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Summary: Fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time. (3.3k)
Tags/warnings: smut (mdni), threesome, mentions of alcohol, before you ask, yeah, they kiss, use of pet names, hair pulling, fingering, we're going to paris with this one, oral m!receiving and f!receiving, unprotected p in v, cum play/eating, tiny bit of degradation, overstimulation
A/N: I don't know how to feel about this. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!
masterlist
The heat is curling around your bodies like a humid weighted blanket and the only sources of lighting are the warm streetlights casting shadows inside the safe house from the nearby street.
All three of you are sitting on the floor, talking about everything and nothing while drinking the beers you had brought with you as an apology for showing up unannounced.
Your relationship with Jason and Roy is hazy at best. The most logical description would be coworkers — doesn't matter whether said job is a conventional one or not. But that word doesn't seem nearly enough to contain all of the times you patched them up as they wordlessly looked at you with a strange look on their faces, or the drunken kisses you shared, separately and always forgotten by the next morning.
The conversation reaches its natural end, and neither of you are in a rush to fill the silence with some useless small talk. The night is not a silent one anyway. Cars keep driving by, mixing the sound of tires on wet asphalt and muffled music with the usual sirens that are never really quiet in a city like Gotham.
You lean back, further pressing your back against the couch, and tilt your head back, staring at the moisture stain on the white ceiling. Your hands are still busy trying to peel off the label on the dewy bottle, and you're thankful for the distraction.
Despite remaining silent, your mind is anything but. You will later try to blame it on the alcohol, or the tiredness, or maybe even the stress, but the next words come out of your mouth before your mind has time to process them.
"Have you guys ever... You know..."
The sentence is accompanied by a vague hand gesture which you yourself don't really know what is supposed to mean.
You can feel two pairs of eyes setting on your form as soon as you open your mouth, and the tickling sensation that follows is certainly not something to dwell on later.
"No, I don't, actually," Roy says, and you can hear the smirk on his face in his voice, a sound that has become so familiar without you even realizing.
A groan escapes your lips as you lift your head. When you meet their eyes you immediately regret your decision, wishing you had kept avoiding eye contact.
"I mean, have you ever- umm. How can I say this properly?" you ask yourself, mostly. "Have you ever blown off some steam? Physically. With each other."
The silence that follows makes you wish the earth would just swallow you whole, but the words that are spoken next are no better.
"You're asking if we ever fucked?"
Jason doesn't seem particularly shaken by your question as he replies. In fact, there's a hint of amusement in his tone, which you're sure is also shared by Roy.
"...Did you?" you murmur, unsure where the conversation might lead to.
"Yeah, like, a couple of times," Roy replies nonchalantly, scratching the back of his neck in a way that makes his bicep look edible.
Your eyes move back to your hands, unsure on what to do with that information, or the fact that they were so willing to give it to you.
"What? Are you jealous, princess?"
The pet name Jason had been using ever since that night when you met the pair makes your body feel even warmer than the humid summer heat surrounding you. Despite that, you force yourself to form a reply.
"What?" you retort, meaning to sound indignant, but landing on a sputtering mess instead. "I- What? No, I'm not... Just curious, that's all."
The lie is thick, almost choking you, and the shared look between the two men only makes it worse.
Why did you open your mouth in the first place? What were you trying to accomplish anyway?
"Aww," the redhead coos, "look at our girl. Flustered and all."
They had never referred to you as that — as theirs — or at least, they had never done it in front of you, but the heat pooling in your lower belly is certainly not unpleasant.
"Do you need that?"
"Uh?"
At the sight of your pretty face plastered with confusion and embarrassment, Jason adds, "To blow off some steam. Do you need that?"
Your eyes move from one man to the other, and they can read in your gaze that you're considering it, despite everything in you mind screaming at you that this is not a good idea.
"Come on, doll. Don't go all shy on us now," Roy teases you. "We can make you feel real good, right Jay?"
The other man simply hums, but you suspect that his confidence is just a facade, and he's just as nervous as you are.
There are two roads in front of you now: you can either decline or accept their offer. You know that whatever your decision might be, they would never hold it against you. The only problem is, you want to accept —really, really bad — and you shouldn't, because there would be consequences.
As you keep pondering your options, their eyes never move from you. That's how they immediately realize you've made up your mind.
"We're gonna need to hear you say it first, sweetheart," Jason says, trying to hide his own nervousness.
A moment goes by.
"I want to blow off some steam. With you."
Roy's mouth curls into a satisfied grin as he motions for you to get closer. You set aside the empty bottle and crawl in his direction. Once you're sitting in front of him, he pats his thighs, silently asking you to sit on his lap.
You comply, and the feeling of his toned legs underneath you makes heat rise up to your face. While one of his hands remains planted behind him to support his weight, the other tentatively reaches your face and cups your jaw.
Your eyes fall to his lips and he gets the message, pulling your closer and kissing you. At first the movements are unsure and the rhythm isn't smooth, but quickly you fall into a dance you had rehearsed long ago, despite pretending it had never happened the following morning.
Both of you are so lost in it that you don't hear Jason coming up behind you. You only realize as he moves your hair out of the way to gently kiss your neck. They're just small pecks at first, but once he eases into it, they become open mouthed kisses alternated with some bites, quickly soothed by his tongue.
Roy's hand moves from your face to your waist, before sliding down to your ass and squeezing. The sensation makes you let out a sigh, and he takes advantage of it by sliding his tongue inside your mouth.
As the kiss turns messy and hungry, Jason begins groping your tits, gently moving his fingers over your clothed nipples. The feeling of the two men's touches makes you clench your thighs.
It only gets worse once you break the kiss to catch your breath, and Roy and Jason start making out with you still sitting on the redhead's lap. The sight is obscene in the best way possible, making you move your hands from where they had been previously resting on Roy's shoulder. You place one hand on each of the two men's heads and begin to guide the kiss, feeling your own wetness begin to drench your underwear.
Jason's hands in the meantime move to the waistband of your pants, making you shiver at the sensation of him playing with it, before sliding one hand past it. A moan escapes your parted lips at the feeling of his rough digits feeling your needy cunt over the wet panties.
He smiles into the kiss, and without breaking it completely he pants against Roy's lips, "Shit, you should feel how wet she is right now."
The redhead smirks after biting Jason's lower lip, and, while sneaking a glance in your direction, teases, "Oh, yeah? Does it turn you to see us make out, pretty girl?"
Your mouth opens to reply, but no words come out after Jason pushes your panties to the side and gathers some of your wetness to bring it to your clit.
The neediness in the sounds you start making as he begins to play with the bundle of nerves should embarrass you, but the sensation is too good for you to care.
Your hold on their hair tightens when Jason slips two fingers inside you, but the whine you were about to let out gets swallowed by Roy's mouth as he starts to kiss you again.
Jason's motions are careful at first, trying to get your cunt to ease around his fingers, but once you get used to it, the slow movement aren't enough anymore.
"Please Jay," you whine, breaking the kiss with Roy just to look at the other man with glassy eyes and pouty lips.
"Does our girl need more, uh? You're such a needy girl, aren't you sweetheart?" Roy says, sounding so condescending you might have punched him in the face if Jason's fingers didn't feel so good inside you.
"P-Plese," you sigh, trying to move your hips to meet Jason's movements.
"Don't worry, princess. Jaybird is going to take real good care of you."
As if on cue, Jason's fingers start moving faster, and his other hand begins to massage your puffy clit. In the meantime, Roy starts kissing your neck and leaving marks you're going to have an hard time justifying tomorrow, but all you can focus on right now is how good your boys are making you feel.
The coil in your lower belly tightens, and the sound of your moans mixed with the squelching noise of Jason fingering you fills the otherwise silent safe house.
"Oh, fuck- I'm close," you whine, gripping your boys' hair even harder as you close your eyes, basking in the pleasure of the moment.
Your orgasm washes over you, and for a moment everything else seems to disappear. You tired body slumps onto Roy's as Jason carefully slides his fingers out of your cunt.
They're covered in your arousal, glistening even in the poorly lit room, but before you can process anything, Jason moves his hand near Roy's mouth. Without being told anything, he parts his lips and starts licking Jason's fingers clean.
"Fuck, you taste so good sweetheart," Roy basically moans, moving his free hand to grip the other man's wrist, vigorously sucking and licking his digits.
The sight alone turns you on even more — if that's even possible — and both of them can definitely tell by the size of your pupils.
"C'mere, doll. Taste yourself," Roy murmurs before burying a hand in your hair and crashing your lips together.
The taste of your juices on his tongue is inebriating, so much so that the only thing keeping you grounded is the feeling of Jason's hands on your body, trying to pull down your underwear and your pants in a single motion.
Roy angles your body to help the other man, and momentarily breaks the kiss to take off your shirt as well, leaving you completely bare in front of the two still fully clothed men.
"Your turn, now," you tease them with a hungry glint in your eyes.
They comply with your request, quickly getting rid of their own clothes, throwing them on the floor without a care in the world, solely focused on what they're going to do to you next.
Jason takes your hand gently, and walks to the couch, making sure you follow behind him. It only takes a few steps for you to feel Roy's hand land on your ass with a loud smack, and when you turn your head to glare at him, he simply smirks and walks past you, settling in the couch.
His legs are spread wide enough for you to settle between them. Behind you, you can feel the warmth of Jason's body, as he places on hand on you shoulder and applies some gentle pressure, making you kneel.
The rug makes the landing easier on your knees, but even if it weren't the case, the discomfort would have been worth it considering how close your face is to Roy's cock.
The tip is already red and leaking with precum — the pretty moans you were making earlier were enough to turn him on. Unable to wait any longer you wrap your hand around the hilt and begin to pamper the throbbing tip with some kitten licks.
The reaction is immediate: Roy moans obscenely, throwing back his head, and reaching for your scalp, resting his hand there.
As you continue with your ministration, Jason's big hands settle on your hips, aligning them with his own aching cock. After gathering some of your wetness with his tip, he slowly buries himself inside your tight cunt.
While Jason's thrusts get faster, you finally wrap your lips around Roy's dick, careful not to use your teeth. Your hand keeps moving at the base, covering what you can't reach with your mouth.
The vibrations of the moans Jason is getting out of you only make the experience better for the redhead, who has started to guide your movements with the hand tangled in your hair.
"That's it," he groans, "sucking me so good while getting fucked like a slut."
Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, as your walls flutter around Jason's cock, buried deep inside you.
"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck."
Behind you, the grip on your hips tightens enough to leave behind some bruises, and before you know it, thick ropes of cum flood your cunt.
You stop sucking Roy's dick to turn around and glance at Jason. He's a mess, face stained with some tears you didn't know he had shed, still trembling from his orgasm.
"M'sorry," he mumbles, hiding his face between your shoulder blades and wrapping his strong arms around your waist. "I've been dreaming about this moment for so long, and you just felt so good, and I-"
Before he can keep apologizing, you reach for his face and give him a reassuring kiss, gently caressing his cheek.
"It's alright. No need to apologize."
Roy, who had observed the entire scene with an unreadable look on his face, drags you onto his lap, making you feel the outline of his hard cock without penetrating you yet. He presses his chest to your back, mixing the sheen of sweat covering his skin with your own. His hand grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back, brushing the shell of your ear with his lips.
"You've been so good with your mouth, baby," he says, making a shiver run down your spine. "Wanna show our one pump chump whatcha can do?"
The whole time, despite talking to you, he had been making eye contact with Jason, and you swear you saw the man's dick twitch in response to the redhead's mocking words.
"Yes, please," you plead, your mouth already watering at the idea of feeling the weight of Jason's cock on your tongue.
Without any warning, Roy uses his grip on your hair to push your head down, while he, after giving his own dick a few pumps, aligns himself to your entrance, still leaking with Jason's warm release.
You don't have much time to adjust to the new intrusion before Roy starts giving you instructions on how to blow Jason off.
"Now, start by kissing his tip. Yeah, just like that. And use your hands for the base. Slowly. Don't want him cumming too fast like a virgin. Not again."
You do as told, relishing the sweet sounds coming out of Jason's mouth. While doing so, Roy's grip on your hair never loosens. Instead he keeps guiding you.
Meanwhile, you start moving your hips as well, desperately trying to create some friction. Roy understands immediately what you want, and moves his hips as well, trying you meet you halfway.
"Now open up and start sucking. Just like you did with me, pretty girl."
The redhead's hand guides your movements, and that mixed with how his thrusts make you body rock forward, makes you gag around Jason's cock a few times.
The warm cum that had previously filled your pussy leaks on Roy's dick, turning his base milky white.
"Use your free hand to play with his balls. He loved that last time I did it."
You decide to ignore the implications of his words and simply start palming Jason's heavy balls, careful not to do it too roughly.
"Good girl," the redhead groans approvingly.
Roy wasn't lying, and the whimper that Jason lets out proves as much. Your own gets muffled by his cock, as you keep sucking, not bothering with the tears that start running down your cheeks and the saliva wetting your chin.
The redhead's thrusts never slow down, not even as Jason cums a second time. You keep sucking, gathering every drop of his release in your mouth. Without missing a beat, Roy pulls your face closer to his and parts his lips.
He whorishly moans as you let Jason's cum drip from your parted lips to his open mouth, before pulling him in for a messy kiss, continuing to share the warm liquid.
This seems to be enough for Roy to bury himself deep inside you and reach his orgasm as well, shortly followed by your own.
You stay like that for a moment, with Roy still inside you and Jason standing in front of you, still coming down from the high of his two previous orgasms.
Carefully, Roy slides out of you, and you can feel his cum leaking out of your stretched out hole.
What you expect to happen next is for them to bring you a wet cloth and clean you, maybe cuddle a little, before going to sleep and waking up the next day pretending that nothing ever happened.
What you don't expect is for Jason to drop on his knees, place his hands on your thighs and begin to lick your puffy clit.
"Hey, get off of her! I wanted to do that!"
Jason moves his face just enough to reply, looking like the cat who got the cream.
"Looks like I got here first," he comments, before resuming his ministration.
Roy quickly moves from underneath you, and tries to push Jason away from his place between your legs, desperately lapping at your leaking cunt, completely unbothered by his own cum.
A dance of tongues takes place, as both of them fight for dominance while eating you out. Your legs begin to tremble, and the sensation of their mouths on you is too much too bear.
"'s too much," you babble, your brain turning into complete mush, but they won't have it.
"Just another one." "Yeah, can you do that princess?"
Your head hits the back of the couch, and your third orgasms crashes over you like waves crashing against rocks, making your vision turn black for a few seconds.
Your chest moves up and down along with your heavy breathing, making you momentarily forget about the situation at hand.
You're brought back to reality as they both settled on the couch next to you, enveloping you between their warm bodies. The apartment turns quiet again, and the sound of the city start reclaiming your attention.
That's until Roy decides to tease you one last time.
"Did that help you blow off some steam?"
A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
you cannot tell me dick grayson doesnt have the craziest morning boner
he would wake up with you lying on your side, back pressed against his chest and sleeping soundly. all unaware from the large poking that was on your ass
poor man didn’t wanna wake you up because one, it was seven in the morning. and two, you were sleeping so peacefully he couldn’t bring himself to ruin your slumber
so instead, dick would just lazily grind his boner on your ass, pressing his lips on your shoulder to hold back any sounds and pant on your skin. and when you would shift and unknowingly press your ass more to his cock, he would shut his eyes and throw his head back to let out a quiet yet deep groan, his voice still laced with sleep
that’s it, his last fucking straw
“babe” dick carefully nudged you, desperation in his voice. but there was no answer from you. he trailed a path of kisses from your shoulders all the way under your jaw, only to hear a small “hm?” leave your sleepy lips
“dick, it’s too early” you mumbled, eyes still closed and about to reach for dick’s head and press his face more into your neck. but your eyes slowly fluttered open from something poking and rubbing on your ass
“dick? what are you—"
“please, baby…” you could hear the slight desperation in his morning voice, his hips not stopping and still slowly rubbing on your ass. “woke up with the craziest boner… fuck, i need you”
scratch ‘slight’, he was desperate desperate. begging from behind your back at what, seven in the morning?
you let out a breathless sigh from dick already nudging your panties down slowly, giving him a slow nod and already closing your eyes to fall back asleep. “just don’t wake me up, i need to be up soon” and as a confirmation, you spreaded your legs a bit more and pressed your ass more to his cock
god, that was all he needed to hear
“i promise” dick whispered in your ear, thumb rubbing small circles on your cunt and feeling your arousal slowly form. “you were always too good for me, thank you baby” a small whimper left your lips. even when you were asleep— or at least trying to— his touch always pulled out reactions from you
he took his thumb off to pull his boxers down and line his hard and tip with your pussy, pre cum slightly glistening from the head. a relieved sigh left dick’s lips when he began to slowly insert his cock in, the familiar warm walls of your cunt greeting him with a welcome he so desperately needed.
“thaaat’s it” he murmured on your neck, one hand shifting to slide under your shirt and fondle with your boob— which made you let out a small moan— while the other gripped on your hip. “fuck, just what i needed”
your lips slightly parted for a small moan to slip, your closed eyes now rolling to the back of your head as dick moved your bra strap from your shoulder to leave open mouthed kisses while sinking more of his length in you
and once his cock was fully buried in you, dick stayed like that just to take your warmth in, groans humming on your skin and brushing his thumb on your nipple. a gasped moan left your lips, the sleep slowly fading from your body and your eyes fluttering open
"dick” you whined, squirming your ass as a sign for him to move. “i need you to move. please”
he let out a chuckle from behind and you could practically feel a lopsided grin form on his lips. “thought you wanted to sle— ohhh fuck”
dick moaned when he felt you bury his head more into the collar of your neck and your fingers sliding into his hair, his cock twitching in you as a response. you let out a small chuckle but it trailed into a moan when dick slowly rolled his hips to your ass
“attagirl” he groaned, sending another lazy yet deep roll of his hips to your pussy and going crazy from how you were sucking him in. “just like that”
the depth of dick’s thrusts was making up for the pace— which was more than enough since he was already huge. and it did nothing but make the sleep fade from both you and him
“dick— oh god” you let out a breathless sigh from his tip nudging deep enough that it was hitting all the right angles, your back arching instinctively and pressing your ass more to his hips for more.
and to add more with his lazy yet deep thrusts and groping, dick whispered all kinds of things to you in that morning voice you loved while fondling with your boob
“that’s it, gorgeous. take it for me”
“look at her go, fuuuuck. all for me”
“cmon pretty girl, give it to me. make a mess”
another deep roll of dick’s thrusts and it made you clench all over his cock for your orgasm to come crashing, broken chants of his name leaving your fully gaped lips and your wide eyes almost seeing stars from how hard you came
he let out a groan, the thrusts now sounding wet as he felt his own orgasm slowly approach. dick’s hand from your boobs trailed up to tilt your head up for his lips to meet yours in a slow, intimate kiss that were filled with pants
one last roll of his hips made dick moan on your mouth, feeling his warm cum now fill you up as his cock still slowly dragged itself to fuck his cum in you. a pleasured sigh left yours into dick’s mouth as he kept murmuing small “thank you, oh thank you so much” repeatedly in your mouth
his cock finally stilled in your pussy, now soft and feeling the warmth of your pussy and his cum now buried to the brim in you. slowly, both of you pulled away from the kiss with a trail of saliva before it broke immediately
your gaze met with dick’s blue ones as both of you were catching your breaths. his hand shifted to cradle your cheek and his lips panted a smile, tucking a messy hair strand behind your ear
but right where he could kiss you again more softer and tell you what a good job you did, the alarm began to ring on the nightstand
putting a gun to your ex boyfriend, turned fugitive’s head because he decides to break into your apartment and riding his cock is not how you expect to spend your night… but your ex is BENJAMIN POINTDEXTER !
