Day 19 - Favorite 'I love you' or romantic declaration in general..
After much thought, I'm gonna go with 'I love you'..It's a tie between these two..
I absolutely love the way these two are affectionate with each other..it is so beautiful but I have to say I feel such a strong emotion come over me whenever Angel declares his love for Buffy..
Long immuned to the possibility of ever having the opportunity to feel what more revel in that emotion,his declaration is so raw and in a way,so very pure...like he told her before...
(which is also one of my fave romantic declaration)
Buffy is literally the only woman for him...Period.That is so supremely beautiful and poignant at the same time..To whole-heartedly be in love with someone and yet not being able to be with them is something no one should ever have to feel..
Sure,there will always be ppl who will move heaven and earth to disagree with me,hate the ship and poke a million holes on their relationship but even they cannot deny that Bangel's history will always cast a shadow over their ships...Even the ones that Buffy/Angel tried to love know that Buffy or Angel could never belong to them wholly...they will always be second best..
The beauty of Bangel is that there is no doubt,no question about the way they feel about each other..they can never and will never love another unconditionally..there is no man/woman/vampire/higher being who could ever sever the deep connection they have because Buffy and Angel will always be in love with each other as long as they live..
honestly, if i never date anyone, it’s going to be for the simple reason that i won’t have found anyone who can be normal about the fact that i will love a lot of things more than i love them and that won’t ever change. which i think should just be standard, but apparently, most people expect romance to make them your top priority immediately and forever. wild
The story is pretty surface level, actually. Which is understandable and works in our favour. It is what we’re shown. This common affinity for this ship but easy shift worked perfectly as intended. The short buildup and young-starting age created the intended sweetness between children.
What Mike and El had was puppy love (even described as such from the Duffers to a 2016 Finn). They got along. She gave him hope for Will and helped. That’s all it was at first, but then she demonstrated that she was the type of person to commit to it and reach out to Will on the radio even when Mike was mad at her and come back and save him and that’s what when they started to develop a more personal bond. She didn’t judge him for the mouth breathers. She was understanding. He wanted to go to the dance with her. It was a sweet fantasy - everyone back and safe and happy and they could all just go to the Snow Ball and have a good time. And if he couldn’t describe the difference between siblings and crushes because distinctly describing crushes would mean describing the difference between crushes and best friends and he couldn’t do that...well, then, that was his business.
Then she was gone. He was sad. We saw it. He missed her. She missed him. He called her until other things came up. He thought he saw her in the window but he didn’t go looking because she would have been gone by the time the cops left anyways, last time they had her to help find Will, and Will just got back, he wasn’t going to leave again now for something that was probably just in his head. Unlike last time, he had a reason to stay, so he let it go. He didn’t at the school, though, because that was more immediate and lower risk. She came back and he was thrilled and relieved to see her. Then both her and Will were leaving and she leaned in and it was kinda awkward because they hadn’t kissed or even seen each other in a year and everybody getting in the cars were right there but then they got interrupted and both El and Will were leaving to risk themselves. They both survived. Will danced with a girl - and if that sparked a twinge of regret and jealousy, it was purely platonic and only his business. El surprised him by showing up at the dance. They finally got their fantasy happy night.
Mike hung out at El’s house and made out with her every day - because that’s what you do - then he would bike to the movies with Will and Lucas and Max. It was nice; it was a nice summer. Then Hopper threatened him so he had to lie to El and he didn’t know what to do, so he listened to Lucas’ advice, but she caught him and broke up with him and...that wasn’t nice. And was pretty shocking, too, he hadn’t even thought of her doing that, really. He liked her and he liked hanging out with her and he didn’t want to be dumped but besides that, he didn’t really know what to do. His emotion was what he felt when he was with her, but right now he was just trying to logic his way out of this conflict and he didn’t know what he was doing. He was stressed and overwhelmed waiting for her call and he didn’t know what to do in this situation. He was just joking. He thought Will thought it was a joke too. He took it back as soon as he realized he didn’t. He felt horrible. The girls suddenly felt way less important and they would still be there to call later. They would understand. So he followed Will out into the garage and told him just that. That it wasn’t about him, they were just joking because they were stressed about calling their (ex)girlfriends and it wasn’t about the campaign at all. They would love to play when they weren’t stressed. But Will fired back with how he’d been spending way more time with El than Will and that wasn’t fair! He had been trying! They went to the movies all the time! He kept it even, right? He thought he had been doing enough! Will just didn’t understand because he didn’t have a girlfriend, that’s all. But that didn’t come out right. He heard how it sounded. And he didn’t mean it that way. What he meant was - maybe they had been hanging out a little less than usual now that El was around. But that’s just a part of growing up. You grow up and you get girlfriends and...it’s sad, but you have to grow out of spending 24/7 with your best friend. Even if you still want to. When you have a crush on a girl, you date them, and when you have a girlfriend, you prioritize your time with her. It’s just the rules. And he had a crush on a girl, so now they’re here. Will knew that, right? But apparently, Will didn’t. And he left. He left and he biked away in the rain, alone. So Mike got Lucas and they followed him. And he got how that all came out. Like a total asshole. He sounded like he didn’t want to hang out with him, which wasn’t true, and he sounded like he was calling Will...but he wasn’t. He just meant that they were growing up and that wasn’t his fault, you’re supposed to grow apart. But he didn’t want to and just because he meant that didn’t mean what he said didn’t still make him an asshole. Then the mind flayer was back so Will let it go and they went back to normal. And then Max didn’t understand how exhausted El could get and they were fighting and he was thinking of what happened the last time she exhausted her powers and he shouted “I love her and I can’t lose her again”. And that was true. But then she came out of her room. And he wasn’t ready for that in a relationship. He meant that he loved her. Not that he was in the type of relationship where you say “I love you” to each other. He loved her as is his friend; he liked her as his girlfriend. So when he tried to tell her again, he couldn’t. He told her everything else he could like “I’ve never felt like this before”. It was true, she was the first girl he had ever liked. But he still knew that it would alter their relationship in a way he didn’t mean. So he couldn’t say it. He wanted to keep them the way that they were. Then he saw Will start to give away his D&D set and he panicked that Will thought he really meant what he said so he made sure he knew he didn’t. Then El told him that she heard him and that she loved him too. Shit. He hadn’t meant it like that.
