mina ִֶ۶ৎ˖ִ ˚

@， mina . 　　 adult.　 leon dick sucker　　　

masterlist

how the fuck do i recover from this omg

cant stop thinking of bath sex with RE9!leon while he's being a total tease

your day at work had been absolute hell and leon knew it the second you walked through the door, taking one look at your exhausted frame before wordlessly drawing a hot bath. now, you were pressed flush against him in the deep tub, the warm water doing wonders to soothe your tired muscles. your back rested perfectly against his broad chest, his sturdy frame acting as the most comfortable cushion. the bathroom was filled with thick steam, the only sound being the gentle slosh of the water every time one of you shifted.

leon's lips pressed soft, lingering kisses along the curve of your neck, his warm breath fanning over your damp skin. "m'sorry you had such a rough day, baby," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating against your collarbone. his left hand breached the surface of the water to cup your breast, giving the soft flesh a gentle, appreciative squeeze. his large palm completely engulfed you, thumb brushing back and forth over your hardening nipple as his mouth left an open-mouthed kiss against your pulse point.

his right hand, which had been resting lazily on your stomach beneath the water, began to drift lower, tracing a slow path down your torso. you let out a soft sigh, head falling back to rest on his shoulder as his fingers grazed the slick heat between your widely spread thighs. he didn't push inside right away. instead, his middle finger found your swollen clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the sensitive nub. the combination of the hot water and his expert touch made a breathy moan slip past your lips, echoing loudly off the tiled walls of the bathroom.

leon hummed in approval, his lips trailing up to press a wet kiss behind your ear as he quickened the pace of his teasing strokes, pressing his thumb down just hard enough to draw a needy whine from your throat. "so sweet," he breathed, his hand slipping down to stroke your slick opening, finding you completely soaked and ready for him. he dragged two thick fingers against your entrance before pushing them slowly inside your tight heat. the contrast of the hot bathwater and the searing, wet grip of your cunt made a low grunt rumble in his chest.

he started pumping his fingers in and out of you, bottoming out with every heavy thrust of his hand, the water sloshing over your intertwined bodies with every filthy, slick sound his fingers made. he curled his digits upward, hitting your g-spot with a rhythmic, bruising pressure that had your hips instinctively bucking back against his hand. he gripped your breast tighter, kneading it roughly while his other hand relentlessly fucked you beneath the suds.

synopsis : when you thought your prom night would end sooner than it should have because of your shitty ex , leon shows up to save the day

tags : angst (reader's ex is an asshole ), fluff / comfort , leon and reader are two idiots in love . not proofread

word count : 5345

you spent two hours getting ready in your bedroom before the dance, and for what? so some guy who promised you the world could call you fifteen minutes before he was supposed to pick you up and say, “hey, something came up.”

the phone cord wrapped around your wrist while you sat on the edge of your bed in your dress, baby pink satin with thin straps and a sweetheart neckline that your mom helped you pick out three weeks ago at the mall. your other hand pressed flat against your stomach like you could hold yourself together that way. the mascara you’d applied so carefully was already starting to sting your eyes.

“something came up,” you repeated back to him, your voice coming out smaller than you wanted.

“yeah, listen, it’s complicated—”

“complicated.”

“don’t be like that. i’ll make it up to you, okay? i promise.”

the line went dead before you could say anything else. you sat there holding the receiver against your ear for another thirty seconds, listening to the dial tone hum, before you set it back in the cradle with a click that felt way too final for a phone call.

your reflection stared back at you from the vanity across the room. curled hair pinned back on one side with a small pearl clip. the necklace your grandmother gave you resting against your collarbone. new heels waiting by the door, nude pumps with a little bow on the toe. you’d practiced walking in them for a week so you wouldn’t trip during the slow dances.

your mom knocked twice before pushing the door open. “sweetheart? i thought i heard the phone—oh. oh, honey.”

she found you still sitting there with your hands folded in your lap and your lower lip trembling despite how hard you were biting down on it. the dress suddenly felt ridiculous. the shoes. the pearl clip. all of it. fuck it.

“he’s not coming,” the words hung in the air like something hit you through your aching chest. your mom’s face shifted through about five emotions in three seconds, anger, pity, more anger, helplessness, and then something gentler that settled into the lines around her mouth. she crossed the room and sat down next to you on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight, and she didn’t say anything for a long moment. she just put her hand over yours and squeezed it gently.

“i’m so stupid,” you whispered.

“you’re not stupid baby.you got dressed up for someone who didn’t deserve it. that’s not the same thing.”

you wanted to believe her. the tightness in your chest made it hard to breathe, let alone think, and the mascara was definitely running now, you could feel it tracking down your cheeks in thin lines. your mom reached over to your nightstand and pulled a tissue from the box, handing it to you without a word.

“i don’t want to stay here,” you said after you’d wiped your face enough to see clearly. “can you just—can you drive me somewhere? anywhere. i need to get out of this house.”

“you want to go to the dance anyway?”

“no. god, no. i can’t walk in there alone. everyone will know.”

your mom was quiet again. outside your window, the late afternoon sun was starting to soften into that golden-pink color that made everything look prettier than it actually was. you’d been checking the weather all week, worried about rain, and the forecast had promised clear skies. perfect prom weather. you almost laughed.

“let me go talk to your father,” your mom said, standing up and smoothing down the front of her blouse. “you stay here. fix your makeup if you want. or don’t. either way, we’re getting you out of this house for a little while, okay?”

you nodded because it was easier than arguing. after she left, you sat there for another few minutes staring at the phone like it might ring again with an apology that actually meant something. it didn’t. the house was quiet except for the muffled sound of your parents’ voices drifting up from the kitchen—your dad’s tone low and angry, your mom’s calmer but insistent. you couldn’t make out the words. you didn’t really want to.

eventually you stood up and walked over to your vanity, leaning close to the mirror to assess the damage. your eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. the mascara had left dark smudges underneath your lower lashes that made you look like you’d been crying for hours instead of just ten minutes. your lipstick was still somehow perfect, a soft pink that your mom had let you borrow from her makeup bag.

you fixed what you could. dabbed concealer under your eyes. reapplied mascara with a steadier hand. blotted your lipstick once, twice, then pressed your lips together and stared at your reflection until the girl in the mirror looked less like someone who’d just been dumped and more like someone who might survive the night.

by the time you heard your mom’s footsteps on the stairs again, you’d pulled on a light cardigan over your dress and swapped the nude pumps for flats. the heels could stay by the door. you didn’t need them where you were going, wherever that was.

“your father’s getting the car,” your mom said, poking her head into your room. “we thought maybe we’d drive you over to the school anyway. just to see it. you don’t have to go inside, but you worked so hard on that dress, and—” she paused, her expression softening again, “and i don’t want you to remember tonight as the night you sat in your bedroom crying.”

“mom—”

“i know. i know. but trust me. just let us take you, okay? if you hate it, we’ll turn right around and get ice cream on the way home. my treat.”

a laugh bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, small and watery. “you’re bribing me with ice cream?”

“is it working?”

you looked at her standing in your doorway with her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes doing that thing where they got all shiny because she was trying not to cry for your sake. your mom had always been like that—feeling things so deeply that she couldn’t quite hide them, even when she wanted to.

“yeah,” you said. “it’s working.”

the drive to the high school took about fifteen minutes. your dad kept the radio on low, some old rock station he liked, and your mom twisted around in the passenger seat every few minutes to check on you like she was afraid you might vanish if she looked away too long. you stared out the window and watched the houses roll past, all the familiar landmarks of a town you’d known your whole life, lit up warm and golden in the fading sunlight.

the school parking lot was packed when you pulled in. cars lined up in rows and kids spilling out of them in groups, the girls in bright dresses and the boys in suits that mostly didn’t fit quite right. music thumped faintly from the gymnasium, the bass line vibrating through the walls and out into the evening air. someone had hung string lights along the walkway leading up to the main entrance, and they flickered a little as the breeze picked up.

“you want us to wait here?” your dad asked, putting the car in park.

