Ditzy!Reader who doesn’t realize when one of John’s “friends” are trying to one up you.
cw: 18+ it’s just fluff, no use of y/n, age gap (20s reader, 30s, John)
You don’t get it truly. The only reason you came over was because Martian (your maincoon) had ran off on you again. John had told you, keep him on a leash when you had him out the house.
But he looks so fucking cute frolicking in the grass, you didn’t think he’d slip through the fence John had just fixed.
So you’ve been walking around, heals you threw on now muddy, looking for your big kitty cat, calling out his name. You didn’t even realize you yourself had hopped John’s back fence onto his property. Whispering your cat’s name, meowing and ‘kek-kek’ing with pursed lips for any sign of life.
“Uh, who are you?”
You whip around, a red head with a side part, in pants suit asked. You give her a big smile, straightening the tight and short yellow daisy print two price set you had on, fluffing up your curls that were pushed back with a wide red headband, and then extended your hand, “I’m John’s neighbor, [+]. You must be his friend!”
The woman doesn’t say a word, just raises an eyebrow, doesn’t even go to shake your hand, doesn’t offer you her name. How rude. She crosses her arms over her chest, flips her hair behind her shoulders, “I’ve heard about you, from John.” She bites.
You ponder for a moment, awkwardly retracting your hand, “All good things I hope! We made pound cake yesterday. It was really good!”
The woman smirks, snarky, “Well I’m not too sure how long that will last. You see, John and I…. We’re better than friends.”
You run through your brain again, eyebrows knit together, your long lashes flutter, “Best friends?”
Before the lady gets to say another word, the sliding door to the side of the house opens, revealing John and Martian in his large hand, purring and curling into him.
You squeal, “Martian! There you are kitty!”
John smiles as you make your way over, taking your beautiful form in— breathtaking once again today. You unconsciously get into his space, as if you’re supposed to be there, John resting his palm on the small of your back, “Little minx was sitting in the kitchen window. I’ve told you lovie—“
“ ‘—He can’t be out with a leash’ I knooow.” You whine, taking the large white and grey cat from his hands and into his arms. “But he looked so damn cute! You should’ve seen ‘em Price!”
The woman clears her throat, another hair toss, “-John—“
“—I’ve sent over the documents Claire, you have a good evening.” John doesn’t even lift his blue eyes from you, who’s cutely cooing down at the cat in your arms. She leaves with a snarl, heals clicking on the pavement.
You wave as she pulls out of the drive way, a large smile on your face, even waving Martians paw, John pulls you closer by the waist, giving her a knowing look. But she only scowls and rolls her eyes.
You look up at the older man, tilting your head to the side, just to die for, “Is something wrong with her Price?”
John chuckles, leaving soft kisses your cheek, then your plump lips,
you’re followin’ him around the house like a little duckling in heart-print pajama shorts, pink fuzzy socks, and a tank top that says ‘daddy’s girl’ in glitter letters.
he’s tryin’ to clean his guns on the coffee table. hasn’t looked up once.
“simonnn…” you whine, ploppin’ down beside him.
“what now.” flat. not a question. a warning.
“i just… i missed you…” you blink up at him, resting your chin on your hand. “also… if a plane crashes on the border of two countries… where do they bury the survivors?”
he finally looks up.
“what the fuck did you just say?”
you smile real pretty. “y’know! like… which country do they bury ‘em in?”
he just stares. dead silent.
“…jesus fuckin’ christ.”
you blink. “did i say something dumb?”
“they’re survivors, love. they don’t fuckin’ bury ‘em.”
you giggle. “ohhh…”
he sighs so hard it rattles the windows. tosses his rag onto the table.
“m’gonna lose my fuckin’ mind, swear to god.”
“simon…” you whimper, crawling into his lap. “don’t be mad…”
he leans back, big hands gripping your hips. jaw tight. eyes dark.
“what am i gonna do with you, huh? my soft little wife. can’t even figure out where a fuckin’ plane goes when it crashes.” “was just askin’…” “dumb girl.” he squeezes your hips hard. “head full of sparkles n’ nothin’ else.”
you whimper again, softly, nuzzling into his neck. “but i’m your wifey…”
“fuckin’ right you are.” he grabs your ass and pulls you down onto his cock, already hard beneath his sweats. “mine. my stupid little wifey who follows me ‘round like a lost fuckin’ puppy.”
“’m not stupid…” “you are.” he kisses the corner of your mouth. “but that’s alright. i like you like this. soft. dumb. needy.”
he pulls your tank top down, lets your tits spill out. sucks a bruise into your skin.
“c’mon, then,” he mutters. “ride me. use that dumb brain for somethin’ useful.”
you bounce in his lap, messy and breathy, moanin’ into his mouth. he holds you like a toy—hands bruising, voice gruff.
“look at you,” he groans. “fuckin’ brainless, ain’t ya? all sloppy on my cock.”
“simon—simon, m’your wifey—” “you’re my fuckin’ problem is what you are.”
you cum all over him with a high, shivery cry, babbling nonsense. he doesn’t stop. not even after.
“you ask me one more stupid question,” he pants, “and i’ll bend you over the fuckin’ oven.”
꒰ 𑄹 ׅ 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 do not 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭. ✶ 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.
﹙ ੭꣒ ˖ ﹚ㅤㅤ𝓦𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. office sex & angst. age gap. jealousy. silent treatment. fingering. emotional manipulation. spanking. slight dub-con. anxiety. squirting. strong language. toxic work environment. fauxcest.
