an. sorryyy for the late response i’ve been busy 💔. but this was so much fun. hope you enjoy, anon <33
“i’m sorry,” he says. his voice a little tight around the edges. "i don't know why i can't just—" he trails off.
“i even took a pill earlier,” he admits, vulnerably.
“hey” you put a warm hand on his chest. “it's okay. it's been a long week for you.”
he doesn’t say anything to that. just exhales through his nose, which is leon for i know and i hate it. he’d come home days ago from a mission that had gone sideways and he hadn’t really slept since. you watched him carry the weight of it, the guilt of whatever happened sitting heavy on him. and now this.
he wanted to have a nice night with you. something simple and good after a week that had been neither. and you can see what it's doing to him, the way he's folding inward, adding it to the pile of things he's decided are his fault.
you push him back against the couch gently and he lets you, watching you with his chest tight, and when you start to reach for him he opens his mouth to stop you.
“you don't have to—“
“shh. let me,” you murmur.
and then your hands are on him and leon has to close his eyes for a second because the alternative is watching you and he's not sure he can handle that right now.
you take him out and wrap your hand around him and he's soft and he knows and the shame of it sits hot in his throat. but you don't stop. you don't make a face. you don't say anything at all, just work him with your palm, spreading the bead of wetness at his tip down his length until he's slick under your fingers. he feels himself start to respond, slowly, the relief of it washes over him all at once making his eyes sting.
then your mouth is on him and he exhales a low grunt, hand hovering uselessly at his side. you run your tongue along his length, trace the veins, lips wrapping around his tip, tongue pressing flat against the slit, and he feels himself hardening properly in your mouth, getting thick and heavy on your tongue. the wet sounds fill the quiet of the room and his breath goes ragged and uneven above you. you reach up, find his hand and guide it into your hair. holding them in place for a second so he understands.
he understands.
his grip tightens slowly. tentative at first, then sure, and you hum around him and he groans, gravelly and low, hips shifting forward without permission. he guides you gently, finding a rhythm, and all that pent up tension releases out of him at once. you take him deeper and a gruff curse leaves him, head dropping back, the hand in your hair tightening as your mouth get sloppier, more obscene, and his breathing breaks into short rough exhales.
he's close. so close. he tugs at your hair gently.
“wait,” he groans. “i want to be inside you when i—”
you pull back and look up at him. with softnes. your eyes glazing.
“i want to taste you,” you say simply.
“i might not get hard again,” he says. his eyes searching yours. “and i really want to be inside you.”
“you will.” you press a kiss to the inside of his thigh. “let me have a taste first. then you can have me.”
he stares at you for a moment, chest heaving, and nods.
“okay,” he exhales deeply. “okay.”
you take him back into your mouth and he tips his head back, the sounds he had been holding back finally spilling out of him. his hand stays in your hair, guiding, and you let him, taking everything he gives you until his hips stutter and his grip tightens and he comes with a low broken grunt, spilling hot white spurts down your throat, thighs trembling on either side of you.
you swallow and look up at him. he looks down at you, chest still heaving, cheeks flushed, eyes tired and grateful. you smile up at him and he reaches down and cups your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks.
“thank you,” he says.
“my pretty girl,” he murmurs with adoration.
he pulls you up into his lap and kisses you, his tongue meeting yours, and he tastes himself lingering in your mouth, hands still cradling your face. and it’s right there in the middle of it, pressed flush against him, that you feel him hardening against your stomach.
you both pull back at the same time and look down.
then back up at each other.
you both laugh, his forehead dropping to yours, his chest shaking against you. he loved these moments with you more than he ever said out loud.
“told you,” you say with a smug smile.
“yeah,” he hums, still smiling. and kisses you again.
Summary: An attack during an attack leaves Leon injured and increasingly delirious. After extraction, he’s whisked away, and nobody’s fucking telling you what’s going on.
Finally, you get a phone call.
It changes everything.
WC: ~5k
CW: NSFW, like REALLY NSFW, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, Leon is injured, fuck or die, sex pollen, sex venom, shaky safety practices, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, first time (together), friends to lovers, technically coworkers to lovers, handjob, unprotected p in v, creampies, multiple orgasms (Leon), he's a hopeless romantic at heart, happy ending
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You say you saw the suits.”
“Yeah, in passing.”
“You didn’t think they were important?”
“It’s a fucking lab. Labs are rife with hazmat suits. We’ve never had to equip them before.”
“There were warnings posted all over the exit.”
“There were zombies all up on our ass.”
The splattering offspray from Leon’s last-minute shot paints your back like a gory Jackson Pollock. The infected hits the floor, tripping two more.
It would be more helpful if there weren’t about a thousand of them closing in.
You’re running side by side with Leon, shoes eating up the sterile white floors, trying to divine an exit through the branching arteries of the lab. He has to veto a turn into a side hall when more shambling figures lunge forward; he grabs your arm to tug you away with him, but it’s an unnecessary precaution. You’ve already matched his footwork.
He glances behind as you run.
“Where the fuck are they coming from?”
You’d like to fucking know.
“And why are they all runners?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.
These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.
You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.
“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.
“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.
This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.
You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.
EXIT
It’s a final sprint.
You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.
‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.
“Fuck! Force it!”
You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.
With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.
“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.
There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.
“There’s no power!”
“You’re armed!”
Oh, right.
BANG T-SHUNK
Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.
Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.
“Say something?”
“Something.”
“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”
"You only look like it.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He’s flipping you off.
You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.
He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.
“Wait.”
You’re in a greenhouse.
Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.
No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.
The plants are rustling lightly.
Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.
“What’s the sitrep on the door?”
It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.
“Fucked.”
“Other doors?”
It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.
“Negative.”
“How long can you hold your breath?”
“I don’t think that’s the concern.”
You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.
Bite-proof.
“Fuck.”
“So you tried to bypass it underground.”
“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”
The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.
The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.
“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”
“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”
The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.
He shines his flashlight forward.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”
His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.
“Ugh,” you agree.
Roots.
Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.
Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.
“Hey. Look.”
He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.
You come closer with the flashlight.
The dark color is red.
“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.
The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.
Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.
“God. Which way do you think they run?”
He glances at you. “Three guesses.”
“Plants don’t bleed red.”
“Not typically.”
You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.
You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.
You check your pistol's chamber and follow.
“A line of tanks.”
“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”
“Which way were the tubes running?”
“Both ways.”
“So…”
“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”
“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”
There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.
Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.
Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.
“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.
“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”
“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”
“Yeah.”
Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.
The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.
He steps back, jaw tight.
“Dare I even ask?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”
You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.
“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.
“Twist my arm.”
“You didn't see it?”
“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”
“You didn't hear it?”
“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.
Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.
Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.
It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.
This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.
Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—
That’s when the other thing strikes.
Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.
“Leon!”
It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.
The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.
A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.
The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.
Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.
“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.
“Let me see. Leon.”
You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.
His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.
“What the fuck.”
The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.
At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.
Pink with blood.
“Shit. Hey.”
Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.
It takes him a moment to focus on you.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.
You’re trying not to panic.
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.
“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.
You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.
“What did the labs say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What did Medical say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”
“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.
“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”
“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”
“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”
You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.
“I wanna see him.”
“He’s in precautionary isolation.”
“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”
“You weren't bitten.”
“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”
Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.
“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.
Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. You are free to go.”
Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.
“We were told you might try that.”
Fucking debrief.
So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.
Assholes.
You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.
You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.
You call the labs.
Some poor idiot actually picks up.
“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.
“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”
“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.
You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call
Leonnedy
You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.
“Leon! Are you okay?”
Immediately you can tell he’s not.
“I need help,” he says. Croaks.
Cold sweat breaks on your skin.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.
You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.
“Leon, where are you.”
“Home.”
“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”
“They said I could take care of it.”
“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“
He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.
“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.
“Leon.”
“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.
“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”
“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”
“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”
“What?”
“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”
You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.
“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.
That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.
“Why’d you call me?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.
Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.
"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”
You’re partners.
No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–
“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.
You wrench the door open.
Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.
You’re still not prepared.
As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.
This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.
Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.
Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.
His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.
His chest is heaving, his hips restless.
His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.
“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.
He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.
“I’m here. What do you–“
“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”
And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.
The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.
You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.
You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.
He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.
It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.
Six goddamn hours.
You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.
His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.
He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.
Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.
You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.
And why couldn’t he get there himself?
What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?
What a fucking epitaph that would be.
No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.
You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.
“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”
His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.
His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.
He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.
You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.
“A little pent up?”
He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.
His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.
There’s a very noticeable issue.
He’s still incredibly hard.
When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.
“Do you feel any different?”
“Fuck. Barely.”
"What if you're stuck like this?"
“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.
"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"
He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.
You grab his hips and force them down.
“Leon.”
He bucks hard against you, bratty.
"You think I know?”
“Don’t give me an attitude.”
“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.
You move fast.
A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.
His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.
“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”
He’s not moving, trapped under you.
You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.
“What do you say?”
“Fuck.”
“Leon.”
“I love you.”
It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.
It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.
“That’s not fair,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.
He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.
He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.
“Shit.”
“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.
It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.
He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.
God, you’re aching.
“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.
“That wasn’t on the invitation.”
“Aren’t you a saint.”
“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”
“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”
Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.
Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.
He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.
He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.
"Oh my god, Leon."
He comes.
Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.
He’s still looking directly at you.
You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.
“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”
“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.
“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.
“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.
You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.
His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.
The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.
You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.
He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.
“Leon.”
“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”
You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.
“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”
“God, Leon.”
Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.
It almost does you in.
Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.
His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.
He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.
A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.
He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.
He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.
You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.
He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.
“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”
“I’m not the medical concern.”
He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.
He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.
“There you are.”
Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.
“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.
“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”
You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.
“Come on, cowboy– ah!”
He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.
“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”
“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.
“I told you–“
His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.
You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.
The third time, it seems, is the charm.
When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.
“Leon.”
“Mm.”
“Your phone.”
“Mmph.”
You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.
You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.
The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.
Five seconds later, it starts up again.
“Fuck.”
You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.
“Huh. Medical,” he says.
“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.
He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.
“Kennedy.”
He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.
“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”
You start giggling.
“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”
It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.
“What?”
“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”
He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.
It was an emergency.
“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.
“There’d be a demand.”
His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.
“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”
“How selfish.”
He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"
"What I said?"
"Don't be obtuse.”
He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.
"I've never lied to you," he says.
"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."
He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.
"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."
You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.
"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you.
"Yeah. I love you," he says, and maybe it's a little gruff. "And isn't that just a shitload of complications."
"A metric fuckton," you agree, stroking his cheek. His stubble rasps against your fingertips.
His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.
“But maybe it helps that I love you, too,” you murmur.
It's not a kiss this gets you. He's been dishing out all manner of kisses tonight, their significance has shifted. No.
Instead, he nuzzles his face against your neck, wraps his arms around you, and holds you. Holds you like he intends to for a very long time, like you're the only thing that matters, like your beating hearts need to carry out a close and personal conversation.
Good. They can work out the details. You're just gonna lay here and pet the hair of the man you trust most – the man you can finally admit that you love – glowingly content in his arms.
On AO3
Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🩷
imagine like femreader having a really high sex drive like just being really horny and needy around leon and. always wanting to jump him but he's getting old 😔 and tired so he puts her in her place (or smth, you can choose, i just had this idea of a freaked out reader and old leon)
✰ cw. 18+. established relationship. sex toy. overstimulation kinda. multiple orgasms (f!reader). unprotected p in v.
an. thank you so much for this request anon!! hope you like it <33
it had started reasonably enough. you'd tried, in your defense. you'd been good about it all week and it had been four days and you had needs and leon was right there and you'd asked nicely.
"i'm tired," he'd said, not looking up from his book.
"you're always tired lately."
"i'm getting old."
"you're not that old."
"forty three next month."
"leon that is not old—"
"tired," he said again with a finality. he turns a page.
you stared at him. "you're seriously choosing a book over me."
"it's a good book."
"i hate you," you said pleasantly, and went to the bedroom.
the toy had been a recent purchase. you'd mentioned it to him once, held it up, and he'd looked at it and then at you and said "hm" in a tone that gave you absolutely nothing to work with. you took it out now with the energy of someone trying to make a point. you tried to not be petty, to be mature.. quiet and dignified.
you managed to… for about four minutes.
it felt good and you were frustrated and four days was a long time and the sounds started soft and then got considerably less so, and somewhere in the back of your mind you were aware of this and didn't particularly care anymore.
leon read the same sentence five times.
he put the book down. picked it up. put it down again.
sat there listening to the sounds coming through the wall with an expression doing several things at once.
then he got up, walked to the bedroom, and leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed.
you looked up at him flushed and breathing hard and had the audacity to look unbothered. "can i help you?"
"just checking on you," he said.
"i'm fine."
"clearly." his eyes moved to the toy and back to your face. "don't let me interrupt."
you stared at him. "seriously?"
