Summary: Leon blames you for not following orders. You blame him for never trusting anyone. Tonight it cuts deeper than either of you expected, and when it finally breaks, it's not with an apology. It's with your back against the wall and his mouth on yours, angry and desperate and nothing like forgiveness.
The safe house was damp, smelling of mildew and old dust, a far cry from the polished briefing rooms of Washington. The single overhead bulb flickered, casting erratic shadows against the peeling wallpaper. Somewhere in the walls, a pipe dripped in irregular beats—the only thing marking the passage of time in this forgotten hole in the wall.
The silence between the drips stretched thin, pulled tight by the adrenaline crash settling in your veins. Your hands were still trembling, the aftershock of a firefight playing out in your nervous system. The only other sound was the heavy, ragged breathing of two people who had just cheated death and hadn't quite convinced their bodies of it yet.
"You didn't run."
Leon's voice was flat, stripped of the usual tired sarcasm that kept people at arm's length. He was tearing off his tactical vest, the velcro ripping through the quiet like a gunshot. He didn't look at you, his jaw set so hard you could see the muscle twitch beneath the stubble-darkened skin. His fingers moved mechanically, like the task was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.
"There was a guy cutting left to flank our exit," you shot back, slamming your own gear onto the rickety wooden table. A coffee cup rattled near the edge, threatening to spill. "If I had just blindly run, he would have been waiting at the door before we got there. I stopped to track him. Maybe if you had actually communicated your plan instead of barking orders like a drill sergeant, I wouldn't have had to improvise."
He spun around, eyes blue and cold. The light caught the dried blood on his cheekbone, a thin rust-colored line you hadn't noticed until now. "My plan was simple. Get to the exit. Don't stop. Instead, you broke off, and I had to double back into a kill zone to save your ass because you were busy tracking a single hostile while the facility came down around our ears."
"I didn't ask you to come back for me," you said, stepping into his space. Close enough to see the frayed threads on his collar where shrapnel had caught the fabric. Close enough to see the pulse jumping at the base of his throat. "I had it handled."
"No, you didn't." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "I gave you a direct order to run, and you chose to stand your ground on a split-second read. That's not handling it. That's rolling the dice and hoping the odds shake out."
"I was right, though."
"You were lucky. There's a difference." His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking—the kind of stare that made trained operatives look away. "And luck runs out. Usually right when you need it most."
"Luck runs out," you repeated slowly. "That's what you tell yourself, isn't it? So you never have to actually trust anyone. You've already decided everyone around you is going to fail—that way, when they do, you can say you saw it coming." You shook your head. "Maybe the problem isn't me. Maybe you're just so obsessed with being the martyr that you can't trust anyone else to do their job—because if someone actually keeps up with you, what do you have left to prove?"
Leon flinched. Barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as fast as it came. But you saw it.
Then something hardened. His eyes went flat, the brief crack in his armor sealing shut with an almost audible click.
"You think that's what this is? You think I want to carry dead weight?" He took a step closer, and you held your ground. "You want to talk about trust? Trust goes both ways. You didn't trust me enough to follow orders, and now you're standing here acting like I'm the problem."
"That's not what I—"
"You're not as good as you think you are." The words came out clean, deliberate—like he'd been sitting on them the whole ride back, turning them over like a blade between his fingers. "You've got instincts. Fine. But instincts don't make you reliable. You don't listen, you don't adapt, and the moment something doesn't go your way, you improvise and call it competence." His lip curled. "I've worked with amateurs who took orders better than you."
The breath left your lungs. Because he knew how to hurt people. Not with fists—with precision.
"Then maybe you shouldn't have requested me," you snarled, shoving him in the chest with both hands.
Leon stumbled back a single step—only because he let himself—but his hand shot out like a trap springing shut, catching your wrist. His grip was iron, fingers wrapping around the narrow bones hard enough to feel your pulse hammering against his palm. He yanked you forward, and you collided with his chest, the impact knocking what little air remained from your lungs.
"You want to say that again?" he hissed, his face inches from yours. This close, you could see the flecks of grey in those cold blue eyes, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow, the way his pupils had blown wide despite the anger.
"You heard me," you spat, breathless. "I'm done taking the blame for your control issues. You can't handle not being in charge of everything—including me."
"Control issues?" A dark, humorless laugh scraped out of him. "You have no idea."
He slammed his mouth onto yours.
There was nothing gentle about it. His lips crushed against yours, forceful and demanding. Teeth clicked, and the tender skin of your bottom lip caught and split against the sharp edge of his canine. Copper bloomed across your tongue—his or yours, impossible to tell, didn't care. It was angry and visceral, forty-eight hours of sheer terror and unfiltered rage finally finding the only exit it could.
You didn't pull away. You met him with equal force, grabbing a fistful of his damp shirt and dragging him closer. Your knuckles turned white twisting the fabric, your other hand flying up to knot in the short hair at his nape, pulling his head down to a better angle. You bit down on his lower lip—hard—and he groaned. Deep, ragged, torn from somewhere low in his chest. It vibrated against your mouth, traveled through your ribs, and sent a sharp rush of heat pooling low in your belly.
He moved blindly, walking you backward without breaking the kiss. Your shoulder blades hit the wall, the impact knocking a shaky exhale out of you. The plaster was cool and gritty through the thin fabric of your shirt, a jarring contrast to the furnace of his body pressing you into it. His heartbeat hammered against yours—frantic, desperate, nothing like the controlled front he wore like armor.
"This what you want?" he muttered against your bruised lips, breath coming in hot, uneven puffs. He barely pulled back enough to speak. "To shut me up?"
"Maybe." You swallowed his next words in a messy, consuming kiss—all teeth and tongue and zero tenderness. "You talk too much anyway," you breathed into the sliver of space between you.
His hands slid down—past your ribs, past your waist, finding the strip of bare skin where your shirt had come untucked. His palms were calloused, the kind that don't soften, and the drag of them against your skin made your breath hitch. He didn't caress. He gripped, fingers digging in until you couldn't tell where the pressure ended and the ache began.
The kiss broke, and his mouth dragged down the line of your jaw, movements jagged and impatient. The rough scrape of his stubble against your skin sent a jolt down your spine, a sharp contrast to the heat of his tongue. You tugged at the hem of his shirt while his mouth worked at your neck, your knuckles dragging against his stomach, needing the fabric gone, aching for skin against skin to prove you were both still alive.
He pulled back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, and then his hands were on you, hooking under the hem of your shirt and dragging it upward. You raised your arms without thinking, already past the point of pretending you didn't want this. He stripped it off in one motion. Rough, warm palms hit your bare skin, skating up your ribs with a possessiveness that made your breath catch. He reached behind you, knuckles brushing your spine as he unhooked your bra with an ease that annoyed you almost as much as it turned you on, and he pulled the straps down your arms and tossed it aside without breaking eye contact.
Then he just—stopped.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent except for your ragged breathing. His gaze dropped. Slowly, deliberately, like he was taking inventory. Down the line of your collarbones, the slope of your breasts, the dip of your waist. Not rushing. Not touching. Just looking.
