Summary: Hitting the big 3-0 feels like an existential crisis when society has convinced you your desirability will officially expire. Fortunately, your 51-year-old neighbor is more than happy to prove that sex appeal only gets better with age.
Content: Smut (fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie), slightly insecure reader, and so much fluff it’s actually sickening
Word count: 6.5k
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“What are you doing out here?”
The scent of cedar and gunpowder hits your nostrils before a pair of polished boots comes into your line of sight, stopping inches away from your toes.
Your complete lack of awareness is exactly why embarrassment warms your cold cheeks. Too consumed by mourning your current predicament, you hadn't even caught the subtle displacement of the evening air, nor the heavy crunch of Leon's stride closing the stretch of lawn between your two houses.
You should’ve, considering you’ve always been attuned to his presence, to the low timbre of his voice—heard it across the street while he’s bent over the hood of his car, felt it vibrate through the air when he offers a polite good morning that lingers long after he’s gone.
But that same voice currently carries a note of concern as he finds you at your absolute lowest, shivering in a low-cut party dress and smudged eyeliner right on your doorstep.
Your composure slumps even lower. “I’m locked out.”
The polished leather of his boots shifts. "Locked out," he repeats, “from your own house?”
“Lost my keys,” you explain, sounding as pathetic as you feel. You can feel his gaze tracking the line of your neck, kissing the field of goosebumps blooming across your skin. Leaving the house in nothing but a slip of silk suddenly seems like the worst decision of your life.
"I see," he says. "You don’t have a spare key under one of your plants?”
Your nose wrinkles in a small, self-deprecating scrunch as you glance up at him.
“Wouldn’t that be too obvious?”
“Obvious is often better than shivering in the dark.” His eyes sweep gently over your collarbone, noticing the way the thin straps of your dress dig slightly into your skin as you hunch over. “How long have you been sitting out in the cold?”
“Long enough to lose feeling in my toes.”
He frowns at the way you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself. Fragile little thing. “Come on.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to let you freeze to death on your own porch," he says, extending a hand towards you. "And I’m certainly not going to watch you turn blue from across the street while I have a perfectly good spare room.”
You stare at his large hand, contemplating whether stepping into the lair of the neighborhood’s most eligible (and most intimidating) bachelor is actually a safer bet than hypothermia.
Is it a good idea? Probably not. But the alternative is another hour of trembling in a thin slip while the wind bites harshly at your skin.
So you reach up, and under the disguise of a curiosity on what lies beyond his walls, you let his hand engulf your smaller one. His skin is a shock of warmth against your frozen fingers, and he pulls you up with an effortless strength that makes you feel momentarily weightless.
“Just for tonight,” you mumble, trying to reclaim a shred of your dignity as you wobble on your numb feet. You pointedly ignore the sharp pain in your heels as you find your balance. “I’ll call the locksmith first thing in the morning.”
“There’s no rush.” He lets go of your hand, palm sliding from your fingers to the small of your back. “The locksmith can wait until you’ve actually had a few hours of sleep.”
“I look that bad, huh?”
“Bad isn’t the word I’d use. Tired, maybe.” He gives you a once-over, looking a little bashful. “Still unfairly pretty.”
You let out a shaky breath, your legs feeling like lead as you navigate the curb. “You’re just being a good neighbor. You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not lying. The dress looks good on you.”
You look down at the soft material that clings to your damp skin, feeling suddenly very exposed. “Thanks.” Unconsciously, you find yourself leaning a fraction closer to him, seeking his body heat. “But it’s doing a terrible job of keeping me alive right now.”
And unconsciously, his palm skims around the curve of your waist. “Inclined to agree, unfortunately.”
“It was aesthetics over survival, felt like a fair trade for a celebration.”
“Yeah? What was the occasion?”
You let the silence linger a little longer before slowly answering, “My birthday.”
There’s a slight, reflexive squeeze of his hand on your waist. "Today's your birthday?"
“Yesterday, technically,” you correct him, noting that the hour has long since bled past midnight. "But yes."
"Well, happy birthday."
"Mhm."
He stops just inches from his front door, turns his head to peer down at you. You notice his brows pulling together in an observant line. "Don't sound too happy about it."
You let out a long sigh, letting your weight slump against the cold wood of the doorframe. The exhaustion is finally winning. “Birthdays are depressing,” you hum, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “Another year of expectations you didn’t meet, another reminder that the clock is ticking. Don't you find them a bit… grim?”
He looks at you for a long beat before shaking his head, a single lock of silver falling across his left eye. "No. Not really," he says, turning the heavy brass handle and pushing the door inward. "But I’ve already had fifty-one of them to get used to the idea."
“So what you’re saying is I have to wait another twenty years to finally stop feeling like the world is ending?”
He catches your gaze, his expression softening into something dangerously close to a smile. “I’m saying that by the time you hit fifty, you realize the expectations were the only thing making it grim."
"That doesn't sound encouraging," you note as the house’s heating begins to thaw your frozen skin. "Twenty years is a long time to spend being disappointed."
His lips twitch. "It's not about the wait. It's about the perspective," he explains, guiding you further into the amber warmth of the foyer. "And you’re far too young to be this cynical."
"I wouldn't call myself young anymore."
"Fifty-one minus twenty. That makes you… what? Thirty-one?"
You try not to flinch, but a small, involuntary wince escapes you at the overestimation. "Thirty, actually."
"That’s still fairly young."
You throw him a dubious look. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. "It’s young," he insists, kicking off his shoes. You follow suit. Then he reaches out, catches your elbow, and guides you toward the living room where a long couch waits for you in the shadows.
His space is exactly as you’d imagined, steeped in warm masculine tones of deep walnut and charcoal. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There’s the scent of old paper, expensive tobacco, and something clean like rain-washed cedar.
You also catch a faint, woody sting of bourbon, which you expected, but as you sink into the couch, you're surprised to notice a lone glass of red wine sitting on the coffee table.
"You drink wine?" You ask. "Never pegged you as a wine kind of guy."
He reaches for a heavy throw blanket draped over the back of an armchair and drapes it over your shoulder. "What do you peg me for?”
“Straight bourbon,” you admit, huddling into the wool. “Neat. Probably a double."
“I do have my few shares of bourbon.”
“Then I rest my case.”
He tilts his head in contemplation. "I suppose I've earned that reputation."
