the failure epiphany

- honestly doesn’t have that high of a sex drive; however, he will never say no to you and loves when you initiate. call it soldier’s discipline but you have to work extra hard to get him hot and bothered. not impossible, but difficult.

- acts all nonchalant about how strong he is, picking you up and moving you like you weigh nothing.

- actually got a bit flustered when you first ask him to use his strength for more adventurous positions…now he loves fucking you in a headlock.

- really loves receiving head; his favorite is to come home from a long day at work and have you drop to your knees and relieve him.

- cums almost embarrassingly quickly if you can deep throat him.

- gets turned on by very menial, domestic things: seeing you in pajamas just relaxing at home, you making him dinner, waking up to your sweet, blissful smile.

- naturally a dom since he’s used to being in a position of authority, but secretly loves to be more submissive and let you have your way with him.

- 7.5 inches, thick and veiny, super pink head & keeps it trimmed (except when he first comes back from a mission; you love how hairy he gets after a time away)

- thinks it’s so cute when you pin him down while straddling his thick thighs; he could flip you under him in a heartbeat but he likes giving you the illusion of control.

- gets a bit embarrassed when you praise him or get overly freaked out with him; he’s not very good at expressing emotions and that comes to his sexuality as well. eventually, he’ll get more comfortable with your attention but being affectionate/sexual doesn’t come easy to him.

- likes when you mark him up with love bites; anywhere visible is a hard no but he’ll let you cover his chest in them.

- going back to getting him hot and bothered; to really get to chris, you have to play into both his desire to be the best at what he does and his need for any sort of normalcy in his life. putting on some sexy lingerie or outfit will make him appreciate the extra effort but coming home to you in a pair of sweatpants, cooking his favorite meal (and dessert), asking him about his mission and gently massaging his shoulders - one way ticket to the bedroom.

- really likes it when you call him “good boy”

- not a super kinky guy but loves pleasing you so will try anything you request at least once.

- likes fucking you to classic rock & roll; so cringey at first but you grow to find it cute.

- gets more horny when he’s drinking; at first you don’t notice it but after the first few times he bends you over after having some whiskey, you catch on (and learn to use it against him).

- super nervous to cum in you; after multiple reassurances that it’s okay, he’ll creampie you only sometimes.

- actually prefers to cum on your pretty face or ass.

- the very best at aftercare; he doesn’t even know what that is, he just naturally feels the need to comfort and cater to you. he’s used to taking care of people and there’s no one he cares for more than you.

Almost two months ago, Chris made the spontaneous move to ask you about kids. Two weeks after that, you're hunched over in the bathroom, going through a while freakout of good and bad emotions while staring at a handful of 13 positive pregnancy tests. Chris' timing couldn't have been better that day—he knew something was wrong when you didn't come out when the front door clicked open. And even worse when he couldn't find you anywhere until he heard the small sniffles and huffs of you trying to breathe through your panic.

He didn't knock. He rushed in, panicked in his own guessing of what was wrong. He saw the handful of tests on the floor beside you leaned back and curled up against the side of the bathtub.

He crouched and kneeled in front of you, not even looking at the tests. He cupped your cheeks. "Hey. Hey, where are you, baby?" Chris spoke, gently shaking you to get you to look at him. Another cry trickled from your throat, brows furrowing.

"I'm home. I know. I know, I just—" You hiccuped, a shaky gasp following. "I think I'm scared." Your voice trembled.

"Of what?" He asked, brushing your hair back and fixing the mess that you'd made from running your hands through it incessantly.

"Being a mom." You handed him one of the tests, and he finally let it sink in. The test was positive.

"Holy fuck. Fuck. Fuck, you're pregnant?" He breathed, looking at you. He tried not to let his excitement override your fear, so he tugged you into a tight hug.

"We're gonna be parents." You choked out, melting into his embrace. "I'm just so afraid, Chris."

"It's okay." He rocked back and forth, allowing you to let you sit in your emotions, feeling everything you needed to while he stifled his excitement. He knew he'd get a burst of fear later, but for now, he was there for you.

Once you calmed down, he pulled back and wiped your cheeks slowly. "Are you okay?" He asked gently. You nodded, sniffling. "Do you want this? A—a baby?" He asked, almost hesitant.

"I do. It's not like I'm not ready. I wouldn't have let you put a baby in me if I wasn't. I'm just... reality hits fast, yknow?" You looked down, head falling against his chest.

"I know, honey. But I'm here." He lifted your face to kiss you softly, humming low. "If you want this, we do it. If you don't want this, we don't do it. That simple. And if you change your mind halfway through, there's always solutions. Okay? And as much as I want a baby with you, your happiness and comfort, and safety come before anything. Never forget that."