His head lowered, and his mouth found the hollow of your throat. Hot, open-mouthed, dragging lower down your chest. His hands came up to cup your breasts, palms sliding over the skin, and his thumbs brushed over your nipples in a slow, maddening rhythm that had your back arching off the wall. Then he latched on without warning, his tongue swirling around the peak before he sucked hard. A sharp, white-hot jolt shot straight between your legs. You cried out, your head falling back against the wall with a dull thud, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails biting into the muscle.
He didn't let up. Nothing reverent about it—no tenderness, no restraint. He devoured you with a desperate, messy intensity, like he'd die if he stopped. His teeth grazed the peaked nipple just hard enough to make you gasp, then soothed the sting with a slow drag of his tongue. He switched to the other side, sucking it deep into his mouth, his hand heavy on the breast he'd abandoned, kneading until it hurt.
"You like that?" he murmured against your skin, the vibration humming through you.
Your only answer was to thread your fingers through his hair and hold him there. He huffed a dark laugh against your breast, the air cooling the wetness he'd left behind.
One hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers digging in as he pulled your body flush against his. The hard line of his cock pressed against your lower stomach through his cargo pants—thick and insistent, a stark reminder of exactly where this was going.
The remaining fabric was maddening—too many layers, too much cloth between skin that needed to meet. You needed to break him apart the way he was unraveling you, so you grabbed his jaw and pulled him off you. His lips were wet and swollen, his eyes glazed with a mix of lust and that same stubborn anger that had started this whole thing.
"Done already?" you taunted, your words fractured by shallow pants. "Scared you can't keep up?"
Leon's eyes narrowed. His hands slid from your breasts to grip your hips, fingers pressing in until it ached.
"Scared of you?" A short, sharp exhale that wasn't quite a laugh. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're going to be this much of a brat when I'm inside you."
"Try me and find out."
He dropped, his knees hitting the dusty floor with a muted thud. Before you could process it, his fingers were hooked into the waistband of your pants. He didn't undo the button and zipper with any care; he practically ripped them open, the fly protesting with a sharp metallic sound in the quiet room. He pulled your boots off one at a time, quick and impatient, tossing them aside. Then his hands gripped the loosened fabric, dragging your pants down your hips and over your thighs.
"Lift," he commanded, smacking your hip sharply.
Your pride flared at the order, but your body betrayed you. You stepped out of the pooled fabric, leaving you in just your underwear. The damp air of the safe house clung to your bare skin, but Leon's gaze was a physical brand, trailing hot up the length of your legs.
"Look at you," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, rough and gravelly. His gaze lingered between your thighs, and the corner of his mouth curved. "All that attitude, and you're soaking wet for me."
"Don't flatter yourself," you managed, though your voice wavered as he leaned in, pressing his face against the damp fabric of your panties. He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing against your clit through the cotton, and your knees nearly buckled. "It's just adrenaline."
"Sure it is." He hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear and dragged them down your legs and off your feet in one rough motion. "Keep telling yourself that."
Before you could catch your breath, he grabbed the back of your thigh and hauled your leg over his shoulder, opening you up to him. The position left you vulnerable—back against the wall, one foot barely touching the floor, hands tangled in his hair just to stay upright.
He didn't tease. He didn't start slow. He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, hard and relentless.
"Fuck." Your head cracked back against the wall, a cry tearing from your throat. He worked his tongue against you with a precision that was almost cruel—alternating between broad, flat strokes and sharp, targeted flicks that had your thigh trembling against his ear.
He groaned against you, the vibration traveling straight through your core, amplifying everything until the edges of your vision blurred. His hands were everywhere—one gripping your ass to hold you up, the other sliding between your legs to push a finger inside you.
"You're tight," he grunted, pulling away just long enough to speak before diving back in. He added a second finger, curling them upward to find that spot that made your breath hitch. "Relax. You're so damn tense."
"I'm tense because you're—" You broke off with a moan as his teeth grazed your inner thigh, a sharp bite that made your hips jerk. "Because you're annoying."
"Yeah?" A dark laugh scraped out of him, muffled against your skin. "Then why are you this wet?"
He pumped his fingers faster, matching the rhythm of his tongue, driving you relentlessly toward the edge. It was too much, too fast—the anger in his movements translating into a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. The coil in your belly tightened, heat climbing your spine.
"Leon, wait—" you gasped, tugging at his hair.
He pulled back, his chin wet, his eyes dark. "Come for me. Show me you can actually follow orders for once."
And then his mouth was on you again—sucking, relentless, his fingers curling deep.
Your orgasm hit. One second you were hanging on the edge, and the next it ripped through you. Your back arched off the wall, your entire body locking up, a sound wrenched from your throat—raw and wrecked, bouncing off the walls of the safe house. Your leg locked against his shoulder, your hips jerking against his mouth as you rode his face, and he didn't pull away—just worked you through every last spasm. The damp smell, the flickering light, the cold plaster—all of it gone, wiped out by the blinding rush that left you shaking and completely undone.
When he finally pulled away, you were slumped against the wall, boneless. Your legs shook. Your lungs burned. He looked up at you from his knees, chin glistening, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes never left yours.
"Still have something to say?" he asked, his voice thick and rough.
He lifted your leg off his shoulder and let it drop—your foot hitting the floor with a thud you barely felt, your thighs still trembling. He pushed himself up from his knees, and you grabbed the back of his neck before he was even fully upright, crashing your mouth against his—tasting yourself on his tongue, messy and desperate and nothing like the precision of what he'd just done to you. You wanted to return the favor. You wanted to ruin him.
"Get your pants off," you demanded against his lips, your hands already tugging at his waist. "Now."
Your trembling fingers fumbled with the heavy brass buckle, the cold metal slipping against your skin. He could have helped. He didn't. He just stood there, chest heaving, letting you struggle with it—watching you with that dark, half-lidded stare that made you feel like you were the one on your knees. Every time your knuckles brushed against the hard plane of his stomach, you felt the muscles jump beneath your touch, and that small crack in his composure sent a fresh spike of heat through your chest.
"You're enjoying this," you muttered, yanking at the leather.
"Immensely."
You finally got the pin free, and the belt slid through the loops with a hiss. You tossed it somewhere behind you—heard it hit the floor with a heavy clank—and moved straight for the button of his cargo pants. He was hard. Had been since he'd pressed you against the wall, and seeing the strain against the fabric now, the obscene outline of him, made your mouth go dry even though your body was still thrumming from what he'd just done to you.
You gripped him through the fabric—once, rough, possessive—and his jaw tightened. His abs contracted sharply above your hand, and the sound he made—barely there, bitten off—told you everything his mouth wouldn't.
"Still think I'm not as good as I think I am?" you asked, squeezing just hard enough to make his breath hitch.
He didn't answer. Just watched you, his breath coming too fast.
“That's what I thought," you muttered, shoving his pants down over his hips, along with his boxers, in one rough tug, leaving them bunched low down his thighs. And then there was nothing between you. The sight of him hit you all at once—the broad shoulders, the scarred torso, the sharp cut of his hips tapering down, the flushed, leaking hardness of him jutting out.
You swallowed.