"You've earned a lot of reputation in this neighborhood."
“Don’t think I want to hear the half of it. Would you like a glass?"
You ponder if it’s a wise move. You’d spent the last four hours drowning in cocktails that were far too sweet, and the fuzzy warmth in your chest is a precarious balance against the exhaustion. Adding a glass of wine to the mix might be the final nudge your brain needs to completely shut down.
But as you look at him, standing tall and massive against the backdrop of his endless books with the fluorescent light tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the idea of a quiet glass of wine with your hot neighbor suddenly feels much more appealing than any of the neon shots you’d endured at the bar.
"I probably shouldn't… but it is my birthday.”
“Not trying to pressure you.”
“Not pressured. I’m actually curious what kind of wine a fifty-one year old bachelor drinks.”
“So I’ll take that as a yes?”
“Take it as a hell yeah.”
He disappears into what you think is a kitchen, and your bravado disappears along with him, replaced by a sudden spike of nerves. Now that he isn't standing directly over you, the reality of the situation settles over you like a heavy blanket draped over your frame.
You’re sitting on the couch of a man who is as intimidating as he is handsome, and you’re about to spend the first hours of your thirty-year drinking expensive wine in his lair.
The rug tickles your bare feet as you nervously tuck them under your thighs, trying to make yourself as small as possible in the vastness of his cushions.
“Here,” he announces himself again, and you notice that he’s pushed the long sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are corded with muscles and mapped with a faint dusting of hair.
You try not to blatantly stare at the prominent veins tracing down to his wrists as you reach out to take the glass from him. “What is it?”
“A Stag’s Leap Cabernet Sauvignon,” he says, settling into the opposite end of the long couch. He drapes one arm over the back, turns his body toward you. “From Napa. This one’s got a bit of ripeness to it. Black cherry, maybe a touch of vanilla.”
You hum, bringing the glass a little closer.
“Gets better with age too,” he continues, eyes lifting to yours. Then with the faintest hint of a smile, “Though it'd be perfect for the occasion.”
You can’t stop the flutter in your belly.
“That’s very sweet of you.”
“It does have a touch of sweetness if you let it sit.”
“No, I mean you, Leon.” You finally gather the nerve to meet his gaze, and find yourself tracing the tiny, crystalline specks of silver that radiate from his blue orbs. “Trying to make me feel better, offering me shelter when I was half-frozen on my doorstep.”
The air in the room seems to shift the moment his name leaves your lips. His shoulders visibly drop an inch. “Yeah, well, you’d do the same.”
You would. Although, as you look at the unshakable size of him, you could never imagine a man like him sitting pathetically out in the cold, mourning a nonexistent tragedy while spiraling over a birthday. Still, you’d have opened your door for him in a heartbeat, even if he weren't half-frozen—maybe especially if he weren't.
And you’re not sure what to make of that.
It’s a thought that feels a little too dangerous to hold onto while sitting this close to him, and you find yourself suddenly, helplessly distracted by the sharp curve of his lower lip.
“Here’s to saving Neighbors in Distress, then,” you offer absentmindedly.
He reaches out for his own glass on the coffee table. Hones his eyes on you with a sincerity that feels tangible as the room falls to the quiet space between his gaze and your breath. The silver specks in his irises seem to ignite in the low light, pinning you to his cushions.
“And to aging like fine wine,” he adds.
A soft burst of laughter bubbles out of you. “That is so corny.” Then angle your head to the side. “And such an old saying.”
“I’m half a century, what did you expect?”
There’s no trace of forced humor in his voice, and that lack of irony makes his delivery even more amusing. The smile on your face lingers as a warm pulse in your cheeks. It blooms as a genuine spark of comfort in your chest, prints over the rim of your glass as you take a sip.
“Wow,” you say appreciatively. “That’s really good wine.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s also incredibly dangerous, I think I need to pace myself,” you admit, placing your glass on the coffee table. “Thirty is supposed to be the age of moderation, isn't it?”
“According to who?”
“Everyone,” you answer, a little too quickly. “Social media, podcasts, people who suddenly start playing padel and structured routines.”
“I think moderation is something people reach for when they’re trying to feel safe,” he observes, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Less risk. Fewer surprises.”
You smile faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s… reality catching up?”
His gaze shifts, catching that subtle change in you. “You don’t sound convinced.”
You shrug. “I just thought by now things would feel more... settled. Or clear.” Your fingers trace the intricate, frayed embroidery at the edge of the blanket around you. “Instead it kind of feels like I’m aging out of things without ever really being part of them in the first place.”
“Aging out of what?”
You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “Being… wanted, I guess.” A quick, self-conscious laugh follows. “Or at least effortlessly so. Like there’s a point where you stop turning heads and start blending in, and you don’t even realize when the moment of being undesirable happens.”
“You really think that’s already happened to you?”
You don’t answer right away, and that probably answers enough. His glass meets the table with a soft thud. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”
“More dangerous than the wine?”
“Much. Because it’s wrong.”
You’re not sure whether to laugh it off or deny it outright.
“Desirability isn’t about being the loudest thing in the room,” he continues. “Or the youngest. It’s not about catching everyone’s attention for five seconds.”
“Then what is it about?”
The room exhales into silence. The lone lamp spills a muted glow, its light stretching into uneven shadows that breathe along the walls while somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticks softly as each second threads itself through the sudden quiet.
“Presence,” his voice finally settles into the stillness. “About knowing yourself well enough that when someone does notice you, they don’t forget it.”
“And you think that just… gets better?”
“I know it does.”
The certainty in his voice makes your chest tighten. You look down, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders under the blanket, the thin fabric of your dress, the way you’d felt so exposed stepping into his house.
He leans forward then, just enough to close some of the distance, the sheer presence of his broad frame grounding in a way that makes it harder to retreat into your own thoughts.
“Look at me,” he urges softly.
Hesitation flickers through your posture before you finally lift your chin. There’s a quiet warmth in his gaze, something unguarded that softens the harder edges of him that turns all his intensity into something almost unbearably kind.
“You're worried about becoming invisible, but I can tell you right now, there is not a single thing about you that is easy to look away from."
Your breath shatters in your throat as he reaches out. His hand is large, the skin calloused, but his touch is incredibly light as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Caresses your cheekbone with a thumb.