He couldn’t call because of the government so he wrote her. And he could call Will...except he couldn’t. Because Joyce had some stupid telemarketer job now and the line was always busy. And he never called back either. And he couldn’t write him a letter. He thought about it - maybe even drafted one - but letters were what he wrote to his girlfriend. He couldn’t treat Will the same way as his girlfriend, that would be weird. So maybe he would just ask El about Will sometimes in his letter. And maybe one time she told him Will was painting for somebody else. a girl. he liked. And if that platonic(/s) jealousy was back a little, nobody had to know. So...he really was moving on. He got to the airport and he greeted El and he didn’t wanna push his luck with Will. He brought up the painting - it was in his hand, you can’t blame him! - and it was, it was real. If he was wrong, Will would talk to him today. but he didn’t. Not until he told him El was lying to him, and he reacted rashly because he couldn’t be losing her too. Will was with her more so he would know better but please not the both of them, Jesus. But he corrected Mike and told him she was being bullied but it was too late. It all went down on the roller rink in front of him and El ran away and hid somewhere. So then - that meant the truth was that El was being BULLIED and Will still didn’t call? Not even on her behalf? What was going ON!? Okay, so even if he didn’t know, he was still saying nothing ALL DAY?! She had lied plenty of times for him to have the time to correct her to Mike. To TALK to Mike. But still. that wasn’t important enough to break this silence to his best friend? And then he started reaching for petty things and talking about how he had been a third wheel? He had been the one ignoring him! Whatever. “What about us?” “what?” since when did he...care? He thought he didn’t care about Will? Wait, he did call! All the time! What was he even talking about? And of course he couldn’t write to him! He wrote to El, he couldn’t treat them the same! It wasn’t that he didn’t want to keep in touch. It’s just that...he had to keep in them in their boxes. El was his girlfriend. Will was his friend. Will was his friend. He tried to explain, but somehow it sounded unconvincing out loud. “Well, we used to be best friends”. And he was right. They did. They did act differently now. They had acted differently since he had been dating El. He had been right about all of it. But what could he do? He couldn’t exactly treat Will like he used to - he had to keep them in their boxes. He just...couldn’t deal with this right now. And they still needed to keep looking for El. They could comfort her and talk later. But then she HIT A GIRL IN THE FACE WITH A SKATE?! And that certainly caught Mike off-guard. Reminiscent of when she threw Lucas. So yeah, maybe he looked a little freaked in the moment. He was. He didn’t know how to process it, can you blame him? And now everything was even more tense and nothing was resolved. And dinner was awkward. And Jonathan and Argyle were high. And they were trying to act like everything was fine but everything wasn’t fine! Will was still mad at him and he didn’t know why El lied to him and she hit some girl in the face and obviously, yeah, he should not have said it about that that definitely made things worse. He didn’t mean that El was a monster or that she did permanent damage or anything, just that - could we stop pretending like everything is okay?? Because it isn’t! He tried that for the past nine months and look what happened! It was a lie and it didn’t work out! But he did feel bad and he did want to make her feel better so he went to try and talk to her. But then she got upset that he couldn’t say that he loved her or even sign his letters anything but “From,”...he hadn’t even noticed he was doing that. He just felt off about signing them “Love,” so he didn’t . It didn’t come to mind. But now that she was asking him directly to say it back to her, he still couldn’t. Because he did love her and he could tell her that. But he also knew that that wasn’t what she was asking for. and he didn’t wanna lie and pretend like it was. He did wanna pretend everything was okay anymore. But he also didn’t wanna fight. He wanted things to stay the same but it was starting to feel like all or nothing and he wasn’t ready for “all”. And then she was gone. And she signed her note “From,”. And he didn’t know where she was but he knew she wasn’t safe and wished he just told her and dealt with how she interpreted later but he hadn’t. And he couldn’t tell Will either because he knew Will would assume he took it the same way. And he couldn’t tell him he didn’t mean it that way because he wasn’t ready to admit that. Because maybe he still could? But Will sat down next to him and made him feel better. Will always made him feel better. And he was glad he was talking to him again. Count on the end of the world to get your best friend to drop shit he really shouldn’t have because it was still definitely your fault. So this time, he didn’t wait to tell him he was sorry and explain that he still wanted him. He came back into his room as soon as he was ready to go. He closed the door so Jonathan couldn’t burst in this time (spoiler: he still did) because this was important. He thanked Will for always being able to make him feel better. And he told Will that he really, really missed him and that he shouldn’t have yelled at him for doing the exact same thing he was all day. And he admitted it: his excuse was stupid. He should have written. He shouldn’t have just given up after Will didn’t call back. The boxes didn’t matter if it meant not keeping in touch. He wanted to be friends again. No- best friends. He wanted to be how they were. Screw the boxes. Will agreed. He looked happy. Mike was happy too. In the desert, Argyle was saying all this stuff about El dying and dear god what if the last time he ever talked to her was that fight so he looked to Will for comfort but Will was already looking at him and he felt a little caught. he knew they agreed to be normal again...but it still felt like something he shouldn’t be doing. Will said it’s hard to tell people things they don’t wanna hear. And ain’t that the truth. Who knows how Will knows it, but yeah, he didn’t wanna admit that he liked her as his girlfriend and loved her as his friend. Because she wanted him to love her as his girlfriend; he knew that. And on top of being a little worried that would be the last time they spoke, he was worried that when they saw each other again, what if it wasn’t fixed? Will mentioned something about playing D&D and Nintendo for the rest of their lives and that sounded nice, he wasn’t gonna pretend it didn’t like last time, but he was still a little distracted. The thing she was upset about hadn’t changed. She loved him and he liked her...and loved her. And she was so awesome. But when she rode away she didn’t look at him. And Will had noticed his somber distraction so he had been rambling about all this in the van to him. Oh...he was rambling. But Will didn’t seem to mind. She had looked for a second and then looked away. She was letting go. She was realizing she could do better. He didn’t want her to. He didn’t want to lose her. And that’s what Will interrupted him with. He got it. He might not love her like she wanted him to but didn’t not love her. He was scared that she would leave him because she thought he didn’t. Will understood. Will always understood. That helped to get off his chest. Then Will reached to show him his painting he had been working on for...a girl, he thought? Well, I guess El said she wasn’t sure. He was a little unsure himself that it was for him, hesitant to take it. But he was glad he did. -his breath hitched- It was a gorgeous painting of the entire party painting a three headed dragging. He knew he was grinning ear to ear. All that time Will hadn’t been calling, he had been painting. this. for Mike. because he missed him. :)). Will said it was commissioned by El, though. Oh. That’s nice. She must have just lied about that too. She knew how much he loved D&D so she probably just asked Will what their characters were and told him to paint those and add...a heart? Aw...and Will was talking about it like he could relate to her feelings. Like he really believed Mike was the heart too. And he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Will as he spoke. Only when he looked away did he look back at the gorgeous painting before turning to the gorgeous artist again. He was trying to track everything Will was saying. El felt like a mistake. That’s awful, but it made sense with how she had talked about herself as a monster. He certainly hadn’t helped then, but it was nice to hear that he usually did. And Will was getting choked up. He probably didn’t like thinking of his sister thinking about herself that way either. He was probably just grateful that Mike made her feel like that less too. Then he started saying