For a fraction of a second, the anger faltered—replaced by something rawer, something that felt dangerously close to vulnerability. You'd wanted him before. On quiet nights in shared hotel rooms, in the space between orders and briefings, you'd wanted him. But wanting him like this, with his blood still drying on his cheekbone and your skin still stinging under his grip—that was different. That was a door you couldn't close.
He must have seen something shift in your face, because the arrogance flickered—replaced by something hungrier, more honest. He stepped forward, closing the gap, and his hand came up to grip your chin—rough, tilting your face up to meet his.
"Hey." His voice was low, and the gentleness in it was worse than the cruelty. "Still with me?"
"Don't go soft on me now," you said, the words thinner than you wanted. His grip on your chin tightened.
"Turn around."
"What?"
"You heard me." His thumb traced the line of your jaw, a ghost of tenderness that made your skin prickle. "Turn. Around."
Every instinct in you screamed to push back, to refuse, to keep fighting for control. But your legs were still unsteady, your body still humming from the orgasm he'd pulled out of you, and some deep, aching part of you wanted to see what he'd do when you gave him an inch.
So you turned. Slowly. You pressed your palms flat against the wall, leaning forward, bracing yourself—and waited.
For a moment, nothing. Just his breathing behind you—ragged and uneven—and the faint creak of the floorboards as he shifted his weight. Then his chest pressed against your back, the heat of him searing into your spine, and his mouth found the curve of your shoulder. Not a kiss—a press of lips, firm and deliberate, but his hand was trembling when it settled flat against your stomach, and he pressed forward gently, pushing your hips deeper into the arch until your ass was flush against him.
His hands slid up your sides, palms skating over your ribs, the dip of your waist. He was slower now, methodical in a way that felt different from before. Less frantic. Like he was mapping you, memorizing the terrain before the invasion.
"Leon," you started, your voice cracking.
"Quiet." His breath was hot against the shell of your ear. "I spent the last forty-eight hours wondering if you were going to die in that facility. So I'm going to take my time with this. And you're going to let me."
The words landed somewhere deeper than you were prepared for, because beneath the command there was something you hadn't expected—fear. Real, raw fear, the kind he'd never admit to, buried under layers of stoicism and sarcasm. He wasn't just angry. He'd been terrified. And this—his hands on you, his breath on your skin, the slowness of it like he was afraid you'd disappear—was him trying to prove you were alive.
You didn't say anything. You let him.
His hand slid down between your thighs from behind, his fingers finding you still slick and swollen from before. He groaned against your shoulder—a low, broken sound—as he dragged his fingers through your folds, spreading the wetness over you. You hissed at the contact, overstimulated, and your hips jerked forward against his hand.
Then his hand left you, and you heard the wet sound of him stroking himself—slow, measured strokes, spreading your slickness over his length. The head of his cock slapped against the curve of your ass, blunt and hot, and you flinched. He did it again, dragging himself between your cheeks, then down, until he was sliding through your folds from behind.
He gripped your hip, widened your stance with his knee, and the bare head of his cock caught against your entrance. You both stuttered—him with a sharp inhale, you with a whimper you couldn't swallow.
He pushed inside.
The first inch split you open—a slow, burning stretch that stole the breath from your lungs. He was bigger than you'd prepared for, thick in a way that your fingers couldn't replicate, and the wetness helped but it was still a lot. Your body struggled to accommodate him as he fed himself into you slowly, the raw drag of him sinking deeper. Your hands flattened against the wall, fingers splayed, and you pressed your forehead against the cool plaster and tried to remember how to breathe.
"Fuck." The word hissed through his teeth, his grip on your hips tightening until the bones ached. "You feel—" He didn't finish. Couldn't. His voice dissolved into something barely human. And then, quieter, almost to himself: "So fucking good."
He bottomed out, and for a moment neither of you moved. He folded himself over you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his hot, uneven breaths fanning down your spine. You could feel his heartbeat—not just inside you, but against your back, two pulses in different places, both racing. The heat of him. The way he throbbed inside you in time with that pulse. The slickness of your own body stretched tight around him.
Then he started to move.
The first thrust was slow—experimental, like he was testing the give of your body. The second was deeper, his hips snapping forward with a force that drove you up onto your toes. By the third, whatever restraint he'd been holding onto snapped like a frayed wire.
He fucked you against the wall with a desperation that bordered on violence. His pace was relentless, each thrust driving the air from your lungs in short, sharp gasps, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the safe house—obscene and loud. The angle had your hips pushed back, your spine arched, your ass bouncing against him with every snap, and he was hitting something deep inside that made your vision blur at the edges.
"You—" He was struggling to speak, his words fractured by the effort of his rhythm. "You have—no idea—how long—" Each phrase punctuated by a thrust, harder than the last. "I've thought about this."
"Tell me," you gasped, though the words came out broken, barely audible over the sound of his hips meeting your ass. You wanted to hear him fall apart. You needed it.
"No." His hand slid up your spine, slow now, almost gentle—a stark contrast to the brutal pace of his hips. His fingers threaded into your hair at the base of your nape, and he fisted his hand and pulled, arching your back deeper, forcing your head up. The angle shifted, and you cried out—loud, raw, echoing off the walls. "You don't get to hear that. Not yet."
He leaned down, his chest pressed flush against your back, his mouth against the shell of your ear. His hand left your hair and slid down the front of your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, his fingers wrapping around the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. You could feel your own heartbeat hammering against his palm.
He shifted again, and it was devastating—deeper, slower, each thrust a grinding roll of his hips that dragged the entire length of him against your front wall. The friction was overwhelming—slick heat, every ridge and vein catching against your walls in a way that made your toes curl against the cold floor. His other hand wrapped around your front, finding your clit, his fingers working you in tight, precise circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
"Come on," he muttered, his voice ragged and hot against your ear. "I want to feel you come apart on my cock."
It was too much—the deep, relentless pressure inside and the targeted friction against your clit, his hand on your throat, the solid weight of his chest pinning you in place. The coil in your belly wound tighter, your thighs shaking so badly you wouldn't have been able to stand if he wasn't holding you up.
"I'm—fuck, I'm gonna—" The words broke apart in your mouth, crumbling into something between a gasp and a whine.
"Let go." He bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard enough to mark, hard enough that you'd see the indentations of his teeth tomorrow—and the sharp sting of pain was the final push.
The orgasm crashed through you like a shockwave. Your entire body seized, your walls clamping down around him so hard he groaned—a raw, wrecked sound, his rhythm stuttering for the first time since he'd started. You could feel yourself pulsing around him, the wetness increasing, your body gripping him in waves as the pleasure rolled through you. Your knees buckled, your vision whited out, and a sound ripped from your throat that echoed off the safe house walls and came back sounding nothing like you.
He didn't stop. His hips kept moving through it, fucking you while your walls clenched and fluttered around him, and you could feel him losing control—his rhythm falling apart, his thrusts turning sharp and erratic, his breathing ragged against your shoulder. His hand slid from your throat, the other from between your legs, and both hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in hard as he chased his own end. You could feel him swelling inside you, his whole body going rigid against your back.