“yeah. just—just for a minute.”

your parents exchanged a look but didn’t push you further. your mom reached back and patted your knee twice before turning to face forward, giving you the illusion of privacy even though you were still sitting in the backseat of your dad’s sedan with the windows rolled up and the radio playing softly.

you watched couples walk hand in hand toward the gymnasium doors. a girl in a lavender dress laughed at something her date said, throwing her head back, and the boy grinned like he’d just won something. another couple was taking pictures near the flagpole, the girl’s mom fussing with her corsage while the boy stood awkwardly to the side with his hands in his pockets.

the longer you sat there, the heavier the weight in your chest got. you’d been looking forward to this night since freshman year. four years of imagining what it would feel like to walk into prom on someone’s arm, to dance under those cheap paper decorations the student council put up every year, to have one perfect night before graduation and summer and everything changing.

and now you were sitting in the back of your dad’s car in a dress you’d picked out with your mom, trying not to cry again while the string lights flickered and the music played and everyone else got to have the night you’d been promised.

“i’m going to get out,” you said suddenly, reaching for the door handle before you could talk yourself out of it. “just for a minute. i’ll be right back.”

“sweetheart, are you sure—? ” your mom started.

“mom. i’m sure. i just need some air.”

the evening hit you warm and soft when you stepped out of the car. the breeze caught the hem of your dress and lifted it slightly around your knees, and you tugged your cardigan tighter around your shoulders even though it wasn’t cold. you walked toward the edge of the parking lot, away from the crowd and the music and the string lights, until you found a quiet spot near the curb where the asphalt met the grass.

that was where you sat down.

right on the curb.

in your prom dress.

with your face in your hands and your shoulders shaking and the mascara you’d just fixed starting to run all over again because what was the point? what was the point of any of it?

you didn’t hear him approach. the music from the gymnasium was loud enough to cover footsteps, and you weren’t exactly paying attention to your surroundings anyway, too busy trying to muffle the sound of your own crying with your palms pressed against your mouth. it wasn’t until a shadow fell across you that you even realized someone was standing there.

“hey,” a voice said. male, quiet, careful. “are you okay?”

you looked up at him. he was quite tall. that was the first thing you noticed. taller than most of the guys in your grade, with broad shoulders under a dark suit jacket that fit him well . sandy blonde hair that fell across his forehead in a way that suggested he’d pushed it back at some point and it had just decided not to stay. and those baby blue eyes. really blue, even in the dim light from the parking lot lamps.

and he was looking at you with this expression that wasn’t quite pity and wasn’t quite curiosity—something in between, like he was trying to figure out how bad the situation was before he committed to an approach.

“i’m fine,” you said automatically, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “just—i’m fine. you don’t have to—”

“you’re ... sitting on the ground next to my car,” he said with an awkward tone.

you blinked. looked to your left. sure enough, there was a car parked right there, a slightly beat-up sedan that you hadn’t even noticed when you’d stumbled over to this spot. of course. of course you’d picked the one stretch of curb that belonged to someone.

“oh god,” you said, scrambling to stand up. your legs felt unsteady and your flats slipped a little on the asphalt. “sorry. i’m sorry. i didn’t realize—i’ll move—”

“no, hey, wait.” he held up both hands like he was trying to calm a spooked animal. “you don’t have to move. i was just—i came out here to get some air and you were already there. i’m not trying to kick you off my car. or my curb. whichever.”

you stopped halfway through standing and ended up in this awkward crouch, balanced on the balls of your feet, staring up at him. he had his tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, and his jacket was slung over one arm instead of actually being worn. he looked tired, you realized. not the kind of tired that came from one bad night, but something deeper, like he’d been carrying something heavy for a while and hadn’t figured out how to put it down.

“i’m leon,” he said. “leon kennedy.”

“i know who you are.”

the words came out before you could stop them, and you felt your face heat up immediately. but it was true, you did know who he was. everyone knew who leon kennedy was. he was popular in that quiet, effortless way some people had, the kind of guy who didn’t chase attention but got it anyway. people talked about him in the hallways between classes. girls giggled when he walked past. he’d been voted “best smile” in the yearbook superlatives two years running.

he wasn’t smiling now, though. he was still watching you with that careful, assessing look.

“okay,” he said slowly. “so you know who i am. but i don’t know who you are. and you’re crying on the curb next to my car. so maybe we should start there.”

you sank back down onto the curb, because standing felt like too much effort all of a sudden. your dress pooled around you on the asphalt and you didn’t even care if it got dirty. “i got dumped,” you said, the words coming out flat and hollow. “tonight. prom night. my boyfriend of eight months called me fifteen minutes before he was supposed to pick me up and said something came up.”

leon didn’t say anything for a few seconds. then he let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “that sucks.”

“yeah. it does.”

“eight months is a long time.”

“i know.”

“and he just—called? didn’t even show up to tell you in person?”

“nope. phone call. real classy, right?”

leon made a sound in the back of his throat that might’ve been a laugh or might’ve been disgust. “sounds like a jerk.”

“he is a jerk,” you agreed. “i just didn’t realize it until about forty-five minutes ago.”

the string lights flickered again. someone inside the gymnasium turned the music up, and the bass thumped through the walls loud enough to make the ground vibrate slightly under your feet. leon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, jacket still draped over his arm, and then—without asking—he sat down on the curb next to you.

not too close. he left a few inches of space between your shoulder and his, like he was being careful not to overstep. but he sat down. right there on the curb.

“i’m not having the best night either,” he said, staring out across the parking lot. “my friends dragged me here. i didn’t have a date, and i was planning on just staying home, but they showed up at my door and basically pulled me out of the house.”

“that sounds annoying.”

“it was. very annoying.” he glanced at you sideways. “less annoying now, though.”

you weren’t sure what to say to that. your face felt hot again, and you looked down at your hands folded in your lap, at the chipped nail polish on your thumb that you’d meant to fix before tonight and forgot.

“i spent two hours getting ready,” you said quietly. “my mom helped me pick out this dress. i practiced walking in heels for a week. and he didn’t even have the decency to—”

your voice cracked. you stopped talking and pressed your lips together hard, because you were not going to cry again. not in front of leon kennedy. not after he’d been nice enough to sit down next to you on a curb instead of just getting in his car and driving away like he probably should have.

“what’s your name?” leon asked.

you told him.

he repeated it back to you, and something about the way he said it, like he was committing it to memory, and made your stomach flip in a way you didn’t want to think about too hard.

“well,” he said, leaning back on his hands and tilting his face up toward the sky. “look. i came out here because i was tired of standing in the corner of the gym while all my friends danced with their dates. didn’t think i’d find someone having a worse night than me, but here we are.”

“thanks. that makes me feel so much better.”

“i’m not finished.” he turned his head to look at you, and his expression had shifted into something less guarded—still tired, still careful, but softer around the edges. “i was going to say: since we’re both here, and neither of us has a date, and you’re already wearing a really nice dress—would you want to be my prom date?”

the question hung in the air between you. for a second you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. leon kennedy, asking you to prom. not out of pity—or maybe a little out of pity, but also something else, something that looked almost hopeful in the way his eyebrows drew together while he waited for your answer.

“you don’t have to say yes,” he added quickly, and his voice dipped a little, losing some of its confidence. “i’m not trying to—i mean, you obviously don’t have to. i just thought, you know, since we’re both here, and you’re dressed up, and i’m dressed up, and there’s music playing, and it seems like a waste to just sit out here on the curb all night…”

he trailed off. his ears had gone slightly pink.

you stared at him for a moment. the breeze picked up a strand of your hair and blew it across your cheek, and you reached up to tuck it behind your ear while your brain tried to catch up with what was happening.

“sure,” you said finally. “it’s not like i’ve got anything to lose.”

leon’s face broke into a smile, not the polite, careful expression he’d been wearing before, but a real one, the kind that reached his eyes and made him look younger somehow. less tired.

“yeah?” he said.

“yeah.”

he stood up first and then held out his hand to help you up. his palm was warm and a little calloused, and his fingers closed around yours with a steadiness that made something in your chest loosen just slightly. you let him pull you to your feet, and for a moment you just stood there on the edge of the parking lot, holding hands with a boy you’d never actually spoken to before tonight, wearing a dress you’d almost taken off an hour ago, about to walk into prom with someone who wasn’t your ex-boyfriend.

“i should probably warn you,” you said, brushing off the back of your dress, “i’m not a very good dancer.”