things like “probably because she’s scared of losing you” and “I think she’d rather just rip it off like a band aid”. He was inferring. based on himself. He was talking about his own feelings again and extending them to her based on everything else she told him and the painting. He had just been scared of losing Mike too. And he said “and she always Will”. He couldn’t know that either. That had to be an inference too; an extension. El wouldn’t leave him. And Will wouldn’t either. Will was telling him “She told me she wouldn’t and who would? I wouldn’t either.” And he felt...loved. He felt...love. He thought he could tell her. It made him feel good to hear all that, maybe that meant he was ready for that....with her. He heard some shaky breaths from Will - probably just the same reason he was crying before - he loved El. they didn’t have to be sad tears. He had already been teary-eyed seconds ago. And he had been smiling as he said “yeah”. So Mike went back to looking at the beautiful painting. And feeling loved. Even if it wasn’t from Will, Will was still spending his time not calling him painting it for him and Will still seemed to relate to enough of the things that El had said. It could have been from Will. He felt love. They reunited and everything was fine but he had learned to not pretend like it always had been so when she gave him a segue, he brought up their fight and cut to the chase, acting on that love he had felt talking to Will in the van. [these past few months/the past few days] But then they’re interrupted by Argyle’s pineapple on pizza. But it’s okay, because they’re still in a light, joking zone where they’re doing okay. But then El is in danger. And she needs him. It worked to help Will out of his possession before, and “that was you guys that saved me, that was you guys”, and now it’s Will himself reminding him what El said and he thinks(hopes) Will agrees with “you’re the heart” that he has that power and Will is reminding him of all the love he felt in that van, so he leads with that and he’s worried about her and he hopes to god this works so he’s tense but he just says it to get it out so he can’t take it back. And he tells her. Because he really does love her so now that it’s out there he can say it. And he tells her how amazing she is and how just because he couldn’t say it doesn’t mean he doesn’t still not wanna lose her and how the day she came into his life it made him feel so needed and wants to keep that and how even though things come out wrong sometimes, he does still love her and doesn’t want to lose her just because it might seem that way sometimes (and god, his relationship problems are similar). They still haven’t talked about it. But it’s okay. There’s a lot going on and they’ll get to it. So he comforts her when she confides in him about Brenner and as they’re standing in the hospital but that’s about it right now. And she separates herself when they’re cleaning the cabin but she’s in grief and even if it isn’t fully resolved, she knows now at least that he wants it to be, and that’s all he can do. So he just sits and talks with Will when he asks. Will says 001 isn’t dead. He can feel him again. That’s awful. Not just that he’s alive, but he had hoped Will would be relieved of that burden, but he says it came back as soon as he re-entered Hawkins. Will tells him they have to kill him. And he can’t deny him. So he promises they will. And then they walk out with El into the field and they stand together, El continuing forward a few paces. And in all the chaos, the returned proximity is comforting.
Mike likes his girlfriend El and loves his friend El. Mike loves Will, he just doesn’t realize how yet.
⤷ aka Toji loves groping your full & swollen pregnancy tits! <33
𝜗ৎ SUMMARY: Toji's always been a tits guy. especially a your tits guy. naturally, during pregnancy—when your tits grow alongside your tummy—this man goes absolutely feral for them. good fucking luck.
𝜗ৎ WARNINGS: 18+ MATURE CONTENT. pregnant!reader. tits play, nipple play, talks about pussy eating and p in v in general, Toji is HUNGRY, literally a leech, blowjob, deepthroating, boobjob, he smacks our tiddies, praise, he calls us mama, finishing on reader's tits, pussy pronouns, nastyyy stuff! first jjk fanfic, be nice :((
𝜗ৎ AUTHOR'S NOTE: uhhh 👉🏻👈🏻 hello 🫡 been obsessed with this man lately, so I thought I'd start posting some of the nasty thoughts I've been having. be nice, im scared!!!
wordcount: 3,5k | pairing: Toji x f!reader
Toji has always loved your tits. His hands are on them at all times, whether that be in public after some loser's been staring at you for too long or in private, curled up in bed, his arm slung over your waist protectively to keep you flush to his broad chest, one of his big hands beneath your pyjama top playing with them to help him fall asleep.
Well, to be very fair—Toji is an ass guy too. Or perhaps he's just a you guy. He loves exploring every part of you equally—no matter if that's your tits, ass, hips, thighs, or pussy. From the very first moment he saw you, he knew you'd be his—and he has not held back showing you just how much he loves you since.
The first few weeks of your relationship, he spent more time inside you than not—even if that's difficult to believe. The amount of stamina this man has freaks you out to this day.
Sure, you had heard rumours about a certain Toji Fushiguro from other girls in town—how could you not? He's the talk of the city, attracting women left and right, and none of them ever complained about his skills in bed but rather the exact opposite.
According to their tellings, Toji Fushiguro is more god than man in bed.
And what can you say? He lived up to his name in a way you did not dare dream of.
First and foremost, he loves eating pussy. Fucking starves for it. Begs, pleads with you whenever you come home from work, the gym, or shopping. Follows you around like a lost puppy until you finally give in and then proceeds to spend hours between your parted thighs—licking, suckling, dragging his wet, hot tongue from your drooling hole up the length of your slit, circling your puffy, swollen clit until you tremble and cry with overstimulation.
Though, one thing is true for almost all positions he's taken you in.
Toji can't stop himself from squeezing your tits with his huge, calloused hands—each time he has you bent over the dresser or kitchen counter, pounding into you from behind, he has one hand wrapped around your delicate throat. Not to choke you, though—not really, at least—primarily to keep your back flush to his chest, not allowing you to slump forward onto whatever surface he fucks you against just so he has access to your pretty tits bouncing so perfectly with every brutal thrust.
They fit perfectly in his wide palms, and while sometimes he prefers just holding them—especially when he's trying to be soft with you—more often he kneads them, squeezes them, rolls your hardened, aroused nipples between his thumb and index finger and watches you squirm beneath his touch.
Toji not only loves touching, no—he sucks on them too.
When you're trying to watch your show on Netflix—some crappy girly stuff, as he calls it—he won't bother paying any attention to the TV and gossip with you about the characters like some other boyfriends do.
Toji's hands sneak underneath the hem of your shirt a maximum of five minutes after you hit the play button. First, he leaves it splayed across your tummy, big, rough hand spreading pleasant warmth throughout your entire body. But he doesn't leave it at that, ever. It'll wander upwards mere minutes later, find the soft, round flesh and knead—really knead. He plays with them until he's so hard it hurts, then pulls your tank top downwards far enough to free one of your perfect tits.
The cold air makes you shiver—and so does the feeling of his lips closing around your perky, hardening nipple. You gasp, flinching away from the unexpected sensation—but Toji is stuck to them as though he were a freaking leech. Once he's got your tits in his mouth, not even the strongest sorcerer could pry him from you.
"To— Toji! I am trying to watch my show," you whine, eyes drifting from the TV to your boyfriend glued to your tits, suckling and flicking his rough tongue over your sensitive bud whilst his second hand cups your other breast, watching you through hooded eyelids, his cheeks hollowed as he suckles.
"Stay still for me, dollface. Lemme touch you up, hm?" he murmurs, humming with approval when you sigh in defeat and finally relax fully beneath him. "Yeah, that's right, good fuckin' girl."
Toji is obsessed, to say at the least. A fucking goner, to be exact. For you, for your perfect tits, for everything you give him.
And really—it is no wonder that just six months into your relationship you end up pregnant. Honestly, you are surprised that it's taken this long. He's left you so full, dripping with his cum nearly every single day, and you haven't exactly been responsible with taking your birth control, either.