His hips slammed forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt so deep you couldn't breathe, and he came. Your name cracked and half-strangled, wrenched out of him like he didn't have a choice—shuddering against you now, his weight crushing you into the wall. And you felt it. The pulse of him, thick and hot, spilling into you, deep enough that you swore you could feel it in your stomach. His thrusts turned shallow, involuntary, filling you with every jerk of his hips.
He didn't pull away. He stayed flush against you, his full weight pinning you in place, hands clamped tight on your hips as the aftershocks rolled through your shared heat. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, damp with sweat, and he didn't move—still deep inside you, softening. Beneath the grit and the exhaustion, you could feel his heartbeat—a frantic, trapped bird slowly realizing the cage was open, its pace finally starting to stutter and slow. The iron grip on your hips eased. His thumbs dragged in absent, feather-light circles over the aching prints his fingers had left behind.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The silence that settled over the room was different from before—not the thin, razor-edged silence of the argument, but something heavier, stickier. The kind of silence that follows a confession neither of you meant to make.
The pipe dripped. The bulb flickered. His breath warmed the skin between your shoulder blades.
Then he pulled out—slowly, carefully—and you felt the loss of him, the wet drag of him leaving you, followed by the slow trickle of warmth down the inside of your thigh. You shivered and it wasn't from the cold.
Your legs finally gave out. You turned, your shoulder scraping against the plaster as you slid down, and ended up sitting on the cold floor with your knees drawn up and your head tipped back. Your body ached—hips, shoulders, thighs, the tender skin of your lip. Everything felt sore and used and alive.
Leon stood in the middle of the room. His hair was a mess from where you'd pulled it, his lip swollen and bleeding from your bite, and red lines ran down his shoulders where your nails had been. He looked like someone who had just been dragged through hell and come out the other side not sure if he was still on fire.
He bent down, pulled his pants back up, and didn't bother buttoning them. Then he crossed the small room, picked up his shirt from the floor, and—instead of putting it on—brought it back to you and dropped it over your shoulders.
You looked up at him. He wasn't looking at you. His jaw was set in that familiar hard line, but his eyes—when they finally met yours—were something you'd never seen before. Unguarded. Exhausted. Terrified.
"You scared the hell out of me," he said quietly. Not an accusation. Not a weapon. Just the truth, stripped bare.
Your throat tightened. You pulled his shirt tighter around your shoulders, and it smelled like copper and salt and something burnt, smoke and sweat soaked into the fabric over forty-eight hours—and your eyes burned in a way that had nothing to do with the flickering light.
"I thought I was going to die in there," you admitted.
He sank down beside you, his back against the wall. One leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent, his forearm resting on his knee. His shoulder was close enough to yours that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and let out a long, shaky breath.
Neither of you said anything else. You didn't talk about what this meant. You didn't talk about the mission, or the facility, or the fact that in a few hours you'd have to report back to headquarters and pretend none of this ever happened. You just sat there, stripped down and raw in every sense of the word, with his shirt around your shoulders and his cum drying on your thighs and the damp smell of the safe house filling your lungs.
The pipe dripped.
The bulb flickered.
You let your head fall to the side, settling against his shoulder. He didn't pull away. And for now, neither of you moved.
My husband was listening to Michael Jackson in the car the other day. Now I wanna write Leon Kennedy fics based on Rock with You and Pretty Young Thing 😖😖
Hi, yes -- I would just like to say I have started the Pretty Young Thing smut.
If you would like a preview, it's below the cut.
Leon wasn't going to sleep with his secretary. Not just because of the cliche of it. But also being twenty years older. Sure, she was attractive - that was beside the point. The Mona Lisa was nice to look at, but you couldn't touch that either. He'd made a very clear divide in his mind. She was just another coworker. Someone he could get along with, who made his life just a little bit easier.
Until the Dream.
He usually dreamed of work, doing what he did it was hard not to. This time Leon's mind had given him sweet relief from the usual visions of monsters, mutations, and blazing guns. It had sent him to the office. The echo of his work boots reverberating against the walls. The place was suspiciously empty. Even his secretary was missing from her desk. Not very unusual. There were papers to run across the building, and mail to be picked up from administration, and plenty of other reasons as to why she would be away.
But there was no reason for the soft moans and sighs emanating from behind his office door.
The wood was cool beneath his fingers as he pushed it open. There on the desk was his secretary - you - with your legs spread and your skirt bunched up around your hips. Your head was lulled back as two fingers plunged in and out of your pussy. Filling the room with a filthy squelch. The way it mixed with his name falling from your lips -
That was the first night in a very long time he had a wet dream.
After that, Leon couldn't look at you without seeing it. Without the imagined way your thighs had felt in his hands. How sweet you'd tasted. The way you'd gripped onto his shirt for dear life, dragging him closer. The scent of your perfume filling his nose, driving him crazy.
Your perfume wasn't something he'd paid much mind to before. It was a pleasant scent. One he'd grown accustomed to and associated with your presence and work space. Now, being near to you, it was all he could think about. Everything about you had found a way to grip him in a way he'd never anticipated.
But he wouldn't do it.
No matter how often he had to behind his desk. Or adjust the way he was standing. Or dip into the bathroom until he calmed down. Surely, this little fascination would dissipate on its own soon enough. Right?
It was almost nightly now that the dreams came and so did he.
Sometimes waking up in the middle, and having no choice but to finish the fantasy on his own. Stroking himself until he was a panting wreck. No matter how many times he orgasmed, the pain refused to be alleviated. He felt like a teenager again. Desperately horny and no real way to fix it.
SUMMARY: You and Leon haven’t felt this good in ages, so it’s only natural that you’d go at it like animals.
CONTENT: 18+ mdni ! SMUT. CITY. this shit is pure porn. re9/dilf!leon (he has reading glasses because I said so) and spouse!reader (no age gap!). marathon sex (oh they be fuckin like crazy). mostly piv; oral and fingering; car sex (leon’s porsche mentioned), bathroom/mirror sex; multiple positions (backshots, cowgirl); size kink, dilf kink(?), overstimulation kink (reader cries), maybe slight pain kink (if you squint), praise kink; multiple orgasms, creampies. some fluff and angst (cause they’re so in love); use of pet names; slight re9 spoilers (: they both had raccoon city syndrome and were then cured, and now they’re super horny for each other).
WC: 1.7k (of pure smut babyy)
NOTES: i have no idea what possessed me to write this.
•
You’d lost count of how many orgasms you had within the past twenty-four hours.
It’s not like you were keeping track to begin with. Leon had made it very clear that doing so wasn’t the point. There was no expectation for either of you to keep score.
There was only the expectation to feel it. To enjoy each other as much as possible. As much as your bodies could allow.
The challenge was a delightful one. A kind of excitement neither of you had been able to experience for months. Almost a year, come spring.
At first, that time a part didn’t seem too bad.
A marriage of nearly two decades meant that you had rhythms and routines; patterns that were so very easy to fall into the second you got each other alone.
Before the syndrome had even reared its head, you were near-insatiable. How could you not be?
Having worked alongside each other since The Incident meant that you got to see each other grow. You evolved into better versions of yourselves, and embraced the parts you had always liked.