"go on." he nodded at the toy. a slight curve at the corner of his mouth. "you started without me. finish."
"leon—"
"make yourself cum," he said simply. "go on. since you clearly don't need me."
your face went hot. which was annoying because you were already most of the way there and he'd just made it significantly worse, standing there in the doorway looking completely unbothered while you were falling apart. you tried to look indifferent about it. you failed. and when you came it was with your eyes on him and a broken sound you couldn't quite swallow and his expression shifted into something that made your stomach drop.
"there it is," he said quietly. and finally came into the room.
he took the toy from your hand before you'd even finished catching your breath.
"hey—" you started.
"you'll get it back," he said. and settled between your thighs and pressed it to your clit and turned it on and you immediately tried to close your legs and he held them open with one hand, patiently. "you wanted this so bad," he said. "so have it."
"i already—"
"again," he said. "come one more time. prove to me this is enough. that you don’t need me." his voice is gruff.
you tried very hard not to make noise for him. you really did. you bit your lip and gripped the sheets and stared at the ceiling and lasted approximately thirty seconds before a sound slipped out that you could not in any way defend, your hips rolling up toward the toy despite everything your brain was trying to tell them.
leon made a soft sound like a proud mocking tut. "there she is."
"i hate you," you breathed.
"mhm." he kept the toy exactly where it was and watched you with dark eyes as you tried and failed to stay quiet, and when you finally came apart the second time it was humiliatingly loud and he watched every second of it.
he let you come down for exactly long enough to mock you about it.
"aw," he said. tilting his head slightly. "are you all done now?"
"don't," you said.
"all worn out?"
"leon i swear to god—"
"tired?" he asked innocently . and you grabbed his collar and pulled him down and he laughed against your mouth, low and warm.
except he doesn't laugh for long.
because the thing about leon is that he'd been holding himself together this entire time. standing in the doorway all composed, sitting between your thighs like he had all the patience in the world, keeping the toy exactly where it was while you came apart twice and made sounds you'd probably be embarrassed about tomorrow. and it had cost him. you could see it now that you were paying attention. his breathing was coming a little short, a little patchy. he shifted his weight, restless, and you looked down and looked back up and raised your eyebrows.
"leon."
"don't," he said.
"you're—"
"i know," he said, clipped.
you almost smiled. "this whole time?"
his breathing was, a little uneven, and when you reached up and curled your hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss he made a sound against your mouth that was very close to a whine and very far from the composed man who'd stood in that doorway looking unbothered. his hips shifted forward without permission. his breath kept catching in these short little bursts against your lips, like he'd been clenching his teeth through it for so long that now that you were touching him he couldn't quite get himself under control.
you slid your hand down and wrapped it around him and felt how hard he was, hot and rigid, the veins along his length pulsing under your palm, and he grabbed your wrist. not stopping you. just gripping it, jaw tight, breathing hard through his nose.
"leon," you said again, softer this time.
"yeah," he said. rough. a little wrecked. and then something behind his eyes just gave out entirely. "okay. no. i can't."
and all that patience he'd been so smug about evaporated completely. he reached over and grabbed the pillow and tucked it under your hips and then he pressed forward and the first slide of him into you made you both go still for a second. you were so wet, embarrassingly so, slick and warm and your walls gripping every ridge and vein of him as he pushed in slow, filling you up inch by inch until he bottomed out and exhaled hard through his nose.
"god," he groaned.
he hooked your leg up over his shoulder and the angle shifted and you felt him impossibly deeper, hitting somewhere that made your eyes flutter, and when he started to move it was not slow or patient and the sounds you both made were the kind that the neighbors would probably complain about tomorrow. his hips drove forward in deep rolling thrusts, every ridge of him dragging against your walls on the pull back, and you reached up and gripped his arm and held on.
"couldn't wait?" you breathed.
"no," he said. simply and without apology. and pressed in deeper.
“gonna fill you up,” he’d said right before, voice wrecked, almost like he wasn’t meaning to say it out loud. “fill this up.” his hand pressing down just slightly, possessive, and you’d clenched around him so hard he’d moaned and his hips had stuttered.
now he looks down at you, panting, and presses a little firmer against your belly. watching your face.
“you feel that?” he says quietly.
“yes,” you breathe.
“yeah?” his thumb moves in a slow circle against your skin, that same unbothered focus he gives everything, except his voice is rough and his chest is still heaving. “you like that. being filled with me.”
it’s not really a question. he can feel the answer in the way you clench around him, still so warm and gripping onto him, and the sound you make is small and helpless.
he stays there for a long moment, hand still pressed to your stomach, neither of you moving. then he exhales slowly and drops his forehead to yours.
he presses his lips to your temple and says nothing for a while.
"not that old," you said eventually.
"no," he agreed. comfortable. satisfied. "not that old."
You've always been good at letting the comments about your relationship roll off your back, but some days you're stronger than others, and when you overhear your coworkers making nasty comments about your husband, it sticks with you.
based on this request
taglist: @cakeofhorrors @rainyxie@venus-in-roses
It happens more often than you’d like. Entitled people commenting on your relationship, sharing their unsolicited opinions, emboldened by a deceptive voice in their heads that tells them you want to hear what they have to say.
Typically, you’re able to brush it off. Yeah, Leon’s older than you–much older–and he warned you of what people would think when they saw you together, whether it be at the grocery store while the two of you shopped for produce, checking the mail together when a nosy neighbor had nothing better to do, wearing him on your arm at a work event. You didn’t care–and you still don’t, to an extent–you just wanted to be with him, come hell or high water. And having him by your side was well worth it.
Being with an older man was like nothing you had experienced before when you would date men your own age. You weren’t some proxy mother that had to teach him how to load the dishwasher or separate the whites from the colors so as not to stain all your t-shirts. You didn’t have to pretend to finish every time he padded at your inner thigh, thinking it was turning you on. No fake orgasms, no hoping he actually scrubbed his feet in the shower (and not just let the shampoo from his head trickle down to miraculously clean them), no second-guessing his affection.
And you didn’t have to wait, there was no chasing after him, sitting by the phone in hopes that he would text or call. The two of you dated for less than a year before moving in together and committing with matching rings and a signed certificate, and though you swore you’d never be one of those girls who jumped into marriage without knowing the guy for at least two laps around the sun, there was something so special about Leon that you felt it almost immediately. He was the one and only man for you. And you, the only one for him.
He was plagued, however, with the typical anxieties that come with being with someone so much younger than he. He was afraid he would hold you back from experiencing whatever it is twenty-something kids like you get up to these days. And he knew what other people would think, and some chivalrous (call it traditional) part of him didn’t want to tarnish your reputation. But you wouldn’t let him slip away. You doubled-down, adamant that he was who you wanted to be with, no matter the difference in age, the judgmental gazes of onlookers.
Nothing could shake you, especially not the comments.
Except for today.
At work, before you rounded the corner to the break room, you overheard two of your coworkers conversing in hushed tones, one dropping your name, the other giggling. You listen for a few moments as they talk about your relationship with Leon, the man you have depicted in several photographs on your desk, the man you brought to the holiday party last week and introduced to your coworkers for the first time. Everyone seemed to flock to him as soon as he walked in, a magnet to men and women alike.
“He’s so much older than she is.” It’s Shelby. She’s always had a mean-girl edge to her, one you sniffed out as soon as you began working for the company. “Like thirty years, give or take.”
“What do they even have in common,” the second voice says, the flinty tone easily recognizable as belonging to the receptionist, Trisha.
“I don’t know. It just always gives me the creeps when an old man goes after a younger girl like that. It’s like they’re trying to live out some father-daughter fantasy or something.”
“Gross.”
“Exactly.”
You carried around a pit in your stomach for the rest of the day. It gurgled throughout dinner, running your appetite into the ground, and shook with the rock of the car as Leon drove the two of you home from the restaurant.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I have to read your mind?” He asks, coming up behind you, meeting the reflection of your eyes in the mirror, his hands taking over your trembling fingers as they attempted to unlatch your necklace. After a long day at work, your muscles are tired, your brain fried and in need of eight uninterrupted hours of shut-eye.
“It’s nothing.”
Setting the chain down, he thins his eyes, bottom lip held hostage by his top teeth. “I don’t think so.” His hands wrap around your waist as he steps forward to rest his chin on your shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair. “Talk to me.” He plans a light kiss on your earlobe, one at your temple.
“Really, Leon,” you say, shirking away from his grasp. He stays standing by the dresser, lost and confused, as you make your way to the bed, eager to hide beneath the covers and forget that today even happened. “It’s nothing.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He lowers himself onto the mattress beside your legs, taking your chin in his hand. His eyes, glassy with concern, stare you down, compelling you to speak.
“Something’s going on with you, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“So you can fix it?”
Leon cocks his head to the side, eyes cutting back and forth, testing the idea. “I’d like to. But I can’t do anything until you tell me what’s going on.”
You swallow hard, still debating whether or not it’s worth repeating. It does bother you, and though you’d love to choke it down and not let something so silly get under your skin, you know it always feels better to let it out, especially with Leon. He has a magic way of healing your every worry and woe.
“Just some coworkers talking shit, that’s all.”
Even the memory makes you cringe.
“Ah,” he says, sitting up straight, stretching his spine. “About?”
“You. And me.”
“Right.” He stands up, knees popping, to finish undressing. You watch as he unbuttons his crisp white shirt, revealing his statuesque torso, the lines and ridges of his abdomen, the sheer strength of his shoulders. If only they could see him now, they wouldn’t be calling him “old” or “gross”. You smile smugly at the thought.
“What were they saying?”
Taking in a deep, cleansing inhale, you let your wind wander back to the conversation, not wanting to repeat a single word.
“That our age gap is weird.”
He rolls his eyes, making work of his belt buckle, the fly of his slacks. “Heard that one before.”
“That you’re just with me to fulfill some twisted fantasy.” Your voice cracks as you whisper the disgusting details.
His hands stall at his unzipped fly and he scoffs. “Well, that’s new.”
“Yeah.” You smooth the comforter across your lap, reclining against the headboard. “I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I guess I just hate that they think that about us.”
After pulling on a pair of his favorite pajama pants, he joins you under the covers, pulling your body tight to him, your back flush to his bare chest.
“You don’t have to worry about what other people think, you know that.”
It’s not a question. You’re ferociously strong, independent, marching to the beat of your own drum.
“I know.”
You flip over to face him, cupping his cheek, drinking in the lines between his brows, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the strands of snow at his temples.
“It just hurts to hear people say things like that about you.”
Because he’s not some predator. He’s your Leon, the most honorable, upstanding man you’ve ever met. He’s the definition of a gentleman, respectful and attentive. Never did he cross a boundary. Never did he try to coerce you into doing anything you didn’t want. Not like the other man you had been with before–always testing your limits, never respecting your word.
Perhaps if you had introduced your past beaus to Shelby and Trisha, they’d see how lucky you are to have a man like Leon in your life.
The corner of his mouth lifts into a half-smile. “That’s sweet, baby, but you don’t have to get yourself worked up over me. I can handle myself.”
You know he can. But you wish he didn’t have to. “Will you come to the office tomorrow and beat them up for me?”
“Hey,” he warns lowly, clicking his tongue. “That’s not how we get what we want.”
“Sorry.”
Though you’re pretty sure that’s exactly what men in his line of work do to meet their goals.
Leon takes in a breath and smirks. “There’s always another way.”
And right he was. The next morning, three ginormous bouquets of your favorite flower arrived at work. Special instructions dictated that they be delivered by hand to the front desk. Trish had to enlist the help of another coworker to bring them into your office, walking the spectacle of petals right past Shelby’s cubicle.
You haven’t heard a word about Leon or your relationship since.
Spicy Leon request if you’re feeling it?? He’s back from a mission and she’s feeling needy/touch starved but doesn’t want to smother him because he’s probably exhausted and has a few places needing bandaging so she tries to solely focus on doing that and the whole time he’s feeling just as needy as her and is like I just need my girl. Feel free to make your own changes and write the spice as you want lol thank you in advance!!!
♱ cw. 18+. soft smut. established relationship.
an. omggg my first leon piece. hope you like it anon <33 thank you so much for this request!
he comes home at two in the morning, which is normal. the state of him is also normal, which is the part that never gets easier. jacket torn at the shoulder, a cut above his brow that’s dried dark, moving like his ribs are aching. you’d been awake on the couch pretending to watch tv and the second the door opened you’d felt the knot in your chest loosen just slightly.
“hey,” he says. like he just got back from the grocery store.
“hey,” you say back. like your heart hadn’t been sitting in your throat for six days.
you get the first aid kit without being asked and he sits at the kitchen table and lets you, which means he’s more tired than he’s letting on. you start with his brow, tipping his chin up with two fingers, and he looks at you from under your hands with those tired blue eyes and you focus very hard on the cut and not on the fact that you’ve missed him so much it’s been almost physical, an ache that sat right behind your sternum the whole time he was gone.