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 CONTENT WARNINGS: sex at gun point, rough sex, stalker! ex boyfriend! fugitive! dex, MINORS DNI ノ dominant! fem! reader, dirty talk, praise kink, riding, ass slapping, male whimpering and crying during sex, unprotected sex, gun play, big dick! dex!
AUTHOR’S NOTE: god this is so hot lmao. this is inspired by the scene where karen puts a gun to dex’s head because he’s so hot in that scene. this is lowkey so toxic but idc!
dex missed you.
and you? despite saying you didn’t miss him… you missed him.
but you dealt with dex for a good year and a half; he was a toxic piece of shit that never knew boundaries, he thought the epitome of romance was stalking you outside your windows and threatening everyone who came into contact with you. and secretly? he’s been running around as the murderous bullseye… but god forbid you so much as look at the male waiter at a restaurant.
the main issue tonight? uh, dex kinda broke out of prison… and now, he’s running across hell’s kitchen, looking for an apartment to break into and spend a little night in. he knows the apartment buildings that have unoccupied apartments that he could easily break into— but the police are hot on his trail, but that didn’t scare a man like pointdexter.
he knew your apartment like the back of his hand; even if he hasn’t been allowed to be in it since your break up with him seven months ago.
climbing on your fire escape, dex listened the police sirens in the distance, somehow these idiots are going the opposite way, it makes dex chuckle as his palms find each level of the escape with ease.
“absolute idiots…” he mutters, swinging his leg around the fire escape and climbing into it, seeing his reflection in your window. “what a waste of citizen’s tax money.”
he remembers that one of your worst habits was forgetting to lock your window— always focusing to lock the front door and the bedroom window that the living room window remained unlocked on some nights… and deep down, he hopes you learned your lesson but he tests this habit again.
he kneels down as the wind softly blows, the orange jumpsuit crumpling against his muscles as he presses his palms against your window… and stupidly, it opens for him.
“oh sweetheart.” he mutters, tilting his head as he pushes up the window and slithers into your apartment. “i thought you were smarter than that… leaving this window open.”
dex is able to get into the apartment and shuts the window, doing what you didn’t do and lock it as well… and with his back turned, he listens to everything and in the soft, quiet apartment… the sound of a gun cocking is louder than ever.
in the doorway of the living room stands you; in a nightie you wore because it was comfortable, holding a 9mm pistol to the man in your apartment.
“put your hands up.” you order him; you can tell it’s a man, the back muscles and the hair give it away… you also notice the orange jumpsuit and the black numbers on the back of him. you try to hide the fear in your voice— fear will only get you killed.
dex couldn’t help but giggle at his words, turning his head to look over his right shoulder… but he does what you tell him to do, putting both hands up. “whatever you say, sweetheart.”
oh fuck me. it’s you. your mind talked to you… you knew it from the giggle and even before his voice entered the apartment— it’s dex. of course it’s dex.
“what the fuck are you doing here, dex?” you ask him, stepping closer to him as your left hand flicks on the ceiling light fixed at the middle.
dex smiles like a kid on christmas— this wasn’t exactly how he planned on trying to reignite this relationship, but of course, nothing in his life is planned. “i simply needed a place to stay tonight, prison guards are hunting me like a rack of lamb… not trying to hurt you, baby.”
you groan at his excuse. “turn around.”
and dex does what you say; turning around to face you.
he clicks his tongue seeing you all over again, looking you up and down like it’s the first time he’s seen you. like you’re the prettiest woman he’s ever seen— and to him? you are the prettiest woman.
“time hasn’t taken away your beauty, baby.” he mutters, keeping his hands up and that stupid smirk on his face.
you keep the gun up however— this wasn’t how you expected to spend your night; holding your crazy ass ex boyfriend up at gunpoint, but here you are. “do you ever shut up?”
dex “thinks” for a second before responding. “nope… but that ain’t the gun i saw last time i was here.” he observed. “did you get a new one?”
“doesn’t matter. why are you here?” you say, completely disregarding his questions.
“just needed a place to hide.”
“so you’d drag me down with you if the police were to find you. they’d think i’m harboring a fugitive, dex.”
he shrugs his shoulders, looking down at your thighs peaking out from the nightie. “well… i could’ve easily broke into someone else’s home… but where’s the fun in that? and besides, i’ve been thinking about you, pretty.”
you don’t know if he’s being annoying or if your body enjoys this type of flirting— with the way your heart feels faster than it should be and that lower heat in your belly curling with need.
dex can practically see how your mind is running. “what? you enjoy this, baby? you enjoy the fact that the man you’re holding up at gun point is flirting with you? c’mon, sweetheart.”
“just shut up and leave.” you order him again, motioning to the window with the gun, keeping both of your hands on the gun’s handle.
dex looks back at the window before looking at you again, tilting his head as a shit-eating grin appears on his face. "you know you don't want me to leave... i've missed you, sweetheart."
frustration mounted in your body as his words continued to enter your ears. you didn't want to hear it from this man. this man who stalked you for so long, who didn't let you breathe in the confines of your relationship. the same man who breathed down your neck about literally anyone— man or woman, he trusted no one.
he continues to speak when you refuse to. "you know i would do anything for you, baby... anything." his voice convinces you... but this is dex we're talking about. "i escaped prison just to see you babe, ain't no regular joe is doing that... especially for a beauty like you."
you look at him, getting a genuine look at the man before ordering him around again. "you're gonna make my time dealing with you worth it, asshole." you tell him as you point the gun over to the couch. "lay on the couch and keep those fucking hands to yourself."
he immediately grins at your request, taking slow steps not to scare you away towards the couch, laying on his back and keeping his hands by his head. "yes ma'am." he says as he lays down.
he lays down and you walk towards him, the gun never leaving its position as you get close to the couch. he looks handsome but you don’t let yourself think about it too much.
“answer this question and if you lie, i swear to god, dex.” you begin. “during the seven months we broke up… did this dick go into anyone else?” you ask, pointing the gun to his crotch.
just the sight of you pointing a gun at him gives him a boner— but the demands? the questioning? just the confidence with the gun? oh dex wants to moan out loud. he shakes his head. “nobody, baby, swear to god.”
"good... good boy." you say as you keep the pistol up. "pull your pants down. boxers included."
dex grins as he lowers his hands, lifting his legs as his thumbs go into the waistband of the orange prison jumpsuit, tugging them down as well as his boxers— the plain white pair with no name brand that the prison offered because apparently, having a bunch of men walk around with no underwear in a prison is "wrong" and "nasty".
he pulls down his pants, his happy trail visible. it's messier than it usually is, you remember it was clean last time you saw him, but it wasn't a complete mess. it was thicker and had more hair yes, but not like the amazon down there.
but all you focused on was his cock; which was rock hard.
and you couldn't stop your next words. "did you really get hard when i pointed my gun at you, dex?"
dex nodded quickly, getting his pants down to his knees as he puts his hands back by his head, fingers brushing against the couch. "of course, i was, baby, you looked sexy with this piece of metal." he says, pointing to the gun with his left hand. you appreciated that he followed your orders and kept his hands up.
you groan out loud at his words; of course this dickhead got hard when being held up at gunpoint by a sexy woman. but you don't say anything, only having your right hand hold the gun as you put your left hand close to his mouth. "spit."
and he spits, letting his spit land on your palm. he smiles after his line of spit lands on your palm.
you smile and right before he could say anything, you wrapped your hand around his cock and began to stroke him. dex immediately moans and arches off the couch at the simple touch of your hand again after seven months.
"oh f-fucking hell, baby." he moans, keeping his hands up as they dig into his blonde hair, gritting his teeth as you stroke his seven inch cock with a lazy hand, the gun still pointed at your hand.
you press the barrel against the side of his head as you order him again. "take off my underwear."
he nods as his hands shoot forward. for a man as scary as bullseye, pointdexter was one whimpering son of a bitch. his fingers push up on your nightie, feeling the underwear and pulls it down without hesitation. he moans as you squeeze on the base of him before stroking back up to his tip, watching the underwear drops to your ankles as the barrel continues to be pressed against the side of his head.
"there you go..." he mutters, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. "god, you look so pretty in this piece of nightwear." he says, feeling the soft material of the red nightie you were wearing. it was a comfortable piece of clothing that you enjoyed when nights got cold like this. "been dreaming of seeing you like this."
you can't help but feel flattered by his words. you know, you shouldn't but still... there was love in your heart for him, even if the way you saw him again wasn't really the best way. you stepped out of your underwear as you move, stopping your movements on his cock for a moment to straddle his hips and feeling his cock slap against your left thigh.
of course, dex's eyes remained fix on you as you straddle him and you lift your body, your left hand grabbing the base of him and lining up with your folds.
without hesitating for a moment, you slowly begin to sink down on his cock, moaning as each inch of dex’s cock enters your walls, stretching you out further and further. “dex… mhm— dex, ngh… fuck.”
dex fucking whimpers at feeling his cock dragging against your walls, pussy warm and completely melting him from the inside out. “baby… baby… oh fuckkkkk.”
you press the gun harder against his temple as you feel all seven inches inside of you. “fuck handsome… never felt so fucking good before.” you whimper, beginning to slowly ride his cock.
he groans, throwing his head back as he tried his hardest to not touch you— he didn’t want you to suddenly stop or worse, shoot him in the hand— but at this point? he’d love to be shot if it’s by you. “please baby, l-let me touch you… please, this body is fuckin’ beautiful, pretty woman— let me.”
you tilt your head down at him as you ride him harder, your walls opening up for him as you get a consistent rhythm on his cock. “oh you want to touch me? huh?”
“yes yes yes.” he blabbers, groaning as his cock twitches inside of you. “lemme touch this pretty body of yours.”
acting like you’re thinking for a minute, you tap the top of the gun under his jaw as you raise your brows. “since you can’t shut up… go ahead, but no controlling my pace… you can touch but not get me to go faster.”
dex lets out the most pathetic whimper as his hands go down and touches your body… and immediately? his hands don’t know where the fuck to touch.
“ohhhhh god, thank you so much, baby… thank you.” he whispers as both hands wrap around your thighs, squeezing them as you put the gun back to the side of his head.
dex’s fingers grip your skin tightly as each rock of your hips on his cock makes him closer and closer to his ever slow growing orgasm. his cock twitches again and his balls clench— it’s pathetic how close he already is at cumming, you haven’t even got close yet and here he is… needing to cum, but he didn’t say anything.
but it showed on his face with his heated cheeks, messy hair, and his eyes closing with need. “dex, baby, open your eyes and lemme see.” you whisper, tapping the gun on his cheek.
he snaps open his eyes as his right hand slaps your ass with need. “sorry, sorry… just— just feels so good, baby.”
“oh i know it does.” you reply, riding quicker on his cock, feeling your breasts bounce in your nightie as you squeeze your thighs around his hips. “that’s why you’re moaning like a little bitch f’me.”
dex doesn’t even try to challenge that; mass murder, mean ass man… whimpering over you bouncing on his cock like this? oh fuck yes he’s moaning like a whiny bitch. “please baby… oh fuck… for fucks sake, darling, keep bouncing like that.”
yet, even with you in control, you follow what he says and continues your bounces, tracing his jawline with the gun as your finger plays with the trigger but never close enough, dex sticking out his tongue and licking the gun when the weapon passes by his lips.
dex leans his head back, bringing his right hand down on your ass again, the loud smacking sound fills the living room. he watches you with awe, star-struck at the sight of you bouncing on his cock, mouth watering at seeing your boobs bouncing in your night wear.
he’s so fucking struck by the sight of you that tears prick at the corner of his eyes as tears begin to escape his eyes, completely in a sea of pleasure and the feeling of your body.
you smile at seeing dex cry for you; it’s cute seeing him cry like this. “crying for my pussy, huh?”
he nods his head, not caring to push the tears away, both hands gripping your hips. “absolutely— absolutely, baby, pussy feels fucking amazin’— so warm and so- so- so good, hun.”
you tap the gun against his cheek to get his full attention, you speak. “we’re gonna— fuck— we’re gonna cum together, cum for me dex and i’ll cum for you, handsome… c’mon.”
this motherfucker doesn’t waste another second.
the moment you bounce down on him one more time, all of his inches going into you as he cums right as you cum, both of your bodies being pumped full of pleasure.
your eyes roll back and arches in the air as his fingers dig deep into your hips, cock twitching as he rips out a groan, beginning to unload inside of you.
your hand let’s go of the gun— part time because of love and mostly the pleasure of your orgasm makes the gun slip from your hand— it falls to the couch cushion as both of your hands dig into his broad chest, curling into the orange jumpsuit as you grind on him.
dex grabs your ass with both hands, looking at you as he cums inside of you, watching you grind on him in overstimulation. “fuck baby… fucking hell… pussy still loves me, huh?”
“sh-shut up.” you respond to him, bending down and pressing a kiss to his lips, feeling him kiss back.
he chuckles as he looks over, seeing the gun. “look at that… the gun is finally off your hands…”
“do you want me to shoot you right now?” you challenge him, looking at him very unimpressed, eyebrows furrowed as overstimulated groans leave your mouth.
he shrugs, pressing a kiss on your neck. “as long as it’s done by you, sweetheart.”
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
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leon kennedy always recognizes you as his home. doesn't matter where he is, whether near or far, what time it is, doesn't matter how injured he is, how much his body and mind tire from cruelty and virus alike-- the mere sight of you, safe and happy, is enough to bring reprieve to an aching heart.
he has endured more than anyone else has in this world, but you know he'd never dare admit that. he's not allowed to, not when he's deemed himself a failure. he may have saved thousands of lives, but for the few he failed to save, he carries that with him forevermore. you know this and so does he.
but you don't recognize him as a failure-- never could, never will. but sometimes words are not enough of a reminder, and sometimes, it is not words that speak the loudest.
so you hold him every night, make sure he feels as safe as he makes you feel. even when it's a little too hot, even when you've had a misunderstanding that day. you hold him like something meant to be cherished, something meant to be protected.
you hold him like he's meant to be saved.
"...you're getting a few grays, baby." you say softly, fingers weaving through soft locks as he rests his head on your chest. you lay together in the bedroom you've shared for years and years. this is your home, your haven. your sanctuary. it's all you know and it's all he ever wants to know.
"getting old." he murmurs. "not as young as i used to be when we first met."
it's spoken in a lighthearted manner, but you can sense the weariness in his tone. you smile, press your lips against his head, feel him relax against your body even more than before.
"...'s okay. we can grow old and gray together, yeah?"
a small huff of amusement before he shifts slightly, looking up at you. there's that fondness in blue eyes you've grown to adore with all your heart ; you hope to continue protecting it with everything you have.
"yeah," he says, quiet, reverent, as he kisses you on the lips, "we can grow old and gray together."
the sun spills over the manicured lawns of your quiet suburban street, too bright and cheerful for the way your life actually feels. you’d leave for work, locking the door to a house that never quite felt like your safe sanctuary, and your eyes would inevitably drift next door. to leon kennedy’s house.
and there he’d be.
your older neighbor, leon. settled into that worn-in wooden chair on his porch like he was a permanent fixture of the neighborhood. sometimes a book would be resting in his hands, other times one of those crossword puzzle books, a pen tucked behind his ear. you figured it was his way of staying sharp. he had this air about him, a quiet intensity that even retirement couldn't seem to sand away. you didn't know what he did before he moved in a couple of years ago, but you could tell he’d seen things. it was in the way he watched the world, calm and observant, but with a flicker of something heavy deep in his blue eyes. something that made the word puzzles and the thick novels seem less like a hobby and more like an anchor. a way to keep his mind from drifting into darker waters.
he was handsome, in a rugged, weathered sort of way. lines etched around his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and maybe a few too many grimaces, a stark contrast to his surprisingly soft-looking blond hair, now threaded with distinguished bits of grey at the temples. he always looked so solid. so steady. a rock against the turbulent tide of your own life.
and you, you were the pretty neighbor in her twenties, dating an absolute piece of shit.
every morning, you’d offer him a small, tired smile as you walked to your car. “morning, leon.”
he’d look up from his page, those intense eyes softening just a fraction as they landed on you. a slow, easy smile would touch his lips. “morning,” he’d reply, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that always did something funny to your stomach.
that was it. that was the extent of your interactions. a simple greeting exchanged across a stretch of green grass. but it was a lifeline. his calm presence was a stark contrast to the chaos that waited for you at the end of each day, to the storm that was your boyfriend. leon was your quiet, constant morning ritual, a small moment of peace before the world, and your relationship, inevitably fell apart again.
he saw you. he really saw you. he saw the way your smile didnt always reach your eyes, the way you sometimes wore long sleeves in the dead of summer. he saw the brand-new car your boyfriend bought you after the last ‘big fight,’ and he saw the way you flinched when that same boyfriend honked the horn a little too aggressively from the driveway. he was a retired dso agent. he’d spent a lifetime reading people, seeing the cracks beneath the surface. and your surface was covered in them. he kept his distance, telling himself it wasn’t his place, that he’d earned his quiet life. but the part of him that was hardwired to protect, the part that had seen too much to ever truly stand down, it watched. and it waited.
then came the day it all shattered.
it wasn’t the usual shouting match, the muffled thuds of doors slamming that had become background noise to him. this was different. it was far more violent.
leon was in his kitchen, wiping down the counters, when the first shout cut through the afternoon quiet. he paused, head tilting towards the wall that separated your two houses. he’d learned to tune out the arguments, the venomous words spat back and forth. but then came the first crash. not a door, but something heavier. something hitting a wall. his hands stilled on the counter, his entire body going rigid. years of training, of honed instincts, flared to life. he was no longer just a retiree. he was an agent, cataloging threats.
another shout, your voice this time, high and strained, followed by the unmistakable, sickening sound of glass shattering. not just a glass, but a lot of it. it sounded like a whole shelf’s worth had been swept to the floor. his jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. he could picture it. he could almost feel the vibrations through the soles of his feet.
your boyfriend’s voice, a furious, guttural roar that made the hairs on leon’s arms stand up. more thuds. more breaking. it was a symphony of destruction, and your terrified sobs were the only melody. leon was already moving, his dish towel dropped on the counter, his feet carrying him towards his front door. he didn’t think, he just reacted. the cop inside him, the one he thought had died years ago, was wide awake and screaming.
the sound of a car engine roaring to life, tires screeching as it hastily peeled out of your driveway, was the final punctuation mark. silence descended, heavy and absolute. it was more unnerving than the noise had been.
leon stood on his porch, his heart pounding a steady, heavy rhythm against his ribs. he stared at your house. it looked the same as it always did. peaceful. unassuming. but he knew better. he knew the carnage that lay just beyond the front door. he took a deep breath, the air feeling thick and heavy in his lungs. he had to go. he couldn't just stand here, knowing what he’d heard. he couldn't live with himself if he did nothing.
he walked across his lawn, the grass cool and damp beneath his worn boots. each step felt deliberate, heavy. he was crossing a line, leaving the quiet sanctuary of his retirement and stepping back into the world he’d tried so hard to leave behind.
your front door was slightly ajar.
a sliver of darkness in the bright afternoon. it was an invitation and a warning all at once. he hesitated for only a second before raising his hand and giving the wood a firm knock.