📃 continuation of 𝓛𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝓐 𝓢𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝓣𝐎 𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓒𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓.
the air in the library is thick with the smell of old paper and your own quiet misery. it’s supposed to be a sanctuary, a forgotten corner of the dso where no one ever goes, but his presence shatters the peace like a bullet through glass.
“you’re a fuckin’ mess, kid.”
the words hit you like a physical slap. you flinch so hard your spine cracks, your head snapping up to see him standing there, blocking the only way out. he’s a mountain of tactical gear and righteous fury, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. for three weeks, four days, and what feels like a lifetime, you’ve been a ghost to him. now, he’s looking at you. really looking at you. and all you can see in his eyes is a storm of something you can’t name, something that terrifies you more than any bioweapon ever could.
panic, cold and sharp, lances through the fog of your despair. he saw you. he saw you crying, curled up like a pathetic child. he saw the absolute wreckage he’s made of you. the humiliation is a hot, acidic wave rising in your throat. you can’t be this for him. you can’t be the broken, weeping rookie.
your body moves before your brain can catch up. you scramble to your feet, your limbs clumsy and uncoordinated. you wipe at your wet cheeks with the back of your hand, a useless, frantic gesture.
“i-i have to go,” you stammer, your voice thick and unrecognizable. “i have… duties. rookie stuff. cleaning the range.”
it’s the stupidest, most transparent lie you’ve ever told. but it’s all you have. you have a million words bubbling up inside you, a torrent of accusations and questions. why? why did you do this to me? what did i do wrong? do you hate me that much? but they all die on your tongue. you can’t say them. you can’t risk it. he’s still your superior officer. he could have you fired, your career ruined before it even began, all for the crime of backtalking the great leon s. kennedy. he has every right to send you home, and the thought is so devastating it steals your breath.
so you do the only thing you can. you run.
you practically shove past him, not daring to make eye contact, your shoulder brushing against the solid wall of his chest. for a split second, you feel the heat of him and smell that familiar, intoxicating scent of gunpowder, leather, and him. it’s like a punch to the gut. you stumble and then you’re out the door, your worn dso-issued boots pounding against the linoleum as you flee down the empty corridor. you don’t look back, but you can feel his gaze burning into your spine every step of the way.
a new resolve hardens in your chest, forged in the fires of pure, unadulterated humiliation. fine. if he wants to play this game, you can play it too. you’re done being the kicked puppy. you’re done waiting for a scrap of attention from his table.
it’s your turn to ignore him.
the rest of the day becomes a masterclass in avoidance. you move through the dso headquarters like a phantom, your senses on high alert. you see him rounding a corner ahead, and you immediately duck into a supply closet, your heart hammering against your ribs as you wait for his heavy footsteps to pass. you take the long way to the armory, adding ten minutes to your trip, just to avoid the main thoroughfare where he might be. in the mess hall, you grab a protein bar and eat it in the women’s locker room, the silence a welcome reprieve.
you know it’s working because you can feel the shift in the atmosphere. the air around the agency, which was already tense, is now crackling with a new, frustrated energy that seems to emanate from one specific, pissed-off senior agent. you hear his voice, sharper and more clipped than usual, barking an order at some poor, unsuspecting tech. you catch a glimpse of him through a window, pacing in the training yard, his movements tight and angry.
oh, it’s frustrating him to his core. and a small, vindictive part of you revels in it. it feels like taking back a tiny sliver of power in a situation where you have none. he wanted to erase you? well, you’re erasing him right back.
your last task of the day is the one you lied about earlier: cleaning up the gun range. it’s menial, dirty work usually reserved for punishing rookies, but right now, you welcome it. the repetitive, mindless motion of collecting brass casings, wiping down the stations, and patching targets is almost meditative. it gives you something to focus on other than the gaping hole in your chest.
the range is empty, the silence broken only by the clatter of shell casings dropping into your bucket and the soft scuff of your boots on the concrete floor. you’re alone, finally. you let your shoulders slump, the rigid posture you’ve been holding all day finally giving way to exhaustion.
“agent.”
the voice makes you jump, and a handful of brass casings scatter across the floor. you spin around to see agent davis, one of the senior operations managers, standing by the entrance. he’s an older man with a kind face that’s currently set in a neutral, unreadable expression.
“sir,” you say, straightening up immediately.
“finish up here,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “when you’re done, agent kennedy wants to see you in his office. said it was important.”
ice floods your veins. your carefully constructed wall of defiance crumbles into dust. his office. not the briefing room, not the training yard. his office. the place no one goes unless they’re getting a formal reprimand or being handed their walking papers.
this is it. this is where he fires you for being an emotional, unprofessional wreck.
“yes, sir,” you manage to choke out, your throat suddenly tight.
davis gives you a long, searching look, a flicker of something like pity in his eyes, before he turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the cavernous silence of the gun range. your hands are shaking so badly you can barely scoop the fallen casings back into the bucket. every clink of metal sounds like a countdown to the end of your career.
the walk from the gun range to the executive wing is the longest walk of your life. each step is heavy and deliberate. you feel like you’re walking the green mile. the elevator ride up to his floor is agonizingly slow, the soft chime as it arrives at its destination sounding like a death knell.
you step out into the hallway. it’s quieter up here; the floors are carpeted to muffle sound. his office is at the very end of the hall, set apart from the others. it’s his private sanctum. you know the rumors. he’d personally requested it after the incident in tall oaks. soundproof walls. a private, secure server. a window with a panoramic view of the city, perfectly positioned to catch both the sunrise and the sunset. and the lighting was always kept dim, the blinds perpetually shut, creating an ambiance of perpetual twilight. it was the office of a man who carried the weight of the world and preferred to do it in the dark.
your feet feel like lead as you approach the dark wood door. his name is there on a simple brass plaque: leon s. kennedy. you stare at it for a long moment, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. you take a deep, shaky breath, ball your hand into a fist, and knock twice. the sound is shockingly loud in the silence.
a moment passes. then, his voice, low and gravelly, comes from within.