Telling him goes better than you anticipated. You were anxious at first—after all, it'd been merely six months you two have been together, and your future was still somewhat uncertain. Yet, Toji beamed with joy when you confessed. His face lit up, and he truly was excited to become a father—supporting you with everything and anything.
Groceries—don't you fucking think about carrying them. Driving? He'll bring you, don't bother worrying about it. Sex? Surprisingly, Toji's soft side comes out even when he's got you folded in half, fucking his big, veiny cock into your warm, velvety walls, making sure to give you enough, but not all of him.
And you'd think he'd go softer on your tits, too—after all, they are not solely his much longer—however, you are gravely mistaken.
If anything, his adoration for them only grows—grows with them, so to say.
Toji doesn't say anything at first. He observes, watches you the whole duration of your pregnancy. He notices every single change—your increased mood swings, back pains, headaches—all of the typical pregnancy symptoms.
What he notices too—most of all—is how certain parts of you seem to expand in size alongside your belly. Your pretty tits, for example. He overhears you complaining to your friend on a phone call about how you've needed to go up two entire cup sizes since the start of your pregnancy and how sore and tender they are all the time.
He can't deny that he secretly fucking loves it. Loves how plump and big they've become, how much more they weigh whenever he cups them as he hugs you from behind, how you'll slap his hand away when his natural instincts once again guide him to your pretty, round boobs.
In your third trimester towards the end of your pregnancy as they begin feeling awfully uncomfortable and sensitive, he devotes most of his time literally fucking staring if you don't let him touch them. It's hilarious, at the least. How he's nearly drooling while gawking at you, fingers clenched into tight fists at his sides.
One night, no excuse is quite enough to keep him at bay. Five weeks, he growls in your ear as he ruts into your clothed ass, pinning you to the kitchen counter. For five weeks he hasn't been allowed to touch you properly, feel you up.
Five weeks, poor guy.
You give in. Not because he's coercing you or bothering you, but because they do feel somewhat better that day, and you can no longer bear the sight of your poor, tits-deprived boyfriend who's been looking almost sickly these past few days.
You hope that letting him have this will satisfy him enough until Megumi—as you decided your son will be called—is born. And you pray to whatever God may listen that after that, the sensitivity will decrease, and Toji won't have to starve any longer. Because seeing him like this, all frustrated, pouting all day, staring at your tits as though they are a picture of a deceased family pet, will surely drive you insane at some point in the very near future.
・・・
LATER THAT EVENING
He's got you pinned against the wall of your shared bedroom, his knee lodged in between your thighs, one hand securing your wrists above your head while the other cups your breast over the cotton of your shirt.
"Fuckin' hell baby," he groans, gently brushing the pad of his thumb over your hardening nipple, wetting his lips. His emerald green eyes are fucking glowing with hunger, with lust and need for you. "Missed these pretty tits so much. So fuckin' much, you hear me?"
Yes, you nod, because answering is too damn difficult when even the gentlest of his touches sets your skin on fire. It doesn't hurt—not really—instead, the sensation feels ten, perhaps a hundred times as intense as it usually does, sending tingles down your spine, moans spilling uncontrollably over your lips.
Toji groans at the fucking sight of you—arching into his touch which you claimed would hurt, moaning like the desperate little thing you are.
He intended on being patient with you today—take it slow, test the waters. Be gentle with his baby momma who is due to give birth any day now. Yet, here you are. Begging him for more, reacting so sweetly to his every touch—so eager for his hands to get rough with you.
His hands tug your shirt over your head, carelessly tossing it to the far corner of the room, and your bra follows after.
"Sensitive, huh?" he rasps, softly rolling your stiff nipple between his thumb and index finger while his darkened eyes focus on your pretty face. "But feels good, mama, doesn't it?"
"Y— Yes, Toji. God, yes!" you gasp, and he chuckles lowly beneath his breath, gradually applying more pressure until you squirm. He doesn't let go, though—let's you feel it for a little while longer. The blissful sting, the increasing sensitivity, how your legs turn into jelly just by the touch of two of his fingers.
"Fuck," he grits out. Fuck, because look at you. Tummy full and swollen with his child, tits so round and plump and big, he wishes he could keep you pregnant forever. You are glowing, so beautiful, he cannot help but admire you for a long moment. "Don't you dare hide yourself from me again. Ever."
With that, he closes the gap between you two, presses himself against your pliant body, makes you feel just how much he's missed seeing you like this. His erection pokes into your hip, and if that wasn't enough to cause your mind to short-circuit, his next move certainly does.
Toji cannot possibly hold back any longer. His head dips until all you see are messy strands of black hair, lips parting for your engorged, hardened nipple. He sucks it into his mouth with a slick sucking sound, keeping you pinned against the wall with his rough palm on your waist.
"Fuck, Toji— mmph— 's too much," you cry out, weakly trying to push him away—without success. Once his lips close on your tits like a seal, nobody and nothing can break you two apart—his mouth stays latched onto your swollen nipple, suckling tenderly, kneading you with his free hand.
"'You can take it, baby. Let me have this, let me taste you properly," he grumbles between gentle flicks of his tongue against your delicate flesh, never letting up or slowing down. "They're so fuckin' round, baby. Want to keep you like this until the end of time. Give Megumi a little sibling right after he's born."
His words make your mind spin. Spin with the thoughts of getting to carry another of his children, of the process of getting there.
How he would have you on all fours at least twice a day, pounding into you from behind, his heavy, cum-filled balls smacking right against your swollen, aching clit. Stretch your hole open with his thick cock and fill you to the brim as he has countless times before, leaving you dripping with him for the rest of the day, warm cum leaking onto your lace panties while you're at work.
A violent shiver wrecks through you—at both the thought of his cum overflowing from your pussy and the burning sensation of his teeth grazing over your nipple, slick with his spit.
"Toji!" you shriek, fingers tugging at the dark strands of his hair in a pitiful attempt to pull him off. "Please, that's—"
With a filthy plop! his mouth releases your glistening, flushed bud, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your breast. His thumb idly strokes over the other, also stiff nub, though his gaze is entirely focused on the one he's just had in his mouth.
"Baby— shit, look at yourself," Toji rasps with a thick, gravelly voice, breaths coming out laboured, his cock so hard against your stomach, twitching with neglect, you think he may come untouched any second. "Look at those pretty fuckin' tits and tell me to resist them. So fuckin' swollen and soft, begging to be sucked raw."
He flicks both your nipples at the same time with his index fingers, admiring the way your tits bounce slightly, and you nearly choke on your breath at the sting.
His head dips before you can reply, mouth wrapping around your other, neglected bud. Toji is more thorough this time, more eager—his warm tongue drags over your skin, teeth biting down gently, tugging, grazing.
They're still tender, still sore—but Gods, it no longer feels uncomfortable. The exact opposite is happening. Thighs clenched for minimal friction on your poor clit, pussy pulsing around nothing, slick with arousal. And Toji notices it too—how you're whimpering, moaning, letting him do as he pleases.