"Will you... will you still be going on missions?" You asked quietly. Chris scoffed.

"Screw that. I'll torture myself with a desk job before I risk killing myself while I'm this close to having a family with the woman of my dreams." He soothed your hair down and tucked it behind your ears. "Tomorrow morning, first thing I'll do is find a compromise to make sure I'm here as long as I can be. Whether I take a leave for a while, or they put me on some kind of desk position. It might he hard, considering I'm a captain, but I'll make it work."

"Promise?" You asked, holding out your hand with your pinky finger extended. He smiled, soft and mushy.

"Swear on my life." He linked your pinky with his and brought it to his lips to kiss, like a makeshift lock.

Two months later, you're having the worst time ever. Chris had fulfilled his promise—the BSAA had to make it work. They offered him a job at filing reports and working strictly in the office at HQ for your pregnancy, and for the first year of the baby's life, they'd give him paid leave.

This morning was particularly rough. Not only was your head pounding, but you had your worst morning sickness so far. Puking was bad enough, but it got so much worse when you couldn't even keep water down. Given you didn't know what was okay to take during pregnancy, you refused any and all medicine that Chris offered.

Chris remained at your side, making sure your hair was tied back, any short pieces pinned messily with bobby pins. He soothed you with circles of his palm along your back, helping you clean your mouth between fits of puke. Just as you moved to lean back, praying it was done, you let out a garbled sob and hunched forward, another fit of bile and water coming up from the depths of your stomach. You cried, heaving and gasping above the toilet. Chris sighed quietly, palm gently soothing up and down your back.

"You did this." You choked out, spitting and coughing into the toilet before you reached up and flushed, leaning back and trying to catch your breath. "Your baby is inside of me. It hates me." You reached blindly for a rag.

Chris took the damp rag and gently wiped your mouth and chin, letting you fall into your exhaustion. "I know, honey, I'm sorry." He murmured.

You sniffled, a small whimper leaving your lips as your eyes brimmed with tears. "I hurt so baaad." Your shoulders shook with a small cry, and he gently ran his hands up and down your arms.

"I'm sorry." He leaned in to kiss your forehead. "I know it's hard to eat right now, but do you wanna try some grilled cheese and tomato soup? We can wait, but I need to make sure it eases up, or we might need to get you looked at."

"I know." You sniffled harshly, hiccupping and groaning at the tiny taste of bile at the back of your throat.

"You think we can get you back to the bed?" He asked quietly.

"In a minute. And take me to the living room—not.. not the bed. I'm gross." You muttered, eyes falling closed as you inhaled slowly and tried to keep down the nausea. "Will you go make the couch comfy?" You asked shakily.

"'Course I will." He nodded, leaning in to kiss your forehead once more. "I'll be right back, okay? Try to breathe. Shout if you need me."

You nodded, letting him go. You managed to finally—after an hour of being on the bathroom floor—get up and hobble back to the bedroom, careful to watch your nausea and dizziness. You got yourself changed into one of your cotton nightgowns, the easiest and most comfortable thing you could find. You sat on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly. Chris came back to find you waiting at the bed. He stepped forward and held his hands out.

"C'mere," he murmured, helping you up and letting you lean into him before he slowly hoisted you into his arms. You let him carry you to the couch, laying you down in the pile of blankets and pillows on the large couch. You curled up, relishing in the fact that your bump had yet to form. You knew it was only a matter of time before it was beginning to form, given you were already at the end of the first trimester.

You laid on the couch, eyes closed as you let yourself accept its need for rest. Chris had walked off to make your grilled cheese with the tomato soup. The bread was almost always a help to thicken the contents of your stomach, and the soup was soothing to your sore throat. He was back in ten minutes, sitting on the floor next to the couch as he handed you the tray of soup and grilled cheese. You opened your eyes, humming lazily.

"Just one bite." He encouraged. Although reluctant, you leaned down and reached out to take a decent sized bite of the food, only to slowly sit yourself up and try to relax as you chewed and swallowed the food.

"Thank you." You mumbled.

"Your body feel okay? Any soreness? Aches? Pains?" He asked softly, reaching to gently knead your thighs and calves.

"My back hurts a little, but I'm okay."

"Turn around and lean into a pillow. I'll give you a massage." He insisted.

"I'm okay, Chris."

"But you're hurting. And you refuse to take medicine."

"Because I'm scared it'll hurt the baby." You frowned, brows knitting together faintly.

"So let me massage your back. I promise it'll help."