“come in.”
your hand trembles as you turn the cold, metal handle. you push the heavy door open and step inside, the carefully constructed fortress of your composure threatening to collapse. you close the door behind you, the soft click of the latch sealing you in. the soundproof walls immediately swallow the noise from the hallway, plunging you into an unnerving, intimate silence.
the room is exactly as you’d imagined. dim, moody, and overwhelmingly masculine. the only light comes from the dying embers of the sunset, which paint the sky outside the massive window in strokes of orange, pink, and deep purple. the air smells like him, that signature blend of expensive cologne, old leather, and something uniquely, indefinably leon.
he isn’t at his desk. he’s standing by the far wall, his back to you, looking out at the sunset. his arms are resting on a long, dark wood shelf that runs the length of the wall. it’s covered in his achievements: plaques, medals, commendations from a dozen different agencies, and a lifetime of saving the world displayed like hunting trophies. behind his large, imposing desk is a huge, framed photograph of him with president benford, taken before… well, before.
he’s wearing the same clothes you saw him in earlier. a dark navy, quarter-zip compression shirt that hugs the thick, powerful muscles of his torso and arms. the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing the corded strength of his forearms. his pants are black, tactical cargos, practical and durable, tucked into a pair of black boots that look like they’ve seen their fair share of action. even in his own office, he’s wearing his tac vest. always ready. always on duty.
you stand awkwardly in front of his desk, your hands clasped tightly behind your back, feeling small and out of place. as you’re waiting, the silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken words. you can hear your own blood rushing in your ears.
when he finally speaks, his voice is a low, gruff rumble that seems to vibrate through the floor. he doesn’t turn around. his gaze remains fixed on the fading light outside.
“why did you run from me?”
it’s not an accusation. it’s a simple question, but it’s loaded with the weight of the last three weeks. your throat is dry. you swallow hard, forcing yourself to find your voice.
“i told you,” you say, your tone coming out more clipped and defensive than you intended. “i had duties to tend to. rookie stuff.” you add the last part to reinforce the wall between you and the professional hierarchy. you’re just the rookie. he’s the legend. that’s all there is. “you finding me in the library… that was a mistake. you weren’t supposed to see that.”
he lets out a sound. it’s a short, bitter chuckle, completely devoid of humor. it’s the sound of a man pushed to his limit. the sound scrapes against your raw nerves.
slowly, he turns to face you, his arms still crossed over his broad chest as he leans his weight back against the shelf of his accomplishments. the last rays of sunlight catch the sharp planes of his face, casting his eyes into shadow. but you can feel their intensity, even from across the room. they’re burning holes in you.
“a mistake,” he repeats, his voice dangerously soft. “right.”
As you shift your weight from one foot to the other, the urge to flee, to run out that door and never look back, is a primal scream in your mind. “what was so important?” you ask, trying to steer the conversation back to professional ground. “agent davis said you needed to speak to me privately.” you need a reason for being here, a mission objective. anything other than this suffocating, personal tension.
he doesn’t give you a straight answer. he just watches you for another long, agonizing moment, his gaze so intense it feels like he’s peeling back your skin layer by layer, exposing every raw nerve, every insecurity. then, he pushes off the shelf and starts walking towards you.
he moves with a predator’s grace, silent and deliberate. each step he takes towards you makes your heart beat faster, a frantic bird trapped in the cage of your ribs. he doesn’t stop until he’s standing directly in front of you, so close you have to crane your neck to look up at him. he’s hovering over you, his sheer size and presence utterly overwhelming. you’re trapped between the front of his massive desk and the solid wall of his body.
“tell me about alex,” he says, his voice a low growl.
the question throws you completely off balance. “what? who–?” you stammer, genuinely confused for a second before the friendly, smiling face of the new rookie pops into your head. “alex? what about him? that’s… that’s none of your business.”
“is he fucking you?”
the question is so blunt, so crude, it feels like he just backhanded you. your jaw drops. “what? no! he’s my friend. he’s just… nice.”
“i don’t like the way he looks at you,” he snarls, his eyes flashing with that same dark, stormy emotion you saw in the library. jealousy. it’s raw, ugly, and terrifyingly possessive.
he reaches up, his large, calloused hand moving as if to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. it’s a gesture that, weeks ago, would have sent a thrill through you. now, it feels like a violation. an assertion of ownership he hasn’t earned.
your reaction is pure instinct. you flinch back, slapping his hand away before his fingers can make contact. “don’t,” you hiss, your voice shaking with a mixture of fear and fury. “you have no right to touch me.”
the moment your skin makes contact with his, a jolt of electricity sparks between you. his eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and his jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. he looks down at his hand, the one you just slapped away, as if he’s surprised by it. then he looks back at you, and the storm in his eyes has become a full-blown hurricane.
“no right?” he whispers, his voice dangerously low. he takes another half-step forward, closing the last inch of space between you. his body brushes against yours, and the heat from him seeps through your clothes. “after everything? you think i have no right?”
“you gave up that right when you decided i didn’t exist anymore!” the words burst out of you, raw and wounded. “you don’t get to ignore me for weeks, treat me like i’m nothing, and then get to be jealous when someone else is actually nice to me!”