"Ji," you breathe, palming the bulge stretching the thick cotton of his grey sweats he's been grinding against you. "Want me to help you with this?"
He growls lowly at the touch, eyes fluttering closed, hips thrusting up into your hand—and you, you grin when he nods, sinking to your knees and batting your eyelashes at him.
"Baby, don't— oh fuck," he groans at the sight of you before him, his cock twitching with lust, leaking beads of precum onto the fabric of his pants. "You're so good to me, shit."
"Gonna make you feel good, 'ji," you smile, tugging on the strings of his sweats and pulling them down the length of his thighs before you flatten your hand over his erection, rubbing your thumb over his still-clothed tip.
The fabric is soaked with his lust for you, coating the pad of your finger. "So needy, hm?" you tease, applying more pressure, making his dick pulse under your touch. "I think you deserve a reward for being patient with me."
His underwear joins his sweats pooling at his ankles, and you are so needy, so desperate for his flushed, painfully hard cock right before your face, that you do not waste any more time before your lips stretch around his girth, tongue swirling over his with a precum-slick tip. You take him in further, feeling the heavy weight of him on your tongue, with which you follow the thick vein decorating the underside of his length.
"That fucking mouth of yours—" he sighs, a throaty groan rumbling deep in his chest, head thrown back as he lets you work your magic on his cock. You've always been so fucking amazing at this—sucking him off after a long day, allowing him to fuck your throat if he's had a rough day. You look like an angel on your knees with his length all the way inside your mouth, and right now—after being deprived of your body for so long—he's already sensing that familiar knot in the pits of his stomach winding impossibly tight.
He's debating whether to tell you to slow down when your hands splay across his thighs and the tip of your nose touches the coarse, black hair right above the base of his cock—his tip sliding down the tight muscle of your throat, which contracts at the intrusion, your gags vibrating around his girth.
"Shit, mama—" Toji's hand flies to your hair, fingers twisting in your curls and yanking at the roots. "Gonna make me cum way too fuckin' fast if ya keep this up. Easy there, baby. Fuck."
What'd he say again?
He hisses, fisting your hair even firmer, to the point he's sure it must hurt—and yet, you don't let up. You choke and splutter, violent gagging sounds echoing off the walls of your bedroom. You're trying your best to maintain a rhythm, head bobbing on his cock, hand wrapped around what you can't fit. Even then, his sheer size has you struggling, your chin soaked with spit and his arousal, steadily dripping down onto your chest and between your tits.
"Gonna—gonna cum, baby— shit," Toji curses, eyes fluttering closed, thick cock twitching in your throat, pulsing with the need to come as his balls draw up tight, preparing for his climax.
But then, when he's right at the precipice of his orgasm—you pull away suddenly, his heavy, glistening cock so hard, it almost stands up right.
Toji hisses with frustration, eyebrows drawing together in confusion, ready to slam back down your throat to show you who's—even now, when you are pregnant with his child—in charge.
It never comes to that, though. Both of your hands cup each of your tits, straightening yourself to reach him, his reddened tip leaking beads of precum which slide right down the underside of his length, adding to the mess your spit has caused.
You slide his erection in between your plush tits, pushing them together tightly to create the perfect amount of friction for his aching cock.
And Toji? He thinks he may fucking pass out.
Holy. Shit.
"Mama, fuckin' hell. Give me a damn warnin' next time, aye?" he growls, shining emerald orbs glued to the way his slick cock moves up and down the gap between your swollen tits, drinking in the feeling.
The sight alone could have him come within the next seconds, he is certain of it—but the way your boobs just fit his cock perfectly, glistening with your saliva and his precum, is what does the trick.
Toji wishes he could hold out longer. Wishes he had more time to watch you fuck his cock with your perfect set of tits, hear those slick sounds when you push him up between the gap.
Not now, though. He's way too fucking close—and Toji wouldn't be Toji if he didn't want to finish on his own terms.
"Shit, baby, lemme fuck those pretty tits," Toji slurs, and you obediently drop your hands to your sides. He cups them then, squeezes them together tight 'round his aching cock—making you hiss.
"'ji, careful, they are—" you start, but are interrupted by the sheer force of him slamming up between your boobs, nearly having you lose balance.
"— tender, I know." Toji replies, though his grip never eases—instead, his hips rut into the gap more ferociously, twisting your raw nipples between his fingers, clearly enjoying the way it makes you squirm.
He's breathing hard, chest falling and rising in quick succession—his rigid cock rubbing against your skin, your cunt clenching with neglect. You know he's close when he loses rhythm, only caring about thrusting deep, burying his cock all the way just like he does when he fucks your pussy to get his seed as deep as he possibly can.
And that's merely one of the reasons why you ended up swollen with his child so early into your relationship.
"Gonna fuckin' come, baby. Make you look so pretty with my cum all over your tits, fuck." Toji growls, pulling free from your boobs and instead wrapping one of his big hands around his length, stroking himself to the sight of you.
The muscles in his thighs strain as hot ropes of cum splatter onto your chest, painting your skin white with his release. He's never come this much, you are sure of it—a never-ending stream of his hot seed dripping down your round tits, over your stiff nipples and your swollen tummy.
"Damn it, baby," Toji breathes once he's done, admiring the mess he's made of you—and most importantly, your breasts. His finger spreads his cum where it didn't reach, sticking his finger in your mouth afterwards. "Lookin' so beautiful like this."
You shriek when his palm slaps across your tits, making them bounce with the force of the impact. Toji grins, humming in approval, kisses your forehead, and lends you a hand, helping you up from the wooden panels of your floor.
"Come on, mama. Lemme take care of your perfect little pussy now. Bet she's fuckin' soaked from sucking my cock."
thank you for reading! please feel free to leave feedback <33
pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (no y/n, established rel.)
warnings: sweet and cliche, p in v, slight dumbification, sleepy soft sex, soft dom lando
wc: 2.7k
summary: lando comes home to his sleepy girlfriend after an exhausting triple-header
ale's note: RACE WEEEEK !!! i tried to write something soft and sweet but you know me i always have to add smut...
also, for everyone asking stalker!osc is coming soooon 🙂↕️
lando has his forehead against the cold taxi window, watching monaco slide past outside in a haze of orange light, thinking about nothing in particular except that he's nearly home.
three weeks. austin, then mexico city, then são paulo, back to back to back, a stretch of paddocks and airport lounges that wrung him dry. it’s been weeks since he’s had you in his arms. he’s had the curve of your spine and the smell of your hair on his mind for the entire length of the triple-header. he’d thought about calling last night, but hadn’t, worried you’d hear how sad he was and start crying too. he’d told the team he was flying back in the morning, but the idea of one more night on a starched hotel pillow, the silence of not-you, made him punch in a last-minute booking and wedge himself into a seat on the earliest possible plane.
it's not complicated. he just missed you.