He did promise. And he kept it. You lazily chewed at your food as he expertly massaged the achey muscles of your back, focusing at the upper middle where you had a tense knot from hunching and slouching so much. You managed to get the grilled cheese down over a half hour, sipping small spoonfuls of the soup. Soon enough, Chris noticed your limp movements, and he moved the bowl away, crawling up onto the couch with you.

"You wanna take a nap? You must be exhausted." He asked, hands still gently massaging your back.

"Will you nap with me?" You looked back at him, and he nodded. "Then yes, please." You leaned back and curled into him, to which he happily accepted with a slow sway back and forth.

"I love you." He mused, low and rumbling in his chest.

"I love you, too."

His hand fell to your belly, a gentle touch just above your waistband below your belly button. Despite all the tough moments so far, Chris couldn't be more excited.

At the end of week 10, Chris was ecstatic. The doctor had told you that your bump should be forming soon, and he was more excited about the baby's size than anything. The doctor had told you the baby was estimated to be approaching the size of a small lime. What did Chris do when you got home? He grabbed a lime and showed you.

"That's our baby." He grinned.

"You impregnated me with a lime? God, I should've known it was too good to be true!" You feigned betrayal, dramatically falling into the door frame and pushing out a fake cry of disbelief. He snorted, catching you before you could sink to your knees.

"No, I impregnated you with a healthy baby who's just about the size of this lime." He corrected himself, and you straightened up quickly.

"Ugh, why didn't ya just say that? You had me thinkin' I married a mad man!" You scoffed with faux offense. He rolled his eyes.

"You're so silly." He leaned in and nuzzled his nose against your neck, kissing at your skin softly. "I can't wait for our baby to be here." He purred softly.

"Well, you'd better wait. I'm not exactly excited to push out a baby. God, if they're anything like you, they might have a massive head." You joked, and he gasped, pretending to be offended.

"My head is perfectly sized." He pouted.

"Ehhh, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night."

Silence fell for a moment, only for him to make you look at him as he hummed happily. "I can't wait for the bump. So I can hold my baby. Our baby."

"Yeah, you'll be doing a whole lot more once that bump gets heavy."

"I'm so excited." He mused.

"I hope so." You mumbled quietly, letting him sway you back and forth with his arms around your waist.

The next appointment at 12 weeks was an appointment to find out the number of babies you'd be having. You could have also found out the sex of the baby, but you both decided to wait a little longer. Chris had hoped for twins. He knew it would be a hassle, but he also knew siblings were so very important. He and Claire had such a special bond, you knew, so you never objected to the idea of multiple kids.

You'll never forget the way Chris cried. Yes, cried.

The doctor turned the machine towards you two, explaining a few observations of good news and good health before she pointed out the two little blobs—twins. The choked sound that came from Chris was humiliating to him, but it made you laugh with relief, knowing that he was still holding true to his original plans. He practically sobbed the moment the doctor left you two alone.

"You're gonna have twins." He shook as he spoke, looking down at you as he stood at the bedside while you fixed yourself up after he'd wiped away the leftover goo from the ultrasound that the doctor missed.

"We are." You corrected softly. His waterworks only made it harder to hold yours back. You squeaked a small cry before he hugged you tightly, allowing you both to fully let go and embrace the onslaught of excitement and shared love.

"We have to pick two names." You sniffled, pulling back.

"Are you hoping for boys? Or girls? Or both?"

"I'm hoping for a baby with a normal sized head." You snorted, and he pinched your side slightly. You giggled, smacking his hand.

"If our kids have a big head, it's 'cause of you." He teased.

Weeks 18 and 19 were the ones that Chris had been most nervous about. You had agreed to keep the babies sex a surprise, hoping to arrange a small thing for you two to find out alone. The doctor did the ultrasound, mailed you two the final discoveries, and Chris asked Claire to be in charge of ordering them a cake to reveal the sex. Blue for two boys, pink for two girls, and purple for one of each.

Sitting on the floor of your living room, you rocked back and forth, your hand resting below your belly, holding the recently formed bump. Chris had his eyes closed as you cut into the cake. You grabbed a plastic fork and took out a bite, counting down from three until you both opened your eyes.

Pink. Bright, neon pink. Chris stared at the color, then at you. Your eyes watered. He was quick to shift the cake aside, pulling you in close for a tight, almost suffocating hug. You sniffled, laughing as he squeezed you before he pulled away. He looked down at the bump, hands coming to hold it.

"We are going to have the most amazing daughters." He looked at you, then back down at the bump.

"Claire must have been ecstatic when she saw the letter to order the cake." You giggled, and he nodded.

"I handed it to her and let her read it in front of me—she looked like she was fighting demons trying not to ruin the surprise." He chuckled.