“it’s leon,” he called out, his voice steady and clear, a trained habit. letting his presence be known. “your neighbor. is everything alright in there?”
not a peep. just the faint ticking of a clock from somewhere inside.
he pushed the door open a little wider, peering into the dim entryway. “i heard a lot of noise. ‘m just checking to make sure you’re okay.”
still nothing. a cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach. he’d seen enough silent houses in his day to know they were rarely a good sign. he pushed the door fully open and stepped inside, his senses on high alert. the agent in him was taking over, scanning every corner, listening for the slightest sound.
and he found you.
the living room was a disaster zone. a bookshelf was overturned, its contents strewn across the floor. a lamp was smashed, its shade bent at an impossible angle. but the worst of it was the glittering sea of broken glass that covered the hardwood floor by the kitchen entryway. and there you were, right in the middle of it.
you were on your hands and knees, wearing nothing but a ridiculously oversized t-shirt that swallowed your frame, the hem brushing against the tops of your thighs. you were barefoot. your hair was a mess, falling into your face as you painstakingly, almost robotically, picked up the larger shards of glass with your bare hands. you didn’t even seem to register his presence.
his heart, which had been pounding with adrenaline, now ached with a different, sharper emotion. rage. a cold, quiet fury directed at the man who had done this, who had left you here to clean up the wreckage of his temper.
“hey,” he said, his voice softer than he thought possible, deliberately gentle so as not to startle you.
your head snapped up. your eyes were wide, unfocused, shimmering with unshed tears. you looked like a frightened animal, cornered and hurt. you opened your mouth to say something, but only a choked sob came out.
“don’t move, sweetheart,” he commanded, but the words were wrapped in that same gentle tone. he moved towards you, his steps careful and deliberate, avoiding the glass with an ease that spoke of navigating far more dangerous terrain. he crouched down in front of you, his knees protesting slightly. “you’re going to cut yourself.”
you just stared at him, your hand still clutching a jagged piece of a broken plate. a single tear finally escaped, tracing a path through the grime on your cheek.
he easily took the shard from your unresisting fingers, tossing it aside. “c’mon,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. he slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, scooping you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all. you let out a small, surprised gasp, your hands automatically coming to rest on his broad shoulders.
he carried you over to the small kitchen table, the only piece of furniture in the immediate vicinity that seemed untouched by the chaos. he gently set you down on one of the chairs, his hands lingering on your arms for a moment, as if to steady you.
“dont you worry. i’ll clean this mess up,” he said, his gaze firm, leaving no room for argument. “you just sit there. don’t move from that chair.”
you could only nod, watching in a daze as he turned and walked back towards the mess. he moved with a quiet efficiency, finding a dustpan and broom in a nearby closet. he swept up the glass, the scraping sound loud in the tense silence. he didn’t say a word, his focus entirely on the task at hand. it was methodical. it was controlled. and it was for you.
you watched him, this quiet, steady man who had, until now, just been a face you saw in the morning. you watched the way his muscles moved under his dark blue shirt, the focused set of his jaw. he was taking care of the mess. he was taking care of you. and the simple, profound kindness of it was enough to make the dam of your composure finally break. the sobs you’d been holding back started to shake your small frame, quiet and hiccuping at first, then growing in intensity until you were burying your face in your hands, trying to muffle the sound.
when the last of the glass was swept into a neat pile, leon disposed of it before walking back over to you. he stood in front of you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. he knelt down, bringing himself to your eye level.
“are y’hurt?” he asked, his voice still low and gentle. he scanned your face, your arms, your legs, his gaze sharp and analytical. he was looking for cuts, for any sign of injury from the glass. “did you step on anything?”
you shook your head, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. you were fine. physically, at least from the glass, you were fine. but that wasn’t the whole story.
mentally, he checked off the list of potential injuries, and seeing none, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of relief. but you knew what he couldn’t see. you knew about the other damage, the uglier, more deliberate kind.
with trembling fingers, you reached for the hem of your oversized t-shirt. you hesitated for a second, a wave of shame washing over you. but then you looked into his eyes, into those steady, concerned blue depths, and you knew you didn’t have to hide. not from him.
you lifted the shirt just enough to reveal the mottled, ugly bruises blooming across your stomach and ribs. a violent tapestry of purple, blue, and an angry, fresh red. they were bruises of your boyfriend’s rage, a secret you’d been hiding under baggy clothes for days.
the change in leon was instantaneous. it was like a storm cloud passing over the sun. the softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a glacial fury that was more terrifying than any shouting you’d ever heard. his jaw was clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack. his whole body went still, radiating a cold, lethal anger. yet, when he spoke, his voice was impossibly, achingly gentle.
“did he do that to you?”
the question hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. you couldn’t find your voice. you could only nod, a jerky, pathetic movement. and with that small confirmation, the tears started falling again, hot and fast, a testament to the pain and humiliation you’d been carrying alone for so long.
a muscle in his cheek twitched. that was all. no outburst, no shouted curses. just that one, tiny, controlled movement that spoke of a rage buried so deep it could level cities. he slowly raised his hands, his movements deliberate as if he were afraid of scaring you, and gently cupped your face. his thumbs, calloused and warm, brushed away your tears.
“it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. “you’re okay. you’re safe now.” he kept repeating it, soft words meant to soothe, to calm the storm inside you. he held your face, his gaze locked on yours, and in his eyes, you saw not pity, but a fierce, unwavering protectiveness. you saw a man who understood violence, who understood pain, and who was, in this moment, your shield against it all.
you leaned into his touch, a desperate, instinctual movement. you craved this gentleness, this strength. you were so tired of being afraid, so tired of the pain. and before you even realized what you were doing, before your brain could catch up to the raw, screaming need in your heart, you were closing the small distance between you and pressing your lips to his.
it was a clumsy, desperate kiss, salty with your tears. it was a plea. it was a thank you. it was everything you couldn’t say out loud.
leon froze. for a split second, he was completely still, surprised by the suddenness of it. he was a man who was never caught off guard, but you, in your oversized t-shirt and tear-stained face, you had managed it. he could feel the frantic tremor of your body, the desperate press of your mouth against his.
you pulled back, your eyes wide with a fresh wave of panic and embarrassment. “i’m sorry,” you whispered, the words tumbling out. “i shouldn’t have—”
but you never got to finish.
leon stared at you for a heartbeat, his blue eyes dark and intense, scanning your face as if memorizing every detail. he saw your fear, your regret, your vulnerability. and then he saw something else. something that mirrored the longing he’d been suppressing for months. every morning he’d watched you, your cute little greetings, the sad smile that never quite reached your eyes. he’d wondered what it would be like to make you smile for real. he’d wondered what you tasted like.
and with a low groan that seemed to be ripped from the very depths of his soul, he dove in.
this kiss was nothing like the first. there was no hesitation, no gentleness. his mouth crashed down on yours, demanding. one of his hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, while the other slid from your face down your back, pressing you closer to him. it was a kiss that consumed, that erased every thought from your mind except for him. him, his taste, the solid feel of him kneeling before you. all the mornings of quiet observation, of unspoken want, were now erupting in a torrent of raw passion. he kissed you like a man starved, and you met his hunger with your own, a desperate, clinging need that had been buried under layers of fear and pain.
it was messy and wet and perfect. it was the breaking of a dam, for both of you.
when he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathless, panting in the quietness of the kitchen. he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “don’t ever be sorry for that,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion.
he pulled back enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your kiss-swollen lower lip. a decision had been made. a line had been crossed, and neither of you wanted to go back. without another word, he stood up, pulling you with him. you were still shaky, your legs feeling like jelly. he didn’t let you go. instead, he scooped you up into his arms again, just as he had before.
but this time, it was different. this time, there was a simmering, electric tension in the air. he carried you the few steps to the kitchen island, his eyes never leaving yours. he gently propped you up on the cool granite countertop, his movements careful and deliberate, ever mindful of the bruises that marred your skin. he stood between your legs, his hands resting on your thighs, his presence a warm, solid wall in front of you.
“is this alright?” he asked, his voice a low murmur, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.
you just nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, a silent answer that was all he needed.
a slow, predatory smile touched his lips. he leaned in, his mouth ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “good,” he whispered against your skin, before his hands moved to the hem of your t-shirt, slowly, pushing it up your torso.
he spread your legs a little wider, his gaze dropping to the juncture of your thighs. and then, he was on his knees. it happened so fast, your breath hitched in your throat. he looked up at you from between your legs, his blue eyes dark with a hunger that made your pussy clench around nothing but air.
“funny,” he murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble as his fingers brushed against your bare skin. “you arent wearing any panties. did you prepare yourself just f’me?”
a shocked laugh, watery and breathless, escaped you. it was so unexpected, so leon, that little flash of his sarcastic charm even now. you shook your head, a real smile, the first one in what felt like an eternity, touching your lips.
“good, sweetheart,” he said again, and then his mouth was on you.
a strangled cry tore from your throat. it was nothing like the brutal, selfish encounters you’d endured before. this was worship. his tongue was hot and skillful, tracing lazy circles, getting a taste before finally pressing down on your clit with a devastating pressure. his hands came up to grip your thighs, holding you steady as your hips began to buck of their own accord. it was slow, agonizingly perfect torture. he seemed to know exactly what you needed, exactly where to touch, where to lick, where to suck. he was learning your body, memorizing your taste, and driving you absolutely insane. it felt like it went on for an eternity, each flick of his tongue sending a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, washing away the pain, the fear, the memory of rough, unwanted hands. you were unraveling on your kitchen island, and he was the one pulling the strings.
just when you thought you couldn’t take another second, when a climax was building in your core like a supernova, he pulled away. you whimpered in protest, your fingers tangling in his hair.
he looked up at you, his lips wet, a triumphant smirk on his face. “not yet,” he breathed. “i wanna be inside you, when you’re falling apart all over me.”
he rose to his feet, his movements fluid and economical. he didn’t waste a second, his hands going to the buckle of his belt. the sound of the leather being unthreaded was deafening in the quiet room. then came the rasp of his zipper. he pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself, his cock springing forward, thick and heavy. it was flushed a deep red, already aching for you, a single, clear bead of precum glistening at the tip.
he stepped back between your legs, his hands finding your hips. he was gentle as he guided himself to your entrance, his gaze locked on yours. “tell me if i hurt you,” he said, his voice serious now, all traces of teasing gone.
you just shook your head, lifting your hips to meet him. you needed this. you needed him.
he pushed into you slowly, carefully. you were so wet for him, so ready, that he slid inside with an ease that made you both groan. he was thick, filling you up in a way that was both overwhelming and incredibly satisfying. he went deep, stretching you, seating himself fully against your cervix before pausing, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside you.
“oh my god, leon,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. it was all you could manage.
he leaned down, resting his forehead against yours again, his hands coming up to cup your face. “i’ve got you, sweet girl,” he murmured, and then he began to move.
it was slow at first, a gentle, rocking rhythm. he was true to his word, his movements careful, his body angled to avoid putting any pressure on your bruised stomach. this wasn’t about a frantic, desperate release that you usually feel when you have sex with your boyfriend. this was about connection. this was about him showing you, with every deliberate thrust, how you were supposed to be touched, how you were supposed to be wanted.
his hips would push forward, sinking his full length inside you, and then he’d pull back just enough to offer you some relief from the overwhelming fullness, before thrusting in again. his cock rubbed perfectly against your slick, puffy walls, and the base of him ground against your folds with every inward stroke. you couldn’t help the little, pitchy moans that escaped your parted lips, sounds of pure pleasure that you hadn’t made in so long. or ever, really.
he picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, but still with that underlying control, that gentleness. he was watching your face, reading every flicker of your expression. he saw the pleasure blooming there, chasing away the last of the shadows. and it spurred him on. he wanted to erase every bad touch, every moment of pain, and replace it with this. with him.
your legs were wrapped tight around his waist, your hands gripping his shoulders as he drove into you, again and again. the kitchen island was cool against your ass, a stark contrast to the heat building between your bodies. the sounds of your moans mingled with his low grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing in the small room. it was raw, and it was real.
you felt it building again, that tight coil of pleasure in your core, but this time you weren’t afraid. you let it happen. you arched your back, crying out his name as the orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming. your inner walls clenched around him, milking him, and it was enough to push him over the edge.
with a final, deep thrust, he stiffened, his head thrown back as he poured his release into you, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. he stayed buried inside you, his body trembling with the aftershocks, his forehead pressed against yours. you were both panting, slick with sweat, the scent of sex hanging heavy in the air.
for a long time, neither of you moved. there were no words exchanged. there was the feeling of his warm weight, the steady beat of his heart against yours, and the profound, earth-shattering sense of safety that surrounded you like a shield.
𝓫efore 𝔂ou 𝓰o . . . older neighbor leon is finally here! i definitely plan to write more about this trope <3
(─── leon kennedy, masterlist.) when your retired father’s lifelong best friend shows up at the marriage anniversary of your parents, even surrounded by so many guests, you’re both reminded of the nights you spent together away from the eyes of the world. memories of your last encounter flood your mind, and you speed up on the highway, driving faster, craving leon’s touch and looking for an explanation.
(─── general warnings.) sexual content, age gap dynamic, dad’s best friend .ᐟ leon, bratty .ᐟ female reader, sugar daddy dynamic & leon spoils you, slight angst, the reader is obsessed with leon, alcohol consumption, mentions of leon’s trauma, guilt & alcoholism, avoidant behavior, jealousy, risky sex, almost caught, finger fucking, pussy eating while kneeling, leon is kind of a loser for you, dirty talk, sloppy make out sesh, brief car sex, squirting, pussy slurping, wc .ᐟ 10000.
it feels strange to be back here.
you packed a pile of clothes inside your suitcase. plenty for a few days away from the chaotic atmosphere of your city and right back to where it all began: your birth town. the horrid traffic jam and constant noise— you temporarily left all of that behind for the retreat of your parents’ home.
you crammed everything in a small, pearly white suitcase and straight into the trunk of your car it went— a pair of lacquered pink stilettos and the gorgeous satin dress for the main event, your pajamas, gorgeous clothes and some of them skimpy, for the warm weather and a pair of bikinis. at the bottom, there’s something you weren’t so sure about. lingerie.
it’s all because of leon. you didn’t know if he’d show up, but you assumed he would.
pink pieces of lace sewn delicately around the edge of the balconette bra that meet in the middle, in semblance with a bouquet of white roses: pale sweet satin, brand new, laid neatly in an agent provocateur box, arranged together with the matching panties.
you didn’t text him about it. he didn’t tell you either.
he’d end up looking like a huge asshole and his absence would disappoint your father, especially. you knew he’d show, however. he wouldn’t miss this. he’s not the type to. his reliability is his most predictable asset and that’d be simply out of discussion.
you drove for a few hours in your convertible, a vanilla cream 80’s mercedes benz that you feel in love with at seventeen on a family trip to arizona. you begged your parents for it and they had to comply with their only daughter’s wish to drive around the town in a vintage car.
you tap your nails against the nude steering wheel, vintage— butt sunken in the cushy, cream leather seat, eyes behind a pair of large, cat-eye shades— with your phone on speaker and the highway winds blowing through your hair, dancing and tingling across your bare skin.
“hope i won’t have to talk to all your guests, dad,” you whine.
white slingbacks click against the marble floor when your mother waltzes around the kitchen, with every hurried step she takes. your father talks to the catering staff. his newly found best friend is an old, high quality bottle of bourbon he’s taken from his collection, hidden in his personal study.
it’s a big day, everyone’s stressed.
“c’mon, don’t be like that!”
“anyone i might actually know? at least?”
“well- auntie’s gonna be here. your uncle hasn’t seen you in ages. remember john and georgia? oh well, y’know… their son, pete-”
“your dad’s trying to tell you pete’s single, sweetie pie,” your mother interrupts, “georgia told me he’s been looking to settle down! isn’t that great?”
“how’s that great? mom. dad. please, i don’t need you to be my matchmakers.”
you flick the volume button and turn the music up, plastic fantastic lover. this conversation that won’t lead you nowhere makes you scoff. you take a puff of your cigarette and flick the ash in the car tray with the tip of your fake nail.
“give it a try, sweetie. can’t even remember the last time i saw you with a boyfriend. anyone in the city catching your eye?”
your mother’s insistence feels futile for reasons unbeknownst to anyone you’ve ever known.
except for your father’s best friend.
“honey, i gotta go. drive safely, ‘kay?” your dad walks around the kitchen, “leon’s in the hallway. buddy’s in dire need of some bourbon.”
leon kennedy. your palms sweat with the agony of expectation around the steering wheel— the excitement and simultaneous wave of anxiety of seeing him for the first time in a month. your gaze lingers down to your wrist, the gold bracelet screwed around it, along with a few other bangles.
so, he decided to show up. your press your foot down the pedal and you speed up the highway. you’re not sure if the news make you excited or if you’d rather hide inside your bedroom for the unforeseeable future. at least until leon leaves. on the other hand, he owes it to you.
you sit inside the local bar, sandal heels tapping on the metal foot rest of the bar stool, thighs shut together in your flared jeans. you’re nervous.
leon was just passing by, visiting your city, making sure you’re fine and not feeling too lonely.
his right elbow rest on the bar table. his big, softly defined muscles under his black shirt that looks like it’s going to explode from how ripped he is. he keeps the bottle of beer in his hand, fingers gripped around it, and the index plays around the glued-on label.
his hair, dirt blonde and long falls over his face and it shines under the dim lights. his blue eyes look so warm, soft, despite the natural coldness of his irises. he looks tired. he always does.
if being fine, by definition, of course, implies squirting all over his fingers and getting fucked dirty in the passenger seat of his porsche— sure, you’re just fine and dandy— strong hands around your hips, pulling you closer in a sloppy drunk make-out session, sucking on his tongue. a sort of forgive me from his side. (if the twenty grand cartier bracelet wasn’t enough of an apology for his lack of communication.)
fine, by leon’s definition, would imply making sure you get mind blowing orgasms and that your pussy gets completely filled up to the brim— every inch of of your stretchy walls, with all the length of his thick cock, bent over the counter of your kitchen with his hand pressed flat against your naked back.
your pajama shorts pulled down your thighs, leg climbed up the edge of the wooden counter. right next to your wide open window, under the moonlight, moaning so loud that an entire neighborhood could hear you.
by his definition, you should fine. you think.
then, he puts a plain red bag on the bar, “open it.”