“So no,” he adds, quieter but no less certain, “I don’t think you’re becoming less desirable.”
If you weren't sure what would finally wreck you on this milestone birthday, what would be the thing to finally break the surface of your spiraling thoughts—you are now, and it’s the magnetic pull of wanting to kiss a man twenty-one years your senior.
But age is just a number, isn't it? Leon has obviously made it clear that he doesn’t view the passage of time as a problem, and looking at the way his eyes are currently tracing the shape of your mouth, you’re starting to believe him.
The gap between your ages feels like an invitation to a level of intensity you weren't prepared for at twenty-nine.
“You really think so?”
“Sweetheart, you’re the most desirable thing I’ve had the privilege of seeing in my entire life.”
You can’t believe you’ve resisted his charm for so long.
You’ve imagined similar scenarios, of course. Living right across to a man who carries himself with so much lethal grace made it entirely impossible not to.
The men you’ve dated in your twenties were mostly just boys still trying to figure themselves out. You were used to clumsy hands and rushed fumbling, to guys who barely knew how to hold a conversation.
Leon is different. Maybe it’s his age. Confidence, agility—it’s obvious he doesn't possess the frantic energy of a younger man, instead moving with an authority that commands your attention without him even having to try. As a result, countless lonely nights were spent of you lying awake wondering what it would actually feel like to have his solid weight pressing you down.
Not that you would ever dare to admit that to anyone. No, thinking it in the privacy of your own mind is already embarrassing enough.
Although the gratification of having him kissing you obliterates any sense of shame. And the way his hands are exploring every corner of your curves proves that he’s spent just as much time agonizing over the exact same thoughts.
You’re uncertain when the blanket fell off your shoulders, but you can feel the rough friction of his palms everywhere. Your arms, your knees, your thighs. You’re aware of him bunching the skirt of your dress upward until it’s gathered at your waist.
You also sense a slight desperation in his touch. A monumental inkling of need bleeding through a composure that suggests he’s been holding himself back for so long, and it is as staggering as the deceptive softness of his lips to realize the sheer force of his hunger.
It isn’t until your lips are swollen and stinging and wet from the relentless pressure of his that you finally fill your lungs with air.
And to your chagrin, he momentarily pulls away. “Maybe we should slow down.”
“Why?” you whine, a little pout hanging on your puckered lips. “Thought I was desirable.”
“You are,” he grunts. His nose grazes the high curve of your cheek. “Believe me, you are.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
He levels with your concerned gaze. “Don’t want you waking up thinking this was a mistake.”
Yeah, right. As if a few sugary cocktails could be the sole reason of a desire this potent.
Sure, there’s a sweet haze effectively numbing your usual inhibitions, but alcohol didn't carve the hollow ache in your chest every time you watched him pull into his driveway. Nor did it plant the heat that pooled in your belly whenever he caught your eye over the property line—more times than you could admit, less than what you truly craved.
In retrospect, the tension had always been there. Unconsciously. Even if you were stone-cold sober you would still be here.
The morning light couldn't possibly undo the rightness of finally having him in your vicinity.
You reach a palm towards his face. “The only mistake," you whisper, soft words against the rough scrape of his jaw, "would be making me wait another second."
He’s quiet for a moment, but your pretty eyes tip whatever restraint he’s holding onto. Has him tracing the supple skin of your breast with a newfound zeal.
“You sure?”
“Why don’t you take off my dress and find out?”
You feel his amusement radiate against your skin. “Glad your confidence is back.” Then he hooks a finger under the thin silk of your dress, slides the strap down your shoulder. “Because you are beautiful.”
The cool air hits your skin. Two sensitive peaks beg for his attention.
“So goddamn beautiful. Look at these tits.”
There’s amusement laced in your smile. “Also didn’t peg you with such an abrasive vocabulary.”
“Politeness won’t cover what I want to do to you right now.”
Soft strands of hair thread between your fingers as his mouth wraps around a nipple.
Plays with it eagerly, lapping around in circles with agonizing precision before drawing it back as if trying to make the sensitive point swell even larger in his mouth. Repeats the motion far longer than you anticipated, searing a path that sends a rush of hot blood to your core until every atom of your being is vibrating.
You’re convinced the room is spinning as he gives the same attention to your other breast, painting your areola with a slickness that is as heavy as the dampness between your thighs.
He seems to sense the change in your breathing, lets a hand travel down your hip before draping one of your legs over his lap. Bends your other knee, fingers hooking into the crook of your leg to draw you apart.
“Keep them open for me.”
You nod limply. He kisses the side of your throat.
“Undesirable,” he tuts, large hand moving to the wet patch on your panties to map the exact shape of your arousal through the silk. “Do you realize how ridiculous that is?”
You try to form a response, to make some self-deprecating excuse about the depressive weight of your birthday or the slow decay of your youth, but the air simply vanishes from your lungs. The pressure he applies over you sends an electric shockwave of sensation through your nervous system.
He watches the words die on your lips. Watches the way your hips hitch upward. Observes the shallow rhythm of your chest with every rhythmic circle he rubs into your aching little clit.
His mouth ticks up into a smile that softens the weathered lines of his devastatingly handsome face.
“Should I show you myself then?”
“Show…” The supple grain of the couch bites into your shoulder blades as your toes curl into the material. “…what?”
His fingers slip under your flimsy lace. “Exactly how desirable you are.”
“Ahh—” Your hazy mind goes into an absolute sensory overload. One second the room is a blur of amber light and red wine, the next heartbeat you are violently aware of the viscous heat of your own arousal as he gathers it on his fingertips. “Leon—”
He sweeps upward, smearing that glistening moisture across the swollen outer folds and pressing it deep into the delicate flesh of your labia, and you are acutely aware of the aching bead of your clit trapped beneath the abrasive swirl of his fingers, feeling it throb in perfect synchronization with your racing heart.
Leon feels it too. The sharp rhythm of his breathing stutters as he watches you squirm.
“Gorgeous girl.” The blunt tip of his middle finger presses against your slick opening, testing the tight ring of muscle before slowly sinking in. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
“Le…on… oh!”
The addition of a second finger pulls a high keening from your throat.
Two fingers and you feel impossibly full. You can barely fathom the weight of taking his actual cock, and your walls pulsate at the thought. He groans, pulls his hand back almost to the entrance before driving his knuckles deep inside you again.