“this one needs steri strips,” you say.
“okay.”
“the shoulder?”
“just bruised.”
“leon.”
“just bruised,” he repeats.
you move to the shoulder anyway, peeling back his jacket and the shirt beneath, and he lets you check it without complaint, which is how you know he’s exhausted. the man argues on principle when he’s got energy to spare. you clean it and tape what needs taping and try very hard not to notice the warmth of his skin under your hands or the way he’s been watching your face this entire time with an expression you can’t quite look at directly.
you’re reaching for the antiseptic when his hand closes around your wrist.
“leon—”
“i just need a minute,” he says quietly. he tugs, gently, and you let him pull you in, let him wrap both arms around you and press his face into your neck and breathe. you feel him exhale, long and slow, and something in him unknots by degrees.
you’d been so careful. so focused on not smothering him, not making it about you when he was the one who’d been gone for six days doing god knows what, and here he is holding on like you’re the thing he’s been waiting to get back to.
“i missed you,” he says into your neck. low and a little rough. “the whole time. just kept thinking about coming home.”
you pull back just enough to look at him and he looks back, tired and earnest and it makes your chest ache, and you kiss him soft and he makes a quiet sound and kisses you back deeper, hands sliding from your waist to your hips and pulling you closer, tongue pressing against yours.
“your ribs,” you say against his mouth.
“are fine.”
“leon—”
“are fine,” he says again, and stands, and you go with him.
he takes his time with you the way he always does after he’s been gone. hands relearning you like he’s been thinking about it the whole ride home.
he presses his mouth to your throat first, lips dragging slow, then your collarbone, then down your arm, the inside of your elbow, your wrist, back up to the soft skin of your inner arm and closer to your underarm and you feel heat rise to your face because it’s so intimate, so careful, like he’s paying attention to parts of you that nobody else thinks to.
he reaches behind you and unclips your bra and pulls it off and then presses his face between your breasts and hums, a satisfied sound, cheek against your skin. not rushing. you card your hands through his hair and feel the tight thing in your chest finally, finally come undone.
when he finally settles between your thighs and looks at you, blue eyes soft, you reach up and touch the bandage above his brow without thinking.
“hi,” you say softly.
“hi,” he says back.
he pushes into you slow and you feel every inch of him. the thick drag of his cock stretching you open, his heat filling you so completely your breath stutters and your walls flutter around him instinctively, pulling him deeper. he goes still for a moment, forehead dropping to yours, panting.
“god,” he exhales. sounding a little wrecked. “missed you so much. missed my girl.”
he starts to move and you feel everything. every slow thorough roll of his hips, the slick grip of your walls around his girth pulling tight each time he draws back, the warm wet heat building between you with every stroke until you’re arching up into him and gripping his shoulders. his forehead stays on yours, one hand laced through yours against the pillow, the other spread warm at your hip like an anchor.
“missed you,” he murmurs again, like he can’t stop saying it now that he’s started.
his mouth finds your neck and he’s kissing you, licking at your skin, so very desperate, like he’s been starved of you, which he has, dragging his lips up to your jaw and back down to your collarbone and back up again like he can’t decide where he needs to be, like everywhere isn’t enough. his hips keep their rhythm but his mouth is everywhere, tasting you, breathing you in, and you feel the low sound he makes vibrate against your throat.
“just need you,” he mumbles against your skin. “just my girl—ah—just need my girl.”
you don’t answer. you can’t. he feels too good, in too deep, filling you so completely that coherent thought is somewhere far away and you never want to come back from this, never want to move from this exact spot, his weight and his warmth and his mouth on your skin.
his hips stutter, pace faltering, and you feel him getting close, but his hand slides between you without hesitation, thumb finding your clit, pressing in slow circles like even now, even while edging closer to his own release, he’s not going to cum without you. you gasp and clench around him and he groans into your neck.
“cum,” he breathes. ragged. “with me. cum with me, baby.”
you do. your walls grip and flutter around him and he comes apart right after, shuddering, face pressed hard into your neck, your name leaving him in breathless moan.
he stays there after. his body heavy, face in your neck, very still. you don’t move either. you’re not sure either of you could.
a long quiet moment passes.
“…sorry,” he says eventually. muffled against your skin.
“for what.”
“came straight from a mission.” he murmurs. “didn’t even shower. just got you all—” he shifts slightly, almost self conscious about it, which is so endearing on him you could cry. “sorry.”
you laugh softly, hand moving through his greyish blonde hair. “leon. i genuinely do not care.”
“still.” he lifts his head and looks at you, a little sheepish. “shower with me.”
he peels himself off you with great effort and pulls you up with him and you both stand there for a second, equally wrecked, and he looks at you in the low light of the bedroom with something so soft in his face.
then he takes your hand and walks you to the bathroom.
the water is warm and he washes your hair without being asked, big hands careful at your scalp, and you stand there with your eyes closed. he presses his lips to the top of your head when he’s done.
“leonnn, I c-can’t-,”you sobbed, tears streaking your face.
your head rolled back into the pillows as leon thrusted deeper. he had you on your back, his arms holding your legs apart. his cock was buried to the hilt inside your puffy pussy.
he hasn’t stopped thrusting. not after your pussy clenched around him like a vice the first, or third time. not after your nails clawed into his back, guaranteed to leave marks. not even after you started crying.
“no no no no, baby, please,” he whimpered, burying his face in your neck. “I wanna cum- baby, please, I’m so so so close!”
poor thing. your pussy was spasming violently around him, desperate to milk his cock. it wasn’t until a gush of squirt splattered against his lower abdomen that he slowed down.
leon whined, high and needy, watching as you made a mess on his cock. he leaned up, his eyes hooded as he looked down to where your pussy was stretched around his cock. your clit was twitching. “you made a mess,” his voice cracked.
as if his cock wasn’t enough, his thumb reached down to rub your clit. small circles pressed against the swollen pearl. “messy girl…” he murmured. “I’m doing good, huh?”
his hips moved slower, but god, he was going deeper. his cheeks were flushed a soft pink as he fucked into you. “you like it, baby? you gonna cum again?” he moaned.
“nghh…! yes, I like it!” you cried out. his large hand rested against your lower stomach, right over the bulge of his cock.
“fuck, you can see it right here,” he said, his thumb tracing the imprint of his cock in your womb. “look, baby, you can see me inside you.”
your cunt betrayed you, clenching and gushing all over again. a creamy ring of cum formed at the base of his cock. leon winced, your pussy feeling tighter this time. he bit his lip, his thrusts faltering.
“f-fuck…!” he whined. one final thrust before he held you against him. hot, white ropes of cum filled you up. heavy breathing filled your ear.
leon pulled away, pulling his cock out to watch his cum drip out of you. you whimpered, feeling it glide down your inner thighs.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
toy flesh [explicit 18+] — [part 1] Clark randomly feels someone sitting on his dick even when he’s alone in his room. pretty much. part one for that magic toy prelude in my masterlist
. . .
Clark thinks it has to be a one off thing. Has to be. A wet dream too close to reality that somehow got his dick a little too wet. A hallucination manifested in some relaxing body tremors that felt so good it ultimately had him cumming everywhere in his pants, untouched, with the book he was nose-deep in forgotten while he lied down and stared at the wall in wide eyed, wide-mouthed shock. What just happened? How did that just happen?
He holds out hope that maybe he’ll get to touch himself and get rid of this pent up energy, get it flushed out of his system, not feel the same unexplained touch of someone else’s body—someone else’s flesh directly on top of him. While he goes about his daily routine before work he doesn’t ever stop looking down at his dick like he’s checking in on it. See if it falls off or grows a bigger brain of its own. Pulls his waistband out to take a confused peak while he’s scrubbing his teeth, foam running down the corner of his mouth. Watches his dick swing around and reluctantly roll upward and harden again from the memory even as he’s ironing the fine lines in his button down shirt.
It felt juvenile. It felt ridiculous.
What grown man couldn’t keep it down and stay soft for a dull eight hour work day?
He has to fondle himself to the memory again before he leaves, cum uncontrollably splashing just about everywhere even though he prepares himself with a tissue right at the tip. The shirt he spent nearly fifteen minutes ironing had to get thrown in the wash and replaced with something wrinkly and unkempt, but at least it was free of cum stains.
Clark sighs as the elevator door opens up to his office floor, trudging over to his desk and setting his briefcase down. Skips right over to their break room’s coffee maker to brew up a sugary full cup for the day ahead of him. Jimmy gave him a greeting with a rougher pat on the shoulder, jolting Clark in a reactionary shiver when he thinks back to being touched in bed by no one or something while he was withering all alone in his room.
He pushes his glasses up his scrunched up nose, letting out an almost disgruntled sounding hey.
Jimmy squints at him, noticing the offbeat attitude of his close friend and coworker. “You good, man? Sleep alright last night or did somebody take a hot piss in your Froot Loops?”
“Slept… slept fine, it’s just I’m kinda going through stuff right now. I don’t know.”
Clark swallows and stirs his steaming cup after dropping another sugar cube in. Jimmy pats his shoulder once again, trying to get Clark to meet his eyes with a tilt of his head.
“You know… maybe it’s about time.”
“What?”
“You know, dude, maybe it’s that time. Time for you to get yourself laid. I think it could help flush out some of these nerves in your system. You seem so tense. I know a few girls that would hop on that train, if you know what I mean.”
Clark turns beat red rather quickly, taking a long sip to gather his thoughts and come up with a response.
“Yeah you couldn’t have been any more direct actually. I… listen I understand, but it’s not that. Trust me, I’m getting… more than you think. I guess. Cause something like, something happened last night, I don’t even know how to explain it. And I liked….. it. It’s just really weird so maybe now’s not the time to discuss—“
Jimmy laughs a long, boyish giggle and slaps one of Clark’s broad shoulders, pulling Clark further aside into the corner with a look around for any coworkers meandering.
“Dude, I knew it. You found yourself a lady. You’ve been getting some and you haven’t been telling me. That’s really lame of you man, I thought our friendship had no barriers—“
“I haven’t met a— look, okay, it was weird, and I mean really really weird. I don’t know if you’ll understand it or if it’ll just sound crazy.”
“Whatever crazy thing you’re about to say, I’ve probably done crazier,” Jimmy assures with a knowing nod paired with a grin. “Trust me.”
“Uh, okay….” Clark clears his throat and lowers his voice, leaning down to Jimmy’s ear level. “Have—have you ever like, came untouched before? Felt someone…. down there…. even though no one else was in the room?”
Clark stares at Jimmy now, loosening the tie around his collar like he’s already broke out in another sweat just thinking about it. Wondering if it might happen again. If he has some odd guardian angel that likes to fuck him and look after him all at the same time.
“You mean you finished, no hands, completely dry? You’re living the dream. Should be more grateful. Why do you look so terrified right now.”
Clark closes his eyes and pinches his brows in a long sigh before nodding to Jimmy to follow him to the bathrooms after setting his coffee on his desk. With uneasy paranoia he peers down to check for any feet on the floor in the stalls before he continues.
“I… I don’t think you get it. It felt like someone literally rode me, like, put me inside them and came on my dick and everything. I wasn’t doing anything! Wasn’t even hard before it started happening, I was just reading. I don’t know how else to explain this or make it any clearer to you!”
Jimmy looks astounded after every word, awestruck with an open mouth. Even flashes of envy pass through his eyes while he chuckles and shakes his head. Typical Clark and his way of complicating things. Overthinking what truly sounded like a gift. “Sounds like a you’re being haunted by a friendly ghost that just wants to hop on that thing, dude. So what did it really feel like? And can I get one too?”
Clark closes his eyes and his mind goes back to last night. In the comfort of his soft sheets, legs sprawling out and taking over the entirety of his bed. How right when the plot of his novel started taking off he felt almost a tickle. A wiggle of what felt like a smooth, slithery tongue. It was unrecognizable when it started, like maybe he had an itch down there to scratch, or maybe some blood began randomly flowing down south.
When it became unmistakeable, too soft and wet to deny what was happening to him, he slammed his book shut with the bookmark in place and spread his legs wider, feeling the sweat breaking out. Feels his dick happily jump right into the warm invisible hole teasing his tip. He felt the hole clench down and struggle to take him all, slowly inching up and down like a bunny on top of what it could take. He clenched a fist at his side and held his dick up with a thumb, raising his hips gently into the heavenly heat. How the pace it had going stuttered when he did, probably in shock that he had more of himself to give.
Clark remembers crying with pleasure, pre cum getting drained out of him so effortlessly, so smoothly. Drool picks up on his tongue while he’s nearly going cross eyed, the pussy on top of him bouncing harder, bouncing faster—
“It feels— it feels unbelievable. I mean it was incredible,” Clark answers Jimmy’s question that had awkwardly hung in the air. “Haven’t felt anything like it before. Something might be seriously wrong with me.”