You turned around in his lap and fell into his hold. You reached out for the fork and took a bite of the cake, humming at the sweetness. "This is really good. Try some." You picked up another bite and held it out to him, listening to him groan and try not to ruin your enjoyment.

"It's very sweet." He cleared his throat as he swallowed. You snickered.

"I always forget you're not a fan of sweet things."

"I'm a fan of you." He hummed.

"Considering we're about to have twins, I'd hope you're a fan of me."

"Til death do us part, baby."

You forgot how you had gotten here—all bent in half and sobbing for him to slow down as he shoved your face into the pillows. One second, he was pulling you close and telling you about Elpis and how he's okay and how badly he missed you, the next he's got you completely lost with pleasure, his cum pumping into you for the second time tonight as your cunt practically choked his cock, having reached your third orgasm of the night.

He pulled out, only to roll you onto your back and push your legs up. You didn't even get a warning as his cock slipped back into you, resuming the brutal, rhythmic thrusts that were made easier by the nasty amount of cum and slick that were seeping out of your walls.

"Fuuck," he hissed, head falling back slightly. "Bet this pussy missed me, too, huh? Gonna make up for all the nights I missed. All the nights I left you frustrated 'cause I couldn't touch you right.. 'm gonna make up for it all night, baby. Promise." He panted, one hand coming down to your clit to lightly smack at the throbbing bud. Your thighs tried to squeeze shut, but he kept them open with one hand and his body in the way.

"Lee!" You cried, body twitching and shaking almost violently.

"Come on, don't tell me you can't take it. You've been perfectly healthy this whole time. You can't take cock like you used to?" He taunted, watching the embarrassment bloom on your cheeks.

"N-no, 's not that—fuck!—I just—" You gasped, back arching as his fingers began to strum steadily, harshly against your clit.

"You what? Poor baby can't even speak. Pussy's too busy swallowing my fuckin' cock. You gonna cry for my cock? Gonna cry while you cum?" He purred, his words harsh but sugar coated in his tone. You looked up at him, a whimper squeaking out before your head threw back again, eyes rolling back and crossing like some dirty porno from Leon's dreams when he was a rookie. He growled, hissing slightly with restraint.

"Ho—ooh, oh, shit!" You squealed, hands pawing and pushing and scratching at his chest and shoulders as you felt your orgasm approaching rapidly.

"Do it. Let me know I'm doing good. Didn't lose my spark, did I? I still know how to make my wife dumb for my dick, yeah?" Despite the dirty words, you detected a subtle and actual need for the reassurance. Given how long it'd been since you two were able to have normal penetrative sex, he had to make sure he still had his 'special touch' as he called it.

"Fuck! Fuck, 'm cumming!" You sobbed, body practically shrinking into the bed below as your entire body quivered and let loose, warmth gushing around his cock. He could feel your hole fluttering and pulsing, and his orgasm followed quickly. For the third time, a heavy load of cum spilled into you, his fat, hard tip kissing your cervix and pumping right against the limit. He panted. Finally, he showed some kind of shaking. His arms shook as he held himself above you, his breath hitching and faltering momentarily.

"'M sorry," he huffed, pulling back again, only to push his cock in once more. You whimpered, reaching desperately to grab at his wrist as he tapped and pinched lightly at your clit, eliciting a sound that approached a scream due to pure overstimulation.

"Leee," you sobbed, eyes rolling back. He halted for a moment, only to lift your legs over his shoulders. Your ankles linked together behind his head, and you yelped as his hands smacked against your thighs to hold you in place as he pumped his cock back and forth, heavy and mean with fat balls slapping against your ass.

"One more." He panted. "Fuck, just one more. One more, and I'll be all done. Just gotta make sure I make up for my fuck-ups." His fingertips dug into your thighs as he looked down at you, taking in the dazed, dumb, desperate look on your face. You were approaching your fifth orgasm—nearly four on his cock, the first one having been on his thick fingers. Despite the overwhelming sensations, pussy beyond raw, clit throbbing and twitching with every thrust, head lulled off to the side as you struggled to keep your eyes open even as his cock punched moans and mewls from your throat, your body jolting and jiggling with the thrusts.

With how overstimulated you were, how sensitive your body was, and the lack of breaks, it didn't take long to be on the brink of your orgasm again. A small, worried sob trickled from your throat, and Leon brought one hand to make you look at him.

"Lee, 's weird," you whined. "I-it feels funny again." You warned. Leon knew what that meant, and although he knew it embarrassed you, he had to push for it. He had to get you there. He had to finally earn his reward—with rapid strums of your clit, mean thrusts of his cock hitting your cervix, and mixing with the dirty words he let out, his reward came moments later.