In and out, back and forth, turning your entire world into a blur of pleasure and the heady scent of him. Incredibly, unapologetically male.
The only thing consuming your mind right now, rightfully so. The pleasure-induced haze that clouds your brain parts just enough for you to breathe in his musk, to watch the absolute concentration on his face as he dedicates himself to your pleasure. At the quiet lines carved beside his eyes. The faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The hard flex of his chiseled jaw, dusted with fine hints of gray.
Maybe aging isn’t so bad after all. You’re suddenly grateful for every single year that carved him into the man who’s currently dismantling you with his bare hands.
Because you feel it. The ongoing swell of an orgasm gathering at the base of your spine. Your breath fractures into a wordless sob and Leon feels your undoing the second it begins. Helps you through it. Massages the deep, aching knot of tension inside your cunt, using the volume of your own wetness to press the base of his palm against your puffy clit.
Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones.
Legs parted instinctively wide, it is one of the strongest orgasms you have experienced in a very long time. You’d argue it might be the strongest one ever, but the thought of cumming onto his cock seemed like the only thing that could possibly top the rank.
Your satiated limbs melt into the cushions as he kisses the sweat dripping down your hairline. “Lift your arms up for me.”
You obey wordlessly, and he starts to undress you. Slips off the once delicate lace down the length of your legs. You’re still drifting in a post-orgasmic haze, but your focus snaps back the second he peels his shirt over his head. The flex of his thick biceps and broad shoulders completely rewires your sluggish brain that you find yourself leaning forward as he makes quick work of his pants.
And then it’s genuinely hard to believe that the Leon Kennedy—intimidating, sweet Leon who lives right across your house—is sitting spread out with a raging hard-on that demands your attention.
Which, obviously, you give to him without needing to be asked. The second your fingers fully encircle and squeeze his impressive size, his head falls back against the couch, exposing the strained column of his neck.
You also give your attention to the erratic pulse at his throat. Pressing your lips against a scattering of sun-faded freckles beneath his jaw, swallowing the deep vibration of another groan.
Leon, you’ve come to realize, is not ashamed of being loud. A delightful knowledge that this formidable man is perfectly willing to let his voice gravel with each motion along his shaft. You experimentally tighten your grip and drag a thumb across the weeping slit of his cock, and feel your heart swell with giddiness the moment he comes to cradle your cheeks and groans straight into your mouth.
The power you hold over him is intoxicating. Addicting. Very, very dangerous. Whatever excuse you initially gave yourself about tonight as a symptom of being touch-deprived and horny on your birthday is rapidly dissolving. You can already see yourself easily basking in the undivided attention he's so far given you.
Granted, it is nearly impossible to worry about the long-term consequences when he’s panting directly into your open mouth, failing bid to keep his control intact.
You decide to offer him some grace, slowly loosening your grip. Let your nails graze the soft hair at his base, trace the dark trail up the firm ridge of his stomach until your hand settles on the hard plane of his chest.
He pulls back and pins your hand over his heart. “We should move to the bedroom.”
The heat of his skin is too comforting for you to even consider the effort of standing up.
“Why?”
“Condoms," he huffs. "Don't have any on me."
Your nose curls. It really is hard to worry about the long-term consequences when all you can think about is the desperate need to feel him raw. Surprising, considering safe sex is a practice you've always adhered to.
But Leon really does have a habit of pulling completely new things out of you. Effortlessly dismantles your depressed thoughts, unravels your usual guarded boundaries, and is now rewiring your entire view on intimacy.
There’s a tiny lull of silence before you gather the courage to ask, “How much can I trust you without using one?”
His heartbeat kicks under your palm, and you watch as his brows draw together before the harsh lines on his face soften. “As much as you’re willing to give.” His thumb drags over the back of your hand. “You sure ‘bout that?”
It surprises you how easy the words slip past your lips, devoid of the usual overthinking that has haunted this day so far.
For the first time in a long time, the air in your lungs feels clear.
“I want you to go without,” you confirm.
“C’mere.”
He tugs you closer and sits you right on top of his lap, back firmly flushed against his chest.
“Lift your hips a little.”
You brace your hands against his thick thighs, let him guide the blunt tip of his cock right to your slick hole. The keening sound you make vibrates in the room as gravity slowly takes over, allowing your wet muscles to swallow the first few inches of him.
It doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t any less intense. He fills you with a burning heat.
“Ah—ngh… Leon…”
“Breathe,” he drawls. You feel his lips on the crook of your neck, gooseflesh rising up when you feel the tip of his tongue. “A little more, yeah?”
Your head bobs in a nod. Lungs expanding, lungs deflating—diaphragm relaxed. You count to three and let your body melt against his chest.
It takes him a full minute, filled with soft whines that rumble in the back of your throat and little strokes coming from his hips. Your eyes are unfocused when he gives a final jerk, feeling the coarseness of his hair grind against the slope of your ass.
“Oh, fuck.”
“So fucking warm,” he grunts, pulling open your thighs wide across his lap, knees hooked over his sides with your bare feet dangling in the air. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” you slur. There’s no pain to speak of but the strain of him pressing against your sensitive flesh. “Just… full.”
At least, full is the only word your overstimulated brain can offer.
No amount of previous longing could have prepared you for the way his pulse drums in tandem with your own, thudding so violently against your internal nerves. Perfectly snug inside you, as if your very anatomy is fundamentally shifting—melting, molding. Making room to seamlessly map every thick ridge of his shape until there's no space left between your bodies.
But sitting perfectly still is its own kind of torture. The throb in your cunt is spiraling into a desperate itch, and simply having him seated to the hilt is no longer enough.
Friction is what you seek, and friction is what you ask, rolling your hips in a needy grind, doing your best to wiggle against his lap just to coax out even a fraction.
"Christ." The sound he makes vibrates through your entire back, dragged out with sluggish words you have trouble making sense. "...embarrassing this old man.”
You tilt your head back in confusion, try to parse his meaning through the thick haze of pleasure.
“Won’t last long tonight," he explains, slowly rolling his hips that draws another groan. “Not even a good ten minutes.”
A giggle interrupts your keening whine. You let your head fall to the side, resting your temple against the sweaty curve of his throat.
“It’s okay... you can fuck me again in the morning.”
The breathless laugh he wheezes sounds partly wicked.
