finger down your slit, smearing the slick with ease. "Act like you don't want it, but this tells a different story."
Two fingers push into you. Hard. You're wet enough that it's easy for Leon to pump in and out of you, whimpers spilling from your lips. Usually, he would curl his fingers inside you, hitting the spot that made you white hot. But this time? Nothing. He pumps his fingers in and out of you almost intentionally avoiding making you feel good. He was just making a show of you. Playing with you like a toy. Taunting you with every wet push inside you.
Then his fingers are gone. He releases his hold on you to adjust his weight. You hear his zipper.
You wonder how far you can take this.
You drag yourself forward, actually managing to almost get to your knees this time. He lets out a noise of surprise before you feel two hands on your thigh, dragging your bare skin against the hardwood floor. You whimper in pain, and then he's on you again.
"Stop it. A bitch should know when she's been beat," his voice was heavy in your ear. He wrapped an arm around your neck, choking you and using your shoulders as leverage all at once.
You could feel his cock against your ass, so hard it must hurt. His free hand lines it up with your cunt, the tip just dipping into you. He groans with self restraint.
"Ready, sweetheart?"
"Please," you beg quietly, as if asking for it too loudly would break the scene.
He thrusts in one, smooth motion. His cock pushes into you, painfully stretching your cunt around him. His bicep flexes next to your face, using your body to pull himself deeper.
"Fuck, you're so wet for me." He buried his face into your shoulder, whimpering into the torn fabric of your t-shirt. "Such a little slut."
He sets the pace hard and fast at first. Your high builds quickly, legs shaking beneath him, biting into his arm hard enough to leave marks. The pain only makes him rougher with you, fucking into you hard and sharp.
"Such a fucking slut, you like when I take you like this?" You whimper a response, nodding against him. "Yeah you do. Fucking whore."
He adjust his position, fucking you faster. His breath is hard and heavy, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Fuck, you take me so well. Fucking." His babbling became almost incoherent, a sting of curse words and praise and humiliation, but you didn't care. It was enough just hearing him talk to you, grunting words between thrusts and moans, pushing into you. Closer, closer.
"Fuck, you about to come for me baby?" He can feel you tighten around his cock. "Stop fighting it. Come on, come on me like the little bitch you are."
It's enough to send you over the edge, whimpering as you come so hard it almost fucking hurts. He rides it out with you, slowing but never stopping. You try to catch your breath.
"Fuck, Leon," you manage. "That was so good."
"Don't think I'm done with you yet," he mutters, driving his hips into you a little harder.
You cry out, body over stimulated, the adrenaline crash rendering you weak and shaky. He keeps a slow pace, but he pushes into you as deep as he can go, almost threatening to push through you.
"It's too much," you whine.
He laughs at you. Then you hear the knife unbuckle again. You're too exhausted to even pretend to fight back, the cold tip tracing your back.
It bites into your skin, sharp and painful. And then it drags up, the sensation like fire on you. It traces your ribs, up to your shoulders. You can feel a thin line of blood drawn from its tip in the round of your shoulder while Leon keeps fucking into you at that slow, tortuous pace. You're too sensitive, the pain too much. Tears start to collect in your eyes. Tension starts to build in your abdomen again.
Leon switches to the dull side but digs it in enough to make you whimper. He keeps fucking you slow, deep, coaxing you deeper and deeper with his sultry voice.
Your cunt starts to tighten around him again and even that hurts. You sniffle, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.
Leon works the dull side of the knife against your throat and that alone is enough to almost drive you over the edge. His body hot and heavy on top of you, both of you sweating and moaning.
"You still with me, sweetheart?" He asks, his voice shaking slightly.
"Mhm. Are you?"
"Ohh yeah," he confirms. He ducks his head closer to the other side of your neck, and you work a hand up into his hair, holding him close. You surprise him by pulling his hair, some part of you hoping it will get a rise out of him, but it doesn't. The same slow, deep pace. Pain danced with pleasure, arousal and discomfort tightening in your stomach, threatening to overcome you.
"Cry all you want baby," he groans in your ear, "it's just going to make me fuck you harder."
It's a promise. His hips snap into you harder, dragging out another climax so hard you're left breathless.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't even let you catch your breath this time. He's stopped talking now, his breath hard and fast in your ear. You try to tell him it hurts but you can only stutter pathetically beneath him.