“neither am i,” leon said. “we’ll be terrible together.”

the gymnasium looked exactly like you’d imagined it would. paper streamers twisted across the ceiling in the school colors, blue and silver. a disco ball spinning slowly in the center of the room, casting little flecks of light across the dance floor. a table set up near the bleachers with a punch bowl and stacks of plastic cups. chaperones lining the walls, trying to look like they weren’t bored out of their minds.

when you walked in with leon, a few people turned to look. you felt their gazes land on you—on the two of you together—and your face heated up all over again. but leon didn’t seem to notice. or if he did, he didn’t care. he just kept walking toward the dance floor with his hand resting lightly on your lower back, steering you through the crowd like he’d done this a hundred times before.

“you okay?” he asked, leaning down so you could hear him over the music.

“yeah. just—people are staring.”

“so? let them stare.”

the first song that came on was fast, something upbeat with a heavy beat that made the floor vibrate. leon grabbed your hand and pulled you into the middle of the crowd without hesitation, and for the next few minutes you forgot to be self-conscious. he danced like he didn’t care if he looked stupid—arms flailing, hips moving in a way that wasn’t quite on beat, grinning the whole time—and it was so unexpected, so completely at odds with the quiet, serious guy you’d met in the parking lot, that you found yourself laughing before you even realized it.

“what?” he shouted over the music.

“nothing! you’re just—you’re a really bad dancer!”

“i told you!”

a few songs later, the tempo slowed down. couples paired off across the dance floor, arms wrapping around shoulders and waists, swaying in place under the spinning disco ball. you felt your stomach tighten. this was the part you’d been dreading since you walked in—the slow dances, where everyone had someone and you’d be standing off to the side trying not to look as lonely as you felt.

only you weren’t alone tonight.

leon turned to you, his expression shifting into something more hesitant. he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, and for the first time since you’d met him outside, he looked genuinely nervous.

“so,” he said. “slow song.”

“i noticed.”

“do you want to—i mean, we don’t have to, but—”

you reached out and took his hand before he could finish. his fingers curled around yours automatically, and you stepped closer until you were standing right in front of him, close enough to see the way the disco ball lights reflected in his eyes.

“you already asked me to prom,” you said. “you don’t have to be nervous about asking me to dance.”

“i’m not nervous.”

“your ears are pink again.”

he laughed , surprised and genuine—and then his hands settled on your waist, light at first, like he was giving you the chance to change your mind. you didn’t. you slid your arms up around his shoulders instead, and the two of you started to sway.

the song was something old. you recognized it vaguely , a ballad your mom loved very much, one of those love songs from the seventies that made her sigh and put her hand over her heart whenever it came on the radio. the singer’s voice crooned through the gymnasium speakers, slightly distorted by the cheap sound system, and the disco ball kept spinning, and leon’s hands on your waist were warm even through the satin of your dress.

“can i ask you something?” you said after a minute.

“sure.”

“why did you come outside? really?”

leon was quiet for a few seconds. his jaw tightened slightly, and you watched him consider the question, weighing something in his head that you couldn’t see.

“i don’t know,” he said finally. “i guess i just needed a break. from all of this.” he gestured vaguely at the gymnasium around you—the decorations, the crowd, the noise. “everyone expects you to have the time of your life at prom, right? like it’s supposed to be this perfect night. but if you don’t have someone to share it with, it just feels… i don’t know. empty.”

“yeah,” you said softly. “i know what you mean.”

he looked down at you, and for a moment neither of you said anything. the song was winding down, the final chords fading into something softer, and the couples around you were starting to pull apart, but you and leon just kept swaying.

“i’m glad i found you,” he said.

“me too,” you said.

the moment happened during the next slow song. you weren’t sure who leaned in first. maybe both of you at the same time, pulled together by something that felt inevitable now, like the whole night had been building toward this one point. the music swelled around you, and the disco ball kept turning, and leon’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you just a little closer.

“can i kiss you?” he asked.

his voice was barely above a whisper. his forehead was almost touching yours, and his eyes were searching your face for permission, for any sign that you might say no.

you reached up instead and placed your hands on either side of his face, your fingers brushing against the slight stubble along his jaw, and you kissed him. softly. gently. the way you’d always imagined a prom night kiss should feel, except somehow better, because it wasn’t choreographed or expected or part of some plan you’d made weeks in advance. it was just happening, right here in the middle of the dance floor, while a song you didn’t know the name of played through the speakers.

his lips were warm. he tasted faintly of the punch from the refreshment table, and his hand at your back pressed just firmly enough to make you feel steady, grounded, like you weren’t about to float away even though that was exactly what it felt like.

when you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little harder than before. your forehead rested against his, and you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and a little uneven.

prom ended at eleven. the lights came up in the gymnasium and the chaperones started herding everyone toward the exits, and you walked outside with leon into the cool night air, your cardigan wrapped around your shoulders and your hand still loosely tangled with his.

“i can give you a ride home,” he offered. “if you want. my car’s right over there.”

“the one i was crying next to?”

“that’s the one.”

you laughed, it felt easier now and nodded. “yeah. okay. let me just tell my parents.”

your mom and dad were still parked in the same spot they’d been in an hour and a half ago. your dad was reading a magazine under the dome light, and your mom had her head leaned back against the seat with her eyes closed, but she sat up the moment you tapped on the window.

“i’m getting a ride home,” you said when she rolled the window down. “with leon. he’s—he was my date. sort of.”

your mom’s eyes flicked to leon, who was standing a few feet behind you with his hands in his pockets, looking suddenly very interested in the asphalt. then she looked back at you, and her expression did something complicated, surprise, confusion, and then a dawning kind of understanding that made her smile in a way you couldn’t quite read.

“leon,” she repeated. “leon kennedy?”

“yeah. do you know him?”

“i know his parents. well—i know of him. he’s a good kid.” she paused. “he’s not your ex-boyfriend.”

“no. he’s definitely not.”

your mom looked at your dad, who had put down his magazine and was squinting out the window at leon with an expression that was trying very hard to be stern and not quite succeeding. then she looked back at you and reached through the window to squeeze your hand.

“be home by midnight,” she said. “and tell him thank you. from us.”

you promised you would.

the drive to your house took about twenty minutes. leon’s car smelled like old coffee and something faintly woodsy—his cologne, maybe, or just the way his car always smelled. he kept the radio on low, some rock station, and for most of the drive neither of you talked. it wasn’t an awkward silence, though. it was comfortable, the kind of quiet that settled between two people who’d just shared something unexpected and didn’t feel the need to fill the space with words.

your phone rang about ten minutes in. your mom.

“hello?”

“sweetheart, just wanted to let you know—we’re home now, and dinner’s still on the table. i made your favorite. well, i made it for you and your ex, but obviously he’s not coming, so there’s plenty extra. do you think leon would want to stay?”

you lowered the phone slightly and turned to look at leon. his profile was silhouetted against the window, the passing streetlights casting shadows across his face.

“hey,” you said. “you don’t have any plans tonight, right? my mom made dinner, and i was wondering maybe—if you’d like to come? as a thank you. you really made my night.”

leon glanced at you, his eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise. then he smiled, that same real smile from before, the one that made him look younger.

“yeah,” he said. “sure. i’d like that."

your house was warm and bright when you pulled into the driveway. the porch light was on, and you could see your mom moving around in the kitchen through the front window, probably putting the finishing touches on dinner like she always did when she was nervous about guests.

“fair warning,” you said as you and leon walked up the front steps. “my parents are kind of a lot. my mom’s going to ask you a million questions, and my dad’s going to pretend to be scary even though he’s basically a teddy bear.”

“i think i can handle it.”

your mom opened the door before you could even reach for the handle. she was wearing her nice apron—the one with the embroidered flowers along the hem—and her hair was pinned back the way she did when she’d been cooking all day.

“you must be leon,” she said, beaming. “come in, come in. dinner’s almost ready.”

“thank you for having me, mrs.—”

“oh, please. call me—”

she stopped. just for a second, her eyes flicking from leon’s face to yours and back again. her mouth opened slightly, and you could see the question forming on her lips before she even said it.