“he’s nice to you?” he scoffs, his lip curling in a sneer. “he wants to get in your pants, you idiot. is that what you want? some fumbling rookie pawing at you?”
“it’s better than being treated like a ghost by the one person i…” you choke on the words, unable to finish. the one person you care about. the one person whose opinion matters more than anyone else’s.
his expression changes. the anger flickers, replaced by something else. something that looks suspiciously like pain. “the one person you what?” he presses, his voice softer now, more urgent.
you just shake your head, fresh tears stinging your eyes. you can’t say it. you won’t give him that.
“say it,” he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb stroking gently over your pulse point. your heart is beating like a drum machine.
you shake your head again, a single tear escaping and tracing a hot path down your cheek.
and that’s what breaks him.
with a low groan that sounds like it’s torn from the very depths of his soul, he closes the last remaining distance between you. his other hand comes up to cradle your face, his large, rough palms holding you as if you’re something precious, something fragile. his thumbs wipe away your tears, and then his mouth is on yours.
it’s not a gentle kiss. it’s three weeks of silence and frustration and jealousy poured into one. his lips are firm and demanding, moving against yours with a bruising force. you’re so shocked you freeze for a second, your mind reeling. this is happening. this is actually happening.
then he groans your name against your mouth, a broken, desperate sound, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips, seeking entrance. he wants to taste you, to devour you, to reclaim you. and your body, the traitorous, needy thing that it is, responds instantly.
you let out a soft whimper, and your lips part, giving him the access he craves. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, hot and wet and tasting of coffee and mint. it’s a taste you’ve missed more than you ever let yourself admit. you kiss him back, your own desperation matching his. your hands, which had been trapped between your bodies, come up to rest on his massive forearms. the muscle is hard as rock beneath your palms. heat, sharp and immediate, pools low in your belly, a familiar ache that you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.
he grunts in approval, a deep, throaty sound of satisfaction, as you kiss him back with equal fervor. this isn’t the first time. far from it. you’ve done this countless times before, in stolen moments in quiet corridors and dark supply closets, before he’d erected that wall of ice between you. you know the taste of him, the feel of him. and your body remembers even if your mind is trying to protect you.
his hands slide from your face, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to give him better access, the other sliding down your back to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him. you can feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach, even through the layers of your clothes and his. the knowledge that you do this to him, that even after everything, you still have this effect on him, sends a jolt of pure, feminine power through you.
he breaks the kiss, both of you panting for air, your foreheads resting against each other. his eyes are closed, his expression one of pure, agonizing relief.
“fuck,” he breathes out, his voice thick with emotion. “i missed you.”
the words are a balm on your wounded soul. but before you can even process them, before you can respond, he’s moving again. with a strength that still manages to surprise you, he hooks his hands under your thighs and hoists you up as if you weigh nothing. you let out a surprised yelp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. he takes two steps back and sets you down on the cold, smooth surface of the long shelf he was leaning against earlier.
the sudden change in height puts you at eye level with him. the framed medals and plaques dig into your back, cold and hard against your thin compression shirt. his hands don’t leave your thighs. they slide up, his large palms mapping the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively. he knows all the right places, all the spots that make you squirm. he squeezes again, harder this time, and you let out a little gasp, your hips instinctively bucking against him.
“just–fuck,” he growls, his gaze dark and hungry as it roams over your body. “i missed your body, mamas.”
his lips find yours again, another deep, soul-stealing kiss, while his hands get to work. he’s surprisingly deft for a man his size. he reaches down and unlaces your dso-issued boots with quick, efficient movements, tossing them carelessly to the floor. then his hands are at the button of your black cargo pants.
“lift up,” he commands, his voice a low rumble against your mouth.
you obey without thinking, lifting your hips off the shelf. he tugs your pants down your legs, taking your socks with them, until you’re kicking them free. they join your boots in a heap on the floor. now you’re sitting on his shelf of achievements, clad in only your black dso-issued compression tee and your panties. your favorite pink lace thong, a secret rebellion of color and femininity under your dull uniform.
he pulls back to look at you, his eyes devouring you. the last of the evening light filters through the window, casting long shadows across the room, highlighting the flush on your skin.
“perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
he leans in, his body pressing yours back against the wall of trophies. his mouth leaves yours and begins a slow, torturous trail down your jaw, your neck, and your throat. his lips are hot and wet, smacking against your heated skin, and the office is filled with the obscene, wonderful sound. you tilt your head back, giving him better access, your fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders.
his hand, the one that was on your ass, slides around to the front, settling over the juncture of your thighs again. even through the thin lace of your panties, you can feel the heat of his palm. you’re already so wet for him. it’s humiliating and exhilarating all at once.
he grunts, a low, appreciative sound, as his index and middle finger press against your slick entrance, right over the fabric. he rubs you a little, a slow, circular motion that has you gasping against his mouth, which is now busy planting open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. the combination of the rough pressure between your legs and the hot suction on your skin is overwhelming.
“leon,” you gasp, your voice breathy and weak.
