ᯓ 𝐎𝐇, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⌗.*₊˚

you watch him, see that distant look in blues. you see it often nowadays, you think, and that's okay. he finds his way back home, even if it takes a moment or two. or three. you'll wait as long as he needs.

"...i'm right here." you murmur, offering a smile. it's a little genuine, a little teasing. but maybe it's a little forced, too. bittersweet. "the real thing is right in front of you, baby."

his gaze flickers, eyes a little bit wider before he relaxes. a huff of amusement, the softening of tired features. his fingers touch the wedding band-- gentle, sacred.

"took this off for a bit." he admits.

"yeah?"

"yeah."

you don't ask for an explanation ; you don't feel one is warranted, given the nature of his job. you sit next to him on the couch, basking in the peace and quiet of your home. he doesn't say anything, yet his mind speaks so loudly, but you are always there to listen. you don't push. you don't rush. you just rest your head on his shoulder, waiting. however long it takes, you'll wait.

a minute, maybe two. you don't know. you don't mind.

"...didn't want to lose it." a softer tone, almost nostalgic. remorseful, yet fond all the same. "first thing i did once everything was settled was put it back on."

"yeah?"

he rests his head against yours, lets out another small chuckle.

"yeah."

"...wouldn't have cared if you lost it." you tell him, hand finding his, fingers lacing together. "as long as you came back home."

"i know." a hint of finality in the still air, then quiet relief as he turns just the slightest bit to kiss the crown of your head. "there's nobody else i'd rather come home to."

"...yeah?"

"yeah."

You dressed nicely; you went through the pictures on your phone of your first dates and tried to recreate all of it. The hair, the exact shade of lipstick, and that same blouse with that same necklace. For once in a couple of months, your husband deserved a pretty sight.

“You have twenty minutes,” the guard outside of the room gruffly stated. Then, he pushed the door open.

Dex sat on a chair with his hands cuffed to the table. They were covered completely, allowing for no movement whatsoever. Everyone knew what your husband was capable of if he had any object at all on his hands. The measure was only understandable, no matter how much it pained you.

He sat almost confidently with his shoulders slumped forward. His hair fell over his face, light and straight as ever.

And just in that moment, as you assessed your husband with your eyes, you noticed it.

Jesus Christ.

His shoulders were broad, making him look much bigger than the last time you had seen him. And his arms — God, his arms — they made the orange shirt look much smaller than it actually was.

You bit your tongue and you laughed as if he were a handsome stranger whom you had just met and not the man who was able to read you like his favourite book.

“I see they finally let you come, hmm?”

“Dex.” You dropped to your own seat, almost in awe.

There was no explaining just how you had managed to fall so in love with a man like him. A cold-blooded sociopathic killer with a mild tendency to stalking. People feared him for having no mercy. An FBI agent turned murderer.

They all had very fair reasons to fear this husband of yours. After all, they didn’t know what he was like when he had a North Star. He played music with an old DVD player that he refused to let go of. Always Billy Joel and The Smiths in the mornings. He made you breakfast before work, and he always made sure that the dishes were clean.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he greeted. Dex was calm—calmer than he had been in a very long time. Having you in his presence again quieted every demon that screamed into his ears. He was with you again, for as long as the guards outside would allow him.

Dex was trying really hard to behave in prison. Listen to the guards, play nice when he gets psychological evaluations, and most importantly, do not kill anyone—a truly tragic existence. But he had to comply if he wanted to keep being allowed to receive you as a visitor.

You reached as far as your body allowed you to. You could not hold his hand, and that broke your heart. Instead, you reached out further, hugging his wrist with your fingers. For a moment there, he softened. His gaze dropped. He stopped analysing all the potential exits and all the potential hazards. Stopped keeping an eye on the guard outside the room in case he decided to try anything with you.

“That looks uncomfortable.” He nodded in your direction, alluding to the position you had to put yourself in to be able to touch him.

“It’s worth it, Dex. I promise.”

He nodded. It better be. It was bad enough to be tied down to the table like a child uncapable of self-control.

“How’s everything?” Dex asked, breaking the silence that had dared build between you.

You slumped back in your seat, and he grieved the loss of contact for a brief moment. “It’s not easy. I miss you most days.” You didn’t tell him all of it.