“wait,” she said. “but that’s not—”

you caught her eye and shook your head once, very slightly. please, just don’t ask.

your mom pressed her lips together. she looked at you for another long moment, and something passed between you, an understanding, maybe, or at least the promise of an explanation later.

“that’s not what?” leon asked, looking between the two of you.

“nothing,” your mom said, her voice bright and only slightly forced. “i was just going to say—that’s not your car in the driveway, is it? the one with the dent in the back bumper? your father’s been meaning to fix that for weeks.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

dinner went better than you expected. your mom had made her lasagna, your actual favorite, the one she only made for special occasions—and there was garlic bread and salad and a pitcher of lemonade on the table. your dad asked leon about school and sports and what he was planning to do after graduation, and leon answered all of it with this easy, unhurried politeness that made your parents exchange approving looks across the table.

and then your mom brought up ninth grade.

“did she ever tell you about the time she tried out for cheerleading?” your mom asked leon, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“mom!” you said warningly.

“she practiced the routine for three weeks. in the backyard. every single day after school. and then the morning of tryouts, she got so nervous that she walked into the gym, took one look at the judges, and walked right back out again.”

leon snorted into his lemonade. “no way.”

“i was fourteen,” you protested, your face burning. “fourteen-year-olds are allowed to get nervous”

“you didn’t even try,” your dad added, shaking his head. “we kept asking you what happened and you just said, and i quote, ‘it wasn’t for me.’”

“it wasn’t for me!”

your mom launched into another story—something about a school play in tenth grade where you forgot all your lines and improvised a monologue about aliens , and you sank lower and lower in your chair while leon laughed, his shoulders shaking with it, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“i’m going to die of embarrassment,” you muttered into your lasagna.

“you’re doing great,” leon said quietly, nudging your foot under the table.

after dinner, you walked leon to the door. your parents had retreated to the living room, giving you some semblance of privacy, and the house felt quieter now, the night settling in around you.

you stood in the entryway for a moment, neither of you quite sure how to end things. leon had his jacket slung over his arm again, his tie still loosened, and his hair had gotten slightly messier over the course of the evening, falling across his forehead in that way you were starting to recognize.

“thank you,” you said. “again. for being so kind. and for spending tonight with me.”

“yeah. of course.”

you hesitated. “you know—i’d love it if you could maybe come over for dinner again sometime. my mom seems to like you.”

leon ducked his head, a shy smile flickering across his face. “yeah. i’d like that too.”

“oh! we should keep in touch.” you grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper from the little table by the door and scribbled down your number. “here. call me sometime. or don’t. but you should. if you want.”

he took the paper and folded it carefully, tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket like it was something valuable. “thanks. for being my prom date. you kind of saved my night too, you know.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. your chest felt tight again, but not in the way it had at the beginning of the night. this was different—warmer, softer, like something was blooming inside you that you hadn’t even known was there.

leon leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek. quick and light, barely there, but it made your skin tingle where his lips had been.

“goodnight,” he said.

“goodnight.”

he walked back to his car, and you stood in the doorway watching him go, your hand resting on the doorframe and your heart beating a little too fast in your chest. the headlights flicked on, and the engine rumbled to life, and then he was pulling out of the driveway, his taillights disappearing down the street.

you stayed there for a long moment after he was gone, the night air cool against your skin, the porch light casting your shadow across the front steps.

maybe the worst night of your life had somehow turned into the beginning of something better.

older! RE9 Leon - NSFW alphabet

a = aftercare it’s the most gentle part of him. the rush of the moment dies down, but he doesn’t let go. he’s got you tucked against his chest, his heart still beating hard against your back while he drags his thumb over your skin, feeling the spots where he left his mark. he doesn’t say much, just presses his face into your neck and breathes you in. he’s wiped out, and so are you. he’s the one who carries you to the shower, washes the sweat and the slick off you with hands that are suddenly so careful, so gentle. he kisses your forehead like he’s anchoring you to him, like he’s making sure you know that the rough shit earlier was just him losing his head, not him forgetting that you’re his.

b = body part your hips. he needs something solid to grip when you’re trying to squirm away from him or when he’s pinning you down to shut you up. he likes leaving his prints there, likes feeling the way your skin yields under his palm. it’s possessive, a silent claim. for him, you love his hands. they’re huge, calloused, and scarred from years of hell, but they’re also the only thing that can make you feel completely, utterly helpless when he locks your wrists behind your back. there’s something about the weight of his hands on you that just makes your knees go weak.

c = cum messy and completely unapologetic. he likes filling you up, wants to feel you clamp down around him as he loses it. he’s got this smug look when he’s done, watching his release leak out of you and ruin the cushions while you’re still twitching, still coming down from the high. he doesn’t rush to clean it up. he likes the mess because it proves he was there, that he just tore you apart.

d = dirty secret he gets off on you talking back to him in front of people. it’s a constant friction. when you shoot him a glare or a snarky comment across a crowded room, he’s not annoyed, he’s counting the minutes until he can get you alone. he spends the rest of the night thinking about the exact second he’s gonna pin you against a door, bury his face in your hair, and fuck the attitude out of you while he covers your mouth so no one hears you begging him to stop.

e = experience he doesn’t have to guess. he knows your body better than you do, knows every single spot that makes you lose your mind. he’s methodical about it. he’ll drag his fingers along the inside of your thighs, tease your clit until you’re sobbing for more, and then pull back just to see how much you’re willing to beg. it’s infuriating, honestly, how easily he can read your reactions and use them to break you down.

f = favorite position probably prone bone. nothing beats it for him. he loves having you flat on your stomach, your cheek pressed into the fabric, wrists locked behind your back in that iron grip of his. you’re at his mercy in that position. you can’t look at him, you can’t fight back, you can’t do anything but moan into the cushions while he hits your cervix with every single brutal thrust, over and over again.

g = goofy he’s not goofy. he’s just a sarcastic, arrogant ass. when you’re trying to act tough and your voice starts to crack, or when your legs are shaking so hard you can barely stay upright, he’ll just laugh in your ear. it’s not funny, but it’s him, he loves taunting you, throwing your own shit right back in your face while he stretches you out, watching your expression melt from defiance.

h = hair he keeps himself trimmed. he’s not the type to let things get out of hand, it’s just not in his nature to be unkempt. as for you? he honestly doesn't care. it's just you, and he’s not the one to judge or have some weird expectation for how you keep yourself.he’s too busy burying his face between your thighs to give a shit about anything else, but he’ll absolutely grab a fistful of your head hair to yank your head back when you’re being a brat, making you look at him while he works on you.

i = intimacy it isn’t some grand gesture. it’s the way he drags his eyes over your face while he’s pushing into you, like he’s trying to memorize the way you unravel. when things get more intense, he drops the sarcasm and leans his forehead against yours, breathing in the same rhythm. he wants you to look at him, to see him, and he’ll hold your gaze until your eyes roll back. it’s in the small stuff, the way his hand stops trembling once he feels your walls relaxing, or how he’ll murmur your name right as he’s about to finish, his voice sounding like he’s completely given up on trying to stay collected. he’s not a poet, and he’s not trying to be. he’s just grounded, and he wants you right there with him, locked in that quiet, frantic headspace where neither of you has to pretend to be anything else. it’s him needing to know you’re still with him, still right there under his skin, even after he’s absolutely wrecked you.

j = jack off it’s rare, and it’s mostly out of frustration. usually when he’s stuck on some godforsaken mission and he hasn’t seen you in weeks. it’s quick, it’s angry, and it’s almost always in a cold shower. he’s just thinking about the way you look when you’re arguing with him, the way you taste, and exactly how hard he’s going to take it out on you when he gets home.

k = kink edge play and praise. he’s a menace with it. he’ll keep you on the brink for what feels like hours, rubbing your clit just right until you’re sobbing and begging him to stop or to just finish it. and the moment you finally snap, the moment you submit? the filthy, degrading shit he whispers to you, telling you you’re his, telling you how good you’re being, it’s enough to make you completely short-circuit.

l = location the couch, the kitchen counter, the hallway against the wall. the bed is for when he actually wants to be soft, but when you poke the bear? he’s not waiting. he grabs you where you are. he likes the rough, real feel of it, pressing you against cold drywall or leaving your slick on the leather cushions just to show you that he doesn’t care where you are

m = motivation you being a stubborn, bratty mess. the second you challenge him or try to act like you’re the one running the show, his eyes go dark. he lives for the power struggle. he loves watching the exact second your confidence crumbles and you go from being a cocky little tease to a whimpering, trembling wreck who can’t even remember how to form a coherent sentence.