“what’s that?”
he doesn’t vocalize an answer, but raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to look inside the mysterious bag. you shove a hand inside and pull out a red box with engraved golden details and open it.
“oh! wow- cartier?”
a love bracelet.
“can’t do jackshit with my money. don’t care that much either. you deserve it.”
nobody knows. how could they ever find out about this?
“keep it. i mean it, doll. you’re too attached to that car of yours, i get it. you don’t need one. can’t do nothing ‘bout that. can’t get you a new one either. tryin’ to be more creative.”
“i really love my car-“
“yeah. i know. it suits you - gonna let me help you with that?”
“so,” you mumble while he fixes the bracelet around your wrist. he pulls out the golden screwdriver to lock it, “i get dso pays their best agent very well.”
the stark contrast between the bracelet and the bar, which sits around the corner, a street away from your apartment. there’s a few people gathered around the pool table and the some other at the tables in groups to share a couple of drinks.
“you could say that— there you go. how’s it feel?”
“wow! i love it. it’s so… gorgeous. hmm, it’s perfect.”
you throw your arms around leon, around the back of his neck; his warmth engulfs you and breath him in. you pull away, arms still around him and you give him the softest peck on the lips. he pulls you in for another embrace, longer than an usual ‘thank you’ hug and you stay like that for around a minute, before leon breaks the hug and sips out of his beer once.
the air feels crisp with an agonizing desire to hold him longer, but there’s something changing, an awkwardness of some sort. it feels like a farewell gift.
“thanks, leon, really. i- i’m speechless. i-i wish you’d visit more often.”
he shouldn’t.
he keeps you at a considerable distance away from him, yet closer than he ever intended. leon finds himself missing you deeply during his many sleepless nights, sat at the edge of a hotel bed with some whiskey on his tongue and a bottle in his hand.
he buys you gifts each time he visits you— that already happens more often than he wanted to. or even when he’s away from you.
“what’s up with you and this bar, huh?”
“it’s two minutes away from my place.” this place has seen you in your worst possible moments.
“i know, doll. you’re all so beautiful and dressed up to meet me at a cheap bar? have a mediocre cocktail? so i can crack two beers?”
“don’t put this on me, leon. you’re the one who shows up unannounced at one in the morning. every. single. time.”
you feel guilty for admitting this. for criticizing leon, right when he showed up with a cartier love bracelet to surprise you.
but it’s true. he’s a reliable man when he doesn’t get lost in the scarred corners of his mind.
or when he leaves some finished bottles of whiskey or vodka on the floors of his monotonous hotel rooms—some nights he ends up drunk, half asleep, and the feeling of self imposed loneliness creeps up by his window or terrace, where nothing else is laid; fake flowers in dusty vases, if lucky or a bottle of beer, a gun and a dirty piece of cloth he used to clean up his weapons.
his missions only leave him charred. dead. the edges of his soul reach a state of borderline, emotional necrosis, grown insensitive to his own suffering.
he cares, deeply, and he regrets, truly so. but he feels numb. those states exist in contradiction.
nightmares possess him and he secludes. leon’s isolation only turns him caustic to himself and cautious, to an extent that, naturally so, makes him unreachable and cold, despite his caring and altruistic character. he’s truly a good man. of you asked him, he’d deny it. he tries to be good, always, but admitting it— he’d never do it.
he can’t keep you this close. he’d scare you away. and leon’s guilt is hungry for what remains of his consciousness, for you’re his best friend’s daughter and he should know better than to show up with expensive gifts. or expect you to soothe him. he doesn’t know where this is supposed to be going.
the bartender picks up the empty bottle of beer. leon nods and he’s offered a third bottle, “somethin’ for the lady too?”
“no, no- thanks.” you answer, “leon, you need to stop- stop drinking.”
he sets the bottle of budweiser back on the counter, “yes, ma’am”
“i- i know we shouldn’t be seen together. i do. m-my family.. this place sucks. but i don’t know, leon… what’s this? what are we, the bracelet? the shoes? the clothes? it feels like you’re always feelin’ sorry for some weird reason.”
“let me take you on a date.”
he shouldn’t.
“should i expect another 10 grand bracelet?”
“someone’s a spoiled little girl.”
you’re so spoiled and it’s completely his fault. your wardrobe warns to explode from the amount of pretty clothes, bags and shoes he gifted you. you keep everything stuffed in there. get this. get that. in the very beginning, he used to totally suck at this. but with time, he was eager to accustom to your tastes and get you gorgeous pieces of clothing.
he even left you a credit card to use, like some sort of allowance to cover all your monthly expenses and make yourself pretty gifts— so you’d quit the shitty job that you were complaining about and focus on finding your true passion.
you moved away to escape from the influence of your parents and you ran exactly into the arms of the person who is the best friend of your father. but he’s not a snitch. he proved himself many times.
“that’s not exactly my fault.”
he smiles.
“you drank. don’t go- stay with me tonight? it’s friday. we can… watch a movie on my couch.”
“you mean fuck on your couch? ain’t you subtle, sweetheart. i’d rather have you on the counter. or that pink bed of yours.”
“please don’t leave before i wake up.”
“sure, i’ll stay. i’ll even read you a bedtime story- make us some breakfast. pancakes? ain’t you obsessed with them?”
“i do want those pancakes. but… i want you more, leon.”
“i can book us a table for tomorrow, then. deal?”
leon kept his word and he stayed. you woke up to the smell of pancakes. he made you breakfast and you watched him cook, arms wrapped around his torso, pressing your lips against his back.
but something felt strange. like everything was about to come to the inevitable end and this was leon’s apology.
that was a month ago. ever since that night, leon stopped showing up. he came up with excuses and he stopped texting. although, he didn’t take your card away and your expenses were taken care of.
“my- i almost forgot! i got you a pretty dress, sweetie,” your mom’s voice buzzes enthusiastically through the speakers, “you’re gonna love it! i left it in your bedroom. i was looking through your old clothes, georgia is organizing a charity event with some of the other wives. mind donating some?”
“sure, mom. tell mrs.kane she can demolish my old wardrobe for what i care.”
the celebration of your parents’ marriage brought with it enough ex-coworkers, friends and roughly half of the town’s population.
i already have a dress. you want to tell her, but after all, it’s her big day.
they invited plenty of guests to fill up the great room, the enormous backyard with trellis that overviews your mother’s splendid white garden and victorian gazebo— her flowers kept as well as always: pink, white blooming roses and peonies, magnolias and gardenias. her most precious achievement.
a few lilies she takes pride in, and you’d always run around the gazebo, trailing your fingers through the few vines of ivy she’d keep neatly around the white columns.
she’d put a hand on your small shoulder; rub her palm against your sweaty temples, manicured nails painted always in a tone of burgundy at the local salon. her soft eyes would stare down still at the pages of her book, “careful, cupcake. you’re gonna trip and fall.”
the rich sweetness of the flowers used to fill up your bedroom in small bouquets on your window-still often, throughout your entire childhood, redolent in their smell.
she’s always been overly preoccupied with these aspects of life. with beauty and stability. with your father gone for months at times, working for the government, always abroad. she’d bury herself in housework or spend her time in the garden with you– keeping the house alive.
your home remains unchanged— at its core, it’s a golden box of memories, your innocence untouched. a reverie, mostly sweet, but so repetitive and mundane it turned you bitter.
summer evenings have grown warmer. today feels completely different from the rest. you feel different. like you completely outgrew your own roots and what only remained is the countless of memories stuck inside the walls of this gigantic house.
the air smells of flowers and nostalgia and you inhale it with your eyes closed; then the sizzling noise of your now retired father’s grill— he can’t miss the chance of a barbecue, not even when your mother hired a catering firm to handle the big event.
a few toddlers and children run around the backyard, people chat and laugh, reminiscing about their youth, of what’s been long gone. the few waiters stand around or walk around with plates of entrees and glasses of champagne.
the sun sets the more time you spend zoning out.
you rest your feet in the morning cut grass, stilettos in your hand, and the summer breeze washes over your body, through the flimsy ruffles of your pink dress. you look concerningly similar to the housewives your mother spends time with and it makes you wonder if she’s trying to lure you back into this town; marrying peter kane too. you’d hate that.
leon is here too.
he’s been staring at you for hours, right through the buzzing crowd of people standing and chatting, as if it’s only the two of you and the outside world doesn’t exist.
he laid eyes on you from the very moment you set foot right through the front yard next to your mother, his glass fresh with ice cubes and your dad’s bourbon.
“jeez, leon. ain’t you gonna retire soon? get married? have a kid? can’t lie- it’s hard to picture you like that. but it’s worth it, don’t you think?”
“maybe. i wouldn’t know. you seem happy.”
he was talking to your now retired father about middle aged men boring nonsense. the house roof needs to be fixed. your mother wants a new car. leon sucks on his teeth, not fully present, thoughtful— a part of him regrets his life decisions.
“still waiting for the day i’ll see you at the altar, buddy. i ain’t losin’ my hope.” your father smiles, hand on leon’s shoulder.
you wonder if you’ll be present at the wedding too. as a guest. you’re not the type to settle down and not the type you’d usually settle down with. especially not as a man that’s nearing fifty years of life. unless you’re living in some major state of psychosis and have various delusions.
you too, perhaps, present some form of delusion. despite the many times you claimed settling down isn’t for you, maybe, for leon you’d accept the destiny of a happily married woman. with him, you’d feel safe, accepted. adored.
you’re a wild flower that simply cannot be enclosed inside a garden like your mother’s.
you’re not your mother who spends her days drinking mimosas with the local committee of housewives and baking three hundred cookies for the school fair.
leon’s handsome in the way he rests his body weight so naturally on the balustrade, elbows on the white wood. he looks slightly laid back, but always alert, on the verge of reaction, with a holster tightened around his leg still. not even on his best friend’s marriage anniversary he cannot give up on that gun.
he’s never too elegant, but always so sexy, better looking than any man you’ve ever seen, for what it’s worth– his eyes, so blue and his dirt blonde hair arranged for the big event. his grey stubble peaks out short. he hasn’t shaved in about a week. it makes him look his age, forty nine. and his wrinkles, the crow’s feet radiate right in the corners of his blue eyes.
you’d think his age should make him less attractive, that with time, beauty fades and there’s nothing left of it. but he looks utterly beautiful.
he thinks of himself as an old man already, but truthfully, his effortless way of being makes him more attractive than any guy you’ve met. his calmness makes you seek him out and grow obsessed with the layer hiding underneath. his pain.
his presence soothes in ways nobody has ever done it before. you seek his warmth in your worst days, tucked in under your blanket, pretending he's with you, sleeping on the empty side of your bed.
you call him and he picks up, even when it’s best to keep his distance away from you, instead of creating a habit out of your insomniac late nights calls. that pretty much sums leon kennedy up. he’s a reliable man. he feels responsible, despite putting himself in a situation that could cost his life.
of course, he’d take the blame if anyone was to find out about this. and of course, this ultimately makes him feel like masochist.
when you started seeing each other, he’d leave while you were asleep. even after fucking you senseless, he'd rather leave you alone and not invade your space— he wouldn’t even fall asleep your bed. not crossing the line. what line, you wonder, for he consciously visits his best friend’s daughter for the sole purpose of fucking.
you wonder, also: could there be other woman in his life? it makes you ask yourself if you’re some stupid silly girl, part of a list of countless women. he doesn’t look like the type, but appearances can sometimes be deceiving.
he’d wait for you to doze off in his big arms, face down his shirtless chest and he’d sneak off. he’d let you play with his soft hair before and he’d rub your back till your eyes felt too heavy to stay opened, right in the warmth of his hug.
he’d make you breakfast too and leave it on the kitchen table, next to a small note, “EAT ME! :)”
leon wears a white button-up stays tucked in neatly inside his dark blue suit pants— the sleeves carelessly pulled up to his elbows. he left the jacket in the kitchen, uncomfortable from wearing it for a few hours. now, he’s zoning out, very pensive.
“i’m happy, leon. fulfilled. i did it all for my family. look at this house? wife’s happy too- oh! you remember her, right? i told ya she moved away. look how she’s changed.”
they both come down the stairs and your eyes meet so suddenly. it feels like an eternity since you’ve last seen each other, a month precisely.
this month, though, you spent all of it dreaming about leon with your hands inside your panties and fingers pressed down your swollen clit and a dildo stuffed inside your needy, slick cunt. it feels pathetic to admit that you shoved it down your throat, pretending it’s leon’s cock. you moaned his name too many times, your lips glossy with drool, face buried in your pillows.
leon takes a sip our of his glass.
“haven’t seen you in a while. look at you," he greets you, "your dad told me you moved away. how’s the city?”
he says, as if he hasn’t made a habit of visiting you.
“haven’t seen you in a bit, leon. you’re so much older than i remember. a little bit more… wrinkled-” you tease him and his brows furrow, “the city’s great. the traffic kills me.”
“it happens when you get old like me, y’know. can’t run away from aging.”
“how old were you again? fifty nine?”
“forty… nine.”
“christ! don’t mind it leon, please. is the city so boring that you gotta pick on your old man’s buddy? why don’t you go talk to pete?”
“who’s pete?” you ask, acting dumb.
“cupcake, what’s up with you? y’know pete. he’s john and georgia’s only son... our neighbors? they live down the street?” you look at him, with the same faux confusion and he explains, “he’s single! go talk to him.”
great.
“i’m joking, dad! relax. why would i? isn’t he the one looking to marry? shouldn’t he pursue me?”
a brief pause settles between the three of you. a smirk forms in the corner of leon’s mouth.
“what do you think, mr. kennedy? should i go talk to him? that’s kinda lame, if you ask me,” you scoff, “men these days.”
that’s my girl.
“well-“
“jeez, no. where’s your mother?” your dad looks suddenly agitated.
“i can’t do this. leon, buddy, please don’t answer that. you should talk 'bout this with your mother!"
your father leaves in a hurry, looking around backyard to bring your mother to you. leon stays and he crosses his veiny arms around his chest and it only makes him look bigger. sexier.
“pete? should i be jealous?” leon asks.
“maybe.”
“do you even know what he looks like?”
“as a matter of fact i do. i blew him twice right before leaving for college. so, fuck you.”
“don’t tell me he went down on you too.”
“oh my god-“ you shush him, “are you jealous, leon?”
“i've no reason to be jealous, sweet girl. if i were him, i’d never leave you alone.”
“you’re being a hypocrite right now. we're not talking about this here!”
“who do you take me as? i know it’s risky. i’m just bein’… curious.”
“i gotta go, leon. i don’t wanna talk about this here. it was good… seeing you.”
so, you didn’t pawn the bracelet he gave you, leon notices when you turn around angry and frustrated, fists clenched and nails digging into your palm and it hurts. you could almost bleed.
he thought you’d do it to get revenge on him for disappearing. leon doesn’t fully believe his own thoughts, you wouldn’t to that. you value even the smallest gifts you receive.
you hold a glass of white wine close to your chest and with the your other hand, you subtly tug down the ends of your pink halter dress— which, despite being perfectly adequate for the anniversary of your parents’ marriage, it feel shorter the more leon’s eyes undress your body naked.
he’s not that subtle about it. at least to you. he looks away every now and then— a hand is the pocket of his trousers and a polite smile on his lips. he zones out while three city council members enthusiastically gather around to share some ideas with him, for some reason he can’t seem to fully grasp.
his presence alone makes you freeze after what happened between you earlier.
alcohol flows rapidly through leon’s bloodstream and there’s so much restrained hunger in the way he looks at you. you could melt alone from that and your legs feel weaker and weaker.
the many voices dissipate and time slows down. you can hear your own heartbeat, thudding hard and fast inside your chest. the local governor exchanges words with a neighbor on your left and on the right, two old highschool friends babble nostalgic nonsense, which they try to include you in. old memories. something about your gym classes.
you keep a bright smile plastered all over your face. laugh comes out fake, too high pitched, but they wouldn’t recognize your lack of interest or that you fake it, because, last time you talked them was at the local store two years ago.
your conversation lasted around five minutes and the awkwardness of it made you realize how alienated you've become from this town and its community.
you don't have any friends left. you pushed them all away when you left for college three years ago.
except for aileen kane, pete’s younger sister– the twenty year old girl, who doesn't seem to be here for a very obvious reason– she feels the same alienation, but much differently.
she came out as a lesbian right before you left the town and it a caused a gigantic scandal within the community.
everybody knows everybody here. people talk. they gossip and hate. they also love, but they love their sense of belonging to their happy and safe community. loneliness isn’t healthy for the soul.
they love their own idea of normality just as much. unfortunately for her, aileen is still stuck in this town of religious upper middle class and rich people.
you mother was happy to invite her, as the kanes, especially georgia, hold a special place inside her heart. herself too, seems to be obsessed with belonging somewhere and it looks like she’s already found her place in the local group of rich housewives who thrive on mimosas. it feels utterly robotic and mundane.
people come to you every now and then. after all, you’re the daughter of the happily married couple who invited nearly a hundred people over. it was all your mother’s idea. oh, how you’ve grown! is all that you can hear every five minutes.
your feet hurt from wearing the stilettos and the dress feels uncomfortably tight on your body, around your boobs and hips, where leon’s eyes keep roaming insatiably. you’d take it off for him in a millisecond.
you bring the glass of wine close to your lips and you take a huge sip, drowning your throat in the slight sweetness and numbing taste of alcohol. it feels nauseating, because you’re still somewhere between sobriety and complete drunkenness.
another sip follows, and the stem of the glass rests between your fingers, wine almost finished. you could sneak another couple, instead of looking like an alcoholic in front of the entire town and embarrassing your parents.
leon isn’t a big scary monster, but the opposite, despite his muscular build and job or reputation as a one of government’s best agents. he can be soft and calm. but he’s hard to read at times, especially when he becomes aloof and his sarcasm turns bitter.
you’ve done this entirely sober before.
he’s cooed the sweetest words right in your ear back in your city. he showed up with a bouquet of pink roses in his hand and gifts. so many gifts.
fuck me, you take it so well.
leon has the habit of calling you sweet girl. undoubtedly, every single time, you feel like melting under the caution of his guilty touch.
you’re convinced everybody found out. every single person in and outside this gigantic house is aware that you’ve been fucking leon scott kennedy, your father’s best friend.
this is all staged and by the end of the night, your dirty little secret will be revealed and cameramen will come through the back and front doors— your parents will look at you and feel sorry for you and your mother, with pitiful tears in her eyes will wrap her arms around you, thinking you’re some sort of victim.
wouldn’t it be better if you moved back here? and poof, just like that, she’d lure you back into this shit hole of a pretentious town. she’d make you marry peter kane. you can see yourself having your very own garden— deadly nightshades and black dahlias.
and leon— oh, leon. you’d hate if anything happened to him, just as much as you hate being away from him.
leon raises and eyebrow even from the other side of the great room, you can still recognize that look. he looks at you as if he wants you to stop, which,once again, is a bit hypocritical of him, given his history with alcohol and habitual drinking issues.
you chug the rest of the wine so inelegantly. you defy him. he rolls his eyes.
nobody knows.
nobody knows.
you repeat it in your head like a mantra.
nobody knows. except for you and leon.
it’s your dirty little secret.
and the secrecy of your relationship (or whatever this could be) makes you feel so dirty. like a slut. but it makes you feel special too. the burning sensation aches up to your tummy and your needy cunt feels wet just from staring into leon’s eyes. it reminds you of the many night you spent together with him on top of you, kissing your ankles sweetly, balls deep inside you.
you can’t do this anymore. you’ve spent the entire afternoon and evening trying to avoid your own feelings.
the constant tension between you and the look in his eyes leave you confused. you haven’t seen him in a month and that’s a long time. you don’t see any other men. you can’t. you’d feel guilty. he doesn’t deserve that.
you shove your hand inside your small clutch bag, searching for your phone. you quickly find his contact saved under noel. how silly. you empty your glass down your throat; adrenaline and alcohol pump through your body and your fingers get all shaky against the screen when you text him.
