age gap (leon s. kennedy forty-nine years old + reader twenty-something); established relationship; riding / cowgirl; overstimulation; begging; edging; orgasm denial; possessive leon; dirty talk; creampie; female reader.
the bedroom was dark except for the faint silver light slipping through the half-closed blinds—enough to catch the sweat on leon’s chest, the way his abs flexed every time you rolled your hips down hard. it was past midnight, the house quiet except for the wet slap of skin on skin and his ragged breathing.
you’d started slow. teasing. grinding in lazy circles while he lay back against the headboard, hands loose on your thighs, letting you set the pace like he always did when he came home wrecked from a mission. but tonight you weren’t in the mood to be gentle. you wanted to break him a little. wanted to see the unbreakable agent kennedy unravel under you.
forty-nine years old and still stupidly gorgeous—silver threading through dark hair, stubble rough against your palms when you braced on his shoulders, those blue eyes half-lidded and blown black with want. his cock was buried deep inside you, thick and throbbing, and every time you lifted almost all the way off and sank back down he let out a low, broken sound that went straight to your clit.
you picked up speed. harder. faster. slamming down until your ass slapped against his thighs, clit grinding against his pelvis on every downstroke. the wet squelch was obscene; you were soaked, dripping down his balls, making everything slick and messy.
“fuck—baby—slow down—” his voice cracked, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “you’re gonna make me—”
“no.” you leaned forward, tits brushing his chest, lips ghosting over his ear. “not yet. you’re gonna take it. you’re gonna let me ride you until i’m done.”
he groaned—deep, guttural—like the words punched the air out of him. his head tipped back against the wood, throat working as he swallowed hard. you could feel him twitching inside you, so close, veins pulsing against your walls. but every time his hips jerked up like he was about to chase his release, you stilled completely—clenching around him tight, holding him right on the edge without letting him tip over.
“shit—please—” the word slipped out before he could catch it. leon kennedy didn’t beg. not usually. but right now his voice was wrecked, hoarse, desperate. “let me come. fuck, sweetheart, i can’t—i need—”
you rolled your hips in a slow, torturous circle, feeling the head of him drag against that spot inside you that made your thighs shake. “you need what? use your words, old man.”
his laugh was breathless, strained. “need to come inside you. been dying for it all week. please—fuck—i’m begging you. let me fill you up. i’ll do anything.”
the sound of him pleading sent a fresh rush of heat through you. you sped up again—bouncing hard, tits jiggling with every slam down, nails digging into his pecs. his hands slid up to your waist, then your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
he bucked up involuntarily, chasing the friction. “yeah—fuck—i’m yours. all yours. just—please—let me—”
you leaned down, kissed him messy and deep, tongue sliding against his while you kept the brutal rhythm. his moans vibrated into your mouth. you could feel him swelling even thicker inside you, right on the brink.
“come on,” you murmured against his lips. “give it to me. fill me up. make a mess.”
that was all it took.
his hands clamped down on your hips, holding you flush as he thrust up hard—once, twice—and came with a choked, broken groan. hot pulses flooded you, thick and endless, spilling deep while his whole body shook under you. you kept moving through it—milking him, grinding down to drag every last drop out—until he was twitching, oversensitive, gasping against your neck.
“fuck… fuck… too much—” he panted, but his arms wrapped around you anyway, pulling you down to his chest so you stayed seated on him, cock still buried inside, softening slowly in the wet heat.
you kissed the sweat-damp skin under his jaw, smiling against him. “good boy.”
he huffed a laugh, weak and wrecked. “you’re evil.”
“and you love it.”
his hand slid down to cup your ass, squeezing lazily. “yeah. i do.”
you stayed like that for a long minute—bodies slick with sweat, hearts hammering together—his cum slowly leaking out around where you were still joined.
when you finally lifted off him, a thick strand followed, dripping onto his thigh. he watched it with dark, hungry eyes, then pulled you back down for a slow, filthy kiss.
he’s an old man now, so don’t expect him to be coming at you with the same stamina as he used to.
his back will seize painfully, his hips will lock, his breaths will come sharper. his arms strain when he tries to hold himself above you, the veins bulging deliciously. inevitably, he’ll fall down, letting his head just rest in the crook of your neck.
but of course, that’s not to say that he still doesn’t fuck you mean. like he always has. like he always will.
he likes to have one arm wrapped around your back, manually arching you into him. he likes to keep his other arm against the mattress, hand gripping yours painfully, or clenching the pillowcase between his fingers so tight that his knuckles turn white.
and he loves to fuck you rough.