Jimmy raises a brow. “Watching too much porn? Just take a break. Meet a girl.”
Clark’s full body shivers, goosebumps now swarming up his arms and the back of his neck, making all the hairs there start to stand up. He feels an eager hand all the sudden grab onto his bare cock and slick their palm down, cold and wet like the hand had a puddle of lube to gloss him down.
If it hasn’t visibly shown up as a wet spot on his groin through his trousers yet, by the feeling of it it’ll start showing a dark spot soon. If he didn’t take his dick out it would surely start a puddle that would only dry as a fresh stain.
Clark takes a deep, shaky breath, turning over to grab onto the tile of the wall, resting his forehead against it and gripping like he’s engulfed in pain. Like his surroundings started spinning all around him.
“Woah, Clark. Dude. Take it easy. What’s happening?”
Jimmy gets closer to check on his friend but Clark can’t take it, shooing him off with a hurried no, it’s fine—just get out of here. I need a second. thanks!
“You sure you’ll be able to hold up the rest of today? You have enough leave. I’m sure Lois would understand—”
“Just, just…. I need to take a— I’ll take a ten, okay,” he whimpers, clutching onto the humiliating bulge growing so fast he already was showing a hefty print. “Maybe a fifteen. I can’t—I don’t know.” The hand stopped slicking up and down his cock and he feels it tease him by rubbing his length up and down a pearly wet slit, not yet having him enter.
He shoos Jimmy away and hurries to a stall, slamming it shut and locking it with his back to the door while his dick bobs around for more of her attention. Tingles sprout in his belly while his whole body starts to tense.
“Uh, okay,” Jimmy mutters. “Well I’ll leave you to it I guess? Here for you buddy. Don’t piss off your ghost girlfriend. Maybe next time she won’t fuck you as good if you do,” he laughs.
“Shut. The door. And shut. Up!” Clark howls, fumbling with his zipper and rushing to roll some toilet paper up into a ball for his tip when he’s hanging out of his boxers. He distantly hears his friend mumble a jeez, so touchy. sorry and the door creaks open and falls closed. With privacy at last, Clark is able to heave and thrust his hips gently into the beautiful, tight wet heat, little abstract murmurs and whimpers leaving his throat while his dick gets wetter, and wetter, and wetter.
“Don’t—Don’t, don’t want you to stop,” he quietly begs. Veins popping on his temple from all the straining his body is doing. “But I… I have to get back to work.”
Whatever is wrapped around his cock doesn’t pay his words any mind, sinking down all the way to his balls and creaming on his base the more they start their rough bouncing. Like they’re angry, like they’re taking everything out on his cock. Clark wished he knew what he did wrong, or maybe what he did right to deserve this kind of treatment from someone he couldn’t even see.
“I’m not gonna last, I’m not, it feels so good…. feels too good…. I can’t handle this again, not right now,” he breathes. Sees his tip bead more floods of pre cum and slip down the base of his cock, getting his balls messy with slick. The sound is obscene, with every up and down motion everything can be heard. How wet the pussy around him really is. How his cock stuffs it all the way through. If somebody came in right now, they would think he’s having real sex with a real body in this stall right now. When in all honestly, Clark doesn’t know what he’s having.
“Oh my gosh, gosh you’re more wet this time, you’re getting it so wet…. You’re gonna get me in trouble, wait…. please.”
The pussy on top of his dick starts to quiver, tremble and squeeze him down harder than before. Like it’s finally found release after a record of an eight minute round of going nuts on him like he’s nothing but a toy built strictly for their use.
Some cum that isn’t even his starts dribbling down on him, and that’s when the floodgates start to open. Clark can’t hold it anymore, and he doesn’t know how bad it’s gonna be trying to both cover his load and then clean it all up.
He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut once again, knuckles turning white while he holds on for dear life and busts another long, drawn out nut into whatever this thing is that’s tortured him yet again. He spits out rope after rope of cum in the waiting piece of balled up paper and tries to catch it all there but a few stray drips do manage to burst out too fast for him to act. He sprays a part of the wall and whines a little no, please, please no, you made me cum too hard again, I need to get back to work.
The come down is always humbling. Seeing exactly how foolish he was acting as the sweat under his arms and on his face visibly stains his clothes and his skin. He managed to wipe off his messy cum lines off the wall and stuffs another rolled up ball of toilet paper down his boxers to soak up whatever else is leftover in his pants.
When he feels ready enough he’s still catching his breath and trying to get his blushing face under control as he heads over to the sink to splash some water on his face. Presses on the soap dispenser over and over again until more than a mountain of soap is bubbling in his palm, lathering his sticky, filthy hands.
Clark fights everything inside him to try and act natural when he heads back to his desk. Ruffles his hair more than necessary, tightens his tie, rolls up his sleeves.
The cup of coffee he’d made had lost most of its heat but Clark was so preoccupied in his head he doesn’t notice, still gulping some down and logging back into his computer to answer more messages and emails that were left for him. His eyes zone in on an email he’d been CC’d in from Jimmy and Lois about an upcoming new hire’s start date for their vacant Office Assistant position.
The email read that Clark would be assigned as the one primarily training her since he’d started out in her exact title position a year ago. Clark adds a thumbs up to the email and closes out of it to start on another assignment, thinking in the very back of his head that if his dick can’t control himself while he’s training said new hire next week he’d be blowing his brains out, not out of his cock next time.
Jimmy side eyes him from across the room, mouthing a you good? much to Clark’s bashful shake of his head, assuring him with a roll of his eyes and a tired response of yeah, I’m fine. shut up.
Lois comes out of the blue up behind him and drops a fat stack of paperwork on Clark’s desk with a tight smile.
“New hire coming in next week. You got my email right?”
Clark nods and leans back in his chair, casual as he can muster.
“She’ll have to mostly rely on you for help and onboarding, since me and Jimmy have too much going on. Travel, deadlines, some new leads finally getting back to us for interviews. So you’ll take her under your wing for us, yeah?”
“Of course. It’s not uh, it won’t be a problem,” he answers under his breath, taking another sorry sip of his lukewarm coffee. He hopes the thing in his pants won’t be a problem.
“You sure? Jimmy said you didn’t look well. You can’t call out and leave her all alone here on her first few days, it’s gonna be overwhelming in the start—“
“Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine. It’ll get taken care of,” he promised.
“Alright, then don’t get her sick, got it?”
Clark wants to slap Jimmy for even bringing up his frazzled state to anybody in the office, mortified over what had taken place barely ten minutes ago, and how unpredictable his dick was gonna act for a while. Or forever. Who even knows at this point.
“My germs are all mine,” he swears, hands defensively up in the air. “Count on it.”
Lois gives him another one of her hard stares that basically told him she’d make him eat his words if he dared showing up to the office coughing, sneezing, puking. Clark was only worried about leaving his desk for twenty minutes at a time to get his dick rode by the same tempting mystical source he had yet to fully identify, let alone begin to understand.
It never left his brain even while he worked, back of his pen stuck in his mouth to chew on while he wrote up more emails and forwarded ones from their general inbox. Hours had gone by until he had about forty five more minutes left until he could be freed and finally head home, and Clark really thought he was in the clear of having another accident during work hours.
That was up until the fucking tease went at it again. The warm, sopping wet tightness wraps around his tip and slips him in, no mercy given. His dick springs back to life effortlessly, and Clark wants to cry.
He holds his head by covering his face with both hands, scooting his swivel chair forward so his crotch was safely hidden underneath. He drools an ungodly amount at the tip, feeling how eager this round was for her, how quickly she ruts against him and has him crying softly into the sleeve of his shirt.
Clark’s mewling and groaning is muffled into his arm, too helpless to hold in any of his noise when they move in sways up and down, switching off between going deep and going shallow with their pushes. Clark is beat red all over again, giving up after several minutes of unabashed torture and shielding his wet crotch with his briefcase pressed up against him, running off back to the toilets this time to sit down and breathe while undeniably enjoying everything being done to him. Fuck the last thirty minutes of his shift. Fuck the emails and the phone calls and the scans and the letters.
Clark shuts his eyes and actually smiles for a change as he eggs on whatever higher power bouncing on top of him to keep going. Nods his head and can’t help his soft murmurings of please, yeah, yeah keep doing that, you do it so good.
It might be his new imaginary best friend, or it might be his first sign to go to a mental hospital. Whatever it was, since it’s made Clark cum this hard, he guessed it couldn’t have mattered too much if it always made him feel this good.
. . .
The weekend was spent the same way. Getting his dick milked while he lied back and screeched every time she squeezed on him some way, somehow. He doesn’t answer anyone that texts him for plans, doesn’t do the dishes or take care of his laundry like how he’d hoped. No. He whines and stutters and cries, barely able to get in the shower without his dick getting trampled on.
It’s not a long shot to think he could be developing something. A mental illness. A haunted curse that plagues him with orgasms at all times of the night and the day. He’s one more round away from calling somebody to perform an exorcism or splash holy water on him to escape this succubus that had to be laughing in his face at how easy he is to rile up.
When Monday comes around again Clark doesn’t want to take any chances traumatizing the new hire with all the blotches of cum stains littering his pants. With a scoff and a sigh he steps each leg into a second pair of boxers to make slightly more effort into covering up. Even packs a backup pair in case both pairs he’s currently wearing are soiled by the end of the day.
After a hectic first hour of scanning and distributing the stack of morning mail from the bin, he slips a stick of gum on his tongue and gnaws on the flavor with his mouth open when an unfamiliar silhouette teeters closer towards the edge of his desk from the entrance.
Clark doesn’t get to looking up until she’s clearing her throat, playing with a strand of her hair with a smile aimed at the ground.
“Hi, sorry if I’m interrupting your work. I’m actually starting today,” she explains, eyeing him up from head to toe. Clark rips his head up at the voice and clears his throat, sitting up straighter and pulls a polite hand out.
“Oh! Oh, yeah that’s right. You’re our new hire. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Clark.”
She takes his hand with a laugh. Clark wished he understood what was funny. He joins in on it anyway, anxiously chuckling while he doesn’t stop shaking her hand in his. Realizing it had been well over ten seconds of her soft palm held up in his own long, gigantic fingers, he slips his hand off of hers, lingering in the awkward air of the moment.
She nods and scans her gaze around, peaking at the state of Clark’s desk. The endless string of sticky notes, the protein shakes, the tie he’d already taken off his neck. “So am I in the right place, or—“
“Yup. Yeah, yeah you found where you should be. I’ve been tasked to uh, help you fill all this out. After that we can get you started on some basics,” he breathes out, pointing to the stack resting on the side of his desk, sticky note on top with her name on it. Clark finds himself trying a little desperately to keep himself more cool, more composed. She’s the kind of pretty that made him nervous, suddenly aware of his undone appearance, of every awkward move he makes. He stops chewing his gum with as much rigor, clenches his jaw and scratches the back of his neck.
“I started out in the position you’re in, it’s real easy to move up,” he mentions, gathering up the paperwork and attempting to straighten it out before a quarter of the pages fall from his grasp in a pile. Beat red, Clark doesn’t do anything but stare at the ground and sigh before sheepishly joining in on her laughs.
“You’re pretty organized, aren’t you?” she chuckles, bending over to pick up the few documents that landed on the floor. Clark’s jaw even drops when he catches the smallest glimpse of her hot pink colored thong poking up above from her dress pants.
“Yeah. Yeah I really am, you know. Organization is key,” he nods, tight lipped smile still on his face. He takes the pages she hands him over, watching her subtly arch her head to smell something in the air. Fuck. What the fuck? Did he even put on any cologne this morning after draining his dick for the hundredth time?
Before he could shoot himself in the head with more irrational insecurities his mind makes up she soothed his very visible worry with another laugh and a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Is it me? Do I reek like sweat or something—?”
“No, no. You don’t smell bad, you’re fine. I was just trying to figure out if you were chewing Spearmint or not,” she assures. “I like it. Promise. You do not reek of anything,” she snorted through another laugh. Clark beams, looking around everywhere but her face. Afraid his face could give his every fleeting thought away.
Thank god. “Uh, oh yeah. Yeah it’s Spearmint. You want a piece? I have a new pack,” he offers. To his surprise, she snatches up a piece out of his hand hardly before he gets to offer it to her. Blinks dumbly while she opens it up and tears the piece in half, stuffing one in her mouth and giving the other half back to him.
“Uh—“
She smiles at him, chewing the gum out of one side of her cheek. “I have this oral thing. A fixation I guess. Chewing or having something in my mouth really helps me.”
