Leon is obsessed with your panties
Content: smut, oral, heavy petting, some spitting, creamiest of pies, “just the tip”, panties stay on!
Masterlist ❤︎
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Leon is a creature of habit, if not a slave to his compulsions. Which sounds practical considering the absurdity of his job.
Spending decades wading through nightmares is why operating in violent extremes has become a language he intuitively understands. His obsessive streak seems reasonable if he views it as the price of survival, one that steadily rises in proportion to his scars and the amount of bullshit the government loves to toss him into.
Blowing out money is also a habit he enjoys indulging. If hell is where he’s destined to spend most of his days, he might as well do it in style. If he sinks an obscene fortune into the cars and bikes sitting in his garage, it’s only because he’s cheated death from a creature the size of a goddamn tank—crawling massive thing with repulsive hairy legs. A fucking giant spider.
Also happened with liquor, and an excessive streak of the punishing hours at the gym—build as much solid mass on his arms, he persisted.
So yeah, sensible, given the circumstances.
Rational, even, when his capacity for obsession started to redirect itself the moment a new target is acquired. Barreling straight towards you.
Or your panties, specifically.
Although the entirety of you is a perfectly justifiable thing to lose his mind over. It just so happens that your own little habit for pretty underwear has easily rubbed off on him. From silk to lace to whatever impractical mesh he happily bleeds his bank accounts for. Numbers he quickly discovered ran obscenely high for a few measly inches of thread.
Not that he minds. You like to call him your sugar daddy whenever he catches you hesitating over a ridiculously expensive set, and he’d simply shrug and slide you his card in return. Maybe he is. Kind of. He’s your boyfriend above all else, but if his urge to keep you spoiled rotten qualifies him for the role, then maybe the title isn’t so wrong.
Also doesn’t hurt that every dime spent ultimately works in his favor. Every purchase is perfectly rational when he gets to peel his money's worth right off your skin. Gets to appreciate how a splash of color and fabric can accentuate every curve of your body.
He views red as undeniably sexy. Blue as soft and sweet, and thinks black is a staple that never fails. You always look gorgeous in every color of the rainbow. Divine charm, very easy on the eyes.
But this purple. This damn bruised shade of plum hugging your hips has him crossing the room to haul you onto his desk before he’s even made a conscious decision to move. The stack of reports he’s already been neglecting for a week goes completely shoved aside. Now he’s got you sprawled on your back, looking entirely too satisfied with yourself for finally breaking his focus.
Smart girl, weaponizing his own money to sabotage his productivity.
It doesn’t take much prompting for him to map the familiar lines of your body, dragging his fingers over the delicate lace until his thumb pushes over your sheer-clad breast, pinching a tight nipple.
“This new?”
He smiles when you squirm, watching the way your eyes slant over him. “Mhm. D’you like it?”
His mouth quirks higher. What a redundant question to even entertain, as if being asked whether he prefers a clear line of sight, or if he's happy to find a fully loaded rifle when he’s backed into a corner. It’s basically a fundamental law of nature for him at this point. Lacking appreciation for the way the thin stretch of fabric barely covers your crotch isn't even a possibility.
And that little triangle is downright taunting him, doing absolutely nothing but draw his attention. He finds himself taking a sufficient moment to fully appraise what’s in front of him, letting out a rough breath through his nostrils as he grips the edge of the lace. Pulls it up snugly between your folds.
Fuck if it doesn’t make his cock stir.
You’re awfully wet and swollen and he finds guilt gnawing at him for not tending to you much sooner. An idiot, really, can be too blind when he gets caught up in his own head. Quite the irony when he’s typically so attuned to your moods.
When you’re hungry for affection, you’re quick to cling your arms around his neck while settling on his lap. Yearning for comfort, you bury yourself against his chest to chase the solid thud of his heartbeat.
Desperation runs in your blood when you’re fully aroused.
Like what you’re doing now, he acknowledges. With that impatient heat in your eyes and thighs spread wide apart, openly offering yourself on a silver platter like a five-star meal.
He slacks comfortably back in his chair. Ask and you shall receive, because Leon is inherently a selfless person, hardwired to assist any person in distress with a reflex so deeply ingrained in his bones. You’re writhing so restlessly towards his open mouth that his only instinct is to give in.
The first kiss has you shuddering. The second draws a weak gasp from your throat. For the third, your fingers tangle into his hair.
There’s no gentle fourth kiss that follows because he starts making out with your pussy. Drinks you in to quench his parched taste buds. Devours the taste of intoxicating musk and damp skin, of warm arousal and delicate salt, rich flavors that continuously drool into his mouth as he grinds his tongue flat against your panties.
Can’t even be bothered to peel the thing away. Sure, the fabric scratches right along his jaw, but it does absolutely nothing to stop him from finding your clit. Sweet little thing growing desperately hard with the greedy pull of his lips.
Your nails bite sharply into his scalp. “Fuck, b-baby, I’m gonna—”
He quickly draws back, and your hands immediately clench tight against his roots.
“Babe.”
His amused laughter lingers on your skin as he gently unwinds your grip. Brings your hand down to his lips to press a kiss into your palm. “I know, honey. Promise I'll give it to you.”
You let out a keening whine. “This is not the right time to edge me.”
Leon huffs out another chuckle.
He begs to differ, actually. Not because he genuinely enjoys being a sadist. No, of course not. Ignoring you for the better part of the day already has him feeling awful enough. By way of making amends, the least he can do is be generous—selfless, as he likes to consider himself. Put you out of your goddamn misery.
But a little dragging out couldn’t possibly hurt. He couldn’t touch you all day, couldn’t even look at you properly, so why not take his time now?