n = no sharing. he's yours and you’re his, and he’s very serious about it. he isn’t interested in bringing other people into it or playing games that involve anyone else. he also doesn't go for anything that feels forced or purely performative. he likes the back-and-forth, the way you act out, but there’s a limit. if you’re clearly not into something or if it’s just not clicking for you, he'll stop . he’s not here to force a dynamic that isn’t there.

o = oral giving: he’s relentless. he’ll pin your thighs open with his shoulders and eat you out until your legs are shaking so hard you can’t keep them still. for receiving: he loves watching you choke on his dick, his hand tight in your hair, guiding your head down in a rhythm that makes his eyes roll back and a guttural, broken sound tear from his chest.

p = pace he starts agonizingly slow just to fuck with you. he knows it drives you insane. he wants you to get desperate, wants you to start whining for more. but the second you finally break and ask for it, he stops playing. he takes over completely, driving into you with deep, punishing thrusts that force the breath right out of your lungs and leave you entirely at his mercy.

q = quickie he’s a busy man, so he takes what he can get. backing you up against a door before he has to leave, yanking your clothes aside, and burying himself in you without a word of warning. just a few minutes of hard, desperate, filthy friction to remind you who owns you before he walks out the door.

r = risk if you’re being a brat at a party, he’s absolutely willing to risk it. he’ll sneak his hands under your clothes in a dark room and make you squirm, daring you to make a sound while people are within earshot. he loves the thrill of you trying to keep a straight face while he’s working you up under the table.

s = stamina well , he’s in his 40s, and he knows his limits. he’s not some superhuman that can go for six hours straight. he’s got enough to fuck you until you’re shaking and begging him to stop, sure, but he’s gonna be out of breath and he’s gonna need a minute to recover afterward. he’s not going to try to go all night just to prove a point; he’d rather prioritize the quality of what you’re doing together than try to hit some ridiculous metric. he knows how to pace himself so he’s not completely wiped out after one go.

t = toys he’d much rather use his own hands and his cock. but if he knows a vibrator is going to make you completely short-circuit, he’s not above holding one against your clit while he fucks you from behind just to watch you lose your mind and sob into the pillows.

u = unfair the king of being an unfair asshole. he’ll get you right to the edge, rubbing your spot perfectly, making you moan and then he’ll just stop. he’ll sit there, staring at your flushed face with a nasty smirk, forcing you to use your words and beg him to finish the job. he loves hearing you beg.

v = volume he’s not that loud. it’s all low, guttural grunts and chest-rattling groans that vibrate right against your ear. it’s that rough, breathy praise he rasps when he’s close. he loves it when you’re loud, though. every high-pitched whimper, every broken moan, every time you swear at him, it all just strokes his ego and makes him thrust harder.

w = wild card requiem leon is older, and almost out of patience for your bullshit. he doesn’t play that cat-and-mouse game as long as he used to. he just snaps, grabs your hips, and shows you exactly why you shouldn’t test a man who’s already on his last nerve.

x = x-ray

i'm not too sure .i'd say he’s thick, and he’s got a slight upward curve that makes it hit your g-spot almost every single time he moves. he’s got enough size that it can feel like a lot to take, especially when he’s not holding back. there’s nothing particularly fancy about it, it’s just solid and functional, exactly what you’d expect from a guy like him. he knows how to use it, too .he’s not just jamming away, he’s aiming for that spot that makes your whole body lock up and your eyes roll back.

y = yearning it’s not some constant, burning need like he’s got a timer going off. he’s got a drive, sure, but it’s more about the headspace than anything else. he’s busy, and he’s tired, so he’s not walking around thinking about it every second of the day. but when he’s with you? that’s when it hits. it’s not about just getting off, it’s about that specific dynamic you two have. he craves the way you challenge him, the way you’re a total brat until he actually makes you stop. it’s a release, yeah, but mostly it’s about the fact that you’re the only person who can get a rise out of him like that. he’s not looking for anyone else, and he’s not interested in anything that doesn’t he actually enjoys.

z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) once his heart rate drops and he knows you’re taken care of, he'll crash on the mattress. he sleeps like the dead, face buried in the crook of your neck, with an arm wrapped around your waist in a grip so tight you couldn’t sneak out of bed to the bathroom if you wanted to.

marry the sin

- older husband!leon x younger wife!reader - tags : wedding night , religious guilt , a bit of angst , parent issues , passionate sex , creampie pregnant sex ,

- wc: 6k ? i think i wrote this during biochem i dont remember well ,, not proofread

your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. this was supposed to be the best day of your life. you were finally marrying leon. the man you’d met five years ago in that hospital room, who had grumbled about the food and made dry jokes that you pretended not to find funny. the man who had looked at you like you were the only person in the world the first time you kissed him, who had held your hand through the panic when you saw the two pink lines on the pregnancy test, who had dropped to one knee on a tuesday evening with no fanfare and said, “i don’t want to wait anymore. marry me.” and now you were here, in a little white dress you’d chosen yourself, about to walk down an aisle and promise him forever.

you pressed your palms against your thighs. the tremor traveled up through your wrists, into your forearms, and you watched your fingers curl and uncurl against the skin there, the nail beds blanching white with each squeeze. it wasn’t cold in the room. if anything, the afternoon sun streaming through the sheer curtains made the air feel thick and warm, almost drowsy, the kind of weather that usually settled your nerves. not today. today your body had decided to revolt against you, sending little electric currents of anxiety through your hands that made even the simplest tasks feel impossible.

claire had helped you with your hair an hour ago. she’d stood behind you in the bathroom, her fingers working through the damp strands with practiced ease, curling and pinning until everything fell in soft waves around your shoulders. she’d chattered about nothing important. something about chris forgetting to pick up his tux on time, about jill threatening to wear something outrageous just to see the look on everyone’s faces and you’d nodded along, grateful for the distraction. rebecca had stopped by too, popping her head in to ask if you needed anything, her smile warm and knowing in a way that made your throat tight.

they’d all been so good to you. so supportive. so completely unaware of the war going on inside your head.

the church had nearly broken you. you’d walked in that morning for the rehearsal, your heels clicking against the stone floor, and the smell of old wood and candle wax had hit you like a fist to the chest. it was the same smell from your childhood. the same dim lighting, the same rows of polished pews, the same stained glass casting colored shadows across the altar. you’d stood there in the aisle, one hand resting on the back of a pew, and for a moment you couldn’t breathe.

your parents’ faces had surfaced in your mind without warning. your mother’s tight smile, the one she wore when she talked about god’s will. your father’s voice, low and certain, explaining that they’d found someone suitable, someone faithful, someone who would guide you down the right path. the path they’d chosen for you. the path you’d never wanted.

you’d gripped the pew harder, the wood biting into your palm, and forced yourself to count backward from ten. the numbers had blurred together in your head, but you’d kept going, kept breathing, kept your eyes fixed on the altar until the nausea passed. claire had touched your elbow, asking if you were okay, and you’d nodded. smiled. said something about the flowers being more beautiful than you’d expected.

but inside, you’d felt sick. sick at the thought of sitting in a church, surrounded by the symbols of a faith you’d thrown away years ago. sick at the memory of what your parents had tried to do to you, how they’d twisted belief into a cage and called it love. sick at the knowledge that some part of you still carried that weight, even now, even on what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

you’d left the country to escape them. you’d built a new life, found a new job, made friends who saw you for who you actually were instead of who they wanted you to be. you’d met leon, leon of all people, with his tired, beautiful eyes and the way he looked at you like you were something precious, and you’d let yourself fall for him in a way you’d never been allowed to fall for anyone before. you’d gotten pregnant, a surprise that had terrified you at first and then slowly, slowly, become something you held close to your heart like a secret promise. and now you were getting married.

but the church still made you feel like a child again. small. trapped. afraid of a god you no longer believed in but couldn’t quite forget.