The thing about Clark is, he has manners. Has restraint. Thought he was a good boy that didn’t go on and chase any tail that came into his orbit. Especially not a new pretty co-worker. He doesn’t want to think about putting different parts of himself inside her mouth just to calm her down. Or the color of her thong. Or that wicked smile and addicting perfume to match. Something tries to draw him in closer, reason with his conscience like she’s teasing little signals, it’s not like you’re her boss or anything. if you flirt back no one would know a thing.
Clark stops his zoning out and nods his head to agree. “I get it. Having stuff in my… in my mouth cools me off too. Like—like stress.”
“You shouldn’t worry yourself that much. Seems like you’re wound up pretty tight.”
He feels like there’s this window into his thoughts standing clear as day right above his head, broadcasting every fleeting thought or mood. When he tries to look at her, stare at her back the same way she stares at him, he just wanted to run away before his own dick caught up with him.
Clark scratches his chin and sheepishly nods with his head down, agreeing with a gentle mumble, yeah you know, just normal stuff, kinda on edge. Not like he randomly cums in his pants or anything. He quickly finds a way to change subjects by directing his focus back to the work left in front of them and guides her to sit over at her new desk to fill out some new hire paperwork. She taps him on the shoulder and grins when she says his name to ask him questions. He dutifully answers everything he can, emails some higher ups to get her logins to some of their systems and trains her how they go through their mail and answer consumer’s inquiries over the phone.
She takes just about everything in a stride. Overwhelmed of course by certain things that have nuances and will take more time getting used to. Clark introduces her to more staff, waves to Lois, makes the new hire her own cup of coffee after showing her their break room. Jimmy tries to raise a brow, even wiggles both of them up and down at him from behind her back, but it only makes Clark kick him in the shin and gruffly threaten him under his breath as he’s passing by while she wasn’t looking.
Clark sends her off to her first break, telling her to meet him back at her desk for more training later. Watches absentmindedly as she picks up her purse, snatched up a lighter from one of the pockets and stuck a cigarette behind her ear, waving goodbye and strolling out to the elevator doors. Before the elevator doors close he could see her take the stick from her ear and put it between her lips, probably a habit she’s picked up from that oral thing, Clark figured. He wants to stop himself from picking apart her business but he’s too intrigued to stop, still lost in thought at his desk while he takes a break of his own.
After spitting his piece of gum out he chugs a few thick swigs of his protein shake, spaced out in blank thought. A corner of his mouth smiles when he feels the other half of that stick of gum she’d torn off and given back. His dick twitches but ultimately stayed soft, undetected in his pants. He’d shamefully started wondering how the hell his dick was so well behaved, so normal today of all days. Not that it was a bad thing. He just found it curious. Why was this the first time in days his dick wasn’t getting swallowed, rode, or came on by whatever invisible force that clearly had been having its fun tormenting him? And will it ever come back to fuck him again?
Once Jimmy finds Clark alone at his desk wiping fingerprints off his glasses, he swats his shoulder and bashed one of his knees to his swivel chair, causing him to start spinning.
“What the hey, dude—don’t—“
“This could be your shot. All’s I’m sayin,” he shrugs. Sees Clark stop his chair and shove his friend forward, only enough power to knock him off his feet a little bit. “Hey, hey! That’s all I’m saying, I said!” he laughs and defensively puts both his palms up to shield himself from any more of Clark’s wrath.
“You can’t say that stuff. Don’t. She’s new, okay! And… and she needs my help learning everything around here. She doesn’t need some big oaf getting in her business, abusing power, or being… being weird towards her,” he concludes.
“Hey, opportunities sometimes fall right out of the sky. This one just fell right into your lap. And you’re not a fat oaf dude. Pfft, you actually think being her co-worker is gonna affect anything?”
“Uh, yes it does in fact. It will literally affect everything. You think it’d be appropriate for me to treat her like that?”
Jimmy shrugs again, ruffles Clark’s curls and says he should think about reconsidering some of his rules and start breaking them in order to finally get something he wants.
When she’s back from her break her hair is damp, fresh perfume sprayed on her coat to get rid of some of the stench from her cigarette. She looks refreshed, albeit a little more flustered than she was before she left. Her boots squeak slightly on the floor from stepping out on the wet ground outside. He thinks about complimenting her boots, her coat, her hair, thinks about complimenting her everything. But his words fall short after his voice cracks from the very simple greeting of hey, welcome back.
“Hey, can I ask you for a favor after work? It’s totally fine if you say no or if you can’t. You don’t have to give me any reasons,” she assures.
Already eager to know what she’s going to be asking of him, his ears perk and his posture straightens up as he scoots his chair over to her desk.
“Yeah of course. What’s up?”
“It started raining pretty hard and the forecast says it won’t stop until tomorrow morning. I actually walked here to work, and if it’s not any trouble, would you be able to give me a lift back home?”
Clark swallows an upcoming lump in his throat, feeling his palms start to get clammy. The mere thought of the proximity was enticing. Having her next to him, in his car. Her trust in him helping her with something as intimate as having her get back home safely. He tries to answer casually, like he’s a nonchalant guy — as if the offer wasn’t any big deal, wasn’t making his heart start to beat a little faster.
What comes out though is a horribly rushed, clumsy, stuttered —
“Ohyeahofcourse, you don’t even have to worry about it!”
Jimmy’s teasing still echoes through the hallway of his brain. About opportunities. About how sometimes they seem to fall right out of the sky. How this one has fallen right into his lap.
“Thanks so much Clark, I appreciate it. You’ve been the sweetest guy. I’m really lucky to have you here to teach me everything,” she praised. Turning his cheeks pink in all of two seconds with a flat palm on his broad shoulder, squeezing gently and holding the warmest smile.
“We’re lucky to have you. You’ve been— you’ve been great,” he gulps, trying to bring the focus back to her. “We don’t have too much more to fill out, but um, I don’t wanna overwhelm you with any more new things today. Let’s wrap up this paperwork then we’ll hopefully get you on those phones to practice the last hour.”
“Great! I’m almost finished with those. And for the record I do promise where I live isn’t far, I don’t wanna be too much an inconvenience,” she laughs. Clark shook his head again, ready to protest the very idea that she was asking too much. In truth, she was so stupid pretty that if she asks him to say his ABC’s backwards he’d still give it his best shot. She almost cuts off his attempt to deny it, straightening up some of the last pages left to read over and sign.
“You are not any inconvenience. If you are, then please keep inconveniencing me,” he says, flashing a toothy smile at her. He prays to himself that it comes out right, and to his delight, she grins back, adorable face expressing back to him, well, then don’t mind if I do. “with anything you need, I’ll be here.”
Is he being too much?
“Thanks, Clark. I owe you.”
Oh? What should you owe me?
He shakes off any perverted thoughts and spares a glance at his watch.
“Are you hungry? It could be lunch time. Up to you. We don’t clock in and out, we just have timesheets, so breaks are pretty flexible.”
“Yeah, I could eat.”
Clark’s head screams well there’s a full meal right in front of you.
“Great.”
. . .
He sees her head off to the break room and start chatting with Lois, smiling at her welcoming disposition while she checks in on how her training is going. Clark knows he has the option to stay, to ogle while he ate at his desk, but he feels like he has too much steam to blow off before handling the rest of the day. With a long final exhale, he adjusts his glasses and snatched up his keys to head back home for his lunch hour.
Once he’s back at his apartment he immediately sheds his god awful shoes and his suffocating button down before he’s lying flat on his back in bed, staring up at the wall. Trying to manifest that magical touch and beckon it to come back. Beg for it even. Wonders to himself if there’s some hidden way he hasn’t figured out yet to trigger it, or if it’ll always remain spontaneous.
Clenching his jaw he angrily starts groping his crotch, trying to feel himself out. He opens one eye to peer down at his dick and see if he just thought about it hard enough he’ll bring it back to life, feel that beautiful all consuming weight drip on top of him again.
“C’mon. C’mon, please… You… you’ve fucked me every day and I took it all last night, now I want it, I need it. Right here, please?”
Clark strokes his cock while it sways back and forth against his belly, mind already feeding into an idiotic fantasy of his new hire bending over, showing him her pretty colored thong. Maybe she’d pull her panties up higher so they’re peaking out further above her waistline, or maybe she’d pull them over to the side….
He raises his hips off the bed to thrust into his fist at the thought, pants still strung down barely past his groin. Figures if he shows back up to work the rest of the day in different pants, it’s his business and his business only, and so be it.
“Oh god it was so good last time, wish you could touch me like that again…”
He knows it’s pathetic. Everything he’s doing, everything he’s saying. While he grips the tip and twists particularly tight, he shamefully whimpers out his new hire’s name while his dick starts to drip into pubes. Messy, sticky, but gosh he needed this. Clark deeply misses the warmth on top of him, the hot teasing, the bouncing, and the thrill of not knowing what will happen next—
“Oh my god….”
. . .
part two
posting this cuz I’m so done looking at it already dear jesuslawd. if I should keep going somehow let me know I love coworkerXcoworker getting down and nasty. I like the idea of clark not knowing what’s going on and getting slobbered on by his work crush. fully no clue when/if the next part comes out oh my lawd. thanks soooo so much for all the love on the first little prelude:( im so obsessed with every reblog+comment
"Leon, oh god, you are biting my nipples," you whimper, your spine arching off the soft mattress with the impact of his mouth on your breasts.
Fuck, Leon might not be too experienced but god he definitely knows; what he is doing. Because he keeps switching between sucking and grazing your soft bud between his teeth every few seconds, which is making your breath get caught in your throat, and holy love of virgin mary you are so fucking turned on right now, that you want to push him deep between your thighs.
Leon chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin, and your nipple slips from his mouth with a wet sound and he immediately guides his free hand towards your other peak before pulling it sharply and you cry out loud your hips bucking in air, and you moan his name in a high, sharp sound that makes him groan deep in his throat, and he glances up at you seeing you break beneath him just because he is sucking the pleasure out of you, and for a second he stops, and you narrowed your eyes at him. Because fuck, why did he stop?
"God... baby, I am not even doing anything," he sighs, his voice muffled against the curve of your breast.
His warm breath settles somewhere deep into your chest, which sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. Your wet thighs instinctively clenches, rubbing together in a desperate attempt to find a friction, and you squirm, trying to push your hips against his torso, but he shifts his weight slightly , before pinning you down on the mattress again.
"Why can't you just,” he groans in annoyance, “mfmph, don't squirm, let me suck your tits in peace, yeah?" He murmurs the words against your skin before latching onto your abandoned nipple again, creating a powerful vacuum from his lips and suctioning the peak of your breast deep into his mouth. The sensation is so overwhelming to you, as he suddenly focused on a pull that sends rhythmic pulses of pleasure crashing through you. While his mouth works on you, his free hand starts playing and pinching the other nipple, before rolling it firmly between his thumb and forefinger.
You swallow hard, your eyes settling on his as he sucks you and sluggishly looks at you which makes your breath come in ragged gasps. god it was embarrassing, not even lying, because darn it, you were going to cum just because of his attention on your breasts, and yet it wasn't entirely just that because he has been sucking them; for past ten minutes and lord, you have been dying to put something between your thighs--anything, but, he keeps stopping every attempt you make to reach down and soothe the burning desire between your pulsing core.
He was such a tease, honestly now you know it is always the most innocent ones that are wild animals in the bed.
"Le... Leon, please touch me down there," you practically and impatiently beg, your voice trembling with need for his hands, but he does not listen to you, and you whine in disappointment and try to guide your own hands toward your throbbing pussy, but Leon is even faster. He doesn't stop sucking, but cocks his eyebrow at you and his hand shoots out from your nipple and swiftly catches your wrist before pinning it firmly to the mattress.
He pulls back just an inch from your nipple, his breath ghosting over your damp nipples, his eyes dark and focused, as he glances up at you again and breathes hard. "Down where?"
You blink at him, impatience settling over you, but still your vision was hazy and heavy with lust, so you could not even make a snarky comment at him.
"Tell me how and where," he presses, his voice a low, commanding rasp. "Then maybe I will finally touch you."
"Fine!" you cry out, your hips jerking upward. "Leon, my pussy is wet and I want you to touch me down there, please, I can't—"
You sigh and smile dazily as he finally gives in, your eyes crinkling as you nod frantically at him. But he stops right at the edge of your core making you groan again, so you restlessly grab his hands and guide his fingers straight into your soaking core. "Yes..ss f..finally!"
You clench your thighs shut, the friction barely touching the itch and Leon chuckles darkly, a deep, resonant sound that vibrates through your entire body, echoing specifically in the sensitive walls of your vagina, making them pulse even harder. He finally makes a rough noise and releases your wrists, and his hand soon slides down your stomach, trailing the heat of his palm across your lower belly until he reaches between your thighs.