YOU: meet me upstairs? please?
YOU: second floor, take right, down the hallway. i’ll be waiting for you!!
YOU: name’s on the door btw.
leon’s phone vibrates in the pocket of his pants, preoccupied by the same discussion with the two council members, “mr. kennedy. you’ve seen the whole world. illuminate us. how can we make this town better?”
“i- well, i’m not really sure. it’s not exactly my field of expertise-“
his phone vibrates again and this time, leon pulls it out the pocket of his pants, “excuse me. might be somethin’ important.
YOU: pls come !!!
YOU: preferably on my face (;
YOU: i miss ur cock ):
his blue eyes widen and when he scans for where he last saw you, right in the opposite corner of the room, but you’re already gone.
you made your way to the second floor, up the white stairs, sliding through all the guests and making yourself invisiblez
“i have to go. please excuse me.”
you lay on your back on the patchwork cover of your bed and your eyes scan the insides of your old bedroom. it all looks the same. it seems that your mother took care of it. she kept everything in place and clean. there’s fresh peonies by the tall windows with white frames, hiding behind the drawn, mauve pink curtains.
right through the space between them permeates the light and down on the window seat, where an old pink blanket stays perfectly folded. the faded voices of the guests fill up the dead silence. you sight in relief the moment you take off your stilettos and throw them on the worn carpet.
leon.
leon.
leon.
he looked so sexy in his white shirt. each time the muscles of his big forearms flexed and veins pulsed with his rough, long fingers, you’d feel a lump in your throat and your breath would slow down.
you’d wrap your tongue around his long fingers— just the way you always do. big eyes and pretty lashes overdone with black mascara that stare right into his, as you let him fuck your throat. he’d have a bulging hard boner under his pants and you’d undo his zipper and suck on his thick cock till he’d cum white and sticky all over your pretty face.
what a pity he seems to have been losing interest in you.
or could it be that he feels too guilty for fucking his best friend’s daughter?
that sounds more like leon. he has this habit of feeling so terrible and guilty.
you pull up your dress and the brand new satin lingerie you’ve been keeping in your suitcase wraps around you perfectly. you keep your legs spread and you slip your manicured fingers down your clit, pressing the tips down to tease yourself.
the door creaks open a big figure casts a shadow all over your body. you know it’s leon. nobody else you know walks this way. so heavy, cautious steps against the wooden floor. the way you know him, he might’ve eavesdropped before even touching the silver door knob, so you let a little moan slip through your lips, just for his perverted mind.
“oh! you came. finally.”
leon shuts the door behind him and he wastes no time, closing the distance between you. he leans down on the bed and the weight makes the frame creak. he traps you under him and your bodies are almost glued to each other. his knee is locked between your thighs to keep them spread out, apart from each other and if almost touches your clothed heat. and so you move until you can rub against it.
leon caresses your burning cheek and so much heat radiates from him. he looks like he’s starving.
“someone could’ve open the door and see you, sweet girl.” he scolds you.
“but they didn’t, right? did i make you jealous, leon?” you pull him in a kiss and he leans into you. he puts almost his entire body weight on you, but he’s still gentle, despite the animalistic way his lips devour yours. you both taste the alcohol on each other.
you feel intoxicated by his presence and your body is on fire from all the wine you chugged earlier.
“huh?” he pulls away from your kiss.
“pete?”
“pete? as in peter kane? peter kane the son of the kanes who live just down the street?” you roll your eyes, “no. fuck if i care ‘bout that guy or what happened between you two.”
“they’re kinda making me marry him. soon i’ll be off the market, who knows? maybe you’re speaking to future mrs. kane.” you tease him, seeking a reaction. a confirmation that he cares about you.
both of you know that’s never going to happen.
not in a million years.
“yeah? and here i was thinkin’ you’d sneak out and run away in that car of yours. pretend it never happened.”
“would you rescue me like a knight in shining armor?” you rest fingers around the back of his neck and you pull him closer for another kiss, sucking on his tongue “i missed you, leon— mmm, hold on. let me… lock the door.”
leon moves to the side and you move right past him, tip toeing to the door for some reason, in complete silence. you make sure it’s closed and turn the key inside to double lock it and the silver door knob a few times. perfect.
you turn around and leon stands right behind you. he undid two three buttons of his shirt and you can see his strong chest under.
he presses you against the door, muscular, rough arms forming a cage around you and he continues to assure you:
“don’t be silly, sweetheart,” he gives you a gentle peck on the lips, “they’d never force you to marry him. your dad thinks you’re lonely. all by yourself in that city. they’re worried.”
“oh, poor, lonely me! but- would you rescue me, though? hmm? hypothetically speaking?”
he smiles, “probably, yeah. as long as you’re happy.”
fuck him. leon can’t believe he said that; he’s completely swooned by a girl half his age. the person who was supposedly off-limits. he truly is the embodiment of masochism.
he feels pulled in magnetically. there’s times when he gives in and he resists you. and times like these, where all he dreams about is burying his mouth down your wet pussy and drown himself inside your sweetness fully, like some crazed addict. addictions can’t be good.
it’s concerning how much leon cares about your happiness. about your well-being. he’s always so self sacrificial about everything. fuck his endless generosity.
“i’d be much, muuch happier if you’d stop resisting me.”
you pull up the ruffles of your housewife looking dress and sink your teeth down your soft lower lip, and you beg, “fuck me, please.”
“are you sure ‘bout this, sweet girl?”
“i’ve never been more sure about anything in my whole life— ahh, leon!” his lips move down your neck, right where your skin feels the most sensitive. his tongue climbs up your jaw and he sinks his teeth softly against your bare skin. it makes you squirm and dig your nails into the wooden door.
“your dad’s gonna fuckin’ kill me, angel. he’ll blow my head off with that goddamn huntin’ rifle i gave him once.”
you pull him in for another kiss— messy and lonely. it’s so disgustingly sloppy. you don’t want to impress him or be the best, you can’t even think about that. all you want is to devour him. you press your body against his, boobs pressed against his chest and arms thrown around his neck. your hands wander around his blushing face, and you mess his blonde, greying hair up.
“don’t care if he’s gonna kill me?” he breaks the kiss, concerned, joking.
“mmm- leon… shh!” you press your index finger against his lips, “he won’t kill you. because- ah!” he finds a way to slip a hand under your skirt. he slides two fingers against your clothed clit, feeling the slickness. you’re dripping wet and he’s barely even kissed you.
“he won’t find out! please— i need you s’much! i can’t stop thinking about you. where have you been?”
you keep your fingers tangled in his hair and your right leg rests on his thighs, sturdy hand keeping if in place.
“forgive me, princess. been busy as hell.”
“busy enough to keep me waiting for so long?”
another kiss.
“can’t live without me for more than a couple of weeks? that right?”
“can you?”
“i missed you a lot.”
he pauses briefly.
“keep sending me those pretty pics while i’m gone. makes me miss you even more.”
he’s jerked off to them multiple times. dirty old man leon kennedy— he drives around the country and he finds himself pulling his porsche to the side, in the middle of nowhere, to fist the length cock and jerk off to your photos. he daydreams, thinking it's you taking all of his girth down you pretty little throat. you’ve altered something inside his brain to the point he's turned into a true pervert.
your dirty nudes reflect in the blues of his eyes while he keeps his phone in his hand— hard, pinchable nipples and the softest boobs, covered in bubbly foam and droplets of hot water from the shower.
he’s such a dirty pervert.
only for you.
“what do you like the most about them, leon?”
“your smile.”
“really?”
“yeah. you don’t do it often. i like seein’ you happy.”
he loves to know you're well too. you send him photos of yourself throughout the day and the gentlest smile forms on his handsome face. you made a habit out of sending him selfies— doing your makeup, walking down the street with an ice cream in your hand and five shopping bags hanging on your arm.
your safety and the fact that you're living such a sweet life makes him relax. he wishes you'd have more friends. he’s aware that despite making so many acquaintances in your new city, nothing feels real. the dinners feel boring. coffee dates are bland. it's all a pure facade.
leon catches your face and he squishes your mouth until your pout and his thumb presses down your wet lower lip.
“been missin’ those pretty lips too.”
“i-i’m so wet right now.”
he kisses you again and this time, he sucks lazily on your tongue. you moan softly against his mouth when he bites your lip too. you feel his grey stubble stinging your skin, but it's so erotic, you have to abstain from moaning louder. imagine if anyone in this would hear you. his fingers wander up your waist and up to your breasts.
“take it off, sweet girl.”
you listen. he unzips the back of the dress for you and you take it off, throwing it on the carpet.
his big hand wanders and brushes hungrily up your inner thigh. it makes your skin tingle with so much illicit pleasure. how much you’ve missed feeling like this.
you feel high with him.
he takes the lace of your panties between his fingers for a few seconds— then, while his mouth is busy kissing you, he pulls them down your legs and they hang around your ankles.
“is that right? let’s see what’s goin’ on down here, sweet girl.”
you bite down on your lower lip. your cheeks are hot from the alcohol flowing freely through your bloodstream and the room has almost turned into a sauna. you keep your hands around his shoulders while leon finds your boobs, covered by the gorgeous satin bra, and he pulls one out to suck on your sweet nipple. he grunts and he takes the other one between his teeth, tenderly, not to hurt you— just because he has an urge, an impulse to devour you whole. he wants you so much.
“you prepared too, huh? you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous in this.”
he gets down on his knee and he adjusts the sleeves of his shirt. his eyes never leave yours. he slides his fingers up and down your folds to feel the wetness oozing out of your slick, warm entrance.
“been waiting all wet for me this whole evening? took your damn time, i see.”
“y-you can’t blame me. it wasn’t easy. thought you’d never come.”
he can tell from the way you act that you're nervous and tipsy.
“stop shavin’ so much. leave a heart for me down there like you used to." he jokes, “it was cute. don’t sha- shh!”
footsteps make the wooden floor creak and the knock on your door vibrates down your spine.
“everything ‘kay, sweetie? you in there? heard your door closin’ from down the hallway.”
sloppy job.
georgia kane herself. naturally a brunette, her grey roots stick out of her head and a similarly toned, simple dress adorns her short body. she’s standing on the other side of the locked bedroom door, knuckle still pressed against the polished wood.
“ah! mrs. kane? no- no, i’m fine! just- i’m overwhelmed that’s all- just… so many people.”
“have you seen your dad? your mom can’t find him anywhere and she begged me to go searching.”
“d-dad? last time i saw him he was talking to mr. johnson. y’know, something about holding their liquor. maybe they’re in his office?”
you cover your mouth instinctively when you feel that you’re about to gasp— you roll your eyes in pleasure when leon pushes a finger inside your pussy, just slightly, allowinf your entrance to stretch.
“he said he was looking for leon. and now? poof. gone.”
fuck.
“handsome guy, leon, by the way. haven’t seen him in a hot minute. him and your daddy used to be together all the time. now he’s always gone. hmm…” she thinks, “don’t tell johnny i said that!”
if only mrs.kane knew that leon kennedy was stuffing his face between your thighs right now.
“c’mon, darlin’, be honest. he’s handsome, isn’t he? must be something wrong with him the way i’ve never seen him with a woman. ya think he’s single?”
“i- i guess? i-i never thought about him t-that way” you stutter.
“and i believe you! if you see dad, tell your momma, m’kay? and if you see leon, you better tell me, hah. don’t tell johnny!” she laughs.
“by the way, sweetie, pete’s been wantin’ to settle down for a while. mind if i set you two up on a cute little date? one of the wives opened a fancy place down on aster street.”
“i-i- i’ll think about it. thanks for the offer, mrs. kane.”
“get down there when you feel like it, m’kay? i brought some homemade cake. keeping it for the after party.” her laugh fades away down the hallway when she leaves.
“you think there’s somethin’ wrong with me, huh?” leon whispers.
“everything’s so wrong with you! are you seeing other women?” you look upset when you say it and leon hates himself for making you think that.
it’s true; you’re not dating. but he spends a fortune on you, despite his tendency to seclude when he feels like shit, you’re the only woman he could think ever think of. every night and day you possess his mind and soul.
“hmm, no. i'm too busy with this pussy to see other women, to be honest. you’re spendin’ all my money too.”
a stupid smile stays plastered all over your face.
“relax, sweet girl. let me take care of you.”
he grips down your thigh again and he rests your leg on his sturdy shoulder, spreading you just enough to have a full view of your pretty pussy. his eyes glow like a predator’s that has finally found his delicious prey and he licks his lip.
“fuck me, you really are so sweet. i missed your jealous pussy.” he sinks his face fully down your wetness, drowning himself into you, just like he wanted to. a gasp escapes shyly past your lips and you cover your mouth again, holding in your slutty moans.
his cock bulges hard and big under his pants. it twitches and his veins pulse just from eating your pussy out.
his tongue moves naturally, up and down your folds and he stuffs it inside your needy pussy— this is for himself. he’s missed your taste like the addicted man you’ve made out of him.
“are you seeing other women?’” he imitates your voice.
he drags his tongue up, spoiling your puffy clit with slutry, slow circles and meticulous licks. he’s got you figured from inside out— a lot of attention to your little clit to make you roll your eyes and sink you nails in his skin or grab onto his blonde hair. he couldn’t care less if leave him bloody or with a few scratch marks.
“l-leon! i’m being serious!” you moan.
then, a finger stuffed inside your strechy walls, coated in your honey juices (that he’ll immediately lick off). he moves in gently, knuckle deep, pressing the tip of his finger on your sweet spot, while his tongue spoils your clit rotten.
you love it when he buries a second finger, so deep and rough, faster.
“i know, sweet girl. feels good?” he stares right into your hazy eyes and back to your cunt and at his own fingers stuffed deeper around your g spot.
and the third one makes you crave his cock, from the way he finger fucks you so hard that you’re not longer fully present. you’re high. you reached a feeling of elation that’s impossible to describe— your mouth wide open, drool slick on your lips, moaning yes. yes. yes. with your eyes rolling. you’re so close.
he fucks you harder, ramming his fingers inside your gummy walls, right while his lips suck on your clit and tongue draws lazy and very drunk circles to make you orgasm. he fucks you even rougher, faster this time, stimulating your spot and stretching you out. you feel so good with him inside you. you ride his face messily, sliding your cunt up and down his face to make yourself come.
you wanna feel like this forever.
you finally orgasm and you knees almost fail you, but leon is right there to hold you. you coat his fingers in squirt and honeyed liquid, and it splashes all over his face. he’s smiling like an idiot and he licks it all.
“i don’t need anyone else. i-i think i might be in love with you.”
he must be insanely drunk.
you can’t answer that. you’re too breathless. you feel dizzy.
he kisses your knees and you’ve never seen his eyes shine so anxiously and vulnerably. you’ve never seen a man— a man twice your age, confess that he might actually be in love with you.
another kiss on your knee, “i’m fucked, right?”
he is drunk.
“mmm. i’m so fucked. this past month- i wanted to come see you. be with you. got shitfaced one night. all i could see was your pretty face.”
he sucks in your inner thighs, taking your soft skin between his lips and the tip of his tongue savors on the juices leaking down your thighs, “you waitin’ for me late at night. i hate makin’ you wait. it makes you all sad. you think i won’t show up for some reason.”
he leave kisses on your inner thighs and he rests his chin on your leg momentarily.
“but i can’t do this to you, sweet girl,” leon sighs, as if he feels defeated, “i’d be a monster. can’t let you go through this.”
the room still smells of flowers and the light shines through the curtains. the sky turned pink and orange and the clouds set over the purple shades.
“i know you won’t marry pete. it’s ain’t like you. you’re not the small town type. you… you won’t settle down.”
it feels like he’s waiting for a confirmation and trying to convince himself that i won’t happen.
“what if i am the small town type?”
“i know what you want me to say. no.”
“but you said you’d do it as long as i’m happy!”
“rescue you? settling down in a town with an old man- apologies- an alcoholic who does the government’s dirty work? sounds more like some evil scheme than a rescue mission.”
“we can make it work! leon, i- i’m in love with you too!”
“stop.” he seems to grow angrier. not with you, but with himself.
“you’re young. you don’t wanna settle down. you have so much ahead of you. you think you want this but- but you like the attention and the gifts i give you. you ain’t in love with me.”
“don’t you wanna see me every time you come home? i’d make a good housewife. not perfect, but i’d try for you. and i’d wait for you. days. weeks. months. i’d wait— and i’d wait and wait again… for you.”
he does.
but you don’t.
“you’d hate that, my sweet doll. you’re not seein’ this through. you moved away for a reason,” he pauses, still down on his knees, “you’d feel like a princess trapped in a tower and i’d be the bastard dragon. i’m not your knight in shining armor.”
“why do you hate yourself so much, leon?”
no answer. you get on your knees and they brush against the beige carpet. you cup his burning cheek gently and he kisses your wrist, right where the love bracelet is.
“i’ll hurt you.”
he would, inevitably. he’s already done it and mostly likely, it’ll happen over and over again until you’ll come to your senses and realize you have no future together.