you swallowed hard and reached for the dress. the silk was cool against your fingers, smooth and heavy, the fabric pooling in your hands as you lifted it from the hanger. the neckline dipped low, lower than anything you’d ever worn before, and for a second you felt a flicker of something that wasn’t anxiety. something warmer. you’d chosen this dress because it made you feel beautiful, because the ivory silk caught the light in a way that made your skin glow, the zipper ran all the way down the back in a clean, elegant line that you knew leon’s eyes would follow.

you stepped into it carefully, pulling the fabric up over your hips, your belly, your chest. the bump was small but noticeable now, a gentle curve that made the silk stretch just slightly across your middle. you’d been self-conscious about it at first, worried that it would ruin the silhouette, but claire had taken one look at you during the fitting and said, “if leon doesn’t cry when he sees you, i’m revoking his best man privileges.” you’d laughed then, and the sound had surprised you, bright and genuine in a way you hadn’t expected.

the zipper was the hard part. you twisted your arm behind your back, fingers fumbling for the small metal tab, but the angle was awkward and your hands were still trembling and after three attempts you had to stop and press your palms against your stomach and breathe.

you thought about your parents again. about how they weren’t here. about how they’d never even know this day happened unless someone told them. about how you’d made the choice to cut them out of your life and how that choice had been the hardest and easiest thing you’d ever done.

and then you thought about leon. about the way he’d looked at you when you’d told him about your family, his jaw tight and his eyes hard with something that wasn’t pity. he hadn’t said much. he rarely did. but he’d pulled you against his chest and held you there, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you’d felt safer in that moment than you’d ever felt in a church.

“stop it” you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible in the quiet room. “just stop.gosh.” you reached for the zipper again. and this time, your fingers caught it.

the ceremony had been beautiful. there was no other word for it. the flowers had been arranged in cascading clusters of white and pale pink, their scent drifting through the church like a soft, sweet perfume. the music had been perfect, something classical and gentle that filled the high ceilings and made the whole space feel sacred in a way that had nothing to do with religion. your friends had filled the pews, their faces bright with joy, and when you’d walked down the aisle, your arm linked through chris’s because you’d had no father to give you away, the only thing you’d been able to see was leon.

he’d stood at the altar in his dark suit, his hair falling just slightly over his forehead, his hands clasped in front of him. his eyes had found yours the moment you’d stepped through the doors, and the look on his face, god, the look on his face had nearly made your knees buckle. it wasn’t just love. it was relief. it was gratitude. it was the expression of a man who had spent decades wading through darkness and had finally, impossibly, found something good.

his jaw had flexed when you got closer. his throat had worked as he swallowed. and when you’d finally reached him, when you’d slipped your hand into his and felt the warmth of his palm against yours, you’d seen his eyes go glassy in a way that made your own vision blur.

“hey,” you’d whispered, because you hadn’t known what else to say.

“hey,” he’d whispered back, and the corner of his mouth had twitched up in that half-smile you loved so much.

the vows had passed in a haze. you’d spoken the words, heard him speak his, felt the cool slide of the ring onto your finger, and then he’d kissed you, soft and slow, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek, and the church had filled with applause. you’d laughed against his mouth, startled and breathless, and he’d pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours.

“you’re stunning,” he’d murmured, so quiet that only you could hear. “absolutely stunning.”

you’d beamed up at him, something loosening in your chest, and for the rest of the ceremony you’d held his hand and let yourself feel happy. genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy.

the reception had been easier. the venue was bright and open, nothing like the church, with tall windows that let in streams of golden afternoon light and tables draped in cream-colored linens. there had been food and music and champagne, sparkling water for you, and so many people you loved, all gathered in one place, all celebrating the life you’d built for yourself. jill had cornered you near the cake table to tell you that your dress was “criminally gorgeous,” and rebecca had teared up during her toast, and claire had danced with such abandon that she’d nearly knocked over a centerpiece.

leon had stayed close to you the whole time. his hand found the small of your back whenever you were standing, his fingers tracing absent patterns through the silk of your dress. when you sat down to eat, he’d leaned over and murmured something dry about the caterer’s choice of salmon that had made you snort into your napkin. when you’d danced together for the first time as a married couple, his arms had wrapped around you like he was afraid you might disappear, and you’d pressed your cheek to his chest and listened to his heartbeat and felt, for the first time in weeks, something like peace.

but even then, in the middle of all that joy, there had been moments. small ones. quiet ones. a flash of stained glass in your peripheral vision. the distant sound of an organ. the way the sunlight hit the white tablecloths and reminded you, just for a second, of an altar cloth. you’d pushed those thoughts away each time, forcing yourself back into the present, back into the warmth of leon’s hand and the sound of your friends’ laughter.

you weren’t going to let them win. by the time the reception wound down and the last guests trickled out, your feet were aching and your cheeks hurt from smiling and all you wanted was to be alone with him. leon must have felt the same way, because the moment the door clicked shut behind the last person, he’d turned to you with an expression that made your stomach flip.

“ready to go home, mrs. kennedy?” you’d laughed, tired and giddy, and let him lead you to the car.

the drive home was quiet. leon kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, his thumb brushing back and forth over the silk of your dress in a rhythm that felt almost hypnotic. the streetlights flickered past the windows in steady pulses, and you leaned your head against the seat and watched his profile in the dim glow. his jaw. his nose. the way his hair fell across his forehead. the slight furrow between his brows that never quite went away, even when he was relaxed.

“got something on my face?” he said, not taking his eyes off the road.

“can't a wife admire her husband?"

his mouth twitched. “flattery.”

“hey! i'm just saying the truth."

he glanced at you then, quick and warm, and squeezed your thigh just once before returning his attention to the road. your heart swelled in your chest until it felt too big for your ribs.

when he pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, the silence that settled over the car was different. heavier. charged with something that hadn’t been there before. you sat there for a moment, neither of you moving, the air between you growing thick with anticipation.

leon turned to you first. his eyes traced over your face, your neck, the low neckline of your dress, and when he spoke his voice was rough at the edges.“come inside with me.”

the house was dark when you stepped through the door, the only light coming from the moon spilling through the windows and pooling silver on the hardwood floors. leon closed the door behind you, the latch clicking softly, and then his hands were on your waist and he was turning you to face him.

“been waiting all day to get you alone,” he murmured, his fingers flexing against the silk. “you have no idea how hard it was to keep my hands off you during that reception.”

you smiled up at him, your own hands coming up to rest on his chest. “claire caught you staring at least three times.”

“claire needs to mind her own business.”

“she was taking bets on how long it would take you to drag me away from the party.”

leon huffed a quiet laugh, his breath warm against your forehead. “what was the over-under?"

“forty-five minutes. you made it almost two hours. jill won the pool.”

“jill’s always had too much faith in my self-control.”

his hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your waist, your ribs, the swell of your breasts through the silk. your breathing stuttered, the tremor returning to your hands as you gripped the lapels of his jacket. his fingers paused, his thumbs resting just below your collarbones, and he studied your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

“your hands are shaking,” he said quietly.

“i know. i'm just—”

“you nervous, sweetheart?”

you shook your head , then shrugged. “im not nervous. its just a lot. today was a lot for me to take in.”

leon’s expression softened. his hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking along your cheekbone in a slow, soothing rhythm. “good a lot or bad a lot?”

“good,” you said, and it was true. mostly true. true enough that you didn’t feel like you were lying. “really good. the best.”

he studied you for another moment, his eyes searching yours, and you knew he could tell there was more. he always could. but he didn’t push. he just leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there, warm and dry and impossibly tender. “then let’s make the rest of the night good too, baby,” he said against your skin.

you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. he pulled back and shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. his tie came next, loosened with a few deft tugs and dropped to the floor. then his hands were back on you, turning you around, and you felt his fingers find the zipper of your dress.

“let me,” he murmured.the zipper slid down with a soft whisper of metal on metal, and the silk loosened around your shoulders. leon’s hands followed the path of the zipper, his knuckles grazing your spine, and you shivered at the contact. he was gentle in a way that made your chest ache, his touch careful and deliberate, like he was unwrapping something fragile.

the dress slipped down your arms and pooled at your feet, leaving you in your slip. you stepped out of the fabric and turned back to face him, suddenly aware of how exposed you were, how the moonlight cut across your skin and caught the curve of your belly. leon’s breath left him in a slow exhale.