it’s not all that fast—god knows if he went as fast as he used to, his damn hip would pop out of place. so he makes up for his lack of speed with hardness. his hips meet yours in cruel, firm thrusts, rocking your entire body up the bed—your head hitting the headboard so often, you fear a concussion.
and his pace might not be quick, but it’s consistent. for a good bit, he could go just like that—strong hips pushing against yours, tip abusing your fucking cervix, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of your spent pussy.
and it doesn’t help that he sounds so pretty too.
most of the time, he grits his teeth, hissing in your ear and letting little chesty grunts loose. he doesn’t feel that those needy moans would work coming from him at his age, but at his core, he’s always been weak for one thing—you. so when you ask him to be loud for you, tell you how good he feels, his lips will instantly part, jaw dropping for you and letting all those guttural noises spill out.
and when your cunt flutters around him, impossibly more turned on by his deep groans, a whimper sounds at the back of his throat. flustered, he’ll bite down on your shoulder—not hard, he’d never want to hurt you, but firm enough that your skin tingles beneath his teeth.
he doesn’t last as long as he did back then. where once he could go for hours, he can’t stave off his peak for longer than a half hour now—and that’s if he really tries. which, he hardly does. why should he, when you seem so eager for his cum anyway?
something that always speeds up the process is praise. with his age, he’s become a little more conscious of himself—his changing body, which you insist is sexier than ever before, but he remains stubborn in thinking he’s not good enough for you. older, tired, scarred up. so when he’s balls-deep, with sweat dripping from his temples and breath catching in his throat? and you’re breathlessly whining, “Making me feel so good, Leon— fuck, so good for me.” and, “You’re gonna make me cum..” ? He’s gone.
but sometimes, praise from you is just that glaze in your eyes—the cockdrunk gasps slipping from your wet lips, unfocused gaze and tremble in your thighs. visible signs that he’s making you feel good. no, better than good. fucking euphoric. and suddenly he’s gasping for air, hand flying down to your hip to grip it tight as his hips falter, filling you with all he’s got.
he also loves when you ride him. he feels a little less secure in this position, his body more visible to you, but once he gets you in his lap, grinding your hips against his, giggling out moans when his hips instinctively buck up into yours—he forgets all that. and he looks so pretty like this, laid back against the pillows, eyes struggling to stay open, brows drawing tight, lips inevitably falling open as he breathes shallowly. one of his hands on your waist, sometimes helping you bounce, others just resting there. the other is either gripping the sheets to ground himself, stave off his orgasm a little longer, or it’s on you—holding your face with visceral devotion, tucking hair that’s sweatily matted to your temple behind your ear. or on one of your tits, groping the soft flesh there desperately. reverently.
some things have to change. sure, he can’t fuck you like he could, can’t last as long as he could, and he’s not as confident anymore. but he finds ways around it.
he finished before you? he’s shuffling down the bed and stuffing his tongue between your legs for an hour minimum, flicking at your clit and thrusting into your cunt until you’re gushing all over his face. and when you think you’re done, numerous orgasms later, he’s rolling onto his back, pulling you with him and slotting you right onto his face—moaning deeply into you at just the position.
his hips aren’t moving fast enough? his hand is creeping between you, fingers working at your clit in rapid, smooth circles. he’d rub you just right, just how you like it, until your cunt clenches around his cock and leaves a white ring sheening it—and he still wouldn’t stop. you’re his girl—he knows you like it that way.
he’d do anything to make sure you stay satisfied. which, you always are anyway, more than. with a man like that, there’s no way you’re leaving his bed without a tremble in your steps and soreness to last you days.
felt like this was long overdue. i miss writing for leon🥹
warnings: reader’s wrist is accidentally sprained from being grabbed too hard
You could hear scuttling from somewhere else in the garden, an estate more than sizable enough than the game afoot.
You were under the distinct impression though that the bats and birds are playing with you similar to how they would a child. Slower, weaker, and less experienced than the big kids. You weren't complaining though. Because, frankly, it was stressful. They tend to operate more like they’re in a warzone than a game, you felt like you were about to be sniped out at any second.
Rightfully so, apparently, seeing how silently Stephanie had crept up on you.
“Hey,” Stephanie hissed, ignoring the way you jumped. “We’re doing alright for ourselves,” she said smugly.
“Yeah,” you’d nodded, like you agreed with her more than you probably did.
“Okay listen, I think the flag—” what flag? “—is by the fountain so, I think because there’s three of us and two of them, we should bait-and-switch.”
“We’re on teams?” you asked, no longer completely sure you know what you’re playing.
“We are now!” she smiled, starting to run. “I’ll bait!”
She stopped briefly in her tracks and turned back to you hissing, “Don’t trust Cass,” before scurrying away.