“i know, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “i know.”
he teases you for another moment, rubbing and pressing until you’re writhing on the shelf, a low, continuous whine building in the back of your throat. with a final, rough kiss to the hollow of your throat, he moves his hand. he doesn’t take your panties off. he just hooks his fingers under the lace edge and pushes them to the side, exposing you completely to the cool air of the office and his hot, hungry gaze.
you gasp as his fingers, now bare, find you. the rough pads of his fingertips brush against your swollen, sensitive clit, and you cry out, your back arching. he lets them settle there for a moment, letting you feel the promise of what’s to come, before he slowly, so slowly, eases his index and middle fingers inside your sopping wet hole.
a loud, unrestrained moan tears from your throat. you’re so tight, warm, and slick. his fingers feel so thick, so good. the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, is almost too much. you wrap your arms tightly around his neck. burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, trying to muffle the sounds you’re making. you can’t believe this is happening in his office. anyone could walk by... or even worse, someone entering without knocking. the thought is both terrifying and incredibly arousing.
he lets his fingers settle inside you for a moment, letting your body adjust to the feel of him. then, he starts to move. he pumps them in and out of you, slowly at first, then picking up the pace until he’s fucking you with his fingers in a hard, fast rhythm that has your brain short-circuiting.
“fuck, you’re so wet,” he mutters into your shoulder, his voice a hoarse growl. he bites down gently on the soft skin there, and you cry out, the pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. you can feel your orgasm building, a tight, coiling knot deep in your belly.
“leon, please, i’m close,” you pant, your words slurring together.
“i know,” he says, and he changes the angle of his fingers, curling them up slightly so the pads press directly against your g-spot.
your whole body convulses. you scream his name as the pleasure crashes over you, a tidal wave of pure sensation. your inner muscles clench tightly around his fingers, and you come hard, your body shaking uncontrollably. you feel the hot, slick mess you’re making, your cum dripping down his hand and onto the polished wood of his shelf. you came all over his achievements. the thought makes a fresh wave of heat rush through you.
he doesn’t stop. he keeps his fingers moving inside you, riding out your orgasm until the last tremor has faded. then, with a wet pop, he pulls his fingers out of you. you’re left panting, your body boneless and weak, your face still buried in his shoulder.
you feel him move, and you lift your head slightly to see what he’s doing. he brings his slick, glistening fingers up to his mouth. his blue eyes, dark and hooded, never leave yours as he slowly, deliberately, sucks each finger clean. you watch, mesmerized, as he licks and sucks the evidence of your pleasure from his own hand. you could have sworn you saw his eyes roll back into his head for a split second as he swallows.
the sight is one of the most depraved, most possessive things you have ever seen, and it makes you wetter than you already were.
“my turn,” he says, his voice thick and raspy.
he steps back just enough to give himself room. you hear the click of his belt buckle being undone and the rasp of his zipper being pulled down. he frees himself from the opening in his black boxer briefs, and your breath catches in your throat. he’s thick and long and so hard. it’s been so long since you’ve seen him, felt him. he has his issues, you know that. the stress of the job, the trauma he carries… it affects him. but never with you. with you, he’s always been perfect.
he spits a generous amount into his palm and wraps his hand around his length, lubing himself up with a few quick, rough strokes. his eyes are still locked on you, watching your reaction. he loves seeing you watch him.
“legs up,” he commands, his voice pure gravel.
you do as you’re told, your mind hazy with lust. you bend your legs, bringing your knees up towards your chest, and hold them in the air, your feet braced against the edge of the shelf. the position is vulnerable and open, and it gives him the perfect angle. he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours once more. he lines the thick, pink head of his cock up with your entrance. you can see your cum, dripping from your folds and coating the tip of him. the sight is so beautifully obscene it makes you shiver.
“look at that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a prayer. “jus’ for me.”
with one slow, powerful thrust, he pushes inside you.
a strangled cry escapes your lips. he’s so much thicker than his fingers. he fills you completely, stretching you, seating himself deep inside you until he’s buried to the hilt. you can feel every inch of him. he has to pause for a moment, his body tense, his eyes squeezed shut. you’re so incredibly tight around him. it’s a perfect, searing pressure.
the only sound in the office is the wet, slick noise of his cock sliding into your drenched pussy. that sound alone is enough to send shivers down your spine. only he can do this to you. only he can turn you into this pliant, needy putty in his hands.
he stays still inside you for a long moment, letting you both savor the feeling of being connected again after so long. then, slowly, he begins to move. he pulls back almost all the way and finally thrusts back in, a slow, deliberate rhythm that’s pure misery and bliss.
“oh, god,” you whimper, your hands coming to rest on his chest, your fingers curling into the material of his compression shirt.
he finds his rhythm, and it starts to get faster, harder. his hands come up to grip the backs of your knees, holding your legs up and open for him. he’s fucking you deep, his hips slamming against yours with a force that makes the shelf beneath you tremble. you watch, your eyes half-lidded, as your pussy grips his length, sucking him back in every time he tries to pull out.
you’re a moaning, rambling mess. your words are all fucked up; your brain has completely short-circuited. all you can do is feel. the feeling of him inside you, the rough texture of his tac vest against your hands, and the sound of his grunts and whimpers and muttered curses filling the room.
he’s losing control. his thrusts become harder, faster, more frantic. you can hear some of the smaller items on the shelf, a framed certificate and a heavy challenge coin, clatter to the floor by his feet, but neither of you cares. you’re lost in the storm you’ve created.
you move your hands behind you, your palms flat against the shelf to support yourself as you arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet his every thrust. he groans, a firm, animalistic sound, as the new angle allows him to hit that one spot deep inside you, that spongy, sensitive place that makes your toes curl and your vision go white at the edges.
“right there, huh?" he growls, and he starts hammering into you, hitting that spot over and over and over again.
the back of your head rests against the cool, tinted glass of the window. your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. you swear you’re seeing stars. the pleasure is too much! it’s overwhelming; it’s everything.