theres a neurochemical whiplash to the change—from track adrenaline to the slurred, irritable exhaustion of a long haul, from the humidity and heat of brasil to the crispness of the monegasque night. he imagines you, tucking yourself into bed, sleepy. the way you’ll probably cry when you see him because you get emotional when you’re exhausted. the thing about loving someone who tires easily is that you start to get addicted to the way they sag into you. the trust in it, the vulnerbaility. lando is thinking about this as the taxi pulls up in front of the apartment building. he drags his duffel out, thanks the driver in mushy french,then keys himself into the lobby. the lift takes forever. he stands in it with his bag and the pervading stench of airplane and his bajillion unread messages from jon, watcing the floor numbers go up.
he opens the door with a metallic snick, careful and quiet in case you’re asleep. the first thing that hits him is the warmth, so different from the chill outside, and saturated with the scent of your perfume. you must have cooked something earlier, he thinks, something rich and garlicky. he kicks off his shoes, toeing them neatly by the door. he can hear sound from the tv in the living room, light from the screen flickering out into the dimly lit room. he leaves his bag by the door. he'll deal with it later.
and there you are, in the living room, curled on the couch. your cheek is smushed into the leather and your lips are parted, a tiny gloss of drool pooling at the edge of your mouth.
the blanket is half off, exposing your bare thigh. your hair is a wreck, mussed and waterfalling over your face. his throat tightens. he’s not sure what it is—maybe the picture you make, all sweet and oblivious, or maybe the memory of how empty the hotel beds felt these last weeks—but it does something to him.
there’s something in him—a failure of emotional maturity, probably, or maybe just a hole in his own childhood—that has always wanted to keep something soft alive, to have something that needs him. he thinks of you as a baby bird, or sometimes a puppy, all twitchy and sweet and trusting. it’s not meant to be an insult. you’re smarter than him, probably. but you’re still so easily tired by the world, so obviously in need of shelter. he sometimes has this weird need to build a house around you and stand outside all night, knife in hand, just in case.
he kneels by the sofa, reaching out to brush stray locks off your cheek. you don’t stir. he wonders if he can get away with watching you like this forever, but theres this greedy, selfish urge clawing at him. he missed you. he needs you to wake up. he drags his knuckles along your jaw, the softest nudge. you make a small noise, nose twitching, and your eyelids flutter. he strokes your face again, more deliberate. “hey, sleepyhead.”
your eyes flutter open, unfocused and bright. you blink slow, like your brain is still rebooting. it’s disgustingly cute.
“‘lando?” your voice is raspy, a little confused.
“hi, sweetheart,” he whispers back, smiling, “didn’t mean to wake you.” lie.
you stare at him, foggy, and your mouth curls into a half-smile, sleepy and dopey. “you’re not supposed to be home,” you say, like you’re accusing him of something horrible.
“missed you,” he says, and he doesn’t try to hide the way his voice breaks.
you try to sit up, but your limbs are noodles, and you just flop over sideways. he pulls you into his arms instead. you come down easy, melting against him like you want to crawl under his skin. you burrow your head into his armpit, so pliant and so warm that he feels like he could hold you forever.
“i missed you more,” you mumble into his skin. at least that’s what he thinks you say, your words are barely intelligible and slurred with sleep.
he lifts your chin with a finger and looks at you properly. your eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, and your lips are parted, soft and lush. you look like you’ve just been fucked into oblivion, not like you’ve been napping. he grins, a little wolfish, and you catch it, your eyebrows lifting, “whuh?”.
“you’re just…” he shakes his head, can’t find the right word. “sweet.”
you roll your eyes, but it’s slow, like your brain is wading through syrup. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and tucks your head back against his shoulder. the clock on the wall ticks to 12.
“you should get to bed,” he whispers, but you only whine, a wordless sound that means you want to stay right here, in his lap.
“i’ll carry you,” he offers, only half-joking, because all he wants is you in his arms, but your answering noise is so eager, he can’t help but smile.
“‘kay,” you say, and he hooks an arm under your knees and another around your back and stands, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you just cling, face buried in his neck, hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt. he can feel your smile againt his skin.
he deposits you on the bed, pulling the duvet over you. your hand shoots out for him when he moves away.
“stay,” you whisper.
“i have to shower, sweetheart. i’m disgusting.”
“don’t care,” you slur. “wanna smell you.”
something in his chest squeezes. “5 minutes, yeah?”
you make a vague sound, somewhere between a yes and a snore.
he showers fast, rinsing the smell of recycled air off him. when he comes back, you’re still in exactly the same position, sweet, defencdeless, and completely his. he crawls into bed next to you, pulling your back against hsi chest. you make a pleased sound.
“i love you,” he breathes into your hair, and he’s never meant anything more in his life.
he wants to tell you more, everything. how lonely it is in those hotel rooms, how the world feels sharper and meaner when you’re not with him, how the thing he wants most isn’t the win or the champagne or the cameras but this: you, drooling on him, arms around him, so tired you can barely keep your eyes open but still greedy for his touch. how he could have all of the podiums and the trophies in the world, and how it’d still mean nothing without you.
but he knows you’re about to fall asleep again—he can feel your breath evening out, your muscles going slack—so instead he swallows the emotion down.
he kisses the crown of your head, then your temple, then your lips. you smile in your sleep, making a little blissed-out noise, and lando thinks: if this is what the rest of my life is, i’ll never need anything else.
꩜
lando wakes to sunlight spilling through the blinds. your arm is splayed over his chest, your hand has curled loose around his bicep. there’s a damp spot on his chest where you must have drooled, which makes him smile.
he’s always felt a little sick with how much he loves you. it gnaws at his insides, the affection. sometimes he thinks about you as a child—photos of you with fat cheeks and scraped knees, the stories you tell about getting locked out of the house by your older brother. he gets obsessed with the idea of having known you then. he wants to peel back the years and wrap his arms around every version of you, keep you safe and soft and protected, make sure nothing ever bruises you except the things he can kiss better.
he moves a fraction, and you grunt in protest, wiggling closer back into him. there’s something almost perverse about how easily you fold into him, no friction at all, only this puddling collapse. its like your bones have liquefied in the night. an hour ticks by and evebtually, you shift, eyelids fluttering.
“lando,” you mumble, and then, “lando, don’t let me go.”
he squeezes you and you nestle in. you’ve always been the coldest human alive, and in winter you use him like a hot water bottle. he lets you, likes it even, how you shove your iceblock feet between his legs.
eventually, you begin to stir. it starts with a hand at his waist, searching for him under the sheets. he rolls you to face him, and you blink up at him, dazed in the blue morning light. your hair’s a disaster, and your face is creased from the pillow. he wants to bite you, a little, just to see what you’d do.
you reach for him again, pulling his arm across your chest so his hand lands on your tits. you sigh, content, and it’s so obvious what you want that he has to laugh.
“missed me that much, huh?” he teases, but you don’t rise to the bait. you just push your tits into his palm and shiver, like you’re cold, like you can’t get enough of him. he obliges, thumb brushing over your nipple until it’s hard and you’re making those tiny whimpering sounds he loves.