Leon laughs darkly as he pushes his two fingers inside you and the sobbing scream tears from your throat as his fingers dives even deep inside you, and you release his hands your hand falling like limp limbs to your side, and then he stops again gazing at your reaction though the sudden intrusion of his fingers fills you completely, stretching the tight walls of your pussy. Leon doesn't pull away; instead, he latches back onto your nipple, his mouth full, speaking around the flesh. "Could you not have waited, mhmp?, leon chuckles deeply and presses his flattened palm over your clit and circles his fingers inside you, "you are such a bad girl!"
"And you are a teas--" your voice cuts off as ge begins to move his finger in a relentless, driving motion and his palm pressing your sensitive clit which make you cry out loud and the sound of it was so visecral, almost like a lullaby, peaceful and yet loud, and you feel the wetness of your core spread onto his hands as he stirs the thick cream of your arousal inside you, and your thighs shake endlessly trying to close on his hands but he stops you, And instead keeps rubbing your throbbing clit with his palm while pushing his fingers and you feel your walls spasm and clench his fingers which makes your eyes roll back in your head. Now as you focus on the sensation of his fingers you realise even if his movements are slightly clumsy and overzealous, but the raw power of his thrusts hits exactly the right spot.
"Oh god, Leon, right there!" You scream.
You nod and suddenly you a loud sob tore from you and the world narrows down to the point where his finger meets your G-spot. You immediately feel the tension coil tight in your gut, a spring winding tighter and tighter, your pussy pulsing violently and heat builds until it snaps. Your walls clamp down hard on his finger, milking him as a violent orgasm rips through you. Your legs shake uncontrollably and your toes curl into the sheets, and you let out a long, broken wail as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you gasping and spent, and your hips bucks higher for a second before you finally crash down on the bed.
"Right here?" he grunts, his finger curling, hooking into you with a sudden, sharp pressure, and you feels your walls pulse around his fingers, and he finally lets go of your nipples and breathes around your skin and focuses his gaze on you.
Leon smiles and pulls his finger out with a squelching sound, a string of translucent slime connecting his hand to your opening. He looks at the mess he made, his expression one of hunger and triumph then he guides his finger into his mouth before sucking them clean, for a moment he closes his eyes and groans loudly, "Do you know how motherfucking tasty you are?", you could not answer because seeing him so pussy drunk--literally pussy drunk was super hot. And he seductively pulls out his fingers from his mouth before forcing them in yours and you easily take them in before forming a O around them and sucking them with a hunger driven animal, and he moans your name loudly before pulling them out of your mouth and without waiting another second he shifts, the mattress creaking under his weight as he moves to hover over you, his own hardness pressing against your thigh, making you gasp sharply.
"Now, I want you to cum on my dick too.” he whispers, his voice thick with desire and eyes dripping in arousal.
A low hum of approval vibrated in your throat as you cupped his jaw, drawing his face to yours until your lips sealed over his in deep kiss, and you feel yourself on him and he kisses you back immediately. He makes a low sound, a broken whimper that trembled against your tongue, and you felt the corner of your mouth twitch and you broke the kiss slowly, your laugh warm and low against his swollen lips. "As you wish, pretty boy."
⤷ 𝓷𝓼𝓯𝔀. guided & mutual masturbation. age gap. 𝟸.𝟾𝓀
smooth wood chills the backs of your thighs when leon sits you down right on the edge of his huge antique desk. your skirt fans outwards while your legs swing absentmindedly and your gaze follows leon across his office, watching as he shuts the curtains to hide you away from the loud outside world
there’s tension between his shoulder blades, you can see it pulling at his muscles through his white dress shirt and if you had to guess, you’d put it down to a tough day, rude students or difficult lectures, but you won’t ask him about it—not when you’re the key to making his day a little bit better
“spread your thighs,” he grumbles as he rounds his desk and flops down into his leather chair. his fingers tug roughly at his tie, his own thighs spread languidly and when he’s not satisfied with how far you part your legs, he frowns, “wider—yeah, just like that, sweetheart—now, touch yourself f’me,” he drawls, smirking
your eyes widen at his request and heat rushes to your cheeks, much to leon’s amusement. you can’t help it though, knowing that he’s able to see right up your skirt at the flimsy panties you have on and the small damp spot that has definitely seeped into the fabric after you spent his entire lecture fantasising about him
“how?” you whisper, feeling utterly filthy as your hand brushes up the inside of one of your thighs. tiny little bumps scatter over your skin with the soft touch and it sends a shiver right down your spine towards your already aching cunt, causing you squirm on the spot with anticipation
you know how to touch yourself but something tells you that it won't be as simple as he's letting on. leon touches you like you're his, like he owns you. he bruises you, marks you—always leaves you coming back for more—nothing is ever that simple with him and he confirms your suspicions straight away
“slowly—i’m gonna talk you through it,” he grunts and he leans forwards to slide his hand under the hem of your skirt before he flips it upwards to properly expose your clothed pussy, “leave them on, wanna see 'em soaked,” he says, eyeing your already very wet panties with fervor
the material sticks to your body, contouring and outlining your cunt from your perky little clit right down to your steadily dripping hole but you’re not struggling on your own because leon is failing to hide the thick bulge that's straining against the zipper of his pants as he grinds the palm of his hand over it
your own hand—the one that isn’t disappearing high up between your thighs—presses into the surface of the desk allowing you to lean back as your fingertips begin to ghost over your clit, prompting a current to fizzle up your spine and bathe your body in the sweetest kind of pleasure
“oh god,” you whisper, jaw slack and frowning slightly. your cunt clenches feebly around nothing while you go around in even circles that have a never ending wave of slick spilling from your hole, “l-like this, is this what you want?” you ask when you look up at leon, only to find him undoing his belt in a hurry
it’s wrong—so wrong—that you’re searching for praise from your professor. it’s addictive though, leon is addictive. he’s handsome and smart, much older than yourself and you can’t get enough of him and, well, he’s always so willing to praise you when you’re doing what he asks of you
“yeah—good girl,” he groans and bucks his hips upwards to shove his slacks down his thick thighs. his cock frees itself of its confines in the blink of an eye, standing stiff and leaking profusely as he takes it into his fist and starts to jerk himself off lazily, “keep up with me,”
you nod before you really realise that you’re doing it. you’re too busy ogling him and wishing that he would just lay you down and sink into your heat—fuck you well and good and take his frustrations out on you—but, you find yourself nodding and trying your best to do as he says anyway
leon makes no attempt to speed up or slow down his movements right away though, leaving the room to fill with the noise of your stuttered gasps and his rough grunts while it remains slow and drawn out. it’s not enough but too much all at the same time, the entire situation, his words, your fingers, everything makes you throb
more. you need more and until leon makes that decision for you, you’re stuck with less. you consider begging—he’d probably love that—but before you can blurt anything out, his fist shifts over his cock faster. it’s barely noticeable and maybe you’re just imagining it but you swirl your fingertips faster too
heat blossoms in the pit of your stomach and reaches right to the end of every single one of your nerves over the slight change. your eyes snap shut and the tip of your tongue gets trapped in a pinch between your lips all while your thighs twitch and stick together momentarily
you’re soaked now, sticky over the soft skin of your thighs and you’re not sure that your panties could get any wetter if you tried. the fabric has darkened and the friction of it against your clit starts to become overwhelming, forcing scratchy whimpers from the back of your throat as you wince
“take ‘em off now,” leon hisses as he swipes the pad of his thumb over his slit. you don’t ask how he knows what you were about to ask or how he was able to pick up on your discomfort before you did, you just do as he says and store your questions away in the back of your mind for later
hooking your thumbs under the straps of your panties, you shove them down your legs frantically. cool air rushes over your pussy and causes you to shiver as you kick your feet in an attempt to free your underwear from your ankles but in a flash, leon reaches out and snatches them up
he balls them up into his free hand, groaning internally when he feels how damp they are and then he drags open a drawer on his desk with a dull creak and drops your panties right into it before he slams it shut, “let me see that pretty little cunt, show her off to me,” he orders—as if he didn’t just steal your lingerie
it takes a second for your brain to process what you just saw him do but when he grunts impatiently, you move. the sole of your shoe squeaks against the edge of his desk as you pull one of your legs up until your cheek is almost grazing your knee and you’re spread wide, just for his viewing pleasure
you study him carefully, watching while his tongue darts across his bottom lip like he’s hungry for what he’s seeing. his cock tenses against his palm with want and blurts out a generous dribble of precome that slides down his length and over his knuckles, adding to the sheen that’s already there
gently, you use two fingers to stretch yourself even wider. a singular wet sound fills the otherwise quiet room as your needy hole pulls taut and the pool of slick that was building just inside of you starts to spill over and gush until it’s dripping into a little puddle on the top of his desk
it’s not the first time you’ve made a mess there—and it probably won’t be the last—but it doesn’t feel any less dirty, even though you know that leon will reassure you later that it’s completely fine and it definitely won’t create a stain, right before he murmurs that he wouldn’t even mind if it did anyway
“fucking hell—tease her,” leon growls, still focused on the futile clench of your pussy and the shiny trails that paint across your skin, “don’t touch inside—not yet—tease her like i do,” he adds and unfortunately for you, you know exactly what he means by that and exactly what he wants to see
the same two fingers that were baring your cunt for him slip lower and trace around the outside of your entrance at a pace that matches the stroke of leon's fist over his cock. you moan wantonly at the contact to where you’ve been needing it most this entire time and that seems to spur leon on
“faster angel, rub it—uh huh—like that,” he groans and squeezes lightly at his heavy balls with his free hand when you don’t need to be told twice. your fingertips drag desperate circles around your glistening hole, making your muscles tense and your hips roll in search for more, “lemme see how wet your fingers are,”
once again, you don’t need to be told twice but you whimper at the loss of contact while you hold your hand up in the space between your bodies. strings of slick connect your two digits, hanging and snapping as you part your fingers and then press them back together over and over again
“i want—no, need—more, sir,” you whisper and bat your lashes, knowing full well that calling him that will get you anything you want. leon is weak to it but only when it’s tumbling from the tip of your tongue and riddled with an innocence that you know he can’t ever say no to, “please,” you whine, for good measure
leon’s composure slips, just like you expected it to. his hips jerk and send his cock through his fist at a rate that makes his teeth audibly grind together, “shit—fuck—yeah, okay, just one finger though,” he grumbles the last half of his sentence when you giggle over getting the better of him and getting what you wanted out of it
“thank you, sir,” you quip and earn yourself a quick glare for it before his eyes flicker to where your middle finger is already sinking into the tight clutch of your body, eliciting a whimper to scratch in your throat as your head tips back and your teeth sink into your bottom lip
your walls squeeze around you, wet and soft, sucking your finger deeper in a moment of greed. your chest rises and falls in whiny pants while you draw your finger out slowly and then slide it back in. truthfully, it doesn’t feel half as good as when leon does it but it does the job when you’re so wound up
the spring in your stomach winds, pulling at your spine until it arches enough to press that soft little spot that’s deep inside of you into the pad of your finger, “oh my god,” you shudder and indulge yourself in the feeling, rubbing ever so gently over it in the way that leon taught you how to
“feel good?” leon asks roughly. his chair starts to creak monotonously and it piques your interest, bringing your half lidded gaze to him. the noise is caused by his hips jackrabbiting upwards, fucking his cock through his own hold with reckless abandon while you nod at him, “yeah, i bet it does sweetheart,”
his words make you gasp and before you know it, you’re plunging your finger into your body to keep up with him. it feels impossible to even try, his hand is flying over his length with filthy slick sounds that echo the ones coming from between your thighs but you’re moving on pure instinct and it feels just right
“fucking—god—prettiest little thing i’ve ever seen,” leon groans and maintains a level of eye contact that makes your face burn red. he’s not interested in watching you fuck yourself right now. no—he wants to see pleasure painting across your face, the twitch of your brows and the silent oh that your lips gets stuck in
it’s depraved in its purpose, meant to make you feel like you’re putting on a show for him and you are. the more you think about it, the more your pleasure seems to build with him watching and getting himself off to you—like he’s unable to fulfill that need when you’re not around to satiate it
any words that you want to say, curses or begs for something you don’t even know that you want yet, die somewhere between the air in your lungs and your mouth. cotton wool fills the free space in your head, suffocating your brain so that there’s only leon and a sense of euphoria swimming through your veins
but, of course, leon knows that. he’s smart, academically and seemingly when it comes to you. it’s as if he can see your thoughts, your desires, and they must be enticing enough because within the space of a rather sluggish blink of your lashes, he goes from sitting in his chair to hovering right up over you
his free hand winds around your throat, not pressing but just holding you while he forces you to look up at him. your eyes soften with him right there, you can feel it happen and you can’t find it in yourself to be even the slightest bit embarrassed about it as tears start to prick at your waterlines
“my favourite angel,” leon sighs as he dips closer to lick along your bottom lip. he’s not kissing you, more just marking you than anything else, “gonna add another finger for me—give her what she wants before i do?” he hums, smirking something awful as you react to the fact that he’s going to fuck you afterwards
“yes—ohmyfuckinggod—yes,” you cry out and start to work a finger alongside your middle one before your body is prepared for it. the ache is welcomed though, the stretch is delicious, and if you weren’t struggling to think, you’d wonder how leon always knows when you’re ready for more
however, more can’t come soon enough for you. under leon’s heavy gaze and with his fingers stroking softly over the sides of your neck, paired with you being able to fuck yourself properly—finally—your orgasm starts to simmer throughout every part of your body
you’ve never been able to make yourself come like this, not this fast. leon can and he always does, whether it’s over his tongue, because of his fingers or around his cock. he can push you to the edge and right off of it before you can even realise it’s happening and now, he’s doing it without really touching you at all
somewhere distant it registers in your mind that he’s stopped touching himself too. he has a hand around your neck, his thumb brushing over your drooly chin, and his other hand slides over yours where it’s pressed into his desk, his fingers intertwine with yours and it’s because of that simple gesture that you’re done for
tears slide down your cheeks and sobs rip through your body. you’re incapable of doing anything that isn’t ruining yourself for leon’s entertainment. you try to tell him that you need to come, that you’re going to come but nothing comes out that he can understand—or, so you think
“you’re gonna come, huh?” he asks, his voice dripping with warmth and honey but he doesn’t give you a chance to answer before he’s teasing, “oh my sweet girl, already?” he pauses to lean in and kiss the tip of your nose, “just needed it so badly—i know—you can come for me angel,”
on the next thrust of your fingers, a fire unleashes in your stomach. white bursts behind your eyelids as you clench them shut and then fireworks explode to replace the white, hot, sensation. you’re choking on your moans, stuck halfway between crying and trying to scream, which leon fixes in an instant
his lips slot over yours like he was made for you, swallowing your noises and coercing you to breathe whilst he mumbles soft praises that you can’t distinguish against your mouth. heaviness overtakes your limbs, your fingers practically fall out of your wrecked pussy with a wet pop before you sag in leon’s hold
the coolness of his desk brings another chill to your skin as he lays you down carefully and slots himself between your thighs. his large hands grasp at the back of your thighs and his fingertips dimple into your sweat and slick damp skin as he pushes your knees towards your chest
he half smiles and half smirks down at you when you blink up at him through tear soaked lashes. he’s in a far better mood than he was when you started, which means that you’ve done your job perfectly and now, as the blunt head of his cock starts to split you open, it’s time for him to do his
thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!