“leon!” you scream, your voice cracking.
his name is the only thing that breaks him. with a final, low growl, he thrusts into you one last time, his whole body seizing as he floods your womb with his hot seed. the feeling of him coming inside you triggers yours, a second, shattering orgasm that rips through you, making you cry out and convulse around him.
he doesn’t pull out. he stays buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting and slick with sweat. the silence of the office settles around you again, broken only by your ragged breaths.
but he’s not done with you. not even close.
after a minute, he lifts his head, his eyes dark and wild. without a word, he grips your ass, and with him still buried deep inside you, he lifts you off the shelf. you gasp, your legs tightening around his waist, your arms clinging to his neck. he carries you, the two of you still joined, over to his big, leather office chair behind his desk.
he sits down, adjusting you on his lap so you’re straddling him. he’s still hard inside you. impossibly, he feels like he’s getting harder.
“bounce like you want it, baby,” he orders, his voice a raw, ragged command.
oh, you do.
you start to bounce on his cock, your movements feverish and desperate. your thighs are already burning from the intensity of your last orgasm, but you don’t care. you need more of him. you need all of him. his hands come up to hold your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. your own hands find his strong wrists, holding on for dear life as you ride him.
the old chair creaks in protest with every bounce, a rhythmic counterpoint to the wet, slapping sounds of your bodies colliding. the room is filled with the sound of skin on skin, of your wetness, of your own whiny, pathetic moans. you’re a mess, completely unraveled for him, and he’s watching you with an expression of pure, savage satisfaction.
you can feel another orgasm building, this one faster, sharper, and more intense than the others. your body is so sensitive now, every thrust sending lightning bolts of pleasure through you.
“leon, i’m gonna… i can’t…” you sob, your hips moving faster, more frantically.
“i know, doll, let go for me,” he grunts, his own hips bucking up to meet your downward strokes, driving himself even deeper. “let it all go, ‘s okay. dad’s got you."
and it happens. with a choked cry leaving your lips, your body clenches violently around him, and you’re squirting, a hot gush of fluid soaking his lap, running down his thighs. it’s your third orgasm, and your body is completely overwhelmed. you collapse against his chest, sobbing and shaking, completely spent.
the feeling of your release, of your hot fluid coating him, is what pushes him over the edge for a second time. with a loud, desperate groan, he comes again, a release so powerful it truly feels like it’s filling you to the brim. he stays inside you, his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you in place, making sure not a single drop of him escapes.
for a long time, you just stay like that, wrapped around each other, your bodies aching and trembling. eventually, he stirs. he pulls back just enough to kiss you again, a sloppy, messy kiss full of spit and hunger.
you feel his hands slide down to your ass.
smack.
the sound is sharp and loud in the quiet room. you moan into his mouth, the sting on your skin sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. he bucks his hips up, his still-hard cock pressing deep inside you.
smack. smack.
he starts squeezing the flesh globes of your ass, his grip firm and enticing, alternating between hard squeezes and sharp, stinging smacks. you’re sure it’ll hurt to sit for days, but right now, you don’t care. you just moan and whine, your body a pliant, willing toy in his hands.
he’s marking you, branding you as his. you love it, fuck yeah, you do. you care deeply about this man. in the disarray of his office and the ruins of your secret professional relationship.
You’d been following Shane around like a lost puppy all day. Again.
He was fixing a fence post—again—and you were hovering three feet behind him with your hands clasped behind your back, watching like he was putting on a show just for you.
“Shane?” you chirped.
He sighed. “Yeah, baby?”
“You want me to… go pick some berries or somethin’? Or maybe I can sweep the porch again? Or—oh! I can refill your water jug. It’s gotta be warm now, right?”
He wiped sweat from his brow, cast you a look over his shoulder.
You were smiling. Wide. Like it was the best part of your day just being assigned some meaningless task by him.
Shane ran his hand down his face and muttered, “Yeah, alright. Porch could use a sweep.”
You gasped, delighted.
“Yes, sir!”
And off you went. Practically skipping.
—
Ten minutes.
He got ten minutes.
Then:
“I swept it twice just to be sure!”
You were back, beaming, barefoot now for some reason, proudly holding the broom like it was a weapon you’d conquered.
Shane squinted up at you.
“You done already?”
“Uh-huh! Wasn’t even that dusty.”
He stared at you for a long second. Then sighed again.
“Alright. Why don’t you go check on the chickens. Make sure they got food. Might be some corn still in the sack behind the coop.”
You nodded. “Yessir!”
Off again.
—
Eight minutes this time.
“They’re all fed! One of them pecked at me but I think she was just confused ‘cause I smell like you.”
Shane looked up from his half-repaired post, jaw clenched.
You weren’t trying to be a pain. He knew that. You were sweet. Soft. Practically glowing with adoration every time your eyes met his. You looked at him like he hung the damn moon. And some sick, selfish part of him loved it.
But another part?
The part that was hot, sweaty, and trying to fix a fence post that wouldn’t set straight?
Was losing his goddamn mind.
“Alright, sugar,” he said, voice tight. “Think you can go… polish my boots?”
“Ooooh, yes.” You grinned like he just gave you an award. “I’ll even shine the little buckles.”
Of course you would.
—
Seven minutes.
He didn’t even hear you come back that time. Just looked up and there you were—knees dirty, holding his boots like a trophy, cheeks flushed from the sun.
“All done!”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
You blinked.
“What?”
Shane didn’t answer. Just stood up. Tossed the hammer down in the grass. Marched toward you.
You opened your mouth to ask something else—but before you could speak, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you back toward the house.
“Shane?”
“Inside. Now.”