He pulled himself into you, threat of the knife ever present against your throat. Your body felt like it was on fire.
"I can't, I can't, Leon-" you manage to plead, your body working up to another orgasm.
"I didn't fucking ask if you could," he groans in your ear.
That sends you over the edge again, crying out as your cunt clamped down around his cock. Your body shakes uncontrollably, tears fall down your cheeks as your breath comes in moaning sobs.
You can feel his cock spasm inside you, spreading you more with each pulse. His cum is so hot it feels like it could burn you, his hips fucking it deeper into you as he rides through his high. Eventually, he slows to a stop.
You lay there like that on your hallway floor for a moment, before Leon released the knife with a clatter and rolls off of you.
Still shaking, you curl up to him He wraps his arms around you and you feel undeniably safe. Of course you do, you couldn't do all that with just anyone.
"Got a little carried away there," he admitted with a soft laugh.
"Yeah, I think you liked it more than I did," you joked back with a shaking voice.
He peppers the top of your head with gentle kisses.
"Are you still doing okay?" He asks. You nod against him.
"Sore. Overwhelmed."
"Let's get you into a bath, then how about we watch some TV together?"
"Yeah," you agree, kissing him. "That sounds good."
how michael and william would react to you saying the safe word during sex;
michael; when you say the safe word immediately everything stops, michael was so stunned, you never say it.
he stopped pounding you, he took off the spouse, and hugged you whispering; "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, tell me, tell me love what i did wrong, please." michael was insanely worried. after both of you calm down, you talk to him about what happened, he listens to you carefully and after that, the aftercare was the sweetest that you could ever have.
william; when william heard the safe word he was so surprised, he stopped and carefully asked you what happened. he sat you in his lap while you tell him what happened. william listened to you closely and caressed your cheek. "mmh, yes, so sorry about that darling, I'm sorry that you have to pass through that moment for my faulth."
he was really rough in sex, but if he hurt you, or there was something you didn't like he would do anything to change and fix that thing. after all, both took a shower full of care.
Se supone tengo tres amigas y un amigo. Sí es así, ¿Por qué siento que no puedo contarles mucho? ¿Por qué siento que no soy más que algo momentáneo en sus vidas? Como un suceso cualquiera, como un vaso medio vació en su cocina.
Pasó, estuvo ahí, y jamás tuvo relevancia con ellos.
Es curioso el cómo un humano necesita tanto a la misma humanidad, es curioso que no pueda lidiar con la soledad como otros seres vivos. Es curioso, que tenga que ser sano tener por lo menos a unas cuantas personas en su vida, mientras que los búhos pueden con una eternidad silenciosa y cómodamente solitaria.
La misma humanidad se necesita, y aun así se daña entre ella. No somos seres solitarios como los búhos o buitres, pero somos del todo agresivos como ellos.
La diferencia está en que nosotros sí conseguiremos acabar con nosotros mismos, ninguna otra especie o fenómeno tendrá que intervenir para darnos final.
Una vez alguien miró dentro de mis ojos y fue un contacto que me desarmó. Dentro de la oscuridad de mi iris, supo que la soledad me abrazaba fuertemente.
Se enteró de todo lo que nunca decía, lo que nadie sabía. De las cosas que con costumbre solía cargar para esconder en lo más recóndito de mi mente.
Sin necesidad de una palabra, sabía más que cualquier otra persona en esa habitación, que fácilmente podría representar mi vida entera y todos los que han estado en ella.
Guardó el secreto como sí se lo hubiera pedido, sin jamás hablar ni conmigo del tema. Lo guardo tan bien como yo me guardo las cosas para mi.
Pero, aun así, sentí que el único lugar seguro que tenía ya no existía. Por lo menos no con esa persona cerca.
Mi mente, que actuaba como una profunda tumba, había sido vista por primera vez. Y junto a ella, yo había sido escuchada.
Ella dibujó estrellas alrededor de mis cicatrices, y dulces corazones alrededor de mis lágrimas; incluso cuando mi rostro se encontró húmedo, ella me besó.
Aborrezco todo a mi alrededor; siempre son los mismos rostros, esos que me hacen querer vomitar con su asquerosa similitud. Generan torbellinos en donde deberían de haber mariposas, haciendo que mi estomago se llene únicamente de rosas y alas marchitas, habiendo en mis ojos cansancio genuino y bajo ellos, un pobre vidrio roto.