thinking about 𝒍𝒆𝒐𝒏 𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅𝒚 conforting you after finding out that your excuse of a boyfriend, who happens to be his oldest son, had cheated on you.
you were trembling on his arms, sobbing while trying to say some coherent to him but leon could only focus on how pretty you looked with your face all teared up, lipstick smudged and rosey puffy cheeks.
you were so cute, he didn't want you suffering over the actions of an asshole, even if that said asshole was his own son. so, with all the best intentions a man like him could have, he did all he could to cheer you up and make you forget.
and if that implied eating you out with his son's hoodie still on, so be it.
"mmf, fuck, mr. kennedy," your sweet moans were like music to his ears. your delicate hand found its way towards his head and grasped the grey-ish strands, tugging at them when his face buried deeply into your pussy, and his nose tip brushed against your puffy clit. a low growl teared from his throat when your thighs squeezed his head, making him choke on his breath.
mr. kennedy. oh, how he loved whenever you called him that. normally, it would have been in a polite greet whenever you came to visit. but now, with your soft legs tangled around his head and his mouth glued to your leaking cunt was more enjoyable than ever.
you're squirming and whining under his tongue, holding onto his hair as his mouth sinked more into your core, telling him it's too much for you to handle. yet, he didn't care, not when your pussy was clenching around his tongue, begging for him to keep going. you were so desperate for his touch it was almost pathetic.
poor baby, all of this time fucking a useless prick, not knowing what it was like to be worshipped like you deserved. it was bordeline criminal, a beautiful woman like you—the root of all desire, the tought on his brain whenever he furiously fisted his cock at night—neglected by someone who didn't know what he had.
"that's right," he groaned against your soaken core. "feels good, isn't it? spread your legs a bit more, yeah—just like that, fuucking god."
his hot breath ghosted over your sensitive clit, making your head falling back against the cushions, moaning and pleading, crying your eyes out for a release. "mhmp, mr. ken—oh fuck! r-right there! i'm so.."
leon increased the pace of his tongue, smothering his moans in your pussy, sending vibrations that were enough to drown out his lewd noises with your orgasm— shutting him off while squeezing your thighs, hidding his face between your shaky legs.
leon kennedy who relieves his stress by eating you out.
2.4k words of leon having the time of his life being inbetween your legs. nsfw obviously. minors dni.
—
leon had come home later than usual today, shoulders all tight and jaw tense from the teeth gritting you’re not sure he even noticed doing. problem at his work was your best guess as to why he had that expression on his face. you decided to swallow your usual question about how his day went since the answer was pretty apparent. still, like the sweet man that he is, leon greeted you with a soft kiss to the forehead, the gentleness he had preserved only for you shone through despite all the tension he’s withholding.
you embraced the taller man through the silence, hoping that the little gesture could provide some kind of comfort to him. but it seemed like leon had an entirely different idea of comfort that day as he smoothly brought a hand under your knees to carry you straight to the bedroom instead. he laid you down into the mattress, wasting no time in capturing your lips vigorously leaving you breathless under the ambush.
fire-like sensation flared across your body, your nerves came alive at the touch of his hand on your side, like it’s the only thing keeping his self control intact. you hummed into the kiss, the giddiness only excited him further, kissing you deeper, his mouth moved in a pace like that of a starving man. and to the hunger you could only respond accordingly, matching his hurried rhythm, tasting the desperation from someone who seemed like he couldn’t get enough.
he took what you gave and still demanded more. a groan escaped him, like it hurt him physically to pull away. but before you could even miss the warmth of his lips it was already back in full force against your neck, him leaving hot trails of kisses as he moved lower, sucking slightly on ridge of your collarbone, a breathy moan that left your mouth served as a fuel for leon as he brought his free hand to skillfully open the buttons of your silk pajamas, revealing your naked breasts in their glory. the man let out a sigh full of wonderment at your gorgeous body, worshipping every inch on your skin as though his kisses were the prayers.
”so beautiful. so perfect,” he mumbled, the timber of his voice sent shivers all the way down to the end of your spine. his wet mouth found your right nipple, sucking as his other hand twisted your left one in-between his fingers, the stimulation made your stomach jolt at the overwhelming sensation, abdomen unconsciously chasing the pleasure and meeting him halfway. leon’s heavy breath ghosted over your chest, turned on beyond belief, his eyes deep in a haze; lust glossing across his orbs.
“l-leon,” your needy whine snapped him out of a trance, letting you go and he could say with confidence doing so was harder than him having to pull out a knife out of his arm that one time. he licked once more out of greed before planting soft kisses down to your stomach, his hand couldn’t quite get it off your tit just yet, his thumb brushed over your stiff as a rock nipple like an anchor, a reminder that you desired him just as much as he did you in that moment.
he moved lower, lower, until his chin felt the fabric of your waistband, hooking a finger on it but he stopped himself, tilting his head as he faced you. “can i baby? ‘ve had a long day,” he asked gruffly, the gravel on his voice practically made your pussy tingled in excitement. there was nothing explicit in his words yet your mind filled the blanks pretty fast, your brain answered first by nodding rapidly before your mouth could catch up. something in the way he pleaded had made you so eager for his touch, the man had just declared that pleasing you would help him relieve some stress, like you’re the one doing him a favor instead. what else were you supposed to say besides hell yes?
leon flashed you a smile that could make a grown man or woman weak on their knees before giving your lower stomach another kiss in gratitude; like someone who had been denied water in the middle of desert for a long time had finally found a lake to quench his thirst. a smirk that from your experience, was filled with a promise that had something to do with your ability to walk properly tomorrow.
he pulled down your shorts, you lifted your legs in response like it’s second nature, making it easier for him to take off your pants. he threw the fabric to the ground without care, his eyes loyal and unmoving like he’s stuck in a trance towards what the cloth was hiding this whole time. at his stare you attempted to close your legs but the grip of his hand on your inner thigh prevented you so, leon knelt in front of the bed as he put your legs on your shoulders, supporting your lower half; dangling if it weren’t for his sturdy body.
there it was in its most beautiful state, your soaking cunt right in front of his face. leon used the back of his hand to wipe the corner of his mouth, he could’ve sworn he thought he was drooling. “fuck. is this all for me?” he whispered, you could hear the proud smile in his question, knowing damn well what the answer was. you stared at the ceiling hoping it will help you to form some kind of a proper counter, yet you couldn’t find it in you to think of anything aside from this subliminal want for the male to do something.
you squealed at the touch of his rough hand brushing over your fold, the movement was slow, excruciatingly careful as he took his time like he’s admiring a piece of art. for a man who looked like he was ready to destroy any obstacle to get to this point, leon was unusually patient and looked very much in control.
or so you thought, until both of his arms sneaked themselves around your thighs locking your legs in place and you knew right there and then. there will be nothing stopping him from enjoying the feast he’s about to devour. and he made sure of that.
your body shook in anticipation as leon leaned in, running his tongue across your lips very slowly. each sweep getting deeper, sending mental notes to his senses so they would remember this taste forever. carving it thoroughly like a man who refused to take this moment for granted. your hips bucked at the sensation, chasing it in urgencyfor more, for it to be deeper.
”m-more please,” you pleaded, heaving. having no damn idea how you could be so out of breath even though leon was the only one doing all the moving, yet with every touch of his tongue, every tease, you found it hard to keep yourself in check.
“patience baby, i’m going to take my time with you alright? waited all damn day for this,” he replied with ease, fooling no one when his boxer looked like it was about to burst by his bulging erection. yet he stayed true to his words, because above his own pleasure what got him off the most was seeing your face in bliss, expression changing in every careful touch he did; enjoying how sensitive you became under his hand.
leon eyed your swollen clit that’s already begging to be licked, sucked, anything. and who was he to deny you that? his mouth then moved to the delicate spot, flicking it gently with his tongue as your body jerked like it’s burned alive, finally being granted the pleasure you’ve been waiting for. even when you flailed, leon easily sucked your bud with a scary accuration as he held your lower body steady; the sounds he made as his lips kept licking and swirling were like it came straight out of porn.
you let out a shameless moan and leon thrived under it, basking under the sexy noise you made like he’s an athlete who trained his whole life for this. and he would, if given the chance. him and your pussy everyday? give him a gun if he’d ever deny that. but that’s a wishful thought, a fake—albeit enticing situation he’d found himself daydreaming about, unlike right now, where your very real sopping wet cunt was right in front of him, all for him to please.
“you taste so fucking good.” leon hummed contently, his tongue encircling your clit like a madman who couldn’t get enough, feeling like he was about to cum in his pants every time he felt your center pulsate, twitching because he knew it did that only for him, by his touch only. you grinded your hips on his tongue, chasing for more friction. by then leon had started to lose himself, his control, like a man who was finally at the end of his wits, he began to eat you out genuinely.
his wild movement raw with lust, borderline unhinged as he leaned in deeper to caress and suck your slit like his life depended on it. you were sent into a state of frenzy at the ambush of his tongue, the grip on your thighs preventing you from pulling away as he worked on your already swelled clit, you felt your orgasm coming, stomach coiled. your hands that were grabbing the sheets were now on his dirty blonde hair, holding the soft strands tight like it’s your lifeline, the only thing keeping you still on ground. the tug on his hair as you led him deeper was what sent leon into overdrive, clinging to it like it’s an addiction as he got rougher.
“i-i’m cumming!” you screamed loudly, you were sure the neighbor could hear it so you knew for a fact that leon heard it as well yet his mouth stayed relentless. even as you writhed, overstimulated by the overwhelming waves of thrill he didn’t stop pleasuring you, even as you came undone his tongue was merciless, he was right there with you as you rode out your climax, never stopping even for a second. there were only flashes of light in the blackness as you eyes rolled, your spine tight with heat as you finished.
insatiable, that’s what he was. your hips stuttered, unfurling as he lapped up your release until the very last drop like it’s the best tasting meal he had all week. even with your cum smeared all around his lips, his skin glistening from the lights reflection the man still looked like he wanted more.
and more he took.
”w-wait leon, ‘m too sensitive,” you whimpered, asking for mercy he wasn’t going to give, mercy you weren’t sure you were going to accept either. after all, leon knew more than anyone that you had just as much unsatiated appetite as he was when it comes to this. you panted, your hands were still on his hair, squeezing it to prevent him from starting again, neither pushing him away.