Your heart fluttered. Your tummy did that little flip it did when he used that tone. You followed in silence, eyes big, breath shallow.
—
As soon as you were inside the bedroom and the door shut behind you, he had you up against the wall.
“Can’t give me ten minutes, can you?” he growled. “Not ten goddamn minutes to myself.”
You whined, eyes shining. “I just wanted to help—”
“You ain’t helpin’. You’re drivin’ me crazy. Baby, I love that pretty little smile and your sweet voice and that dumb-ass giggle—but fuck. I need a break.”
You blinked, mouth trembling just a little.
“Don’t… don’t want you to need a break from me,” you whispered.
Shane stared at you for a moment. Then something shifted behind his eyes. His jaw ticked. His hands gripped your hips.
“I’ll tell you what I need.”
You whimpered as he spun you around and bent you over the bed.
“Shane—”
“Shhh. Be good.”
You heard the buckle of his belt. The zip. The rustle of his jeans.
You wiggled your hips, needy, aching, brain already fogging from the sudden change in tone.
“I was bein’ good, I was—”
“No,” he snapped, yanking your shorts down roughly. “You were bein’ a damn nuisance.”
Your pussy clenched.
“You like bein’ a nuisance?” he asked low, dragging the head of his cock through your folds.
You whined. “N-no… I just like bein’ near you…”
He chuckled darkly.
“Course you do.”
He shoved inside you in one deep thrust and you cried out, clutching the sheets, breath caught in your throat.
“You fuckin’ live for this, don’t you?” he hissed, snapping his hips. “All day, followin’ me around like a goddamn puppy. You just wanted cock.”
You sobbed into the mattress. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—Shane—”
“You’re soaked,” he growled. “Don’t lie to me.”
He pounded into you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“Take it, baby,” he grunted. “Take it like a good little fuckdoll.”
You mewled. “I am, I am, I’m bein’ good, I swear—”
“Say it.”
“M’bein’ good! Bein’ good for you, daddy!”
His hips stuttered.
You moaned at the sound of his groan behind you, the way he suddenly grabbed your hair and pulled you up so your back arched and you were crying from how deep he hit.
“You gonna be quiet for me now?” he rasped into your ear. “Let me finish my work without you draggin’ your cute little ass back every five fuckin’ minutes?”
You whined.
“Don’t know… need you too much…”
He fucked you harder.
You were close. Your legs shook. Your thighs quivered.
He slipped a hand down and rubbed your clit, fast and filthy.
“Cum for me,” he ordered. “Now.”
You screamed, head thrown back, toes curling, mind going blank.
And he kept going. Hips pounding until he slammed in deep and groaned low, filling you up.
—
You didn’t even realize when he pulled out. Or when he cleaned you up. You were limp, dazed, cheek pressed to the sheets, eyelids heavy.
Shane pulled the covers up over you gently.
“Go to sleep, baby.”
You whined softly, tugging at his wrist.
“Don’t wanna sleep unless you’re stayin’…”
He leaned down, kissed your forehead.
“I’ll be back. Just need to fix that post. You wore me out.”
You pouted, already drifting.
“’Kay… but come back…”
“Always do.”
—
Shane walked out of the room, finally getting the silence he’d begged for all day.
But even as he returned to the fence, hands to work, all he could think about was you curled up in his bed—barely able to keep your eyes open—dreaming about him.
And he knew you’d be back at his side the second you woke up.
clark finds your clumsiness both terrifying and adorable. he’s always hovering—hand at your back on stairs, ready to catch you if you trip because you trip a lot.
you say things that make no sense but somehow hit him right in the soul. “you’re like a saturday morning.” and clark will catch himself thinking about that for the next few months.
you absolutely do not clock that clark is superman. like. at all.
he laughs so much around you. like real, unguarded laughs. you make him feel normal in a way.
he’s obsessed with you. not in a scary way—just that quiet, steady, “this is my person” way.
you accidentally say the most unhinged romantic things. “if you ever turned evil I’d simply remind you you’re a farm boy and it would fix everything.”
you forget things easily. clark just casually superspeeds to grab whatever you lost and hands it to you like it’s no big deal. “oh! i was looking for that!” “i know.”
you accidentally flirt without realizing it. “your arms look really… hug-shaped today.” and he blushes. hard.
when you fall asleep on him, he won’t move for hours if needed to. because you look too peaceful and comfortable. his legs could go numb and he’d still be like, “worth it.”
you trust him completely, without hesitation. that trust means more to him than you’ll ever know—especially with the secret he’s carrying.
you’ll randomly cup his face and squish his cheeks because “he looks too serious.” clark melts. fully. every time.
he’s so careful with you. always. even when things get heated, there’s this restraint—like he’s hyper-aware of his strength. you once whispered, “you won’t hurt me.” and that nearly undid him.