Not a lot of people knew you were married to Dex. After all, not a lot of time had gone between the moment in which you met him and the day you said yes to his proposal. Even so, you had received nothing short of odd looks after Dex’s sentence. Your husband was in jail for murdering a defenceless lawyer who was just doing his job. Your husband had helped Wilson Fisk corrupt the FBI. Your husband had killed a fellow agent, one with a family waiting for him. Your husband had worn a fake suit to kill dozens of civilians.

How could you ever marry such a monster?

They didn’t know Dex, and that perhaps had always been his greatest doom. Time and again, he had been judged and punished instead of listened to. Dex needed structure to function. The FBI had given him that; you had given him that. When his job was threatened, his whole footing tumbled.

Then, he was placed in solitary confinement. Despite your efforts, nobody had cared. Being alone was the last thing Dex needed. You felt helpless knowing that he had been locked away with all the right conditions for him to destroy himself.

And as much as you tried to hide all of this anguish from him, Benjamin Poindexter knew how to read all of your signs. Words he had a hard time empathising with, but actions he could understand immediately. He knew something was off but couldn’t exactly name it.

“You’re lying,” he spoke plainly.

“I’m not lying. I did miss you.” You bit back in defence. Was he actually doubting how lonely you had felt?

Dex flinched and shook his head. The words hadn’t come off the way he had wanted them to. “I’m not saying that you didn’t miss me. But you’re not telling me everything.”

“That’s not the same as lying.”

“It is to me.”

You wanted to get angry, you really did. But this was hardly the time to argue over what made a lie. In Dex’s world, pointing out how you were hiding things from him was how he showed true concern.

You sighed and covered your face with your hands. “Want the truth, Dex?! It’s terrible. I’m trying, I really am trying, but it’s so hard. I miss you, and everybody thinks I’m crazy for still being married to you.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, the one with the scar; it somehow felt more satisfying on that side. This was not how things were supposed to be. He was supposed to kill Foggy Nelson and get his mind back. He was supposed to come home to you. Instead, they locked him in jail. Away from you.

Your breathing was heavy. A side of you felt almost ashamed to burden him with your troubles—as if there were anything he could do about them.

“What should I do?” He asked, almost as if he were expecting a killing order.

“A hug and kiss would be nice. But we can’t really do anything about that either, can we?” You chuckled sadly as you held back tears, nodding your head towards his restraints.

“Don’t worry about that.” The tone shifted away from that careful empathy he tried his hardest to build for you. It turned calculated and arrogant. “I’ll have that dealt with soon enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.”

An eerie sense of calm settled on your chest after that. The remaining twenty minutes of the meeting went by like a breeze. You told Dex about the new tea shop you had been enjoying recently and how nice the new carpet looked in your living room.

You returned to an empty home like you had done so many times before. You cooked dinner for one, showered alone, and went to bed with nobody but Dex’s pillow beside you. You woke up alone the next morning. You cooked breakfast by yourself and even considered cooking your eggs the way he liked to do it.

Another two months went by like that.

One afternoon, you were sitting on the couch. Normally, the TV would be turned on, but that night, you had decided to relieve yourself from the incessant tragedies of New York City. You were trying to sew back one of the buttons of your favourite cardigan. Your knees were close to your chest as you rested the cardigan over your legs.

You threaded the needle through the first hole of the button, then the second, and just when you were about to do the third, you pinched yourself. Fourth time already. You took your injured finger to your mouth and decided it was enough for the night. You could always take the cardigan to a tailor.

You walked towards the kitchen to rinse the small droplet of blood from your fingertip, and just as you were moving, you saw something pass through the window. Your head whipped to the side as your heart took a frightened little jump.

The window that led to the fire escape creaked, and before you knew it, Benjamin Poindexter was standing in your living room. “I told you to lock the windows at night.”

bullseye divider by @uzmacchiato

your pussy is soaked and lonely, almost dripping wet down your inner thighs and pooling and he hasn’t even touched you and yet, your cheeks burn and you feel dizzy. you feel perverted for getting soaking wet, just from being a such good girl and sucking your older boyfriend off in his car. the more pleasure seeps through your core and radiates through every inch of your body, the more your legs spread instinctively and your lids rest half open.

“let me just—mmm. fuck, don’t-” leon’s grip tightens around the steering wheel and he slows down on the highway, because you swallow more of his cock, almost sinking it down your throat. his other hand moves right onto the back of your head, controlling the pace for a few seconds; it feels so good to fuck you mouth.