Rather than sit around and wait there for…something?...to happen, you jumped up darting in the opposite direction with little to no indication whether this is a good move.
What you didn’t see is Cass rapidly approaching from your rear.
What you also didn’t see was Dick crouched down in a row of shrubbery, which gave him the perfect opportunity to snatch your arm up and yank you down with him. You’d mewled a bit as your wrist made contact harshly with the grass, immediately buckling under you.
Cass was keen to your pain immediately, slowing her sprint to a stroll as she observed you.
“Are you okay?” she signs.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”
The response was instinctual and you didn’t actually have time to register whether or not you were okay by the time you gave it.
You pushed up on your elbows, trying to figure out whether Dick is even on your team, but the way the others approached had you halting consideration. They’re savvy to the situation at a speed in which you can only attribute to their vigilantism, looking at you with concern.
“You good?” Tim asked, approaching languidly.
“That looked like it hurt,” Cass commented, crouching down next to you to see your wrist better.
Dick shook his head, “No, she’s okay.” He turned to you, prodding, “You’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m, um…” you winced, looking at your wrist. “It hurts a little.”
Cass examined it closely, tilting it gently to the side. “It might be sprained.”
Dick paled.
“No.”
Tim pointed a thumb back towards the manor, “We can get it wrapped upstairs.”
“No.”
You were only then able to clock the barely contained grin on Stephanie’s face, begging to break.
“Ooooh. He’s gonna kill you.”
Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.
“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—”
Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident.
“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.
You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”
Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done.
You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.
He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”
“Dick.”
He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes.
He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.
“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.
You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”
Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”
You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically.
Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.
“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”
Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”
Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”
A deadpan from Tim.
“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”
Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”
Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”
Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?”
“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.
“Oh my God.”
He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?
He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.
The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”
The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”
Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.”
Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”
Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”
Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.
“I can’t help you.”
Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.
Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”
“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”
Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”
Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”
Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom.
You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you.
“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.
“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.
He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you.
Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back.
You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”
“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”
He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you.
You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”
The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature.
He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.
“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”
You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”
He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.
He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”
You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.
Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt.
“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following.
“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”
He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”
He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”
You nod, happy to ease his mind.
You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.
You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.
You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.
He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.
“Fucking idiot—”
You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.
“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.
“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”
He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.
You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him.
He scoffs, “It better have been.”
You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”
“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”
You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”
“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly.
You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”
He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”
His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”
You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”
He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”
He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”
“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.
“Dick!”
The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.
He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes.
“Where is he?”
Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding.
Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.
He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”
But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.
He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.
There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail.
“Really? Really?” Jason shouts.
“It was an accident! It was a fucking—”
He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.
“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”
Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.
Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”
Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”
He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him.
Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”
Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”
“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option.
“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring.
Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to.
“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—”
Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”
“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”
Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”
“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”
“Yeah, of course I did!”
For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body.
The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.
It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more.
“Jason.”
Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption.
You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.
He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.
“I didn’t hit him.”
⭐️ your options are: (1) reblog fics or (2) be a little bitch ⭐️
And penguins lack large terrestrial predators, so their reaction to humans tends to be, “HELLO STRANGE GIANT PENGUINS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU HAVE ANY FISH?”
Bunny phone stand that I made with resin. $15 for solid color, $20 for 2 colors. 😃 What a cute way to watch movies on your phone! https://www.instagram.com/p/Cec5EZAO-EOg_9FBQOtLFXZCu_oW4Ton_lv8pc0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
Finally put these together. I'll post more pictures once things cure. https://www.instagram.com/p/CeQShL6u7br5X7nDZT6BQ7CWdoSI5q63uL9cig0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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Like I thought it was the cutest shit when I was little and it still is here's proof
I'm angry that they don't make them like, round anymore I mean look how they've massacred this lass
I don't care about that "mOdErN tEcHnOLoGy" bullshit Volkswagen has ruined The Beetle™️
Anyways the one I was last made in 2010 and I don't think Volkwagen will make them like this any longer
Anyways that's my They Don't Make Volkswagen Beetles Like They Used To rant
Brittney Griner was arrested in Moscow upon returning to Russia, amid the country's attacks on Ukraine intensifying. Her wife, Cherelle Griner, has been posting on Instagram about her detention. "My heart, our hearts, are all skipping beats every day that goes by," Cherelle wrote in a post shared last week. "I miss your voice. I miss your presence. You're our person! There are no words to express this pain. I'm hurting, we're hurting."
First try with a candle. Rose petals, pink mica powder rubbed on top with biodegradable glitter, rose and spearmint essential oils. https://www.instagram.com/p/CP52kpMDWpIvVXd4iJaZPO_QGwDnN3gnWpAKXQ0/?utm_medium=tumblr