❕NSFW
you get him hard without even trying. and you won’t know he’s hard unless he tells you.
you start laughing mid-kiss. he’s aching under his pants and you’re fucking laughing.
you absentmindedly trace the veins in his forearms while talking. he stops processing anything you’re saying. wishing you were tracing other veins—
most of times you’re making out or having sex, he keeps his glasses on. because you love them so much. he tries his best to keep them on his face just for you.
he loves when you get loud. not because he likes the sound (which he does), but because you’re mostly trying to be quiet, so when you get really loud, he knows he’s hitting the right spot.
you like feeling how solid he is. running your hands over his chest whenever you’re on top. clark doesn’t last long because of that.
he’s a tits guy. sleeping together in the same bed? his head is on your chest. watching a movie? he’ll be lying on top of you with his head between your breasts. and sometimes, without realizing, his hand slips under your shirt to squeeze them.
you love kissing along his neck because it makes him inhale sharply. the fact that you can make someone that strong react like that? it gets you wet.
sometimes, he might get quiet during sex. he likes watching you. like he’s trying to memorize every single reaction.
when you get needy and impatient, you tug him closer with a soft, “clark…” just his name. the warning in his eyes before he kisses you senseless? yeah.
you love when he lifts you. effortless. one hand at your thigh. it makes you feel small in the best way. it makes him feel dangerously close to forgetting how strong he is.
he has too much stamina. so, when you’re tired and he wants another round, he reassures you he’ll go slow and stop whenever you want. he’ll do anything for a little more of pleasure and you.
a/n : i love them sm i might make a masterlist for clark and make reader a moodboard lol
stuff ditzy!reader says to simon while they’re having sex
you’re all breathy and whiny under him, blinking up at him with lipgloss kissed half-off, and go:
"wait— does it like… count as cardio even if i’m like... just laying here bein' pretty?"
and simon groans against your neck, "christ pet, you're gonna kill me."
but he's smirking. because he loves that you’re soft. that you're sweet. that you trust him to be the big scary soldier man while you get to be pretty, cared for, and spoiled.
your lipstick is smudged, your hair all mussed from where nanami’s big hand has been in it, forcing your head down against the couch cushions. you’re on all fours, drooling around the way he’s got you—hips pulled up high, his cock driving into you so deep it makes your eyes roll back.
“you really can’t think of anything but this, can you?” his voice is low, annoyed, but the way his hips snap against your ass says otherwise. “so needy. so fucking stupid for me.”
you whimper, nails scratching at the couch fabric, words tumbling out slurred: “i-it feels so good, kento—feels so good i can’t—can’t think…”
that makes him chuckle, cruel and sharp. he presses down on the back of your neck, your cheek squished against the cushions while he pounds into you harder. “no thoughts in that pretty little head, hm? just cock.”
your mascara’s running from the tears gathering in your eyes, the sting of his thrusts too much and yet not enough. “please,” you sob, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for.
nanami leans forward, his chest to your back, breath hot against your ear. “please what? use your words, sweetheart—if you can manage it.” his hand slides down your belly, finding your clit and rubbing hard circles until you’re shaking, squealing, babbling nonsense into the couch.
“wan’ you–wan’ you to cum inside—” you gasp out finally, and his groan is so deep it vibrates through you.
“of course you do. dumb little thing, desperate to be bred.” his grip tightens on your hip as he slams in to the hilt, grinding against your cervix until you squealed. “you’re going to take every drop i give you, understand?”
your voice breaks on a frantic, high-pitched “yes!” and then you’re gone, clenching so hard around him that his rhythm falters, dragging a curse from his lips before he spills hot and heavy inside, holding you in place so you can’t squirm away.
he doesn’t pull out right away, just strokes your hair in a paternal and almost gentle way, letting you whimper and twitch under him. “such a mess. you’re lucky i like you stupid.”
WARNINGS ⭑.ᐟ manhandling, swearing, mentions of boxing, degradation kink, slight dacryphilia (if u squint), & choking.
NOTES ⭑.ᐟ you’re responsible for the content you consume.
WORD COUNT ⭑.ᐟ under 1.0k
AUTHOR’S NOTE ⭑.ᐟ likes, reblogs, and requests are appreciated and encouraged 🐆
it’d been a long goddamn day.
between busting his knuckles in the ring, getting home later than he was supposed to, and you mouthing off at him— he was pissed.
you’d been whining at him— complaining about how much he was training, how the money on your card was running out, and how you needed your hair done soon. he brushed you off in the moment, knowing you’d forget about it within an hour— which resulted in a full on tantrum from you. stomping your foot, raising your voice at him, and your hands curling into fists at your sides.
he’d had enough.
that tantrum landed you in your shared bed, your face pushed into the pillow, his hips pounding into yours with a sloppy rhythm. you knew you were in the wrong— you wanted to end up in this position, wanted his attention and the way his rough hands molded your body into a position he wanted.
“rafe—“ you garbled, fresh tears springing at your eyes as you attempted to lift your head, hands trying feebly to grasp into him. his hand reached up, pinning both of your hands against your lower back, delivering an even harder thrust.
“you don’t get to ask for things right now,” he mumbled, groaning when he felt the way your pussy clenched. “sat there mouthin’ off to me and y’think i’m gonna let you grab all up on me like your personal toy? nah, baby.”
your whimpers were muffled by the pillow, wet tears dampening the silk pillowcases, your hips pushing back into his helplessly— hearing the grunts and groans fall from his lips every now and then.
his pace picked up, if even possible, the loud smack! of his hips into yours echoing off the mansions walls, grunting into your neck as he got closer to the edge.
your heart was thumping out of your chest, hips squirming as you tried not to cum around him so fast, barely able to contain it when his balls slapped against your clit with every harsh thrust of his hips, and—
“oh god—“ you whimpered, your eyes squeezing shut as you buried your face in the pillow, creaming around his cock with a muffled cry, feeling his fingers dig into the fatness of your ass.
he groaned out loudly, spilling into you with a curse falling from his lips, watching your ass ripple as he buried himself into you. you both sat there for a moment, heavy breathing filling the room as you felt the clammy sheen settle over your warmed skin, your lashes wet from the tears.
“i put five grand on your card,” he mumbled, pulling out of you and delivering a smack to your ass. “fuckin’ brat.”