“spread your legs a lil’ wider for me, sweet girl.”

the position, despite being slightly uncomfortable, doesn’t bother you. leon manages to get his hand down to your pussy and he slides two fingers up and down your folds to lube them, from your slick entrance to your swollen clit, “there we go. much better. want me to stuff my fingers inside you, angel?”

you mumble an short mhm, catching you your breath, wiping some drool off the corners of your mouth and chin. you adjust in your seat in a more comfortable position and leon buries his middle finger inside you and his index follows, coating both in layers of your oozing sweet juices.

the moment you feel your walls stretch around him, you moan, with no urge to control yourself and it makes his cock twitch painfully. you’re quick to lock your hand around leon’s wrist; you nails dig slightly in his skin the deeper he pushes and curls his fingers up to your sensitive spot.

“c’mon, use my fingers to fuck yourself.” he coaxes and you listen.

you take control of the pace, still holding onto leon’s big wrist for support. you masturbate using his fingers and he feels each time you squeeze your walls around his tighter, forcing him to bury himself inside you up to his knuckles.

“good job, doin’ so well, sweet girl. keep goin’- yes, just like that.”

you take a third long finger and stuff it inside you and feel unable to think— this entire thing feels like a dream through your hazed mind. leon’s name slides past your lips and sultry moans fill the his car entirely.

“you’re gonna make me pull over and fuck you. that look in your eyes… can’t wait any longer, huh?” he leaves you all empty and whiny when he brings your fingers to his own lips— eyes still on the road, “tell me i’m wrong, sweet girl.”

he shoves them inside his mouth, tongue licking you off his fingers, savoring the text of your pussy on his lips. the more he licks it turns into sweet nectar and he grunts lowly, because he could come just from this alone.

“y’know me so well, leon.”

you smile, leaning back in the leather passenger seat, holding onto his wrist once again and shoving his hand under your skirt. he teases you, resting the tips of his fingers at your entrance, motioning slow circles up to your clit, back and forth.

“g-gosh! stop being such tease! you’ve been driving for five hours. don’t you need a little break, hmm?”

The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.

You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.

Leon’s already caught on.

A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.

You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.

The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –

It throws you.

Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.

Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.

Leon’s already running.

The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.

The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.

You haven’t come up for air.

“Fuck.”

He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.

The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.

The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.

Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.

He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.

You do not.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.

You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.

It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.

Get up

We need to move

Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”

As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.

“Run!”

It’s a bit much to ask.

You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.

Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.

You’re almost there.

You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.

Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.

“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.

You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.

The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.

“Almost there. Come on.”

Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.

“Get in. Get in!”

You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.

“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.

You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.

“Fuck!”

There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.

Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.

“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?

Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.

“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.

“No.”

“No?”

“The keys are in my coat.”

“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”

“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”

He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.

Fuck.

You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.

It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.

Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.

“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.

“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."

“How bad?”

“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”

“Deep breath in.”

You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.

“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.

His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.

“You gotta get down on me."

You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.

"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."

“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.

Fuck.

"I don't know where you think my knees are going."

You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.

He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.

“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”

You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.

“You can’t be wearing that.”

“Leon–“

"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."

Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.

"Do you trust me?"

You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.

"Yes."

It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.

"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.

It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.

“Yeah. Fine."

It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.

He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.

“Do you know you're doing that.”

He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.

“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.

“Yes ma'am.”

Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.

Your eyelids are heavy.

“Is it bad to fall asleep?”

He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.

“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.

And you register why.

His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.

And something else is different.

“…Where are your hands?”

You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.

“Good boy.”

You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–

He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.

“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.

He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.

“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”

“You be careful with my side.”

“Damn.”

“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.

“You’ve got a fixation.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”

“Don’t be rude.”

You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”

“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.

“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?

He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.

“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”

“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”

You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”

He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.

“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.

“What do you want?”

Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.

“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”

The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.

“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.

“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”

“Mm. Lucky day.”

“I know.”

“Any last words?”

“What?”

You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.

“Be careful,” he says.

“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.

“Are you okay?”

You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”

He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.

Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.

“Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.

“Think you can come like this?”

“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.

“Tip your hips down,” he says.

You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.

“Fuck, like that Leon!”

He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”

“Do you want me to be?”

You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.

“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.

“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”

He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.

When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.

"I think that did the trick,” he says.

You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.

“How’s your side?”

“Stings.”

He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.

“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.

“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”

He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.

“Worked out fine the first time.”

You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.

“Beginner’s luck.”

There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.

But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.

On AO3

Guys quick tip don’t take survival advice from a gratuitous x reader they probably died lmao

Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 💙