“You’re goddamn right I will. Take you in my bed.” He drags his hips backward. “The shower.” Then languidly thrusts forward. “Even the kitchen.”
He takes the full weight of your breasts in eager hands.
“Fuck you in the back of my car like rabid teenagers.”
You choke on a moan and reach behind, fingers finding the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t think our bones can handle the lack of legroom.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”
You feebly smile at the confidence in his voice.
Somehow, you don’t doubt him. Anyone with a conscious mind would agree that Leon is a man of absolute competence. You might not know the secret he keeps behind closed doors, or the full depth of his life, but you know the way he commands the space he occupies. And you'd expect nothing less from him when the space he's currently residing in is yours.
Physically, sure. He's sheathed impossibly deep within your cunt.
Metaphorically, too, when he’s been threading in your thoughts with a steady persistence. Lingers between looks, between breaths. Settles deep into the unspoken gaps of your everyday life, anticipating your needs long before you do by offering things without excess.
A roof over your head. A glass of wine in your hand without expectation. Heartfelt words that reach you even when you hadn’t realized you needed to hear them.
You wonder if you asked for more for the sake of your own comfort, he would give that too.
For your pleasure, at least. The stretch of him fucking you in slow ceremony is already delicious as it is, but a fierce hunger still gnaws at your neglected clit. You try to guide the hand on your right tit down to the slope of your stomach, drawing it directly toward the spot where your bodies meet.
Fortunately, Leon is more than happy to oblige.
“Right here?"
You nod silently, let your body do the talking. And talking it does in a language of erratic breaths and arching hips. Pliant to his touch, yet greedy for his fingertips. The sheer volume of slick, overheated syrup that instantly coats his skin has him inhaling sharply.
"Fucking drenched,” he grunts, feeling the rigid length of his cock disappear completely between your glistening folds. "Gonna eat this pussy next time."
Crude and abrasive. You like this version of him. So much so that your internal muscles respond before your voice can, milking him with a series of desperate clenches that has his jaw locking tight.
“Next time, sweetheart,” he promises, rubbing circles over the hard knot of your clit. “Taste how sweet this pussy is.”
That seems to do it. Your entire frame tenses, toes curling in anticipation of the sensation climbing up in your leg. Even breathing seems like a secondary concern, a distant chore your lungs are struggling to remember how to perform when you’ve succumbed so completely to the intensity.
"That’s it. You gon' give me another?”
You hiccup through a frantic chorus of “Fuckfuckfuckfuck” and wail helplessly.
“Go on. Let me feel it."
“Shit,” you heave, right before you shatter, squeezing your eyes shut.
You collapse with a satisfied smile, reveling in the ecstasy seeping deep into your bones. But that quiet hum is cut abruptly short when his hands suddenly hook under the backs of your knees, hoisting your legs up and peeling you open.
Starts fucking you for the sake of his pleasure.
You find no mercy in his rhythm, pistoning force that has your breasts bouncing with every jarring strike. Limbs shaking, bones rattling. The room shuddering with echoes of wet, heavy slaps.
It’s nothing you can’t take when you seem to be enjoying it yourself. You realize, staring down at the clotted, white fluid foaming around his cock, that you would gladly give him anything he so much as looked at. He’s already given you plenty of attention that you’ll let him take whatever he needs in the name of gratitude.
A token of appreciation, if you will. A thank you for being the perfect neighbor—the perfect man, capable of melting your resolve with kind gestures before proceeding to rearrange your guts.
Although thinking this is solely for his benefit seems foolish when he's ruining you oh-so-good. Fast and precise, hitting right where you love it, touching exactly where you're tight.
A harsh jerk of his cock has you blubbering incoherent words, "HolyfuckLe—Leon!"
You're answered with a row of grunts, of squelching noises that increase the more he thrusts in. You feel like a carved pretzel as he pins your legs to your chest, locking you firmly in place. Drilling hard, erratic, pushing all the strength he possesses into your pliant body.
There’s a hot tension in your lower belly. The muscles slacken in your neck—throat closing in as your mouth opens in a scream that doesn't quite make it through.
The silence punched out of you is finally rewarded.
Your third orgasm is gut-wrenching when it happens. It twists your insides, wringing you dry. You’re a mess of tears and drool and Leon makes sure you aren't left completely empty. With two final strong thrusts, he pumps a flood deep into your cunt in exchange for every drop of liquid he’s drained from your pores.
Overstimulated and exhausted, you slowly let your heartbeat settle. So does Leon. His breath tickles the crook of your neck, and there’s a thick, gravelly edge in his voice as he drawls, “I should’ve pulled out.”
Not exactly regret, but an acknowledgment of his complete loss of control. Not that you particularly care.
Lifting a lazy hand, you gently stroke the corded muscle of his arm, soothing down the dusting of silvered hair.
“You don't see me complaining," you whisper, voice utterly sated.
“Yeah? Let me see you.”
The smell of sex is so pungent and sweet as he slips you off his thighs. Lays you gently on the empty space of the couch beside him. Parts your legs for the many times tonight, and marvels at the sight of his cum making its way down to your puckered hole.
He spreads your spent, swollen folds with his thumb. “Gorgeous girl.”
You offer him a tired smile.
Surprisingly, you do believe him.
In a physical sense, yes, that’s true. The way he’s imprinted himself inside your body is proof enough of exactly how fiercely he desires you. But the weight of his words carries a gravity that pulls at something far deeper than your skin. Past the pulse at your throat and the ache in your thighs, settling heavy in the hollow of your chest.
Society has a way of making you feel like you’re meant to diminish with time. Expected to survive in barren soil, pouring yourself out while trying to bloom from roots that wouldn't even bother to water you. Grown accustomed to a slow drought from an environment that convinced you were fading out of focus as the years ticked by.
The way he looks at you defies that logic. The blue in his eyes suggests time has only made your harvest sweeter.
Any insecurities you harbored evaporate under the pads of his fingers as he maps the rise of your belly. All the self-criticism and nagging fear of becoming invisible dissolve the same way he smoothly glides through the valley of your breasts.
The frantic noise of the world goes completely silent when he palms your cheek. His body is hot atop yours, and his gaze holds genuine comfort of being truly, unconditionally seen.
For the first time tonight, you discern the affection decorating his eyes.
And it’s certainly not for the last.