“i don’t wanna trap you.”
“i’m a big girl. we all hurt each other without meaning to. i- i can handle it.”
we’re all meant to exist with flaw programmed within us.
“yeah? can you? ‘been gone for a month and you’re all sad and whiny. tryin’ to make me jealous, ‘future mrs. kane.’ my ass.”
“trap me. take me. i’ll get over it. let’s get a big house together!” you sink on your knees, “ i’ll be good for you. be selfish for once, leon. if you want me- take me. just do it.”
he’s already being selfish by putting you through this whole ordeal, not stopping this earlier— he can’t deal with that.
“you’ll get bored in a few months.”
“you don’t know me, leon! i want this! with you.”
“fuck, sweetheart, stop lyin’. i know you. for you- i could change. but… but i don’t know how long that’d take. can’t afford to have you waitin’ for me to be a better man.”
it’s easy to figure out a person who ran away from her town. you don’t want to end up like your mother or the other housewives in this town. and with him, you would. there’s two options. you’d either settle down and wait for him to return from his missions— if he returns.
or you’d be on the run for the rest of you life, with a husband who deals with bioterrorism for a living.
and realistically, your dad would shoot leon off the face of the earth if he was ever to find out he even dared to touch you.
“i don’t want you to change!” you put your palms around his face, “i wanna see you happy too, y’know?”
you want to fix him. deep down, you think he’d put away the bottle of whiskey for you.
you want him to fix you— what if he’s been the only cure to your madness until now? what if, deep down, your destiny was to follow into your mother’s footsteps.
you sound insane.
leon wakes up and his strong arms wrap around your waist to pick you up off the floor. he carries you to the bed and with one hand, he moves the patchwork cover aside to tuck you in. he looks around and he grabs an old t-shirt from your suitcase. you lift your arms up instinctively and he dresses you up like you’re a helpless little girl.
he sits on one knee on the floor, right next to you.
“it was never gonna happen. this. us… the bracelet i gave you that night was my parting gift. or so i was hopin’. i wanted to you to figure out that… i’m in love with you.”
he kisses your hand, breathing your sweet perfume one more time, “but even if i’m so in love with you, i can’t put you through this. i’m sorry, sweet girl.”
“do i have no saying in this? i-i don’t want this to end.” you feel a tear pricking down the corner of your eye, “at least— at least come see me?”
“we’ll see each other again if we happen to visit this place at the same time.”
you’re sobbing now. you cry and the tears sting and make your vision blurry. mascara drips down your flushed cheeks and you smudge it even more when you try to wipe your tears with the back of your hand.
“please, be a good girl and go take a long bath. eat somethin’ for me?” he wipes your tears too and you hold onto his wrist, kissing it a few times. it’s so warm and real. it could’ve stayed with you forever. his warmth and manly perfume.
“i-i… i will, yeah.”
“i’d kill myself for hurtin’ you before your dad gets to that rifle. now, if you’ll excuse me. i gotta find your dad. he was lookin’ for me.”
“are you gonna drink again?”
no answer.
“i hate you! why did you come here? oh- let me guess… you’re drunk, right? is that your excuse? that you’re drunk, again? fuck you. leave me alone! leave- just leave, leon. i don’t wanna see you.”
“you’d hate me more if i’d keep feeding into your little fantasy.”
and so, he abandons you and the night settles down inside your childhood bedroom. you don’t bother turning on the bedside lamp— you sit in the dark, not truly capable of processing your emotions. it feels like you’ve been doing this for hours, but it’s been barely half an hour.
you stare at the bracelet one more and the tears keep rolling down your face.
a parting gift. a love bracelet.
because leon kennedy is madly in love with you.
leon was aware you’d never forgive him the moment he abandoned you inside that bedroom.
it’s for the best.
for you.
to be continued in PART II ── GODS & MONSTERS.
── ivy’s (very long) note : (yes, i did repost this !!) after SUCH a long time, it’s finally out ! <3 i really wasn’t expecting to end up with (around!!) 10k words ;o part two is already un progress and i PROMISE the sexual tension between the reader and leon will be crazy. this part has nothing compared to what i’m preparing. the reader is going to be a massive pain is the ass and brat for leon. again, i SWEAR it’s gonna be insane and sexual. I'll also explain their first time together.
my wish is to always make everyone feel as included as possible, so i avoid describing my readers outside their personalities and aesthetics. but i do like to mess around and give my readers unique traits and aesthetics. i had so much fun with this one <3 obviously, my readers are always inspired by myself and my own tastes !
i wanna share this fic’s pinterest board here, which i’ll also add to the masterlist when i post it. — SAY YOU WANT ME TOO. and also, credits to melscanvas_ on twt for the original screencap i used for my banner ! !
as always, interactions, especially reblogs are always super duper appreciated <3 thank you for reading, angels ! to join the taglist, please only leave a comment on this post or the masterlist. love ya, mwuah!
DIZZY, DITZY, DARLING
boyfriend!benjamin poindexter x ditzy girlfriend!reader [6k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: while the world reacts to dex like a threat, you interpret the constant stares as admiration, convinced your boyfriend is just effortlessly captivating, and completely unaware that what others are actually responding to is the violence he carries so quietly.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: MDNI (this story doesn’t contain smut but my blog is 18+); she/her pronouns for reader; set into a (non-canon) future; mention of stalking & obsessive behavior; mention of murder; mention of a man being creepy toward reader; protective!dex; dex is down bad; slight hints at possessive!dex; clueless!reader; reader wears skirts & dresses & makeup; fluff; silly light banter; pet names (he’s so soft for reader & reader is head over heels for him ☹️).
A/N: me writing for dex wasn’t planned at all since I still have to catch up with daredevil and all the marvel tv series I missed, but long story short, one night I read @aquaticmercy good eyes! I looked him up and now I have a new character to turn into an obsessed loser 💕 (I’m so sorry for the tag but I wanted to thank you again for sharing your amazing work with us 🫶🏻 go read that story if you haven’t yet bc it’s so good!! I can’t wait for these exams to be over so I can read the entire series 😭). since my stalker!dex fic is going to take a while to be ready, I decided to post this in the meantime to celebrate reaching 2k followers (again, it’s unbelievable, thank you so so much dears 🫂). I always have so much fun writing clueless ditzy!reader with a feral guard dog as her boyfriend so here we are! I’m open to write more about these two in the future, however for now I just wanted to give you a small glimpse into their relationship. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍
Dex has been ready for nearly half an hour by the time you finally call out from the bedroom that you’re “almost done”, a phrase he has learned through experience that could mean anything. Depending on the day, it could be five minutes, twenty minutes... Once, it meant an hour because you somehow got distracted halfway through getting dressed and ended up reorganizing your makeup drawer instead.
He remains where you left him on the couch, listening to the familiar sounds drifting from the bedroom. The rustle of clothes, the opening and closing of drawers, the faint hum of music you are only half paying attention to. Every so often the noise stops altogether, and he knows without looking that you’ve paused in the middle of whatever you were doing because a new thought occurred to you.
The corner of his mouth twitches when he hears a drawer slide open for what must be the third time.
You are, apparently, still deciding.
He leans his head back against the pillow and looks toward the hallway, listening as hangers scrape together for what has to be the fifth time that morning. A moment later you appear in the living room wearing a thin camisole and panties, visibly distracted as you carry two skirts over one arm and absolutely none of the urgency you have claimed to possess twenty seconds earlier.
Instead of stopping, you cross directly in front of him on your way to the kitchen, pause halfway there as though you forgot why you left the bedroom in the first place, then turn around and head back.
Dex watches the entire sequence unfold with an amused grin on his lips.
“Baby?”
The call floats out from the bathroom.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Have you seen my lipstick? The one with the golden cap.”
Dex’s gaze shifts automatically toward the coffee table. The lipstick is sitting exactly where you left it yesterday night, directly beside your phone.
“It’s here in the living room.”
A few seconds pass before your head appears around the corner.
You follow the direction of his gaze and the lipstick is, indeed, there.
“Oh.”
You walk over, pick it up, and immediately chuckle at yourself, pressing the tube against your cheek as though the object has somehow personally embarrassed you.
His smile only widens.
“Thank you, baby.”
Before he could respond, you step closer and lean down, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.
The gesture is small, thoughtless in the way all your sweetest habits are, but it lands with far more force than it should have. You have a way of unraveling him, taking ordinary moments and turning them into something he carries around for the rest of the day with a loud insistence that would border on illegal.
He could spend hours listening to you talk, watching you move through your apartment, following the winding path of your attention from one thing to the next, and somehow never grow tired of it.
Being with you feels so natural now that he rarely thinks about his life before. Somewhere along the way, you have simply become part of every day, every thought, every plan.
The worst part is that, in some ways, none of it is entirely new.
Long before you ever kissed him, long before you started calling him your baby and sweetheart and smiling whenever he showed up at your door, Dex knew far more about you than he ever should have.
He knew which coffee shop you stopped at when you had time before work and which one you settled for when you were running late. Knew the route you took home—the exact same one that, on your second date, brought him to gently suggest other routes in case someone were to follow you. Yes, very hypocritical of him. Knew the names of your neighbors and what role they played in your life, and the days you remembered to water the plant on your small balcony without setting a reminder on your phone.
You walked into his life smiling at him like he was someone worth of kindness, and all those carefully guarded details he obsessed over slowly became ordinary things he was allowed to learn as your boyfriend. Now he knows your favorite lip gloss because you have a habit of leaving it in his jacket pocket. He knows which dresses you reach for most often because he was with you when you bought them, showing your gorgeous body off to him while asking for his opinion. He knows the sound of your laugh from the other side of a crowded room because he has spent too many late nights watching movies with you when your anxiety hit you out of nowhere, and your hand was already reaching for your phone to call him.
Because you trust him.
The thought still feels unsettling sometimes—specifically those nights where sleep evades him, and Dex spends way too much time staring at his dull ceiling, thinking about you.
You trust him enough to hand him your apartment keys; to fall asleep with your head on his shoulder; to reach for his hand without thinking.
If you ever understood the full extent of who he was before you, some of that trust might disappear. But Dex has no intention of finding out.
As far as he is concerned, he can carry that weight himself.
You deserve the version of him that sits patiently on your couch while you search for your makeup scattered around your apartment, not the one who has spent years knowing how to follow people only to make them disappear from the face of the Earth.
Completely unaware of the chaotic mess that is his heartbeat, you smile and start to turn back toward the hallway.
You make it exactly one step. Then his fingers hook loosely around your wrist.
A surprised squeak escapes your throat as he tugs, until your knees fall beside his supine form.
“Dex—”
The protest dissolves into a giggle when he pulls you back toward him. One hand settles at your waist, steadying you as you stumble, and before you can say anything else, his other hand settles on your neck to bring you closer.
This time, the kiss lands on your lips.
When he finally draws back, his expression remains as calm as ever, though there is something unmistakably fond glinting in his eyes.
“There,” he says quietly. “Now you can go.”
For a moment, you just look at him with your beautiful hazy eyes.
The kiss is brief but it still leaves the back of your head tingling. It happens more than you can remember, really whenever he touches you like that without warning. Smiling, you finally stand up and turn away satisfied, already heading back to your bedroom.
Until you abruptly stop halfway through the middle of the hallway.
“Oh, wait!” You spin back around, jogging back in front of him and lifting the two skirts draped over your arm. “Which one of these do you like better?”
There it is, the real reason you’d come looking for him.
Dex glances at the two options with his arms crossed over his chest, then at you, with the same solemn concentration he wears before putting a knife through someone’s throat. His gaze moves again from one option to the other as though the decision carries life-or-death consequences.
The decision itself barely takes a second.
“The pink one.”
You study him suspiciously. “Did you actually look at them?”
“Yes.”
“You answered really fast.”
“Because I bought you the pink one.”
You blink. “That’s your reasoning?”
“And you look gorgeous in it.”
He smiles faintly as he reaches out and lightly pinches the soft fabric, briefly pulling it toward himself before letting it fall back into place.
There is something undeniably satisfying about seeing you wrapped in his gifts. He remembers every single thing he’s ever given you, from the expensive ones to the small, impulsive purchases that caught his attention because they reminded him of you. He likes knowing that, when you stand in front of your closet deciding what to wear, something he picked out is right there, part of your life.
It always leaves him with a quiet sense of pride burning hot in his chest.
You, on the other hand, brighten at once.
“Really?”
Dex’s gaze lingers on you for a moment before he nods.
“Of course, lovely.”
Appeased, you lean down once more and kiss his cheek before turning toward the hallway again.
“Thank you, honey. You’re the best boyfriend in the world.”
The compliment is tossed over your shoulder so casually that you completely miss the way his chest lifts and lowers with a dreamy sigh.
Dex watches you disappear back into the bedroom, and a second later, he hears you humming to the next song on your playlist specifically arranged for when you get ready.
Despite the fact that the two of you were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago to avoid lunch rush, he finds himself smiling serenely as he settles further into the couch, patiently waiting for the next crisis to emerge from your closet.
You return a few minutes later, finally looking content with your choices. The moment you step into the living room, you give a small turn, the skirt flaring slightly around your thighs before settling back into place.
“What do you think?” You announce, smoothing a hand over it before looking at him expectantly. “Cute enough for a lunch date with my boyfriend?”
Dex doesn’t answer immediately, because he has gotten distracted by you again.
It happens more often than he likes to admit.
A soft smile sets on his mouth as he slowly stands up from the couch.
“I think you spent forty minutes deciding between outfits when you were going to look pretty in all of them anyway.”
You sigh, definitely trying to hide your giddiness.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No, but it’s the truth.” He shrugs nonchalantly, his hands automatically landing on your waist.
“Dex.”
The warning carries absolutely no weight behind it.
His smile widens slightly.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
The answer comes easily, without the same hesitation or embarrassment that tinged your ex boyfriends’ voice. What a bunch of bastards, that’s what Dex thought when you shyly confessed that none of them did really compliment the effort you put each time in your outfits.
He doesn’t understand how anyone would voluntarily deprive themself of the adorable sight that is your face when it lights up, and your pleased little smile you always try and fail to hide afterward. There is something utterly disarming in witnessing first-hand how much his opinion matters to you.
You wrap your arms around his neck and peck his lips. “Hm, thank you.”
Dex’s hold tightens slightly as you try to pull back.
“You know,” you squint your eyes at him. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re telling me these things because you’re my boyfriend or because you actually mean it.”
That pulls a quiet laugh out of him.
“Doll, if I was saying it because I’m your boyfriend, I’d have stopped after the first hundred times.”
You stare at him for a moment before breaking into a grin.
“You’re the cutest.” You inform him off-handedly, lightly tapping his pectoral before turning around.
Dex’s cheeks are on fire but you don’t notice this time, luckily.
“C’mon,” you give his hand a tug toward the door. “I’m starving.”
His fingers squeeze yours before he follows you out of the apartment, already knowing that whatever plans the two of you have made for the morning would spend the entire day competing for his attention with you. And fail miserably.
Saturdays are apparently the days when half the city decides to visit this particular diner, because the place is crowded enough that the waitresses are weaving between tables with practiced efficiency, balancing trays on one hand and apologizing to customers with the other.
Cutlery clinks against plates, conversations overlap into a constant murmur, and somewhere near the front entrance a child is making his dissatisfaction with vegetables everybody’s problem.
You like it.
Dex doesn’t.
Or rather, he tolerates it because of you.
He is sitting opposite you in the booth, one arm stretched along the backrest, looking composed yet alert, just detached enough that most people think twice before approaching him.
You take a sip of your iced tea, letting your gaze wander across the diner again.
The more you pay attention, the more obvious it becomes.
People keep looking at your boyfriend.
Every few minutes somebody’s attention would snag on Dex and persist for just a little before moving away again. There is also a strange hesitation to it, followed by a second glance that lingers too long only to abruptly disappear the moment he shifts or turns his head ever so slightly.
A waitress nearly misses a turn between tables because she is looking in his direction, catching herself at the last second with an embarrassed smile before continuing on. A couple at a nearby booth has interrupted their own conversation at least three times since you sat down, each glance more cautious than the last. Even the man who has entered just a few minutes earlier seems to freeze briefly after spotting him across the room. His shoulders stiffen almost immediately, and after another look in Dex’s direction, he lowers his gaze and heads toward the counter instead.
The strange thing is that nobody ever seems inclined to approach him. If anything, they appear determined to do the opposite.
You rest your chin on your hand and continue observing the room with a curious expression as Dex moves his focus on the menu. You have seen him identify a pickpocket three blocks away once. There is no chance he is missing half a dozen people staring at him from across a small diner.
The fact that he isn’t reacting only makes the whole thing more suspicious.
You look at him for another moment. Your boyfriend, meanwhile, appears too occupied with deciding whether he wants fries or onion rings.
The conclusion arrives with such certainty that you almost laugh.
Of course. You finally know what’s going on!
You lean forward across the table.
“Dex.”
“Yes, sweetheart, we can take the fries with the cheddar on top.” He comments absently.
“No.” You frown. “I mean yes, and bacon too! But I have a question.”
His gaze lifts immediately.
Unlike most people, Dex always pays attention when you speak, even when he knows there is a good chance the conversation is about to take a very strange turn.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
You lower your voice, adjusting in your seat so you could be closer.
“It’s a serious question.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and he copies your stance as he leans forward, the menu completely forgotten. “I’ll do my best.” He whispers back.
You glance around once more before looking back at him.
“Are you famous?”
For a moment, Dex simply stares at you unblinking.
“Am I what?”
“Famous.”
“No.”
You frown. His answer comes far too quickly.
“See, that’s exactly what a famous person would say.”
A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
“Doll…”
“No, Dex. I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
Your mouth seals shut the moment a waitress appears to take your order and you squint at her lips pressed thinly against each other as Dex calmly speaks to her. You completely miss the way her voice shakes at the edge when she repeats your order back to you, though.
The moment she walks away, you glance around the room before gesturing vaguely toward the rest of the diner. “Then explain this.”
Dex follows the motion of your hand almost confused—maybe he hoped you had let it go—briefly taking in the room before looking back at you.
“Explain what?”
“Everybody keeps staring at you.”
His expression softens at once, the way it always does whenever you become too stubborn about something.
“They aren’t staring at me.”
“They absolutely are.”
You sit back against the booth, already counting the evidence on your fingers.
“The blonde waitress almost bumped against a table because she saw you and then made a double take. That couple on my left has been mumbling about us since we sat down. And the guy near the register keeps glancing over here. This happens everywhere we go.”
Dex listens patiently while you list your observations, his attention fixed entirely on you despite the fact that half the room genuinely is watching him.
You are so earnest about it that interrupting feels almost cruel.
“I think you’re misunderstanding their looks.” He answers gently.
“And I think you’re deflecting.” You cross your arms to your chest, slightly tilting your head as if to challenge him to deny it.