“lando,” you whisper, drawn out and needy. he’s been waiting weeks to hear you like this.
he kisses you, slow and deep, licks into your mouth until you go slack. you melt, your body going boneless under his touch. he takes his time, kissing you like you’re oxygen. your tongue is lazy, letting him do what he wants, and he does—tilting your head, biting your lip, sucking your tongue until you moan into his mouth.
you whine when he pulls away, hands chasing him in effort to keep him close. he loves that—loves how you go floaty and dumb for him, how your only thought is how to get him closer.
he kisses your jaw, your throat, then slides down to lift your top, taking your nipple in his mouth. you arch, pulling him closer.
“greedy,” he laughs, low in his chest, and you only nod, lost to the sensation. he traces down your ribs, his hand spanning your waist, thumbs hooking into the band of your shorts. you buck up, hips chasing his touch, and he’s so hard it almost hurts, his cock pressed against your thigh.
“you want me?” he murmurs, and he’s a little mean about it because you always say yes, but this time you’re so gone you can’t even speak. you just nod, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth open, panting. he slides his hand down, cups your pussy over the fabric, and you whimper. he can feel the heat leaking through cotton.
“so wet, baby,” he coos, smug, and rubs slow circles through your shorts until you’re grinding desperate against his hand. he wants to see you, wants to fuck you until you can’t walk, but more than anything he wants you to just let go, let him do everything for you.
he slides his palms under the fabric and squeezes your ass. you grind down, making his cock twitch.
“jesus, you’re needy,” he murmurs, almost reverent.
you only make a broken, whimpery sound. he flips you, easy as tossing a pillow, and you let yourself be manhandled. he wants to laugh again, at how much you love being small, how much you love being handled, but it would ruin the spell. your eyes flutter shut, maybe with exhaustion, maybe with pleasure.
“you awake?” lando asks softly, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose.
“’m awake,” you slur, your expression caught between bliss and confusion. “missed you so much.”
“did you now?” he traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, nipping at your earlobe.
“mm. missed you. missed your cock,” you mumble, almost too quiet to hear.
he freezes, then pulls back to look at you. you’re blushing, but smiling, all the same.
“greedy,” he tuts, but the word is thick with lust.
“please?” you manage, and the word is so pathetic, so honest, he has no choice but to oblige you.
he peels your shorts down, and you try to help, barely, lifting your hips just enough for him to slide them off. your cunt is glistening, wet and puffy. he touches you gently, running his fingers over your clit, and you choke out a moan, clutching at his arm.
he shushes you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i’ve got you, sweetheart. just relax.”
“inside?” you look up at him, eyes wide and trusting. “lando, inside, please?”
and fuck, that voice. what else can he do but give you what you are so sweetly begging him for?
he peels off his boxers and lines himself up, presing the head of his cock against you and pushing in slow, savouring every inch of it. you gasp, back arching, hands grabbing for his arms, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself.
“okay?” he asks, even though you’re already nodding, already grinding back onto him.
“feel so good,” your voice is slow, like you can’t concentrate on all the sensations at once.
he pulls out, thrusts back in, slow and shallow, and watches you come apart under him. you keep making these soft, kittenish sounds, keep scratching shallow lines down his back. he wants to fuck you harder, wants to pin you down and make you scream, but he knows that’s not what you need.
“pretty girl,” he praises, “you’re so fucking pretty. my good girl.”
“please,” you breathe. you’re almost crying, you don’t even know what you’re begging for.
he leans down, mouth at your ear, “you can cum, sweetheart. want you to.”
you do, eyes screwed shut and panting, cunt fluttering around his cock. then you melt, arms falling away. you blink up at him, dazed and grateful, a tiny smile pulling at your lips.
“’s good,” you mumble, then yawn, already half-asleep again.
he’s hasn’t finished, but he doesn’t care. he stays inside, just holding you, more for you than to chase his own pleasure. he thinks about just thrusting back inside you so he can cum—it’d be so quick, so easy—but looking at you, sated and sleepy, he knows he can't ruin that.
you whimper when he tries to pull out, arms and legs locking around him, trapping him inside.
“okay,” he laughs, breathless, so full of love he could burst, “okay, baby. i’ll stay.”
you sigh, content, and in minutes you’re asleep again, still clutching him. he stays inside you, uncomfortably hard, the heat of your cunt making his head swim, but he’s never been so happy.
he’s stuck there, buried in you, and it feels like the only place in the world he’s supposed to be. the room is warm and light, and lando thinks he might die here, in this bed, in this moment, and be happy forever.
i loved writing this. the pleasure and agony's all mine. tysm for your request!
say it
pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader [no y/n used]
summary: leon really needs to get over himself and grow a pair. but jealousy does the trick, too.
tags: angst, misunderstandings, jealous leon, leon's a little emotionally dumb, fem!reader (wears a dress, perfume)
warnings: kinda made leon hate politicians and bureaucracy despite being a fed. might be a little ooc on that end but whatever
wc: 2k
prompts from this prompt list.
♪ — say my name by destiny's child, covered by hozier [spotify] [youtube]
Leon considers himself a mature guy. He really does.
So why is it that the first time he's seeing you in a dress, his eyes feel like they're going to bug out of his head and he has to check that he isn't drooling. This isn't some teenage romcom where you take off your glasses and are suddenly beautiful. Anyone with eyes can see that you're stunning. But he's only ever seen you in tactical gear, and at best, some jeans that hugged you in all the right places. Both of those are already exceedingly distracting, so this is a whole new level of debilitating for him.
A little black dress that fit you just right? Your collarbones deliciously exposed, your legs stretching a mile long beyond where the skirt ends just above your mid-thigh.
Jesus Christ, you may kill him.
It's no surprise when another man approaches you and begins to chat you up. He tries not to let the jealousy that twists in his stomach bother him when you smile and engage in the conversation willingly. He swallows the rest of his drink, brooding against the far wall, trying to escape conversation with anyone. He prefers to wallow without distractions, he guesses.
You aren't his, despite your longing glances and lingering touches. Despite everything the two of you had been through together. Leon was too much of a coward to make a move, too scared of the what ifs and hands that always seem hungry to rip any sort of stability out of his life. He's kind of convinced the rest of his life is meant to be filled the brim with things left unsaid.
The last time he saw you, he's pretty sure you almost kissed him. Something he's thought about multiple times a day for the past few years, it seems. For him, the sun rises and sets on your terms. You may as well have hung every star in the sky.
And yet he backed away like he was a frightened puppy.
It doesn't help that without fail, the two of you are in constant communication every single day. Whether it's a phone call, or sitting at a coffee shop, or escaping from work together, in unseen corridors and alleyways outside. You're attached at the hip. Except after that incident. You had been radio silent, despite his attempts at gentle hellos.
It's been a long, agonizing two weeks without you. Maybe that's why seeing you smile and accept another man's advances is especially painful.