His smile is warm and tender as his breath kisses your lips. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
summary . . . leon’s desperate for your attention, but you won’t give it to him.
notes. ngl i like me some downbad leon teehee, who doesn’t ykwim? but now make downbad vendetta leon and i promise, i am going to be the first one sat 🫶😝 something light, something short. obvi got inspo from do i wanna know by arctic monkeys bc it was only fitting.
tags ──────── suggestive content. downbad leon dealing with his situationship. implied age gap, reader is in 20’s. leon was a jerk but you humbled him real quick. briefest mention of a sugar daddy/baby relationship. word count: 1.2k words
This is what he gets, isn’t it? He knew he deserved this treatment from you. His first thought was how you had this rather “dumb and naive” look in your eyes. And yes, he knew he was in the wrong for assuming that would make you… easy…
He thought he’d have you eating out of the palm of his hand. Oh, how wrong he was. When he finally realized you weren’t as naive as you led him to believe, and that you were very experienced in this game, it was too late. He had a taste of you and was instantly hooked. Damn you and your little good girl act. You played him for a fool.
He should be angry at you. He really should be. But he gave you your needed respects and behaved like you’d trained him.
Here he is, sitting in his office with unorganized papers everywhere, and his phone is pressed to his ear. He bounced his leg anxiously underneath his desk as the ringing continued. His hand clenched tightly into a fist, silently begging for you to pick up this time. Instead, he’s met with your pre—recorded cheerful voice. Another one of his calls went straight to voicemail.
Leon threw his phone down onto his desk with a little extra force. He threw his head back and dragged both of his hands down his face. What was he supposed to do now? He was losing his mind, and you were okay with that.
The signs were right there. He should have seen them from a mile away. It only left him with a single question. Was he the easy one?
His first warning should have been that you never came to his apartment. It was always yours or a hotel room. Then you’d say, ‘Nevermind,’ if he insisted you come over, which led him to double down and drive to your place.
The second warning was how long you took to respond. Consistent, then he asked to meet or make plans, poof! Gone like you never existed. You’d text hours later saying, ‘Sorry, I got caught up with something!’. He’d glare at your mixed signals through the phone. Did you want him or not? Make up your mind already.
His last resort was to send you a text message.
“Please answer,” Leon mumbled to himself as his thumb tapped the arrow. He felt like he might truly lose it if he went home today to douse his pillows in your perfume again. He felt like a pervert whenever he did.
The last time he was at your apartment, he snapped a quick picture of your perfume bottle while you weren’t looking. He was embarrassed to click the “next day shipping” option when he ordered it. Ever since he got it, he’d been spraying it too much. He only figured it out when he was in an elevator early in the morning. The colleague riding with him kept sniffing and giving him looks.
Leon sure as hell didn’t give a damn. You weren’t going to remember about him until another few weeks. He didn’t expect it to be two months. He could only cope by coming to work smelling like a younger girl who wouldn’t give him the time of her day.
Was there someone better than him in your roster? There couldn’t be. He was attractive. If you didn’t think he was, Leon would give you his card and pin to make you look his way. He’d go as far as figuring out if he could make you a cardholder if that permanently got your attention on him.
Ding!
You’d ruined him because he even changed your ringtone from the default one to know when you were texting or calling. He grabbed his phone from his desk and his eyes scanned over the lit screen,
You can come over right now.
Now? Once you said it, you meant it. Not in an hour, not after he got off work, and definitely not tomorrow. If he missed this opportunity, who knows when the next time you’d respond to him would be.
Leon didn’t even contemplate. He walked through the hallways of DSO headquarters at a brisk pace.
Whatever. Let them fire him for leaving early. They’d be doing him a favor. Plus, who were they going to hire to replace him?
Leon’s at your apartment, a new personal record for how long it took him to get here. He’s already knelt down before you in such a pathetic manner while you sit on your couch. One of his hands cradled the heel of your barefoot, and the other gave your calf a gentle squeeze.
He kissed your ankle, his stubble scratching your skin gently. His eyes are closed, and his lips followed the same path up your shin. He planted a kiss on your knee. After not being in your presence for so long, this is all he wanted to do. Kiss you all over your body and familiarize himself with your skin again. He was so infatuated with you.
He nuzzled his nose against your thigh. He let out a huff of air. The second you ran your fingers through his hair, he let out a deep groan.
“Baby, why do you keep doing this to me?” Leon lowly said. He lifted his head to kiss your inner thigh. He glanced up at you through half lidded eyes. He rubbed your heel, “You know I hate it when you ignore me.” The laugh you let out made something stir in his chest.
Your hands cradled his jaw. There went that same smile you always had whenever he stared up at you. The one that told him you were enjoying this and watching him spiral over you further.
“Because I like seeing how desperate you get.” You said. You moved a few strands of his hair out of his face and then traced his bottom lip. His eyes closed again, but it was out of pure bliss this time. He let go of your calf and moved his hand to the back of your head. He tried to pull you down. He wanted to have your lips against his, and you refused to budge.
Leon let out a desperate noise when you denied him. The loss he felt when you suddenly stood up from the couch was immense. He wanted to reach out to you. He wanted to sit you back down. But what good would that do when he allowed you to have full control from the start?
He sat back, a hand on the cushion of the couch where you were sitting moments ago. The wooden floorboards creaked with each step you took away from him. He sat there on the floor, more and more pathetic. He didn’t dare move until you acknowledged him. Then, you looked over at him. That same smile from earlier returned.
“Are you gonna walk?” You were taunting him. His eye twitched in annoyance, “Or are you gonna crawl?” You made it very clear what you were expecting from him. Two choices, and only one of them would get your favor more
Damn it, Leon, don’t do this. Get up.
Yet, he found himself placing his palms against the cold floorboards. He cursed himself. It was worse when he started to move. You had an imaginary leash around his neck and were pulling at it hard. While you walked, he crawled behind you. His head hung low which hid away the smirk on his face from your view.
You know what? Maybe he was right where he wanted to be.
two undead lovers sustain their marriage through an intimate exchange of blood
The safehouse reeks of starvation.
You find your husband in the dark, slumped against the far wall. Leon Kennedy, who once saved presidents and dismantled cults, now sits hollow-eyed in an abandoned building, rationing blood bags like a man in the desert rationing water. The wedding band on his fingers catches the moonlight–still there, still worn, even as he wastes away.