That finally makes him smile. His pretty, little detective.
You point at him. “That.”
“What?” He almost snorts out a laugh.
“That’s the way you smile when you think I’m wrong.” You frown.
He glances away briefly, as if weighting his options. “I think you’ve come to a very creative conclusion.”
Your eyes narrow further. “So you admit it’s possible.”
“Doll.” The fond exasperation in his voice only makes you more confident.
At that point, the same waitress arrives with your food before either of you could continue, carefully setting the plates down on the table. She offers you a polite smile, but the moment she looks at Dex she seems to think better of whatever she was about to say and quickly excuses herself.
You watch her back until she disappears in the kitchen, then your eyes immediately jump back on him.
“Did you see that?” You whisper conspiratorially.
“See what, baby?” He is already picking up his fork.
“The look she gave you!”
You stare at each other for a long second, before you sigh dramatically and steal one of his fries.
The movement is so familiar neither of you acknowledge it.
“I’ve been collecting evidence for months.”
That earns a genuine laugh. “Yeah?”
You hum, nodding with utter confidence before pointing your half-eaten fry at him.
“Do you remember the woman in the bookstore last week who hurt her arm?”
“The one who walked into a shelf?” A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I remember. But sweetheart, I don’t think she walked into a shelf because of me. That isn’t proof of anything.”
“It absolutely is.” You exclaim, offended.
“How?”
“Because she was looking at you.” You answer as if that should have been obvious.
“Princess, people are capable of walking into things without my involvement.”
“Not like that. She completely missed it.” You shake your head, still unconvinced. “It was a big shelf, Dex.” You explain worriedly.
A chuckle rumbles deeply into his chest. “I’m sure there are other explanations.”
“Name one.”
Dex opens his mouth, but has to close it again when nothing logical enough to reassure you comes to mind.
You sit back looking unbearably pleased with yourself.
“Exactly.”
The triumphant satisfaction that spreads across your face makes him shake his head.
Dex has known you for one year, six months, two weeks and two days, and yet he still isn’t entirely sure how your mind works.
“You know what?” You quip, reaching across the table to straighten the collar of his jacket without even seeming aware of it. “I think people recognize you from somewhere and you’re too humble to admit it.”
For a split second, the world seems to stop.
Your words are harmless, tossed into the conversation with the same certainty you applied to every piece of evidence you presented him moments ago, but this time they land unexpectedly sharp. His thoughts skip past bookstores and grocery stores, past awkward strangers and curious glances, and reach somewhere much darker. Newspaper articles. Police reports. Crime scene photographs. Names he tries to not remember. Faces he dreams anyway.
A familiar knot tightens in his chest.
There was a time when he assumed you knew, or at least knew enough. Not every detail, but enough to understand what kind of man he was. Is. Enough to see the warning signs everyone else eventually runs from, and to reach the conclusion that whatever existed between the two of you wasn’t worth the risk.
Instead, you got closer.
As the months passed, he’s forced to confront a truth that still occasionally leaves him stunned: you are genuinely clueless to everything that happened. You aren’t overlooking that part of his life, or making a conscious decision to forgive it. As far as he can tell, you are completely unaware it exists at all.
The realization frightened him at first. Sometimes it still does. Every now and then you say something innocent that drifts too close to the truth, and it lands in him like a hand closing around a live wire.
Like the night a man wouldn’t stop following you at the club. You were celebrating your best friend’s birthday and called Dex without thinking twice when you noticed the man loitering far enough to appear innocent at first, yet kept staring at you like a piece of meat. Then he almost followed you to the restroom if it weren’t for one of your friends standing up at last to come with you.
Your boyfriend was already waiting a few blocks away unbeknown to you when the call arrived, because somewhere along the line “I’ll pick you up later” had turned into him just staying there, in true Benjamin Poindexter’s fashion.
The way you said his name was enough for Dex to break every speed limit as he raced to you.
He appeared in front of the creep without a word, just close enough for him to eventually look down and quickly get out of the club without a word. You threw yourself at Dex, still buzzing with adrenaline, laughing and painting his face with your favorite lipstick as you pressed tiny little kisses. Later in his car, still bright-eyed from the night, you told him he was “weirdly good at making people behave.”
Or the time you once insisted on tagging along at the range, because it felt unfair that he was always willing to step into your world. Dex spent months following you to concerts, bookstores, art fairs, coffee shops, and every other interest that caught your attention, while his own hobbies remained strangely compartmentalized, shared only in passing and never fully opened to you.
You watched him shoot with quiet fascination, genuinely impressed in a way that was far too open and uncomplicated. Then, you told him his aim was “ridiculous, but in a good way, baby” like it was nothing more than admiration for a simple talent.
Of course you completely missed his jaw clenching for half a second at the ease in your voice as you complimented the same skill he put to use to eliminate unpleasant people.
Those moments cling onto his mind with insistent fear. They linger long after you’ve moved on to something softer, something brighter, something that makes you laugh again without thinking about what you’ve just said. Because to you, they are just pieces of him you find charming, even safe. To him, they sound dangerously close to being understood in a way that was never meant for you. Each time, he wonders if that’s the point where this carefully crafted bubble finally bursts.
For a brief period of time, even dates came with the hollow preoccupation that you could look at him like he wasn’t yours to trust.
Instead, here you are a year later prettily sitting in this quaint little booth as you try to convince him that strangers stare at him because he must be secretly famous.
Dex forces out a laugh that sounds wrong even to his own ears before clearing his throat, hoping to still appear unbothered.
“Now, sweetheart, you know I’m far from humble."
“Yeah, but you’re handsome.”
The correction comes so quickly it catches him completely off guard, causing him to choke on his coke.
You say it as though you are simply reminding him of something obvious, and the contrast between where his thoughts have been a moment ago and where you dragged them now leaves him gaping at you for a second longer than he means to.
Your smile takes shape slowly, the corners of your mouth lifting around the straw still caught between your fingers. There is something unbearably soft about it, unguarded that makes it obvious you aren’t waiting for him to deny the compliment or argue with you about it. Your eyes shine as you look at him across the table, pleased with yourself in the way you always are whenever you think you said something particularly clever.
The knot in his chest loosens slightly.
It’s always like this: you would wander dangerously close to the parts he desperately wants hidden, send his blood pressure to the roof as his mind races through every worst-case scenario imaginable, and then somehow, without realizing it, pull him right back out again.
“Honestly, Dex,” you continue, reaching across the table to steal another fry from his plate. “Sometimes I forget other people have eyes.”
His laugh is strangled. “I’m not sure what that means.”
“It means if I looked like you, I’d be insufferable.”
You sound completely sincere.
“I’d never shut up about it. I’d walk into every room like I personally invented being handsome.”
Dex purses his lips in a poor attempt to hide his grin, looking down at his plate as a pink blush gently settles across his cheeks.
Your hand finds his almost absentmindedly where it rests idly on the table. You lace your fingers through his, giving his hand a small squeeze.
“I like when you smile.”
After everything he’s spent years being called, after everything he’s spent years believing about himself, you still seem genuinely determined to overthrow that negativity while collecting your favorite things about him and lock them away in your heart.
His smile.
His eyes.
The shape of his hands.
The way he laughs.
Even the scar on his cheek. The first time you kissed him there, like it was just another part of him that deserved love, he stared at the wall motionless for ten full minutes before you came back from the bathroom and worriedly asked if he was okay.
You hand out your affection with the same thoughtlessness other people hand out napkins, without realizing what that does to damned men like him.
Or maybe you do realize.
Sometimes he can’t tell.
“Sweetheart,” he starts quietly, embarrassed by his next shaky exhale.
“What?”
The question is innocent as you glance up from your own plate.
His eyes follow the length of your body: from the pastel cardigan you threw on before leaving the apartment, to the lip gloss sparkling on your lips despite frantically looking for your lipstick earlier. His heart pathetically stumbles on its next beat at the serene expression on your face, just because you managed to make him smile.
Beautiful.
Beautiful and sweet and entirely too good for him.
Warmth settles behind his ribs, familiar by now but no less overwhelming than the first time he took a look at you through the window of this same diner as you were having lunch with your colleagues and realized you were the love of his life.
Across the room, people continue glancing in his direction with varying degrees of unease.
You, meanwhile, are holding his hand across a sticky table, looking at him as though he is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to you.
And if there is one thing Dex has learned since meeting you, it’s that he would believe your opinion over everyone else’s.
In the end, what started as a serious investigation into Dex’s supposed fame somehow turns into a surprisingly passionate debate over how much milk a milkshake can reasonably contain before it starts making people sick. Which then leads to a discussion about whether milkshakes are technically drinks or desserts, which eventually evolves into you explaining a theory that Dex is increasingly convinced has no basis in science whatsoever.
“I’m telling you, in Japan they even have a word for it. I read it on TikTok.” You tear off a piece of toast and Dex rolls his eyes at the mention of that damn app that always steals your attention away from him just before bed.
“You can be completely full and still want dessert.”
“That’s because dessert is dessert.” He shrugs as though it should be obvious.
“Hm no, I’m sure it goes somewhere else.”
Dex looks up from the dessert menu.
“Somewhere else.” He repeats slowly.
“Yes.” You nod, completely absorbed in the last pieces of your omelette. “Like a second stomach.”
He stares at you for a moment.
“You don’t actually believe that.”
You look up offended. “I didn’t make it up!”
His eyebrow lifts skeptically. “Yeah? Who elaborated this theory then?”
“I don’t know.” You mumble, shrugging. “People.”
“Very reliable source.” He nods sagely.
You point your fork at him. “Don’t be rude, Mister.”
The fact that you completely melt when he sends you a wink over the table ruins most of the effect.
By the time your plates have emptied, the lunch rush has begun to thin around you. Families filter out, new customers replace them, and the noise of the diner settles into a softer hum.
You take the other dessert menu after cleaning the bread crumbs from your fingers with one of those napkins that are far too delicate and small to be useful in a place where anyone can order burgers and fries. Resting one elbow on the table, you consider your options with an amount of concentration most people reserve for major financial decisions.
Dex, meanwhile, is supposed to be returning to his own menu. But he’s too busy looking at something far lovelier.
Which is why you eventually catch him staring.
“You keep looking at me like that.”
Dex tilts his head slightly, the ghost of a smile already pulling at his mouth.
“Like what, sweetheart?”
You pretend to consider it, tapping a perfectly manicured fingernail against the edge of the plastic menu before finally lowering it onto the table.
“Like you love me.”
The thing is, you never say these things to get a reaction. You aren’t fishing for compliments or reassurance. You simply speak whatever crosses your mind, completely unaware of the effect it has on people.
Or, more specifically, on his poor heart.
Slowly, Dex holds the menu shut and sets it aside.
You tilt your head curiously. “What are you doing?”
Instead of answering, he slides out of the booth with a single smooth movement.
Your eyebrows immediately shoot up.
The movement alone would have been suspicious enough, but the look on his face makes it infinitely worse. There is something unmistakably playful about it, a grin he is very clearly trying—and failing—to suppress.
“Benjamin.”
His grin widens and you point at him with your menu as he keeps advancing, too slowly to be unintentional.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you’re planning.” You sputter out as he looms over you.
“I’m not planning anything.” He lifts both hands up, innocently.
“Liar—oh!”
He slides into the booth beside you before you can protest further, one arm immediately finding its way around your waist. A surprised laugh falls from your lips as he pulls you effortlessly against his side, his other hand landing on your bare thigh.
“Oh my God, you have a perfectly large seat waiting for you.”
“Mmh, maybe I like this one better.”
You shake your head, trying very hard to not smile and therefore encourage his antics.
His hold tightens slightly when you make the mistake of rolling your eyes, and before you can decide whether to complain again, his fingers find your side.
The squeal that escapes you is embarrassingly loud.
“Dex!”
His grin becomes downright dangerous.
“Don’t you dare.”
Unfortunately, the warning only spurs him on.
You twist away with a gasp, nearly folding in half as laughter bursts out of you. People are definitely staring now: the woman at the next table looks at you alarmed, and a waitress frowns as she walks past your table, deeply confused.
Your boyfriend, meanwhile, appears to be having the time of his life.
“Benjamin.” You gasp.
“Benjamin Poindexter.”
That only makes him chuckle. The sound catches you off guard enough that your protests dissolve into another fit of giggles.
Eventually he relents, though not out of mercy. Mostly because you have ended up curled against his side trying to escape and neither of you seem particularly interested in fixing that.
His arms remain firmly around your body as you try to regain your breath, still smiling when you tip your head back to look at him.
“You’re awful.” It would sound much more convincing if you hadn’t just wrapped one hand around his forearm.
“I know.”
The complete lack of remorse makes you shake your head at him in fake disappointment.
A comfortable silence falls between you. The diner still buzzes around your intertwined forms, plates clattering somewhere in the kitchen and voices traveling between tables, but it all feels like a distant world compared to the little safe bubble Dex has created for you.
You reach up instinctively and brush your fingers through his hair. The terrifyingly dangerous man who could make entire rooms nervous without saying a single word melts into your touch.
You smile. “Hi.”
The corners of his mouth lift.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
You peck his lips before he can say anything else. It’s meant to be quick and sweet, yet his grin sharpens slightly at the edges.
He leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough that it doesn’t feel like a mindless gesture so much as a habit he developed specifically for you. Your breath hitches at the second kiss, a little slower than the first, like he is testing your reaction. By the third, you’ve gone completely limp against him.
“There she is.” He murmurs in awe.
The way he touches you makes it very difficult to remember whatever point you were trying to make before, because there is nothing performative in it, nothing malicious—just an open kind of attention that never dims, even when the rest of the room exists loudly around him. His right hand stays where it has been the entire time, big and warm around your waist, while the other gently takes yours, his thumb tracing the same absent, familiar motion over your knuckles.
“Dex.” You mumble without any heat as his lips end up on the slope of your neck.
“Hm?” He hums absently, nuzzling your skin as he indulges in the familiar floral scent of your body cream mixed with something inherently you.
“We’re in public.” You sigh, the words feeling like cotton wool in your mouth.
“Don’t care.” His answer is nothing short of a whisper as he traces the path to your cheek with little, soft kisses.
Dex sees the exact moment something changes in you, following the way your hazy eyes fall to his lips before you lean in without much thought.
He meets you halfway in a slow kiss, his mouth still curved slightly against yours as though he can’t quite contain his happiness. When you pull back just enough to breathe, he follows you instinctively, not letting the distance become anything real.
His lips end up on yours again, and again, and again, until your giggle is being muffled by his eager mouth. Dex quietly gloats as he finally leaves you alone, resting his forehead against yours, his hand still holding yours, because letting go has never been an option.
He should look away by now—he knows he should—but the decision never quite makes it through that part of him that is supposed to care about appearances around you.
His eyes aren’t soft in that careful way he learned just for you. They’re too direct for that, too exposed, as if that unhealthy fixation he usually keeps under control has slipped his iron grip and now is just there, raw in the way he watches you like there isn’t a single thing in the world that matters enough to compete with you.
There’s a brief, almost violent flicker in his focus, and something in the back of his mind screams that he needs to rein it in, to pull it back before you can notice. But he doesn’t manage to act on it fast enough.
What remains is the part that doesn’t know how to pretend.
You give a small, satisfied hum, completely unbothered by the glint in his eyes as your head slowly falls on his shoulder.
“Anyway, I think I’m getting the blueberry pie.”
Dex stares at you for a moment, the laugh slipping out of him quiet and fond as he eagerly takes in the sight of the ruined gloss on your mouth, and your half-lidded eyes.
He did that.
“What?” You murmur, briefly glancing up at him.
Dex shakes his head once, his lips twisting into a tender smile.
“Nothing, princess.”
He shifts just enough in the booth to make room for you more comfortably, the arm around your torso tightening in an absent pull that keeps you anchored to him. The unhurried kiss he presses to your forehead lingers on your skin for more than necessary, to the point your eyelids just lazily flutter shut while being completely surrounded by his warmth.
“I’ll get the cherry one.”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
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the sun spills over the manicured lawns of your quiet suburban street, too bright and cheerful for the way your life actually feels. you’d leave for work, locking the door to a house that never quite felt like your safe sanctuary, and your eyes would inevitably drift next door. to leon kennedy’s house.
and there he’d be.
your older neighbor, leon. settled into that worn-in wooden chair on his porch like he was a permanent fixture of the neighborhood. sometimes a book would be resting in his hands, other times one of those crossword puzzle books, a pen tucked behind his ear. you figured it was his way of staying sharp. he had this air about him, a quiet intensity that even retirement couldn't seem to sand away. you didn't know what he did before he moved in a couple of years ago, but you could tell he’d seen things. it was in the way he watched the world, calm and observant, but with a flicker of something heavy deep in his blue eyes. something that made the word puzzles and the thick novels seem less like a hobby and more like an anchor. a way to keep his mind from drifting into darker waters.
he was handsome, in a rugged, weathered sort of way. lines etched around his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and maybe a few too many grimaces, a stark contrast to his surprisingly soft-looking blond hair, now threaded with distinguished bits of grey at the temples. he always looked so solid. so steady. a rock against the turbulent tide of your own life.
and you, you were the pretty neighbor in her twenties, dating an absolute piece of shit.
every morning, you’d offer him a small, tired smile as you walked to your car. “morning, leon.”
he’d look up from his page, those intense eyes softening just a fraction as they landed on you. a slow, easy smile would touch his lips. “morning,” he’d reply, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that always did something funny to your stomach.
that was it. that was the extent of your interactions. a simple greeting exchanged across a stretch of green grass. but it was a lifeline. his calm presence was a stark contrast to the chaos that waited for you at the end of each day, to the storm that was your boyfriend. leon was your quiet, constant morning ritual, a small moment of peace before the world, and your relationship, inevitably fell apart again.
he saw you. he really saw you. he saw the way your smile didnt always reach your eyes, the way you sometimes wore long sleeves in the dead of summer. he saw the brand-new car your boyfriend bought you after the last ‘big fight,’ and he saw the way you flinched when that same boyfriend honked the horn a little too aggressively from the driveway. he was a retired dso agent. he’d spent a lifetime reading people, seeing the cracks beneath the surface. and your surface was covered in them. he kept his distance, telling himself it wasn’t his place, that he’d earned his quiet life. but the part of him that was hardwired to protect, the part that had seen too much to ever truly stand down, it watched. and it waited.
then came the day it all shattered.
it wasn’t the usual shouting match, the muffled thuds of doors slamming that had become background noise to him. this was different. it was far more violent.
leon was in his kitchen, wiping down the counters, when the first shout cut through the afternoon quiet. he paused, head tilting towards the wall that separated your two houses. he’d learned to tune out the arguments, the venomous words spat back and forth. but then came the first crash. not a door, but something heavier. something hitting a wall. his hands stilled on the counter, his entire body going rigid. years of training, of honed instincts, flared to life. he was no longer just a retiree. he was an agent, cataloging threats.
another shout, your voice this time, high and strained, followed by the unmistakable, sickening sound of glass shattering. not just a glass, but a lot of it. it sounded like a whole shelf’s worth had been swept to the floor. his jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. he could picture it. he could almost feel the vibrations through the soles of his feet.
your boyfriend’s voice, a furious, guttural roar that made the hairs on leon’s arms stand up. more thuds. more breaking. it was a symphony of destruction, and your terrified sobs were the only melody. leon was already moving, his dish towel dropped on the counter, his feet carrying him towards his front door. he didn’t think, he just reacted. the cop inside him, the one he thought had died years ago, was wide awake and screaming.
the sound of a car engine roaring to life, tires screeching as it hastily peeled out of your driveway, was the final punctuation mark. silence descended, heavy and absolute. it was more unnerving than the noise had been.
leon stood on his porch, his heart pounding a steady, heavy rhythm against his ribs. he stared at your house. it looked the same as it always did. peaceful. unassuming. but he knew better. he knew the carnage that lay just beyond the front door. he took a deep breath, the air feeling thick and heavy in his lungs. he had to go. he couldn't just stand here, knowing what he’d heard. he couldn't live with himself if he did nothing.
he walked across his lawn, the grass cool and damp beneath his worn boots. each step felt deliberate, heavy. he was crossing a line, leaving the quiet sanctuary of his retirement and stepping back into the world he’d tried so hard to leave behind.
your front door was slightly ajar.
a sliver of darkness in the bright afternoon. it was an invitation and a warning all at once. he hesitated for only a second before raising his hand and giving the wood a firm knock.