Just an extra minute to be greedy, he insists. A few more seconds to admire the state he’s left you in. From the perky jut of your tits behind the see-through mesh to the dark, soaked fabric caught between your dripping pussy. Gooey honey he can still taste on the back of his tongue.
He presses his mouth to your belly, under your heart, over it. Then stands to his full height, tugs the waistband of his sweats down an inch and lets his heavy length spring free.
“Baby, come on.” You track the thick line of him, then mewl when he gives himself a stroke. “Just fuck me already.”
He pushes into you over the flimsy lace. “Like this?”
“Fuck—fuck.” Your hips grind back, partially trying to swallow him right through the damp material. “Take it off.”
“I will."
He does, by pulling the material aside, smoothly sliding back the rich purple that compliments your bare skin. It brings out the natural glow of your damp thighs, highlights the slickness coating your exposed pussy. Swollen folds so thoroughly glazed he adds his own spit, driven by another stubborn compulsion of his to see you absolutely drenched.
You can do it, right? Wet his cock to the point he barely has to put in any effort to slide in?
He starts by giving your sensitive opening a rhythmic taptaptap with his tip. Settles with rubbing the blunt length of it through the wetness he spent so much time admiring. He admires the way you submit to him, too, letting him manhandle your thighs a fraction wider. Takes whatever scraps of friction he decides to give with a soft grace.
A lot of patience, he decides. And the kissing cousin to patience is tenacity.
Your hips give a tiny roll. He smiles—grins, even. It’s hard not to when you’re strung out and teetering so precariously on the edge of the desk, fighting gravity itself to grind against him. He rewards your effort with a slow thrust, finally letting the thick crown sink into your hole.
Slowly, steadily. Watches the way he’s splitting you open, barely, before letting himself savor the sensation of you clenching around the little inch of him buried inside. Incredibly warm, so fucking tight.
His eyes travel along your body, comes to a stop to watch the distortion of your pretty face. Eyes heavy and drooping as if you’re barely conscious, your lips parted in a breathless sigh.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls in a gravelly purr. “You’re trying to swallow me.”
An incoherent noise of pure desperation spills past your lips.
“You want all of it?” Your head jerks in a nod, he does the same. “Okay, okay. You'll get it, honey, don’t worry.”
Later, he adds to himself. Later, when you’re drenching his thighs in so much slick. He settles with rutting against your tightest ring of muscle, instead, relishing the sloppy sound that blends with your high-pitched whines and the destructive crinkle of whatever document you’re currently crushing in your fist.
“I—shit," you whimper. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, tosses a damp piece of hair across his brow. “Ruin everything for all I care.”
You huff out a small, thin laugh. “But you’ve worked so hard on it.”
“I can work hard on it again.”
Your smile is sweet and soft as your hands blindly paw into the empty air, searching for some leverage that doesn’t end in shredding the rest of his papers. He groans when they find purchase on your chest. Moans even louder when you unceremoniously yank the cups down, holding greedy handfuls in your palms.
“That’s it, play with ‘em,” he rasps. “Show me.”
You do, and it takes a huge amount of effort for him not to blow his load right there and then. He could. He would. Yeah, he definitely would. It’s become an ingrained habit for him to empty himself while being buried deep inside you. Stopped buying condoms the first time you guided him bare.
He’s never looked back since then. Might be a kink of his, come to think of it. The sensation of becoming entirely one with you, of leaving a warm part of his very soul that it feels like the ultimate culmination of a hundred different overlapping obsessions. Your immaculate taste in underwear, the very intoxicating taste of you.
Your voice. The deliberate way you pronounce his name. Your restless, wandering hands now gripping your chest, hard nipples peaking between keen fingers.
The sound your body is making. Squelching and sloshing and spilling and dripping as you openly drown in your own pleasure.
You’re wet enough, he decides. Although it doesn’t stop him from gathering a thick pool of saliva behind his teeth again. Lets the string of drool land directly onto your clit before his thumb lands right on top of it. Swirls the little nub with eager eyes as he visibly drinks in another spill of arousal leaking right through the desperate clench of your cunt.
Clench, unclench. Suck, squeeze, hold. You’re practically making a mess on his desk, squirming erratically against the wood in your own puddle the second he quickens the pressure of his thumb.
He wonders if you can cum with just the tip of his cock and the focused burn on your clit.
You show him that you can. Easily. With a tremor that forcefully smears your slickness further across the polished mahogany while your back bows sharply and your eyes roll back in absolute delirium. Watching you swim in a mindless haze is enough to shatter whatever control he had left.
He cums easily, too. Does so by dropping his head with a wildly heaving chest as he quickly strokes the remaining inches of his cock. Pleasure melts right into his bones, as does his cum, spilling hot and thick inside you before letting it overflow across your stretched folds, along the quivering juncture of your legs.
He makes sure it seeps into the edge of your panties. White on purple. Like a painter aggressively smearing his living canvas by swirling your arousal and his cum and his trail of hot saliva into one glob of a creamy mess.
He spits again. Because he can't help himself.
And you laugh. Weak and fond and amused while you lean back on your elbows to watch him obsess over his art.
“You’re such a perv, you know that?”
He does, there’s no point in denying it. But admittedly, he's your perv. And you are his, considering you’re already trying to swallow him whole the moment he tries to nudge back in. Sure, his obsessive streak can be a little overwhelming for polite society, a definite negative for most people to handle. But it’s a good thing two distinct negatives have always made a positive.
Reasonable, then, when it's both of you in the equation.
So he throws you a smirk in return, drags you flush against his hips, and finally fucks you deep.