“i know you have one more in there baby, do it for me?” he asked gently, though his gesture was anything but. mouth already on your quivering cunt and you let him, you always do. grinding his tongue against your swollen clitoris once more without giving you a break. you gasped, closing your legs out of reflex and without his hands holding your legs back anymore as they were on your knees, your thighs were practically smothering the man yet he didn’t seem to mind it even a bit. with him continuing to move without a care as he held your legs tighter around him, the man looked like he was exactly where he wanted to be.
when the fresh wave of intense pleasure started to hit you once more, you began to moan louder. the increased sensitivity on your clit had pushed you into taking more than you could, eager in giving the man everything he needed, since he gave you the same. intangible string of pleads escaped your lips as leon pressed on, knowing exactly how much you loved it when your limit was being tested. and even with the repetitive motion you didn’t find the man’s movement any less rigorous than before, it was actually the opposite. the thought of bringing you into the edge for the second time in just a short span of period made leon an ambitious man. no, it made him a beast.
“i-i can’t. ‘m close,” your core clenched and unclenched its muscles at the marvel of the man’s lips. who seemed like it had memorized every curve, every spot that would drive you wild. and he had full intent in doing so as his touch rapidly becoming more staggering, every flick pushing you under a rush that eventually became too much for you to hold. something that felt like a hot chain coiled itself within your stomach, tighter and tighter, begging for the sweet release of climax.
“come on my tongue, let me taste you again.” and like some kind of a mantra, you did just that, a yell of ecstasy cut through the room as your hips faltered erratically all under the soft of his touch, making sure you knew you were safe with him to feel it all, to let go. leon groaned like he ejaculated himself, the feeling of you coming undone was something he’ll never get used to, something that he wanted to all the time if he could.
you panted like someone had personally taken the oxygen from the room, inhaling air like you lack the source. coming down from the high you had noticed once again leon had lapped you all clean sateless man than he is. and when he showed no sign of getting up and changing his position, you started to worry.
“um, leon?” you called carefully.
“yeah?” he replied in ease, like a man without worry.
“aren’t you done?”
he gazed at you, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead which somehow added more to his sex appeal. he still had half of his face buried in your pussy, like someone really had to physically pull him back to get him away from it.
“one more, please baby? i know you have it in you.”
“i-i don’t know if i can, leon,”
“you can. please sweetheart. for me?”
and you knew you could, especially if it’s with leon. so you nodded, having no idea what you just agreed to.
he made you cum twice more after that.
well long story short, it turned out all leon had to do to relieve his stress was to eat you out.
SUMMARY: Agent Kennedy is a smartass, so he reopens his stitches.
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/ fem!Reader
TAGS: Reader is the doctor, Any era leon works, Fluff and a little crack if you squint, Hunnigan gave him the balls, we love lonely men, a little beta read.
𖦹 Word Count: 2,009 𖦹 Ao3
"Agent Kennedy, you need to stop moving." Your voice cut through, quite displeased by his constant fidgeting. You had patched him up merely two days ago; he had seventeen stitches across his abdomen, fresh bandaging and a lecture he could probably recite word for word by now.
Avoid strain. No sudden movement. Rest for at least forty-eight hours.
Simple instructions.
Instructions Leon Kennedy had apparently treated as optional.
Leon was not foreign to the concept of stitches and so you were sure there would be no complications this time as well. Lo and behold, 'I was bored so I went to the camp' which led to your current predicament.
“Says the lady currently driving a needle through my skin,” he muttered with a strained groan, finally leaning back against the operating chair.
"You were the one who denied local anaesthesia. If you want I could still-" You were cut off by him almost immediately. "I don't need local ana-thing for 5 stitches" He said as if you had offended him by even suggesting it.
Men.
"Then don't move again. I mean it." Sternly, this time.
"You got it doc."
Keeping his word, he stopped moving, the only sign that he was not under an anaesthetic being the faces he was making every time the needle went through. The stitching, being superficial, was done relatively fast. You moved away and discarded your gloves.
"I'm writing you up on a strict recovery leave for the next two weeks" , you said flatly as you reached for the clipboard resting on the counter nearby.
Leon’s head snapped up so fast you almost feared he had torn another stitch. "Oh, come on, doc, don't do this to me. Hell, I'm pretty sure you're not even allowed to do that."
“Doctor’s authority overrides field assignment if an operative is deemed medically unfit for active duty,” you recited. “Would you like me to continue, or have you memorised this lecture too?”
Leon stared at you for a long second before letting out a quiet sigh through his nose.
“That’s low.”
“What’s low is reopening your stitches because you got bored.” Moving to your desk and sitting down, you picked up his file.
“In my defence, it wasn’t entirely my fault.”
You finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “You voluntarily went to a training camp two days after abdominal sutures.”
“They needed me there!” He replied quick on his feet.
"You told me you went because you were bored." Another flat look.
A beat of silence "Well, I was bored and they needed help with the rookies."
"Leon, we are not arguing about this. You need rest. As your doctor its my responsibility to make sure you stay in good health and shape" You set the clipboard down on the desk with a sharp tap, turning back to face him.
He slumped back onto the operating chair with a groan. "Fine. You're the boss. I'll sit at home and do nothing. Rot basically. Cause that's what u want me to do. Rot."
"Leon."
"No no. Do as you please. Don't let my misery bother you."
"Agent Kennedy."
That finally got his attention.
Barely.
He dragged a hand down his face before peering at you through brown-blond strands falling over tired blue eyes. “You know, people usually buy me dinner before threatening my entire lifestyle.”
You crossed your arms. “People usually don't reopen stitches out of boredom.”
A soft smile took home on his face all the while looking like he was seconds away from falling asleep. Cute. Adorable even. The small voice in your head even urged you to run ur fingers through his hair. How unprofessional, you scolded yourself mentally.
“You’re exhausted,” you said, gentler this time.
“I’m functioning.”
“You were limping when you came in.”
“Hey now you're just being dramatic.”
How stubborn can someone possibly be, level Leon Scott Kennedy. You exhaled slowly through your nose, fighting the urge to smile. Fighting and losing, apparently, because his eyes narrowed the second he caught it.
“There it is,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“That thing.”
You frowned. “Very descriptive.”
“The smile.” He gestured vaguely toward your face. “You try not to do it around me.”
Your heartbeat performed an unhelpful little backflip.
“That is objectively untrue.” Quick to defend yourself and only receiving a "mmhmm" from his end.
"FYI, I'm very professional, I do not laugh and giggle with any of the government agents I'm assigned to. Ever." You said trying to gain some of the ground back for it to all be yeeted out the window when leon dramatically clutches his chest.
"Agents. There are multiple? You're telling me I'm not the only one?"
You roll your eyes and get up to wash the tools you used. Distracting. Or at least trying your best to distract yourself. That was until Leon spoke up again.
"I think you tolerate me quite professionally.” His voice dipped lower, softer around the edges. “I think the smiling part’s separate.” And thank god you were'nt facing him cause he would have totally caught onto how warm that sentence just made you.
"You're avoiding the real topic." You said trying to go back to medical leaves.
"You're deflecting." God did he ever stop, or was he on a mission to break his poor doctor's composure today?
Nope. Not today.
"You need sleep." You said placing the washed stuff back where it belongs
"Cruel" Came a quick reply
"And at least two weeks off duty."
"Crueler."
With that, you turned back only to see him staring at the ceiling as if he had been sentenced to death. You cleared your throat and sat back down at your desk, flipping through his file in an attempt to regain some level of professionalism. “Your vitals are stable for now. But if those stitches reopen again, you’ll need another full closure.”
“Sounds romantic.” You chose to ignore that one.
“You’ll need to come back in a week so I can remove the stitches.”
“A whole week without seeing me?” he mused. “How tragic.”
“You say that like you don’t appear here every three business days.”
“That’s unfair.” To which I replied, "hardly," before standing up and making my way to his other reports to add them into the file as well.
Another silence settled between you.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made you aware of stupid things.
Like the fact Leon’s voice always sounded rougher when he was tired.
Or how he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking.
Or how unfairly good-looking someone had no business being while half-drugged on painkillers. You could feel his gaze lingering again. It made concentrating nearly impossible.
“Why do you do that?” he asked suddenly.
You looked up. “Do what?”
“Act like you don’t like me.”
You nearly dropped the clipboard.
“I never said I didn’t like you.”
“You don’t have to.” His smile turned faintly crooked. “You get all professional whenever things stop being about medical stuff.”
“That is generally how being a doctor works.”
“Mm. See? There it is again.”
You set the clipboard down with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. “You are reading too much into things.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Before you could respond, Leon shifted forward in the chair with a quiet grunt. Immediately, your expression sharpened. “What did I just say about moving?”
“I dropped my phone!”
You are quick to pick it up and hand it to him. And as if on cue, it rang loudly in his hand.
Leon glanced at the screen and groaned dramatically. “Great. Hunnigan.”
“Answer it.”
“She’s gonna yell at me.”
“You deserve it.”
He narrowed his eyes at you before answering anyway. “Hey.”
You busied yourself backl with his file while he spoke.
Or rather, while he got scolded.
“Yes, I’m at medical.”
Pause.
“No, I’m fine.”
Longer pause.
“I said I’m fine.”
You heard a faint muffled voice and had to fight down a smile.
Leon pointed accusingly toward you while talking into the phone. “See? This is workplace bullying. You and her. You both are teaming up against me.”
You snorted quietly.
Apparently, that was audible enough because Hunnigan’s voice sharpened through the receiver.
Leon sighed heavily. “Okay, okay. Yes ma’am.”
Another pause.
Then his expression shifted slightly.
Subtler.
Softer.
His eyes flicked toward you briefly before he looked away again.
“...No,” he said after a moment. “Not yet.”
Your brows furrowed slightly.
Not yet?
Hunnigan must have said something else because Leon suddenly rubbed his face with his free hand.
“You are literally making this worse.”
Now you were curious.
Very curious.
A beat later, he hung up and tossed the phone onto his lap.
You crossed your arms. “Problems?”
"Aren't there always?...You know what I've realised, doc?" I looked at him, confused, "What have you realised?"
“I like being here.”
You blinked. “In medical?”
“In your office.”
Your heart stumbled traitorously. Was he smooth-talking right now?
“That might genuinely be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m serious.”
You looked at him carefully.
He looked exhausted still. Pale under the fluorescent lights. Hair falling into tired eyes. Stubbornness practically radiated off him in waves.
But underneath all of that was something else.
Ease. Like this was one of the few places where he could unclench for a minute.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
The rain outside had softened into a steady rhythm against the windows. Somewhere farther down the hall, footsteps passed and faded again.
Leon Kennedy looked unfairly pretty while exhausted.
"So...I've got a question for you", Leon spoke up, breaking the quiet. "Sure. What is it?" You noticed the slight shift in posture. The hesitation. The way his gaze flicked away for half a second before returning to yours.
“I was wondering...” He cleared his throat lightly. “If maybe you’d want to get dinner sometime.”
Your brain stopped functioning.
Completely.
You stared at him.
Leon immediately grimaced. “Wow. That bad, huh?”
“What?”
“The silence. Usually not a great sign.”
“No, I just…” You blinked rapidly. “You’re asking me out?”
"Well, I was trying to.” A faint flush touched the tips of his ears. “Kinda crashing and burning now.”
“You’re serious?” you said.
You folded your arms again mostly to hide the fact your hands suddenly had nowhere sensible to go. “Agent Kennedy, are you aware that there are probably regulations about this?”
“Probably.”
“And you didn’t even hesitate?”
“I hesitated for like six months.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “Six months!?”
“Listen,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m not exactly great at this anymore.”
The honesty in that statement hit unexpectedly hard.
Not self-pitying.
Just truthful.
Careful.
Like someone testing whether the ground beneath them would hold.
“You could’ve asked someone else,” you pointed out softly.
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then, quieter than before, “Didn’t want someone else.”
The room went still. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far in the distance.
Leon leaned back again, clearly deciding he’d already embarrassed himself enough for one evening. “Anyway. You can say no. I figured I’d ask before you banished me to house arrest.”
"Wh-I...well..uhh." Words and thoughts had completely escaped you because this was genuinely the last thing you thought would happen.
"Hey its ok, you know? It's fine. I'm a big boy, I can take rejections."
You shook your head, trying desperately to ignore the stupid fluttering in your chest. “Leon.”
His expression softened slightly at the sound of his name.
“I’m serious” he said quietly.
"Well...You are going to recover first." And upon hearing that, he visibly perked up. As if you had just given a golden retriever its favourite treat. And god did the sudden, wide-eyed hopefulness look adorable on him.
"...and after?" He asked carefully
You tried to maintain professionalism.
You truly did. But the small smile found your face anyways. "After...maybe dinner."
Leon stared for exactly one second before visibly relaxing with a smile as he looked at you.
“There it is again,” he said softly.
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“That smile.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A/n: First leon fic!! Not sure how I feel about it tho. Did you guys like it?
❥𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽!!
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