Being that close, that involved, also taught you both to welcome whatever opportunities you could. Whether that was getting each other off in the bathroom of a lonely rest stop, or in the comfort of your home.
Of course, once those black marks decided to finally make themselves known, your bodies had naturally begun to slow.
Sure, you were both getting older…
Leon now needed prescriptions, and his shoulders had gotten a lot stiffer—though that wasn’t to your surprise really because he’d always had bad posture. But you too had been feeling the effects of age. Your mornings were now spent massaging your sore joints, and chiropractor visits had become a near-weekly occurrence.
All of these things you could navigate, but the syndrome wasn’t as forgiving.
So like with everything else in your shared life, you adapted. With some trials and a few errors, you learned to appreciate each other in new ways, reaching crevices of your relationship you would never known possible.
Through a certain lens, it was actually a rather beautiful thing.
But that didn’t mean you weren’t inexplicably horny.
So when Grace cured you both, after all was said-and-done and DSO had, more or less, cleared you, it didn’t come as a shock that you both had only one thing in mind.
Leon had enough restraint—or decency, depending on how you looked at it—to wait until you were both in the car before doing anything.
But just as you encroached on the outskirts of Raccoon City’s ruins, a large hand found its home on your thigh.
Leon’s grip was firm and warm—a kind of heat that not even thick denim could resist. It had you shifting in place, leaning farther into the leather seat, and subtly trying to spread your legs more.
Eventually his thumb started to trace lazy, albeit soothing circles into the flesh. Then suddenly the button of your jeans had come undone, and your husband’s thick fingers were slipping past the waistband of your underwear in search of your puffy clit.
You don’t think you’ve ever come faster in your life.
With a few more excruciating miles still between you and home, Leon was silent as he moved the Porsche between the congested lanes of the highway. He ended up taking the closest exit (where it even led to, you still don’t know) and drove until he spotted the gravel lot of a small abandoned gas-station.
You were pulling him into the back before he could even unbuckle himself.
You rode him harshly. Sloppy and uneven—not that it mattered in the slightest. With his hands on your face, holding you close as he flexed his thighs beneath you, it didn’t take long for you to come again. And it took even less time for him to spill into you with a breathy grunt.
When you did finally make it home, after what felt like hours, you were practically wrestling him through the front door.
Pressed between the wall and his hard body, Leon took you in the foyer—right next to the shoe-rack, and the small table where you usually kept your keys.
Trying to recall the night before was like listening to a skipping record. Your memory consisted of flashing images, of sounds you hadn’t heard in so long, of ice-blue eyes and the feeling of stubble against your chest.
You certainly remembered the next morning though.
You were awake first. While Leon slept, you took the time to stretch out your spine and massage your aching wrists. At some point, you missed Leon stirring. You missed his soft hum, and the mattress dip.
He was the first to kiss you—a soft peck to your shoulder while he pulled you back into his lap.
“Just wanna rest today,” was his excuse.
It’s what he kept telling you as he rolled you both over, as he sucked at the hollow of your throat, as he took your nipple into his mouth. “We deserve this.”
His hands were everywhere—hooking your legs over his shoulders, sliding up your stomach to your breasts and back down again. Then, with his face inches from your dripping pussy, he searched for your eyes. “Ain’t that right, pretty girl? You deserve this.”
He then pressed a teasing kiss to your mound, and you whined—all high-pitched and pathetic. Leon simply laughed.
“Yeah. My beautiful wife—“ he mouthed at your folds “—deserves whatever she wants.”
Leon ended up pulling a climax or two out of you. Though you’re certain if you hadn’t been the one to set the boundary, to pull him back up your body with promises of returning the favour, he would’ve gladly stayed between your legs the whole day.
It went on like that for hours. From him lapping at your release, to you teasing his annoyingly pretty cock with your throat.
A constant, mind-numbing, breath-taking push-and-pull.
Getting to be with him again meant everything to you. But you had thought that was the end.
Not of your sex-life, but of the reunion.
In your wildest fantasies—those that belonged to a version of you who knew nothing of Elpis—you had envisioned it: physically coming back together. With the threat of death, you’d hoped—desperately wanted—to feel him like that again, if only once more.
And by some insane stroke of luck, your wish came true.
You got what you wanted, and then some.
And you were grateful. Really, you were.
But as Leon pounded you from behind, you were starting to realize that maybe you hadn’t been prepared at all.
You felt good. Really, really good. Fucking amazing, even.
And it was almost too much.
Everything that happened over the course of the weekend was coming to a head.
It was climbing the peak right alongside another orgasm, and you weren’t sure if you could handle the fallout.
Leon slams his hips into yours again.
You nearly collapse onto the sink, eyes rolling back as your toes curl.
With Leon’s relentless cock bullying your walls, you feel a heavy pressure blooming between your hips. Mewling, you push your hips back to meet his thrusts.
“I know, baby, I know.” Leon grunts behind you.
Leon, who you know has been watching you carefully, readjusts his grip then. Wrapping one arm around your shoulders and the other across your hips, he tugs you back into him.
Your jaw goes slack at the new angle. His cock presses deep—deeper in a way that immediately has you squirming.
“Hey, look at me.” Leon’s eyes are blown wide, almost pitch-black. He’s always had an intense stare, but this time it’s lethal.
It takes everything in you to keep your eyes open.
“I love you, you know that?” Your knees buckle. “Seriously. I”—another thrust —“I know I don’t say it—shit—a lot…” he shoves his head into yours with a growl. “But I do. Fuck, I do.”
With his arm—that goddamn bicep that makes your mouth-water and your cunt flutter—Leon reorients your attention back to the mirror. Through half-lidded eyes, you study the hard set of his jaw.
“Look at yourself,” he groans.
You grab onto his arm and squeeze—the only response you can manage at this point that isn’t a sob.
“You’re fuckin’—agh—so fuckin’ beautiful.”
You nod, helpless, feeling your lashes grow heavy with tears.
Your pelvis is screaming from the friction, and your spine feels as if it’s going to snap at any moment.
Everything in you is begging for release.
But you’re selfish, and perhaps, a bit masochistic.
Because Leon—your husband, the love of your life—is purring praise after praise into your ear.
And you’re preening, practically gushing all over your old man.
All you want is to give him every ounce of your attention, of your self, and your arousal. But every thrust makes it harder not to let yourself go.
“Feel you squeezin’ me, baby,” he pants. “So-shit, so tight.”
Tears slip down your cheeks then. You have half a mind to care, but the other half is shameless. Even with how you crane your neck up to him, to meet his eyes, to put yourself on full display for him.
Leon tightens against you—in you. He swallows hard. “D-Does it feel that good? Does—agh—does my cock make my pretty wife wanna cry?”
Your mouth falls open with a babble, and suddenly all the sounds you had been suppressing come out tenfold.
“Ah, fuck.” Leon grits his teeth.
He’s flush against you now. The sheer size of him is overwhelming.
“Want you to make a mess on my cock, baby. C’mon. I—oh, fuck me.” His arms strain, caging you into him even tighter. “Need you to come, pretty girl. Need—shit. Need you to let go f’me. …I got you. I got you.”
When you finally come, Leon falls back into the wall, keeping you still as he works through his own orgasm. He groans and pants in your ear, while you tremble and claw at his arm.