“god,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “look at you.” his hands found your waist again, sliding over the thin material of your slip, tracing the shape of you. you reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt, your fingers still trembling but steadier now, focused on the task. each button gave way under your touch, revealing more of his chest, his stomach, the scars that mapped his skin like a history of all the battles he’d survived. when you pushed the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall, you ran your palms over his collarbones, his pecs, the solid warmth of him.

he shrugged off his shoes. you pushed his pants down his hips, and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside. his cock was already hard beneath his boxers, the outline of it pressing against the thin cotton, and your mouth went dry at the sight. you’d seen him like this so many times before, five years together, and you knew his body as well as you knew your own but tonight it felt different. tonight it felt like your first time all over again. leon must have sensed the shift in you, because he paused, his hands stilling on your hips.

“hey,” he said softly. “we’ve got all night, sweetheart.”you nodded, swallowing hard. “i know. i know. i just want this. i want you.”

his eyes held yours for a long moment, and then he nodded too. his hand moved to the strap of your slip, pushing it off your shoulder slowly, deliberately, letting the fabric slide down your arm. he did the same with the other strap, and then the slip was falling, catching briefly on your hips before joining the dress on the floor. you stood before him in nothing but your panties, the air cool against your bare skin, your nipples tightening in response.

leon’s gaze dropped to your chest. his jaw flexed. his hand came up, fingers brushing the underside of your left breast, so light it was almost a ghost of a touch. you inhaled sharply, your stomach tightening, and he watched your reaction with hooded eyes.

“so beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “my wife.”

the word hit you square in the chest. my wife. you’d heard it all day, from friends, from the officiant, from leon himself, but here, now, in the dark of your own home with nothing between you, it felt different. it felt real.

he cupped your breast fully then, his palm warm and rough against the soft skin, and you let out a shaky breath. his thumb found your nipple, circling it slowly, teasing the bud until it pebbled under his touch. your head fell back slightly, your eyes fluttering shut, and you heard him make a low sound in his throat. “that feel good?”

“yes,” you breathed. his other hand moved to your other breast, mirroring the motion, and you swayed slightly on your feet. he steadied you with his body, stepping closer until his chest was nearly pressed against yours, his fingers working both nipples now in slow, lazy circles that sent sparks of heat straight down to your core. you could feel yourself getting wet, the fabric of your panties growing damp against your folds, and you shifted your hips instinctively, seeking friction.

leon noticed. his eyes dropped to the waistband of your panties, and his hands left your breasts to settle on your hips.“these need to come off, baby,” he said, hooking his fingers into the elastic.

“then take them off.” he didn’t need to be told twice. he knelt down, pulling the panties down your legs, and you stepped out of them one foot at a time, bracing your hands on his shoulders for balance. his face was level with your belly now, and he paused there, his breath warm against the swell of your stomach. his hands came up to frame the curve, thumbs stroking the taut skin, and he pressed a kiss just below your navel.

your throat tightened. your eyes stung. you blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

he rose back to his feet and kissed you. it started soft, just a brush of his lips against yours, but then your mouth parted and his tongue slid inside and the kiss deepened into something hungrier, more urgent. your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest.

his hand slid down your stomach, lower, until his fingers brushed the neat trim of hair at the top of your mound. you gasped against his lips, your hips jerking forward, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss. his fingers traced the seam of your folds, baring your slick, swollen pussy completely.

his touch was light at first. just the pads of his fingers tracing up and down, barely grazing the sensitive skin. your legs trembled. your hands tightened in his hair. he circled your clit once, twice, the friction feather-soft and maddening, and a whimper escaped your throat. “leon—”

“shh,” he hushed, his lips moving to your jaw, your neck, his fingers still tracing that infuriatingly slow rhythm. “just let me touch you.”

you nodded, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts. his middle finger pressed more firmly against your clit, circling it with steady pressure now, and your hips rolled into his hand. the wetness between your legs was spreading, slicking your folds, and when he dipped lower to gather some of that moisture and spread it over your clit, the glide became smoother, more devastating. “so wet already, sweetheart,” he murmured against your neck. “been thinking about this all day?”

“yes,” you admitted, the word catching in your throat. “couldn’t stop thinking about you.” his teeth grazed your pulse point. his finger circled faster. your legs threatened to give out.

and then his hand dipped lower, sliding two fingers inside you in one smooth motion, and you cried out, your head falling back, your nails digging into his scalp. he curled his fingers forward, finding that spot inside you that made sparks burst behind your eyes, and stroked it with relentless precision while his thumb continued to work your clit in tight, wet circles.

“look at me,” he said. you forced your eyes open. his gaze was fixed on your face with an intensity that made your stomach clench. his fingers moved inside you, stretching you, filling you, and you could hear the wet sounds of your arousal with every thrust of his hand.“you close already, baby? tell me,” he asked, his voice a rough rumble.

you nodded, unable to form any words from the pleasure.

“good,” he said, and his thumb pressed harder against your clit, his fingers pumping faster, and the coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter until

you came with a broken moan, your body shuddering against his, your walls clenching around his fingers. he held you through it, his hand still moving, drawing out every pulse and spasm until you were trembling and gasping and clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

he eased his fingers out of you slowly, and you watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean. “you taste incredible,” he said, his voice wrecked.

your knees were jelly. you reached for him, fisting your hand in the waistband of his boxers and tugging him toward the bedroom. he followed, letting you lead, his hands settling on your hips to steady you as you walked backward.

the bed hit the back of your legs, and you sat down heavily, pulling him with you. he braced his hands on either side of you, caging you in, and you reached between your bodies to push his boxers down his hips. his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip already slick with pre-cum, and you wrapped your hand around him without thinking, stroking from base to tip in one slow, deliberate motion.

leon groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “fuck."you stroked him again, twisting your wrist on the upstroke the way you knew he liked, and his hips bucked into your hand. his breathing turned ragged, his shoulders tensing, and you felt a surge of satisfaction at the way he was falling apart under your touch. but he caught your wrist after the third stroke, stilling your hand. “not yet,” he said, his voice strained. “need to be inside you first.”

he guided you back onto the bed, and you scooted up toward the pillows, your legs parting to make room for him. he followed, settling between your thighs, his cock brushing against your slick folds and making you gasp.

but he didn’t push in. not yet. instead, he reached down and took himself in hand, rubbing the head of his cock up and down through your wetness in slow, teasing strokes. the blunt tip caught on your clit with each pass, sending little jolts of pleasure through your nerves, and you whimpered, your hips lifting off the bed. “leon, please”

“please what, my love? use your words,” he asked, his voice low and rough. his eyes were fixed on where their bodies almost met, watching the way his cock slid through your folds, the way your arousal coated him until he was glistening.

“i want you inside me. please. i need it”

he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, just barely, just enough to make you feel the stretch. you held your breath, waiting, but he didn’t push in. he just stayed there, the tip of him nestled against your opening, his breathing harsh and uneven.

“like this?” he asked. “you want me like this?”

“yes,” you gasped. “god, yes, please, leon” he pushed in. slowly. inch by torturous inch, stretching you open around him until you were full to bursting. your back arched off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets, and a cry tore from your throat as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours.

he stayed there for a moment, buried deep, his forehead pressed to yours. his eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched tight, and you could feel him trembling with the effort of holding still. “you feel so good,” he gritted out. “so tight. so perfect.”

you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, and he groaned, his hips twitching. his hand found yours, fingers lacing together against the mattress, and the gesture was so tender, so intimate, that it made your eyes sting again.

and then he started to move. his thrusts were slow at first, deep and rolling, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with a force that pushed the air from your lungs. the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, wet, rhythmic, obscene and you clung to his hand like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

he shifted his angle slightly, and the head of his cock dragged against that spot inside you, the one that made your vision go white. you cried out, your free hand flying up to grip his shoulder, your nails digging into his skin. “right there,” you managed. “oh god, right there”

“yeah? right here, sweetheart?” he breathed, his pace quickening, his thrusts turning sharper, more targeted.

“yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop”

he didn’t stop. he fucked into you with a rhythm that was almost punishing, each stroke hitting that spot dead-on, and you felt another orgasm building low in your belly, tighter and hotter than the first. his hand squeezed yours, his thumb stroking over your knuckles, and the tenderness of the gesture was such a stark contrast to the way he was driving into you that it made your head spin.

your second orgasm hit without warning, crashing over you in a wave that stole your breath and made your entire body seize. you clenched around him, hard, your walls fluttering and pulsing, and leon groaned, his rhythm faltering for the first time. “fuck,” he hissed. “fuck, i’m not gonna last if you keep doing that”

but you couldn’t stop. your body was still spasming, still milking him, and he let out a guttural sound and drove into you harder, faster, chasing his own release.

“where do you want it?” he asked, his voice barely recognizable. “tell me where”

“inside” you gasped. “come inside me, leon, please, i want to” his hand tightened around yours almost painfully. his hips stuttered. and then he was coming, buried deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilled into you in hot, heavy Dietary spurts. he groaned your name, the sound muffled against your neck, and you held him through it, your legs locked around his waist, your free hand stroking down his spine.

he stayed inside you for a long moment after, his body slumped over yours, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. his hand was still tangled with yours, and you felt his thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles, the motion slow and soothing.

you didn’t want him to pull out. didn’t want to lose the feeling of him buried inside you, the warmth of his release spreading through your belly. you tightened your legs around him, and he made a soft, questioning sound against your neck. “stay,” you whispered. “please just for a little longer.”

he lifted his head to look at you. his eyes were heavy-lidded, his hair damp with sweat, his expression soft in a way that made your heart ache all over again.“i’m not going anywhere, baby,” he said.

he shifted his weight slightly, easing some of the pressure off your belly, but he didn’t pull out. his cock was still half-hard inside you, still twitching with the occasional aftershock, and you could feel his cum starting to leak out around him, warm and slick against your thighs. the sensation should have been messy, uncomfortable, but instead it felt intimate. connective. like he was still claiming you, even after the act was over.

his hand squeezed yours. his lips brushed your forehead. “you alright, sweetheart?” he asked quietly.

your throat tightened. you didn’t want to answer that right away, your gaze fixed on the ceiling, your thoughts churning. the church. your parents. the years of shame and guilt and anger that you’d tried so hard to bury. they were all still there, lurking at the edges of your consciousness, but in this moment, with leon’s body pressed against yours, his hand in yours, his seed still warm inside you, they felt further away than they had in a long time.

“better than ever” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. leon lifted his head again, his eyes searching your face. you could tell he wanted to ask more, wanted to know what had been weighing on you all day, but he held back. he just looked at you, his thumb still stroking your knuckles, and waited.

you wanted to tell him everything. the words were right there, gathered at the back of your throat, pressing against your teeth. but you couldn’t push them out. not yet. maybe not ever. some things were too heavy to hand over, even to the person you trusted most in the world.

so instead, you lifted his hand to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. his skin was warm, slightly salty with sweat, and the gesture made his expression soften even more. “i love you,” you said.

“i love you too, baby,” he said back, without hesitation. he shifted again, and this time you felt him slip out of you, the loss of fullness making you gasp softly. his cum followed, a warm trickle that pooled on the sheets beneath you, and you felt your cheeks flush at the sensation. leon glanced down, watching the way his release leaked from your still-pulsing entrance, and his jaw tightened. “god,” he murmured. “you’re going to kill me.”

you laughed, breathless and giddy, and pulled him down for another kiss. this one was slower, lazier, the urgency from before replaced by something softer. his hand released yours and slid down your body, tracing the curve of your hip, the swell of your belly, the dip of your waist. “we should clean up,” you murmured against his lips.

“in a minute,” he said, his hand settling on your stomach, his palm warm and protective over the small bump there. “just want to stay here for a minute.”

you relaxed into the mattress, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your orgasm, your heart still pounding against your ribs. the weight of that day was still there, still pressing at the edges of your mind, but it felt more manageable now. less suffocating. like something you could carry yourself.

leon’s thumb traced absent circles over your belly, and you let your eyes fall shut, focusing on the rhythm of his touch. his breathing was evening out, his body relaxing against yours, and for a few moments the only sounds in the room were the soft rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the house settling around you.

then he spoke again, his voice was so quiet you almost missed it. “you know you can tell me anything, right? whenever you want to.”

your eyes opened. his gaze was steady, patient, full of a tenderness that made your chest ache. “yeah..i know,” you whispered.

he looked at you for another moment then nodded. his hand slid up from your belly to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.“good,” he said. “because whatever it is, whatever’s been hurting you. i’m not going anywhere. alright?” you stared up at him, at the sharp line of his jaw and the faint crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the way the moonlight caught the silver in his hair. this man, who had survived horrors you couldn’t imagine, who had seen the worst of what the world had to offer and still found it in himself to be gentle, was your husband now. yours. and he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

something inside you cracked open. just a little. “my parents,” you started, and then stopped.

leon didn’t push you further, he just kept stroking your cheek.

“they weren’t there today,” you continued, the words coming out halting and uneven. “and i didn’t want them there. i didn’t. but the church,” your voice broke. “being in that church made me feel like a child again. like i was still trapped. still scared. still trying to be good enough for”

leon’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. his hand stilled on your cheek. “i thought i was over it,” you whispered. “i thought i’d left all of that behind. but it’s still there. it’s still inside me. and i don’t know how to make it stop.”

the silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. leon’s thumb resumed its gentle stroking, and when he spoke, his voice was low and steady.

“you’re not over it,” he said. “and you might never be. but you’re not alone in it either. you’ve got me. you’ve got our friends. you’ve got this life we’re building together. and whatever your parents left behind, they can’t touch you here, sweetheart. not unless you let them. okay?”

you stared at him, your throat tight and your eyes burning.

“i know it’s not that simple,” he added, his hand slipping back down to rest on your belly. “but.. it’s a start.”

a tear slipped down your cheek. then another. leon wiped them away with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle.

“i love you,” he said again. “and i’m not going anywhere.” you reached up and pulled him down to you, burying your face in the crook of his neck. his arms wrapped around you, solid and warm, and you let yourself cry, quietly, without sobs, just a slow leak of tears that soaked into his skin. he held you through it, his hand stroking your hair, his lips pressed to the top of your head.

when the tears finally stopped, you felt hollowed out. empty. but not in a bad way. in the way a room feels after it’s been cleared of clutter, open, bare, ready for something new.

you pulled back and looked at him. his eyes were red-rimmed, but he was smiling, just a little. “better?” he asked.

“better,” you said, and it was true. he kissed you softly, just a press of lips, and then rolled onto his side and pulled you with him until you were curled against his chest. his hand found yours again, fingers lacing together against the sheets.

“we should get married more often,” he murmured against your hair, and you laughed and smacked his chest lightly.

“gosh. you’re an idiot.”

“im your idiot, don't forget that,” he corrected, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

you closed your eyes and let yourself sink into the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the familiar scent of his skin. the weight was still there, you knew it would be for a long time, maybe forever but it felt lighter now.

and then his hand slid down to your thigh and squeezed. “you know,” he said, his voice taking on a lower, rougher edge, “we never did finish that conversation about what you were thinking during the ceremony.”

your eyes flew open. his gaze was darker now, the tenderness from before replaced by something hungrier.

“i told you,” you said, your voice coming out breathier than you intended. “i was thinking about you.”

“yeah?” his hand slid higher, fingers brushing the crease of your thigh. “what about me, sweetheart?”

your breath caught. “leon”

his lips found your ear, his breath hot against the sensitive skin. “tell me,” he murmured. “tell me what you were thinking about while you were standing at that altar, looking at me like that.”

your heart was pounding again. the emptiness from before was filling with something else now, something warmer, sharper, more electric.

“i was thinking,” you whispered, “about how badly i wanted you to take me home and wreck me.”

his hand slid higher, his fingers brushing against your still-sensitive folds, and you gasped.

“and now you’re home,” he said, his voice like gravel. “so what are you going to do about it?”

you rolled over, pushing him onto his back, and straddled his hips. his cock was already half-hard again, pressing against your thigh, and you felt a surge of heat at the realization that he wanted you again so soon. that he always wanted you. that he would never stop wanting you.

“i’m going to ride you,” you said, your voice steadier now, “until you can’t remember your own damn name.”