“it’s leon,” he called out, his voice steady and clear, a trained habit. letting his presence be known. “your neighbor. is everything alright in there?”
not a peep. just the faint ticking of a clock from somewhere inside.
he pushed the door open a little wider, peering into the dim entryway. “i heard a lot of noise. ‘m just checking to make sure you’re okay.”
still nothing. a cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach. he’d seen enough silent houses in his day to know they were rarely a good sign. he pushed the door fully open and stepped inside, his senses on high alert. the agent in him was taking over, scanning every corner, listening for the slightest sound.
and he found you.
the living room was a disaster zone. a bookshelf was overturned, its contents strewn across the floor. a lamp was smashed, its shade bent at an impossible angle. but the worst of it was the glittering sea of broken glass that covered the hardwood floor by the kitchen entryway. and there you were, right in the middle of it.
you were on your hands and knees, wearing nothing but a ridiculously oversized t-shirt that swallowed your frame, the hem brushing against the tops of your thighs. you were barefoot. your hair was a mess, falling into your face as you painstakingly, almost robotically, picked up the larger shards of glass with your bare hands. you didn’t even seem to register his presence.
his heart, which had been pounding with adrenaline, now ached with a different, sharper emotion. rage. a cold, quiet fury directed at the man who had done this, who had left you here to clean up the wreckage of his temper.
“hey,” he said, his voice softer than he thought possible, deliberately gentle so as not to startle you.
your head snapped up. your eyes were wide, unfocused, shimmering with unshed tears. you looked like a frightened animal, cornered and hurt. you opened your mouth to say something, but only a choked sob came out.
“don’t move, sweetheart,” he commanded, but the words were wrapped in that same gentle tone. he moved towards you, his steps careful and deliberate, avoiding the glass with an ease that spoke of navigating far more dangerous terrain. he crouched down in front of you, his knees protesting slightly. “you’re going to cut yourself.”
you just stared at him, your hand still clutching a jagged piece of a broken plate. a single tear finally escaped, tracing a path through the grime on your cheek.
he easily took the shard from your unresisting fingers, tossing it aside. “c’mon,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. he slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, scooping you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all. you let out a small, surprised gasp, your hands automatically coming to rest on his broad shoulders.
he carried you over to the small kitchen table, the only piece of furniture in the immediate vicinity that seemed untouched by the chaos. he gently set you down on one of the chairs, his hands lingering on your arms for a moment, as if to steady you.
“dont you worry. i’ll clean this mess up,” he said, his gaze firm, leaving no room for argument. “you just sit there. don’t move from that chair.”
you could only nod, watching in a daze as he turned and walked back towards the mess. he moved with a quiet efficiency, finding a dustpan and broom in a nearby closet. he swept up the glass, the scraping sound loud in the tense silence. he didn’t say a word, his focus entirely on the task at hand. it was methodical. it was controlled. and it was for you.
you watched him, this quiet, steady man who had, until now, just been a face you saw in the morning. you watched the way his muscles moved under his dark blue shirt, the focused set of his jaw. he was taking care of the mess. he was taking care of you. and the simple, profound kindness of it was enough to make the dam of your composure finally break. the sobs you’d been holding back started to shake your small frame, quiet and hiccuping at first, then growing in intensity until you were burying your face in your hands, trying to muffle the sound.
when the last of the glass was swept into a neat pile, leon disposed of it before walking back over to you. he stood in front of you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. he knelt down, bringing himself to your eye level.
“are y’hurt?” he asked, his voice still low and gentle. he scanned your face, your arms, your legs, his gaze sharp and analytical. he was looking for cuts, for any sign of injury from the glass. “did you step on anything?”
you shook your head, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. you were fine. physically, at least from the glass, you were fine. but that wasn’t the whole story.
mentally, he checked off the list of potential injuries, and seeing none, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of relief. but you knew what he couldn’t see. you knew about the other damage, the uglier, more deliberate kind.
with trembling fingers, you reached for the hem of your oversized t-shirt. you hesitated for a second, a wave of shame washing over you. but then you looked into his eyes, into those steady, concerned blue depths, and you knew you didn’t have to hide. not from him.
you lifted the shirt just enough to reveal the mottled, ugly bruises blooming across your stomach and ribs. a violent tapestry of purple, blue, and an angry, fresh red. they were bruises of your boyfriend’s rage, a secret you’d been hiding under baggy clothes for days.
the change in leon was instantaneous. it was like a storm cloud passing over the sun. the softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a glacial fury that was more terrifying than any shouting you’d ever heard. his jaw was clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack. his whole body went still, radiating a cold, lethal anger. yet, when he spoke, his voice was impossibly, achingly gentle.
“did he do that to you?”
the question hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. you couldn’t find your voice. you could only nod, a jerky, pathetic movement. and with that small confirmation, the tears started falling again, hot and fast, a testament to the pain and humiliation you’d been carrying alone for so long.
a muscle in his cheek twitched. that was all. no outburst, no shouted curses. just that one, tiny, controlled movement that spoke of a rage buried so deep it could level cities. he slowly raised his hands, his movements deliberate as if he were afraid of scaring you, and gently cupped your face. his thumbs, calloused and warm, brushed away your tears.
“it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. “you’re okay. you’re safe now.” he kept repeating it, soft words meant to soothe, to calm the storm inside you. he held your face, his gaze locked on yours, and in his eyes, you saw not pity, but a fierce, unwavering protectiveness. you saw a man who understood violence, who understood pain, and who was, in this moment, your shield against it all.
you leaned into his touch, a desperate, instinctual movement. you craved this gentleness, this strength. you were so tired of being afraid, so tired of the pain. and before you even realized what you were doing, before your brain could catch up to the raw, screaming need in your heart, you were closing the small distance between you and pressing your lips to his.
it was a clumsy, desperate kiss, salty with your tears. it was a plea. it was a thank you. it was everything you couldn’t say out loud.
leon froze. for a split second, he was completely still, surprised by the suddenness of it. he was a man who was never caught off guard, but you, in your oversized t-shirt and tear-stained face, you had managed it. he could feel the frantic tremor of your body, the desperate press of your mouth against his.
you pulled back, your eyes wide with a fresh wave of panic and embarrassment. “i’m sorry,” you whispered, the words tumbling out. “i shouldn’t have—”
but you never got to finish.
leon stared at you for a heartbeat, his blue eyes dark and intense, scanning your face as if memorizing every detail. he saw your fear, your regret, your vulnerability. and then he saw something else. something that mirrored the longing he’d been suppressing for months. every morning he’d watched you, your cute little greetings, the sad smile that never quite reached your eyes. he’d wondered what it would be like to make you smile for real. he’d wondered what you tasted like.
and with a low groan that seemed to be ripped from the very depths of his soul, he dove in.
this kiss was nothing like the first. there was no hesitation, no gentleness. his mouth crashed down on yours, demanding. one of his hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, while the other slid from your face down your back, pressing you closer to him. it was a kiss that consumed, that erased every thought from your mind except for him. him, his taste, the solid feel of him kneeling before you. all the mornings of quiet observation, of unspoken want, were now erupting in a torrent of raw passion. he kissed you like a man starved, and you met his hunger with your own, a desperate, clinging need that had been buried under layers of fear and pain.
it was messy and wet and perfect. it was the breaking of a dam, for both of you.
when he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathless, panting in the quietness of the kitchen. he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “don’t ever be sorry for that,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion.
he pulled back enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your kiss-swollen lower lip. a decision had been made. a line had been crossed, and neither of you wanted to go back. without another word, he stood up, pulling you with him. you were still shaky, your legs feeling like jelly. he didn’t let you go. instead, he scooped you up into his arms again, just as he had before.
but this time, it was different. this time, there was a simmering, electric tension in the air. he carried you the few steps to the kitchen island, his eyes never leaving yours. he gently propped you up on the cool granite countertop, his movements careful and deliberate, ever mindful of the bruises that marred your skin. he stood between your legs, his hands resting on your thighs, his presence a warm, solid wall in front of you.
“is this alright?” he asked, his voice a low murmur, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.
you just nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, a silent answer that was all he needed.
a slow, predatory smile touched his lips. he leaned in, his mouth ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “good,” he whispered against your skin, before his hands moved to the hem of your t-shirt, slowly, pushing it up your torso.
he spread your legs a little wider, his gaze dropping to the juncture of your thighs. and then, he was on his knees. it happened so fast, your breath hitched in your throat. he looked up at you from between your legs, his blue eyes dark with a hunger that made your pussy clench around nothing but air.
“funny,” he murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble as his fingers brushed against your bare skin. “you arent wearing any panties. did you prepare yourself just f’me?”
a shocked laugh, watery and breathless, escaped you. it was so unexpected, so leon, that little flash of his sarcastic charm even now. you shook your head, a real smile, the first one in what felt like an eternity, touching your lips.
“good, sweetheart,” he said again, and then his mouth was on you.
a strangled cry tore from your throat. it was nothing like the brutal, selfish encounters you’d endured before. this was worship. his tongue was hot and skillful, tracing lazy circles, getting a taste before finally pressing down on your clit with a devastating pressure. his hands came up to grip your thighs, holding you steady as your hips began to buck of their own accord. it was slow, agonizingly perfect torture. he seemed to know exactly what you needed, exactly where to touch, where to lick, where to suck. he was learning your body, memorizing your taste, and driving you absolutely insane. it felt like it went on for an eternity, each flick of his tongue sending a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, washing away the pain, the fear, the memory of rough, unwanted hands. you were unraveling on your kitchen island, and he was the one pulling the strings.
just when you thought you couldn’t take another second, when a climax was building in your core like a supernova, he pulled away. you whimpered in protest, your fingers tangling in his hair.
he looked up at you, his lips wet, a triumphant smirk on his face. “not yet,” he breathed. “i wanna be inside you, when you’re falling apart all over me.”
he rose to his feet, his movements fluid and economical. he didn’t waste a second, his hands going to the buckle of his belt. the sound of the leather being unthreaded was deafening in the quiet room. then came the rasp of his zipper. he pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself, his cock springing forward, thick and heavy. it was flushed a deep red, already aching for you, a single, clear bead of precum glistening at the tip.
he stepped back between your legs, his hands finding your hips. he was gentle as he guided himself to your entrance, his gaze locked on yours. “tell me if i hurt you,” he said, his voice serious now, all traces of teasing gone.
you just shook your head, lifting your hips to meet him. you needed this. you needed him.
he pushed into you slowly, carefully. you were so wet for him, so ready, that he slid inside with an ease that made you both groan. he was thick, filling you up in a way that was both overwhelming and incredibly satisfying. he went deep, stretching you, seating himself fully against your cervix before pausing, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside you.
“oh my god, leon,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. it was all you could manage.
he leaned down, resting his forehead against yours again, his hands coming up to cup your face. “i’ve got you, sweet girl,” he murmured, and then he began to move.
it was slow at first, a gentle, rocking rhythm. he was true to his word, his movements careful, his body angled to avoid putting any pressure on your bruised stomach. this wasn’t about a frantic, desperate release that you usually feel when you have sex with your boyfriend. this was about connection. this was about him showing you, with every deliberate thrust, how you were supposed to be touched, how you were supposed to be wanted.
his hips would push forward, sinking his full length inside you, and then he’d pull back just enough to offer you some relief from the overwhelming fullness, before thrusting in again. his cock rubbed perfectly against your slick, puffy walls, and the base of him ground against your folds with every inward stroke. you couldn’t help the little, pitchy moans that escaped your parted lips, sounds of pure pleasure that you hadn’t made in so long. or ever, really.
he picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, but still with that underlying control, that gentleness. he was watching your face, reading every flicker of your expression. he saw the pleasure blooming there, chasing away the last of the shadows. and it spurred him on. he wanted to erase every bad touch, every moment of pain, and replace it with this. with him.
your legs were wrapped tight around his waist, your hands gripping his shoulders as he drove into you, again and again. the kitchen island was cool against your ass, a stark contrast to the heat building between your bodies. the sounds of your moans mingled with his low grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing in the small room. it was raw, and it was real.
you felt it building again, that tight coil of pleasure in your core, but this time you weren’t afraid. you let it happen. you arched your back, crying out his name as the orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming. your inner walls clenched around him, milking him, and it was enough to push him over the edge.
with a final, deep thrust, he stiffened, his head thrown back as he poured his release into you, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. he stayed buried inside you, his body trembling with the aftershocks, his forehead pressed against yours. you were both panting, slick with sweat, the scent of sex hanging heavy in the air.
for a long time, neither of you moved. there were no words exchanged. there was the feeling of his warm weight, the steady beat of his heart against yours, and the profound, earth-shattering sense of safety that surrounded you like a shield.
𝓫efore 𝔂ou 𝓰o . . . older neighbor leon is finally here! i definitely plan to write more about this trope <3
getting takeout with dex is so annoying. he takes forever to decide on a place because of how rarely it happens. he likes cooking, so getting him to agree to a night of greasy food and fizzy drinks is already a task in itself. once that’s decided, he wants to be chivalrous and pick the food up. save a couple dollars on delivery, all that beautiful, responsible man nonsense— which goes down the drain when he’s met with a pout and the cartoon style slow blinking of his girl’s fluffy lashes. don’t you wanna cuddle on the couch while we wait? so now he’s on the couch, face full of tits, her arms and legs wrapped around him, keeping him locked and distracted so that he doesn’t move until the doorbell dings. that’s when their position shifts to his advantage. he can get up and reach the door first. he doesn’t like it when she answers the door for delivery men, doesn’t like how they gawk and make small talk over a minimal transaction. hell, he doesn’t even like when they say her name to confirm they have the right location. it allows the world to experience his princess in bite sized pieces, which isn’t fair. she’s all his.
he hates eating in the living room, hates the crumbs on the couch and the coffee table. takeout night usually ends with him wiping down the furniture and vacuuming the rug. another reason why it’s… annoying. the best part is watching his eyes get heavier and heavier when he finally settles back down. his belly full, his girlfriend tucked against his side, his hand down the back of her shorts, gripping and toying. the reward always end up being worth the aggravations.
you’re bent low over the billiard table, elbows locked, fingers curled around the cue stick - every muscle taut with focus. dex stands so close behind you as he adjusts your stance. one hand rests on your hip to turn you slightly; the other guides yours around the stick. the silence is heavy except for dex's slow breathing behind you.
“you gotta bend low,” he murmurs, voice low and breathless. “really lean into it.” his big frame folds over yours like a shadow. his chest hovering just above your back, every inch of him radiating warmth through his dress shirt and tailored pants that hug his strong thighs.
dex leans down until one arm braces beside yours on the table while his other hand glides slowly from hipbone up along spine - feather-light. teasingly close but not touching where you want most. his hips tilt forward.
you’re bent over completely now, forearms flat against the green felt, back arched slightly from leaning so low. your hair spills forward, hiding your flushed face. every muscle in your body is tense.
the silence stretches, thick and charged. you don’t move. can’t move - frozen in the curve of your posture, every nerve ending alight where his body meets yours. the pressure from his bulge is constant. his chest rises against your back.
one hand lifts slightly before sliding down your side again: fingertips trailing along the dip of your waist through soft, silky fabric. testing how you react without words. when they reach lower, just above hipbone, a single thumb brushes over it once.
you feel as soft, warm lips press against the side of your neck - right where your skin is most sensitive and you shiver. it’s subtle but he feels it: the tiny tremor running through you from head to toe.
"I noticed the way he was looking at you"
his voice had dropped an octave. the room feels like it’s shrinking, the air thick with something unspoken - something heavy and electric that made your skin prickle. you stiffen instantly - not because you did anything wrong, but because of what those words imply. your face burns red all over.
dex doesn’t pull away after the kiss. he lingers, lips still pressed to your neck like he’s memorizing the taste of your skin. you can feel how tense he is as his jaw flexes. his gaze locks onto the man across the billiard table, some guy in a leather jacket, casually leaning by the bar with a drink, who’d been glancing your way earlier.
"maybe I should show him… exactly who you belong to."
his arm tightens around your waist again, pulling you back harder against his chest. the room is quiet, the background noise fading into a dull hum as dex remains locked in that intense stare with the man. his large frame looms over you completely. every breath he takes expands his chest visibly - syncing with your own nervous breathing beside him.
suddenly, the cue stick moves smoothly through your hands as dex guides you - his large fingers curling around yours, adjusting your grip on the shaft. he aligns the tip of the cue with the eight ball sitting perfectly in position at the corner pocket. his chest presses lightly against your back again, just enough to steady you both while he positions it for a clean shot.
you take a small inhale and let him take control. the ball rolls forward, spinning fast as it drops cleanly into the final pocket.
"good job, baby" dex turns you around softly to face him. his eyes are dark. theres a smug, dangerous smile curling at the corners of his mouth. your body tenses instinctively.
"we should use that aim of yours on something more... important." dex says as he glares at the man behind you. "think you can make another thing disappear just as easy?"
re9!leon x reader where you two are getting down and dirty for the first time in the relationship, and only when he's about to start fingering you do you realize: "holy shit. his fingers are huge as fuck?!?"
but the REAL shock comes when you see what he's been packing down there. for a 49 year-old-man struggling with alchoholism he's. quite well hung, to say the least. your last thoughts were "if i die from this at least i'll die happy" before leon starts railing you like an animal.
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