You’re both left a complete mess. Sensitive, unable to speak or move much.
Yet Leon somehow manages to kiss your face again. And you—with the little energy you have left—let out a contented hum, making a point to run a shaky finger along the smooth silver of his wedding band.
My husband was listening to Michael Jackson in the car the other day. Now I wanna write Leon Kennedy fics based on Rock with You and Pretty Young Thing 😖😖
Hi, yes -- I would just like to say I have started the Pretty Young Thing smut.
If you would like a preview, it's below the cut.
Leon wasn't going to sleep with his secretary. Not just because of the cliche of it. But also being twenty years older. Sure, she was attractive - that was beside the point. The Mona Lisa was nice to look at, but you couldn't touch that either. He'd made a very clear divide in his mind. She was just another coworker. Someone he could get along with, who made his life just a little bit easier.
Until the Dream.
He usually dreamed of work, doing what he did it was hard not to. This time Leon's mind had given him sweet relief from the usual visions of monsters, mutations, and blazing guns. It had sent him to the office. The echo of his work boots reverberating against the walls. The place was suspiciously empty. Even his secretary was missing from her desk. Not very unusual. There were papers to run across the building, and mail to be picked up from administration, and plenty of other reasons as to why she would be away.
But there was no reason for the soft moans and sighs emanating from behind his office door.
The wood was cool beneath his fingers as he pushed it open. There on the desk was his secretary - you - with your legs spread and your skirt bunched up around your hips. Your head was lulled back as two fingers plunged in and out of your pussy. Filling the room with a filthy squelch. The way it mixed with his name falling from your lips -
That was the first night in a very long time he had a wet dream.
After that, Leon couldn't look at you without seeing it. Without the imagined way your thighs had felt in his hands. How sweet you'd tasted. The way you'd gripped onto his shirt for dear life, dragging him closer. The scent of your perfume filling his nose, driving him crazy.
Your perfume wasn't something he'd paid much mind to before. It was a pleasant scent. One he'd grown accustomed to and associated with your presence and work space. Now, being near to you, it was all he could think about. Everything about you had found a way to grip him in a way he'd never anticipated.
But he wouldn't do it.
No matter how often he had to behind his desk. Or adjust the way he was standing. Or dip into the bathroom until he calmed down. Surely, this little fascination would dissipate on its own soon enough. Right?
It was almost nightly now that the dreams came and so did he.
Sometimes waking up in the middle, and having no choice but to finish the fantasy on his own. Stroking himself until he was a panting wreck. No matter how many times he orgasmed, the pain refused to be alleviated. He felt like a teenager again. Desperately horny and no real way to fix it.
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My husband was listening to Michael Jackson in the car the other day. Now I wanna write Leon Kennedy fics based on Rock with You and Pretty Young Thing 😖😖
leon who's been attracted to you from the moment he laid eyes on you. your hair, the slope of your nose and your lips god he needed you. you'd always seen him as a friend, a colleague and my oh my, did he want to change that.
that's why he's got you on all fours, his head pressed against the crook of your neck as he fucks into you, his fat cock stretching your insides whilst he huffs and puffs out your name.
your moans bounce off the walls, your face pressing further against the pillow as you try to swallow your sounds. his hands tangle in your hair, pulling your head back as he lets out a groan.
his hand grips onto your waist, his knees slightly buckling at the feeling of you clenched around him. he kisses down your spine before moving his face up to your ear, whispering sinful praises and affirmations as you take him like the good girl you are.
your fingers grip onto the pillow, back arched and eyes fluttering shut as you groan, whines and whimpers leaving your mouth as he pistons in and out of you. he lets out a strangled groan as he stops, slowly pulling out of you before turning you onto your back.
his hands trail down your body, fingers finding solace onto your thighs before slowly rutting his thick fat cock against your thigh. he slowly presses back into your tight heat, his lips trembling as your body welcomes him back in.
he groans, his lips slotting against yours as he fucks you, his spare hand spreading your legs wider as he takes you with fevor. his beard scratches against your face, causing a small whine to escape your lips. a drop of sweat trickles down his forehead, as he bucks his hips into you, his cock driving further inside you.
a low curse leaves his lips as you clench around him pulling him deeper and deeper into you as his foreheads rests itself against your shoulder, sharp breaths leaving his mouth as he chases his high.
your fingers tangle in his hair as he quickens the pace, your mouth letting out garbled pleas and curses. your core tightens as he hits that sweet spot inside of you, your toes shaking as you release, your vision going white as you let out a haggard, "fuck."
leon lets out a final groan, his thick cum filling your insides as he slowly pulls out, letting out a small whisper of your name, his cock dribbling and glistening with your release. he leans down, capturing your lips in a slow kiss, his tongue pressing into your mouth as your hands cup his face.
he pulls away from your lips with a small hiss before trailing them down your jaw towards your neck. his hands move back down onto your legs, his cock nudging the inside of your thighs as his cum dribbles down his stomach.
summary: it had been a stupid fight—the kind that should’ve ended with you begrudgingly crawling into leon’s lap with his arms pulling you close like you’d never left. instead, he was forced to leave for his mission, unresolved tension simmering between you. two weeks later, he’s back and intent on making it up to you.
warnings: (18+) smut, some fluff, older bf!leon, age gap, established relationship, pet names (baby and sweetheart), make up/reunion sex, unprotected p in v, me being really horny about leon’s biceps and hands
word count: 3.3k
music choice: i’m your man by leonard cohen.
The door creaks open at half past two.
Leon entered quietly, trying his best to keep quiet and avoid waking you. Though, he couldn’t help the way his feet dragged on the carpet, the floor protesting against his weight with each step.
You take a deep breath before sliding out of bed, palm rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. Heart thumping in your chest, you aren’t quite sure what the cause of it is this time—his return home, safely, in one piece, or the fact that your tiff had been left unresolved. You figure it’s a mixture of the two, an uncomfortable one that swirls like nervousness personified in your stomach.
Hand resting on the wall, you peek out from behind the corner. Leon had damn near collapsed on the couch, head tipped back with his eyes shut. For a moment, you wondered whether to approach him now or bother him in the morning.
Only, you didn’t have a chance to make that decision before Leon’s head picked up, those tired eyes searching your face in the dim light. His jaw tenses, innate stubbornness wrestling with how much he’s missed you, before he exhales through his nose. Relenting. The moment his gaze drops to the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt that swallows you whole—he realizes that he has no chance in hell at staying upset with you.
“Hey, you,” he says, his voice rough from lack of sleep, yet softer than usual.
Leon shifts on the couch, making space without asking you to come closer. It was a stubborn man’s apology if you’d ever seen one. And when you don’t come near, he looks away, expression almost shy, fingers still tapping absently against his thigh.
You only make him wait a few seconds longer before you approach, bare feet padding softly on the carpet. When you lower yourself onto his lap, you feel the way Leon’s entire body loosens—like he’d been all wound up without realizing it. Like clockwork, his arm curls around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest.
Head tucked under his chin, you melt into him too, like a homecoming postponed two weeks too long. “Hey,” you finally whisper back.