He knows that both of you are at this party/cocktail/gala/thing out of a formality, a way to keep the people who employ the two of you happy. But there's something so natural about you in that dress, your hair perfectly twisted back, the length of your neck deliciously exposed as you look around at the party. The laugh and dazzling smile you let free at something that fucking guy says. He thinks that in another life, where you didn't need to always be on the move, you would've been great at philanthropy. Some kind of leader, a communicator perhaps. A job that's fulfilling and stable, where you didn't have to be in danger constantly, and your kindness could be given without worrying about the consequences. He's always admired your ability to be a regular person; he's not sure he's built for anything except being a soldier at this point. Don't get him wrong; he finds purpose in what he does, which he guesses means he "likes" his job. He especially likes the parts where you are. He just hates all the bureaucracy. All the fake smiles and polite conversation. But you're good at dealing with it. He's useless without you.
He's running a hand through his hair and making his way over to you before he can think better of it. You're still talking to that man who's all smiles and charming winks. He basically stops in his tracks when he spots the guy's hand reaching to touch your arm, and he swallows hard. You don't move it, but there's a shift in your posture, something that reads as not quite comfortable, but more-so convincing yourself to be comfortable.
Grow a pair, Leon.
"Hey," he finally gathers enough courage to pretend like he hasn't been agonizing over you all night. You turn to him, a genuine smile crossing your face before you could stop it. Your eyes crinkle at the corners just a little, and it reminds him that life isn't actually miserable, for just a moment.
"Hi, Leon," your eyes flicker over him, taking in the rare sight of him in a suit and tie. He tries not to dwell in the satisfaction of you looking him up and down while your potential suitor is standing, watching. "You look nice." He doesn't get a chance to respond before you're shaking yourself out of a Leon-induced stupor to stutter over introductions. "Um, this is Robert. He was just telling me about how he used to work for President Graham." Robert nods, shifting his feet awkwardly. The two of you were locked in each other's gaze, something unspoken weighing heavily in the air.
"Yeah, I, uh," he clears his throat and waves his champagne glass. "I was a White House assistant for a while." He says it like it's the greatest honor of all time.
"Uh huh," Leon finally tears his eyes away from you, shortly after you do the same from him. "Didn't work out?"
"I'm not one for politics, I guess," he shrugs. Leon actually chuckles. At least this guy isn't totally insane. "But he invited me to this. As a sort of goodbye gift. I was almost his right-hand man, you know," Robert almost puffs up his chest, bragging. The brief, vaguely positive feeling Leon had disappeared. He has a distaste for people who worship politicians. Even the president. He knows you feel similarly, which is why it's a surprise when your hand brushes over Robert's shoulder.
"That was nice of him, you must've made a good impression." Leon can hear something slightly ingenuine in your voice. You're being polite; something on the edge of flattering.
Leon thinks he may spontaneously combust. He can't help himself from what he does next.
"Must've been awarded the medal of honor for brown-nosing," he mutters, but loud enough for Robert to hear. The man chokes on his drink and a shade of embarrassment covers his cheeks. You turn to Leon sharply, crossing your arms.
"Don't be a dick, Leon," you're frustrated with him, but he can't help reveling in your attention returning to him. "Robert, I'm so sorry-"
"It's fine," Robert laughs awkwardly, throws a thumb over his shoulder. "I actually saw someone I used to work with over there, I'm, uh, I'm gonna go catch up. Nice talking to you." He nods and turns to walk away before stopping to look at you. "Let me know about those drinks." Leon nearly has an aneurysm at the implications. You're already looking at Leon when he turns back to you. He pretends like he doesn't know why you're looking at him like that.
"What?"
"Don't 'what' me, you were being an asshole," you huff. It's hard to be mad at him, with his blue eyes sparkling at you.
"Come on, that guy? You wanna cozy up with someone who's one step away from kissing the feet of the president?"
"You mean the guy we work for?"
"Hey, just because I work for the guy doesn't mean I think he's the second coming of Jesus," he holds his hands up in surrender. "Besides, you can do better. Look at you." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Feelings? Stay locked up right in his heart. Flirting is another thing. It's easy. Easy to blow off, push away.
And maybe he secretly thinks you'll pick up his hints and force his hand.
You want to scream. You wish he would just decide if he wanted you or not. You're sick of being caught between friends and something more.
"Yeah, look at me," you laugh mockingly. "Pushing thirty, single, and agonizing over a guy who's only fear is confronting things he already knows." His face falls. Your words are a knife twist in his gut. "God forbid I pursue someone who can actually admit that they want me."
You're walking away, out the exit before he can move from his spot. He feels sick. He's such a fucking idiot. He steels himself before following your lead, eventually figuring out where you are. You've escaped to the roof, head down and breathing heavily. Nothing strikes guilt and worry in him like seeing your shoulders shake, wiping away frustrated tears from your face.
"Just leave me alone, Leon," you know it's him without turning around. He ignores you, coming to stand next to you at the edge of the building. The wind whistles around the corners of the city, the music from the party inside faintly reaching your ears. You breathe deeply, the fresh air igniting comfort to your lungs, but the man next to you has you breathing heavy in a second once he breaks the silence.
"I'm scared," he finally admits. He turns, back to the city, leaning against the wall. The wind is chilly against your bare arms, and you can't help but shiver. He notices immediately. He notices everything about you. His jacket is being tugged over your shoulders before you can even play the "I'm not cold" game with him. He knows what you need, no matter how much you may deny it to him.
He knows what he needs, too.
"Scared of what?" You sniffle, finally looking at him. He was studying the scuffs on his dress shoes. He bumps his toe into yours. You almost smile.
"That I can't keep you safe," Your eyes soften at his tone. You've only heard him talk like this a few times before, when situations were dire. When the two of you weren't sure if you were going to make it. "That I'm not good enough for you."
"Leon," his name is so soft on your lips. He can feel the pull in his chest, the yearning to touch you, to hold you. His fingers twitch at the feeling and he crosses his arms to try to make it cease. "You're a good man. Better than most."
He inhales deeply and looks at you again, this time reaching out to rub his thumb over the faded scar on your chin. He was there when you got it. He patched you up, did everything but kiss it better. He should've kissed it better.
"Please don't go on that date." Leon's never begged for anything in his life. He doesn't ask for help. He usually decides to struggle on his own. But this isn't a problem he can solve without you. Or that he can ignore forever. It's going to eat him up if he doesn't do something, and he knows that. He's known that as it's chipped away at his heart since he met you.
"Why?" You're asking him to be vulnerable. It's the scariest thing you could ever ask him to do, but somehow, right now, you make it feel easy. You're looking at him, heart open and bleeding on your sleeve.
"You know why," is all he can manage. You step closer to him. He can smell your perfume drifting in the wind. It rustles your hair slightly, blowing your carefully manicured strands in your face. He tucks them behind your ears and you tilt your head into his palm.
"Please say it," you're begging now, and he's sure his knees are going to buckle underneath the weight of all of this. He's putty in your hands. "Say it, and I'm yours, Leon."
"I want you so bad," he sighs. You're moving so close to him he can feel your breath against his lips, hitching as he continues. "I love you. I'm sorry." You don't say anything more; you've heard everything you'd ever wanted to from him. You press your mouth to his, hard and full of years of wanting. He sighs into your mouth easily, cupping your face and deepening the kiss further. You're falling into him before you know it, his arms slipping around your waist like you were made for each other. Leon's convinced you're made for him.