He doesn’t look up when you enter; he doesn’t need to. He knows your footsteps, your scent, the rhythm of your unnecessary breaths. Yet he doesn’t move to greet you; this tells you everything you need to know.
The hunger rolls off him in waves. You can see it in the terrible stillness of his body, the control of him, how he seems to hold himself back from violence or salvation. Leon Kennedy, who survived Raccoon City and Spain and a hundred other hells, now sits in the dark, slowly starving himself because he still thinks he can maintain some moral high ground by suffering. Honest greed is perfect greed and your husband has never learned to be honest about what he needs.
You cross the room without hesitation. He tenses when you approach, but doesn’t pull away, doesn’t tell you to stop. He simply sits there with his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed like he can will himself not to want this.
You kneel before him and tilt your head to expose your throat in the shaft of moonlight cutting through broken blinds. An offering.
His control shatters like glass.
He moves like violence contained too long, his hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head aside, mouth sealing over your throat. His fangs sink in sharp and sudden, and the sound he makes is wrecked, human in its need, broken in its relief.
He drinks like he’s drowning. Like a man who’s been holding his breath underwater for weeks and has finally surfaced. Each drink sends lightning through your veins, pleasure and pain mix, making your fingers dig into his shoulders. A sound tears from your throat that's half-moan, half-permission.
This is what marriage means now. Not vows spoken in the sunlight or rings exchanged before witnesses. Not the pretty promises made when you were both still human and believed in forevers that didn’t taste like copper.
Marriage is blood and hunger and the terrible intimacy of being known completely.
His hands are shaking where they grip you, he trembles against you as he takes and takes and takes what you’re offering. What you’ve always offered.
Your hand finds his throat. Fingers pressing against his pulse, slow, wrong, barely there. He doesn’t stop drinking, but his body goes still. He knows what you need. What you both need.
Blood runs down your throat in rivulets, hot and dark, staining your collar. His mouth is red with it, lips parted, and he looks half feral in the moonlight, eyes blown black, control shredded
Your fingers tighten on his throat.
He tilts his head against the wall without hesitation and bares his throat to you in surrender. The wedding band catches the light as his hand comes to rest on your hip.
You don't make him wait.
Your fangs sink into his throat, and his whole body shudders beneath you. His blood hits your tongue–rich and potent. You drink deeply, greedily, feel his strength flow into you, feeling the feedback loop of his satisfaction at feeding you as you feed from him.
His hand tightens on your hip, the other sliding into your hair, not pulling but holding you there, keeping you close.
He loves you like a drowning man loves air. You feel it pour into you with each swallow, each point where your bodies connect and exchange and become something singular.
When you pull back, youre both breathing hard. Blood stains both your mouths. Yours wet and dark on his lips, his still glistening on yours. The marks on your throat already healing, and so are the ones on his.
He pulls you to him. Hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your waist, and his mouth finds yours with bruising force.
The kiss tastes like copper and iron. His tongue slides against yours, slow and filthy, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, can taste him in yours, blood mixing between you in communion. His fangs scrape your lips, yours catch on his. Both of you still hungry, still wanting despite having just been fed.
He licks into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you from the inside out. Deep, consuming strokes of his tongue that make heat pool low despite the coolness of your skin. You bite his lower lip hard enough to draw fresh blood, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, his hips shifting beneath you in pure instinct.
You drink the new blood from his lip, and he licks it from your mouth. Back and forth, feeding each other, tasting each other, the line between where he ends and where you begin blurs with each exchange. He catches your tongue between his teeth, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make your breath catch. Two predators who choose to sustain each other instead of hunting alone.
Your hands slide under his shirt, nails dragging against cool skin, and he arches into the touch. His hand on your waist slides lower, gripping your hip, pulling you closer until you’re pressed flush against him.
The kiss grows more desperate, more consuming. His tongue licks against yours, and you roll your hips against him in response. You can feel him hardening beneath you. Even undead bodies remember want, remember need, the mechanics of desire even when they’ve forgotten warmth. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave marks if you could still bruise.
You break the kiss to trail your lips down his jaw, his throat, tasting the blood still wet on his skin. He tilts his head back, baring himself to you once more, and his breathing has gone ragged. Your tongue finds the slowly healing puncture wounds and he shudders, his hand fisting in your hair.
When you bite down again not he gasps your name. The sound of it in his wrecked voice makes something primal surge through you. You bite harder, feeling the flesh give, feeling fresh blood well up, and you lap at it slowly while his whole body trembles beneath you.
His hands are everywhere now. Your hair, your back, your hips, your thighs it is desperate and possessive and reverent all at once. When you pull back to look at him, his eyes are black with dilated pupils, his mouth still red with your blood, and the expression on his face is raw want stripped of every defense.
You kiss him again. Slower this time but no less intense. Your tongue slides against his, mapping the sharp points of his fangs, tasting fresh blood and need. His tongue tangles with yours, both of you sharing the blood in your mouths, passing it back and forth until you can't tell whose is whose anymore.
Your hand slides down his chest, his stomach, lower, and when your palm presses against the hard length of him through his pants he breaks the kiss with a sound that's almost desperate. His forehead drops to your shoulder and you feel him shaking, feel the terrible control he's barely maintaining, feel how much he needs this—needs you.
You palm him through the fabric and his hips jerk up involuntarily. His hand on your thigh slides higher, fingers digging into soft flesh, and his mouth finds your throat again.
When you finally break apart, you’re both marked with it. Blood on your chin, his throat. Smeared across both your mouths like sacrament. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you feel him shudder, feel the terrible tension leaving his body as satisfaction settles into his bones.
Your hands find the back of his neck. His arms wrap around your waist. Neither of you speaks.
In the dark of this safehouse, with blood drying on both your mouths and the taste of him still singing in your veins, you hold your husband.
two undead lovers sustain their marriage through an intimate exchange of blood
The safehouse reeks of starvation.
You find your husband in the dark, slumped against the far wall. Leon Kennedy, who once saved presidents and dismantled cults, now sits hollow-eyed in an abandoned building, rationing blood bags like a man in the desert rationing water. The wedding band on his fingers catches the moonlight–still there, still worn, even as he wastes away.
He doesn’t look up when you enter; he doesn’t need to. He knows your footsteps, your scent, the rhythm of your unnecessary breaths. Yet he doesn’t move to greet you; this tells you everything you need to know.