Leon’s free hand lifts, brushing over your hair. He presses his face into it, inhaling your scent while his eyes come to a close. “Missed you, baby.”
Your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, something to keep your hands distracted. He seems to notice, wrapping his large, rough hand around yours. His thumb strokes the back of your hand before he brings it up, pressing his lips to your knuckles.
“You still mad at me?” he asks, chin nudging the top of your head, a silent ask for you to meet his eyes.
And when you do, you can practically see the way the older man melts for you. He releases your hand, placing it on his shoulder, then cups your cheek. It was a habit of his, just looking at you like this. Especially when he returns home from missions, his words and energy having been wrung dry. His touch communicates just how happy he is to see you, safe and sound.
“Mm-hmm,” you hum, though you betray your response by pressing your cheek more firmly to his palm.
You watch as a lazy smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, thumb rubbing your cheek. He pulls you in, lips pressing to the top of your head, and then once more to your forehead.
He lingers for a moment before pulling back just enough to catch your eye. “We gonna talk about it?”
You shrug, noncommittal. “If you want to.”
Leon’s mouth twitches, very easily reading in between the lines and picking up on the hidden subtexts in every word you say by this point. His fingers trail down your arm.
“I shouldn’t have left you like that,” he murmurs, hand coming down to rest on your thigh, thumb stroking your skin. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Should’ve apologized before I left. Made it right.”
When you lower your head to his shoulder, Leon feels somewhat better. Maybe he was better at using his words than he thought. Or maybe you were just tired, sleepy, needing rest. It was the middle of the night, after all.
But when you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing even closer to him, he begins to feel more confident in the former.
Leon turns, lips to your temple. “Still mad at me?”
“Kinda,” you mumble against his neck, nodding. “But I’m too tired to do anything about it right now.”
Leon hums, the sound vibrating against you as his arms tighten around your waist to pull you more securely against his chest. “Lucky me,” he whispers, and even though you can’t see his face, you can hear the proud smirk on it.
One hand slides up your back, settling between your shoulder blades. “Let’s go to bed, yeah? We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Nodding with your voice muffled against his skin, you say, “Take us to bed.”
Leon tuts. “Bossy.”
But even as he says it, he’s already moving to hoist you up. His arm hooks beneath your legs, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. Sneakily, you peek an eye open, admiring the way his bicep looks from this angle.
Years of working out, excessive training, the grueling missions—they’ve paid off, at least in this way—a way you could admire.
Leon nudges the bedroom door closed behind him before depositing you gently on the bed. He strips out of his clothes until he is left in his boxers, each article thumping to the ground, before climbing in behind you without a word.
“Not bossy,” you mutter as you lean back against his chest.
Leon huffs, a sound between a laugh and a scoff, his breath stirring the hairs at the back of your neck. “Right,” he quietly replies, lips just barely skimming the shell of your ear, “you’re just very politely demanding.”
His arm wraps around your waist, and he tugs you back against him while he pulls the blanket up. The warmth of his body soothed all of your aches and pains, his chest molding against your back. You raise your head, and like routine, Leon lays down his arm, his bicep pillowing your head.
“You’re lucky I like it when you’re bossy.”
You reach for his hand, splayed over your stomach, lacing your fingers with his. “I know you do.”
Leon replies by brushing his thumb over your fingers, face pressing into the back of your neck. For a long moment, the only sound to be heard is the synchronicity of your breathing, the occasional shift beneath the covers.
Another caress comes in the form of muffled words against your neck, “I missed you.”
You press more firmly against him, testing the waters. “I missed you too.”
When he doesn’t answer, you worry that he might be falling asleep. You should want him to rest and catch up on lost sleep. But selfishly—and selfish is what you can be when it comes to Leon’s attention—you press against him again, wiggling your ass just a bit more, because you just can’t help it. It’d been two weeks. Two long, torturous weeks.
You nearly smile when you hear him groan into your ear, feeling emboldened by such a quiet sound. Steeling yourself, you press your back to his front again, and this time, you can feel his erection press back.
Shifting to do it again, Leon’s hand comes down on your hip, halting your movement in his iron grip. “What’re ya doing? I thought my girl was still mad at me.”
Leon’s voice produces a heat that travels through your body, making your heart rate double in your chest. It was groggy and deep, rumbling in his chest with each word he said. You would’ve squirmed if his hand hadn’t brushed your hair away from your neck, his lips replacing it.
“I am still mad at you,” you say, doing your best to stabilize your voice, lest you whine midway through your sentence.
He laughs in your ear, the sound tired and deep, while his fingertips skim the skin of your stomach, slipping beneath the old band T-shirt that you found in the closet.
“I’m sure you are, baby,” he says, lips now encouraged to press an open-mouthed kiss to the spot just beneath your ear.
You gasp as his hand flattens on your stomach, pressing you against him until the scant distance between you is no more. He takes one of your breasts into his palm, squeezing gently.
“I am,” you choke out, though you aren’t even convincing yourself anymore.
Leon hums, naturally unconvinced. He kneads the softness of your breast in his hand, lips traveling the slope of your neck. “Then let me kiss it better. Can’t have my baby mad at me forever, can I?”
You’ve never known a love quite like Leon’s. He was gentle in a way guys your age usually aren’t. Never impatient, never rushing. Would rather touch your body in ways that make it sing than ever use it as a means to an end.
Leon pushes the shirt up your torso, pulling it off and over your head in one gentle movement. His hand cradles the back of your head as you lie back down, lips on the tip of your nose before they land on your lips.
Even now, you notice it.
Hands that rub and knead, rather than pinch and pull. Teeth kept behind the lips that kiss your skin rather than bite into it.
A whimper leaves your lips as his fingertips smooth down your torso, tracing the hem of your panties.
Leon kisses your shoulder, eyes on the side of your face. “Can you do me a favor, sweetheart?”
You nod your head, rewarded with a kiss to your cheek. “Y-Yes.”
He smiles against your skin; you can feel it. “Spread your legs for me. Help an old man out.”
Heat burns your cheeks, a tingling sensation traces the curve of your spine, and you nearly squirm at the feeling. A part of you feels too vulnerable like this, even now, even when you know that Leon isn’t the big bad wolf who’s out to hurt you.
The rough pad of his thumb strokes your lower stomach, lips finding the underside of your jaw, planting soft kisses that only stoke the fire within you. All of it was patient. Pressureless.
As you lift your thigh, his hand smooths over the inner side, keeping you spread open. “There you go,” he praises, hand resting on your knee as he waits for you to get comfortable in this new position.
Leon flexes his bicep beneath your head, an attempt to get your attention. When you tilt your head back to meet his gaze, he lowers to meet you where you are, lips pressing to yours.
You whine into his mouth, hips twitching as his hand properly slips between your legs, cupping your mound. Before you know it, his fingers slip beneath the damp fabric, sliding through your folds with ease.
“F-Fuck,” you stutter.
He groans, and you can feel his cock twitch against your ass. “Left my pretty girl so pent up. Gonna let me do right by you now?”
You nod against his lips, and his hand slips lower, gathering your wetness on his fingertips before bringing them to your clit, circling the pearl at a speed he knows you love. Not too little, but not too much. Just enough.
You pull away from his kiss, burying your face into his arm beneath your head. A whine of his name makes his fingers slip down, two fingers prodding your entrance to work you open.
In response, your thighs threaten to close around his hand, but he uses the strength of his forearm to keep your legs spread, fingers never stopping their pursuit.
His lips skim your ear, voice rough with arousal. “Missed this pretty pussy—shit, squeezing my fingers so tight. She missed me too, huh?”
A whine escapes you as you shift your hips, eager for more. “Yes— fuck, I want you.” Your hand slips between the two of you, just fingertips, just barely running over the thick print of his erection. “Want this—”
Leon damn near whimpers in your ear, forehead dropping onto your shoulder. “Shit, none of that, sweetheart— gonna make me cum before I even get to be inside ya. Don’t want that, do we?”
You shake your head, a small pout forming on your lips. He smiles, head dipping to kiss it away. “Don’t gimme that look, pretty baby. You’ll get what ya want, promise.”
Leon continues to fuck you slowly with his fingers, not aiming to overwhelm you. But two weeks apart have turned you greedy.
“Faster,” you say through a breath.
His lips trace your neck. “Mm-mm. How about a please?”
You huff, already impatient. “Faster, please.”
His lips curve up against your skin, but he obliges you anyway. Always does. His fingers quicken in pace, fingers long enough to easily curl inside you, knuckles deep.
The heel of his palm drags against your clit with every thrust of his fingers, the sound of your arousal and pleasure filling the otherwise quiet room.
Leon kisses your temple, a gentle gesture that contrasts with the movement of his hand. He keeps his eyes on your face, reading each expression. Lips fall onto your cheek. “My beautiful girl.”
You find yourself arching against him, the warmth of his cock twitching back and the heat coiling in your stomach making you moan. Your hand shoots down, wrapping around his wrist, feeling the muscles flex with every move of his hand. “Please, Leon, I’m—”
“I know you are, sweetheart,” he rasps, thumb finding your clit. “I’ve got you. Tell me where it feels good.”
He purposefully slips his fingers in a moment later, fingertips stroking the spot inside of you that makes your thighs begin to shake. The sound you let out is music to his ears, a mix between a whimper and a whine, muffled against his bicep.
“Right there, baby? Yeah?”
You nod, moans spilling from you as you bury your face in his arm completely. His fingers curl against that spot once more, sending you flying over the edge, completely undone. Your hips rock against his hand as your orgasm washes over you, panting harshly against his skin.
Leon’s fingers work you through it until your entire body goes limp against him, withdrawing them entirely. He brings his hand up to his mouth, licking his fingers clean of your release, groaning at the taste.
Still panting from your climax, you find yourself pressing back into Leon once more, his erection fitting snug against your ass.
You can hear him chuckle against your neck. “So soon?”
“Mm-hmm,” you hum in response, fingers just barely slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear. “Unless you need to catch your breath…rest your joints. I know you have your senior moments from time to time.”
Leon catches your wrist in a firm grip and uses your arm to roll you onto your back. He nudges your thighs apart once more, fingers hooking into the sides of your underwear to slide the flimsy fabric down your legs.
“C’mon, sweetheart, don’t get all bratty on me ‘cause you’re getting impatient,” he says, voice rumbling against your skin as he presses a kiss on your hip bone.
You try not to squirm—to act affected at all—as he licks a stripe over your puffy slit, just enough to taste you from the source. “W-Well, all I’m hearing is more stalling.”
Leon clicks his tongue, shaking his head. He presses a kiss on your inner thigh before pulling back, resting his weight on his heels. Tugging his boxers down, he easily kicks them away, until you’re both left just as naked as the day you were born.
His hand wraps around his shaft, stroking himself while positioning his leaking tip at your entrance. “There’s nothing elderly about how I fuck this pussy, baby, you know that.”
Your eyes widen, glued to the movement of his hand as he settles between your thighs once more. His cock seems bigger every time you see it, the head flushed a pretty pink color and beading with the evidence of his arousal.
You gulp, still trying to seem brave. “N-No? It’s just been so long, I guess I forgot.”
Rather than reprimanding you, Leon laughs under his breath, hands smoothing over your thighs as he pulls you closer, tip catching your entrance. “Such a brat,” he muses, voice light.
He slants his hips before you can rattle off another dull jab, sliding inside your warmth, cock snug inside you. His lips are on your neck almost immediately.
Your fingers card into his hair, lightly tugging at the root. “Oh, fuck, Leon—”
Another roll of his hips, another moan earned from your kiss-bruised lips.
He keeps his hands planted on your hips, thumbs stroking over the widest points. “Thought about you the whole time I was gone— shhit, baby, don’t squeeze me so tight.”
You gasp as he tilts your hips up just right, enough for his tip to reach the deepest point inside you. “Y-You did?”
Leon pants against your neck, kisses trailing up the side of your face, hot and wet. “‘Course I did. Wanted to—fuck, there ya go—get back home to my pretty girl.”
You turn your head to catch his mouth with your own, hands coming to cup both sides of his face. “I love you. ‘M sorry I’m such a—hah—brat. Missed you s’much.”
He twitches inside you with a groan into your mouth.
Leon is close, and he can feel that you are too.
He smooths a hand over your forehead, brushing your hair from your face. “I love you too, baby. Always gonna.”
You love this feeling. Being so full of him, so warm and loved. Hands in his hair, on his shoulders, raking down his back. Legs wrapping around his hips, keeping him near.
Leon breaks your kiss only to murmur against your cheek, “Fuck— gotta pull out, baby. Perfect pussy’s gonna make me cum.”
Ankles lock around his hips. Your mouth is back on his. “Mm-mm. Inside.”
A sound in between a gasp and a laugh leaves him, pulling away from the kiss just enough to look down at you. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, sweetheart. Say you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” your response comes faster than lightning. “I-I’m gonna cum!”
Leon’s hips stutter in response to you clenching down on him like a vice. He laces his fingers in yours like it was his first instinct, free hand slipping between you to rub your clit.
He watches your face, brought closer to the edge himself with every pinch of your brows and drop of your lips. “There it is, atta girl. So pretty when you cum.”
Your orgasm strikes you, hot and bright and as intense as electricity. Your hips jerk up into his, your veins thrumming with a pleasure that you’ve long been waiting for.
Just as you fall against him, Leon is there to catch you, hips buried to the hilt. Head tucked into your shoulder, you feel the moment he spills inside you. He cums with a choked sound against your skin, his hips stuttering until he empties himself, still buried snug inside you.
Eyes opening, you still see stars. You almost have to remind yourself how to breathe.
Lips on your shoulder. “Love you.”
A kiss on your forehead, hands pressing against the mattress on either side of your head as he stands up. By the time your eyes open, he’s back with a damp rag and a glass of water to your lips.
Cleaned up and sleepy, he slides into bed behind you once more, arm slung lazily over your middle.
You fall asleep in his arms a quarter past four.
an: i finally wrote something after having writers block for months on end everyone cheer !!! sorry if it’s lowk trash, i’ve been out of the writers room for so longggg 😞