The hunger rolls off him in waves. You can see it in the terrible stillness of his body, the control of him, how he seems to hold himself back from violence or salvation. Leon Kennedy, who survived Raccoon City and Spain and a hundred other hells, now sits in the dark, slowly starving himself because he still thinks he can maintain some moral high ground by suffering. Honest greed is perfect greed and your husband has never learned to be honest about what he needs.
You cross the room without hesitation. He tenses when you approach, but doesn’t pull away, doesn’t tell you to stop. He simply sits there with his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed like he can will himself not to want this.
You kneel before him and tilt your head to expose your throat in the shaft of moonlight cutting through broken blinds. An offering.
His control shatters like glass.
He moves like violence contained too long, his hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head aside, mouth sealing over your throat. His fangs sink in sharp and sudden, and the sound he makes is wrecked, human in its need, broken in its relief.
He drinks like he’s drowning. Like a man who’s been holding his breath underwater for weeks and has finally surfaced. Each drink sends lightning through your veins, pleasure and pain mix, making your fingers dig into his shoulders. A sound tears from your throat that's half-moan, half-permission.
This is what marriage means now. Not vows spoken in the sunlight or rings exchanged before witnesses. Not the pretty promises made when you were both still human and believed in forevers that didn’t taste like copper.
Marriage is blood and hunger and the terrible intimacy of being known completely.
His hands are shaking where they grip you, he trembles against you as he takes and takes and takes what you’re offering. What you’ve always offered.
Your hand finds his throat. Fingers pressing against his pulse, slow, wrong, barely there. He doesn’t stop drinking, but his body goes still. He knows what you need. What you both need.
Blood runs down your throat in rivulets, hot and dark, staining your collar. His mouth is red with it, lips parted, and he looks half feral in the moonlight, eyes blown black, control shredded
Your fingers tighten on his throat.
He tilts his head against the wall without hesitation and bares his throat to you in surrender. The wedding band catches the light as his hand comes to rest on your hip.
You don't make him wait.
Your fangs sink into his throat, and his whole body shudders beneath you. His blood hits your tongue–rich and potent. You drink deeply, greedily, feel his strength flow into you, feeling the feedback loop of his satisfaction at feeding you as you feed from him.
His hand tightens on your hip, the other sliding into your hair, not pulling but holding you there, keeping you close.
He loves you like a drowning man loves air. You feel it pour into you with each swallow, each point where your bodies connect and exchange and become something singular.
When you pull back, youre both breathing hard. Blood stains both your mouths. Yours wet and dark on his lips, his still glistening on yours. The marks on your throat already healing, and so are the ones on his.
He pulls you to him. Hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your waist, and his mouth finds yours with bruising force.
The kiss tastes like copper and iron. His tongue slides against yours, slow and filthy, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, can taste him in yours, blood mixing between you in communion. His fangs scrape your lips, yours catch on his. Both of you still hungry, still wanting despite having just been fed.
He licks into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you from the inside out. Deep, consuming strokes of his tongue that make heat pool low despite the coolness of your skin. You bite his lower lip hard enough to draw fresh blood, and he groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, his hips shifting beneath you in pure instinct.
You drink the new blood from his lip, and he licks it from your mouth. Back and forth, feeding each other, tasting each other, the line between where he ends and where you begin blurs with each exchange. He catches your tongue between his teeth, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make your breath catch. Two predators who choose to sustain each other instead of hunting alone.
Your hands slide under his shirt, nails dragging against cool skin, and he arches into the touch. His hand on your waist slides lower, gripping your hip, pulling you closer until you’re pressed flush against him.
The kiss grows more desperate, more consuming. His tongue licks against yours, and you roll your hips against him in response. You can feel him hardening beneath you. Even undead bodies remember want, remember need, the mechanics of desire even when they’ve forgotten warmth. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave marks if you could still bruise.
You break the kiss to trail your lips down his jaw, his throat, tasting the blood still wet on his skin. He tilts his head back, baring himself to you once more, and his breathing has gone ragged. Your tongue finds the slowly healing puncture wounds and he shudders, his hand fisting in your hair.
When you bite down again not he gasps your name. The sound of it in his wrecked voice makes something primal surge through you. You bite harder, feeling the flesh give, feeling fresh blood well up, and you lap at it slowly while his whole body trembles beneath you.
His hands are everywhere now. Your hair, your back, your hips, your thighs it is desperate and possessive and reverent all at once. When you pull back to look at him, his eyes are black with dilated pupils, his mouth still red with your blood, and the expression on his face is raw want stripped of every defense.
You kiss him again. Slower this time but no less intense. Your tongue slides against his, mapping the sharp points of his fangs, tasting fresh blood and need. His tongue tangles with yours, both of you sharing the blood in your mouths, passing it back and forth until you can't tell whose is whose anymore.
Your hand slides down his chest, his stomach, lower, and when your palm presses against the hard length of him through his pants he breaks the kiss with a sound that's almost desperate. His forehead drops to your shoulder and you feel him shaking, feel the terrible control he's barely maintaining, feel how much he needs this—needs you.
You palm him through the fabric and his hips jerk up involuntarily. His hand on your thigh slides higher, fingers digging into soft flesh, and his mouth finds your throat again.
When you finally break apart, you’re both marked with it. Blood on your chin, his throat. Smeared across both your mouths like sacrament. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you feel him shudder, feel the terrible tension leaving his body as satisfaction settles into his bones.
Your hands find the back of his neck. His arms wrap around your waist. Neither of you speaks.
In the dark of this safehouse, with blood drying on both your mouths and the taste of him still singing in your veins, you hold your husband.
changing is scary but so is staying the same changing is scary but so is staying the same changing is scary but so is staying the same changing is scary but so is staying the samechanging is scary but so is staying the same changing is scary but so is staying the same
men who are rough with you during sex yet gentle during the aftercare. they would fuck you senselessly and fill you up over and over again, tiring you out until you fall asleep in their arms. they would watch over your face and the rise and fall of your chest as your breathing steadied, placing a kiss on your temple before gently wiping your inner thighs clean. they’d place a kiss too, on your lower belly, soft smirk painted on their face knowing they just stuffed you full. they would pull you into their arms, nuzzling into the crook of your neck before falling asleep next to you.
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