Your vision blanked out and all you felt was full body tingling and warmth between your legs, liquid splattering back onto you as you finally squirted—the clear liquid spurting strong from your cunt and hitting his abdomen, dripping down his torso, another scream-like sound ripping from you as you pawed and tried desperately to grab onto him. He fucked you through it until the thick stream fell into a trickle as his own orgasm hit again. He rolled his eyes back, his final load less powerful but still enough to make you squirm.

Once your vision came back, your body relaxed, Leon eased your body down, shifting you so that you didn't lay in the mess you two had made. He pulled out, watching the nasty mess seep out, slipping down as your pussy pushed it out in thick globs. Your hole temporarily gaped from how long the penetration went on, and he didn't pass up the chance to lower himself as he held your hips up away from the mess. You didn't even notice him lowering until his lips were on your cunt, making you jolt and try to run from the sensation.

"'M cleaning my mess." He muttered, holding you in place as he used his tongue to clean you up. He knew it was beyond lewd, beyond gross, but he'd never be ashamed to admit that he liked to clean up the nasty mess that he'd make—a mix of your arousal and his cum, salty, almost tangy, and warm on his tongue. He kept true to his word—he didn't try to mess with your clit, ensuring his nose didn't nudge it, only licking up and suckling lightly to clean up the mess. At the end, he lapped at your folds and held some of the mess in his mouth before he crawled up your body and grabbed your face, leaning in for a kiss.

You whimpered, brows furrowing as you felt the swapping of spit, cum, and your own taste. It was nasty, but it made you quiver, your pussy twitching at the sensation. If you hadn't already cum five times, he would've easily gone again just to get rid of that twitching.

"I missed you." He panted, shifting off to the side as he pulled you to lay on top of him.

"Missed you, Lee." You breathed, quiet and shaky as you fell into his embrace.

It happened again. You woke up, dazed and sore, only to realize that Leon was sprawled out beside you again. You groaned, pushing him toward his side of the bed as you struggled to stretch out because he took up so much space. He grumbled, rolling over and forcing himself to open his eyes, head turning to look at you, squinting.

"It's noon." He mumbled, catching the red numbers of your alarm clock as you sat up and rubbed your eyes.

"Good job, you can read a clock." You grumbled through your pained groan, leaning forward with you elbows on your knees.

Leon inhaled sharply and sat up, scooting closer as he saw you were in pain. "Hey," he whispered, voice raspy and dry, laced with exhaustion. "You okay? What's wrong?" He asked quietly.

"My head is pounding." You mumbled.

"Jesus, how much did you drink?" He teased quietly.

"Two glasses. It's not a hangover. I just slept wrong and I'm dehydrated and—"

Leon cut you off with a sigh as he stood up, moving to your dresser to grab one of your nightgowns and help slip it over your head as he found his boxers and slipped them on. He held his hands out, gesturing for you to take them.

"Let's go. Time for food and water." He said simply.

"Leon, I'm fin—"

"Your head hurts so bad that you're hunched over and squinting. Let's go." He said firmly, taking your hands and slowly helping you out of the bed. You adjusted the nightgown with a heavy sigh, letting yourself hold his hand for support so you didn't accidentally let your dizziness knock you over.

He brought you to the kitchen, lifting you onto the cold counter and handing you a bottle of water from the fridge. You cracked it open, pausing. "Tylenol?" You asked.

"No. Not until you get solids in your system. Tylenol on an empty stomach isn't good for you." He said, rummaging around your fridge. He blinked. "Ooo-kay, looks like you're having cereal. And... uh..." he pulled out a yogurt from the back of the fridge, checking the date. "And a yogurt." He said, opening the small yogurt and finding a spoon to hand it to you.

"I'm so glad you aren't a father." You muttered, mostly a joke, already digging into the yogurt and humming at its flavor.

"Pardon?" He asked, pausing as he retrieved the cereal from its place atop the fridge.

"You'd be a helicopter dad. Insufferable, overprotective, definitely the kind of dad who would sit on the porch before his daughter's first date with a fake shotgun just to test the kid she's going on a date with."

"I pride myself in controlling my overprotective tendencies." He huffed. "And you'll be glad to know I don't plan to have kids. I'm a little too old for that."

"You got a cat? You look like a cat person." You rambled, mouth full of yogurt as you spoke. He rolled his eyes, pouring your bowl of cereal and setting it aside for you.

"Just eat. And drink your water." He said, already pouring himself a bowl of cereal so he could eat with you.

The next hour was spent in a tense silence as you ate and got cleaned up from the messy encounter the night before. This time, you showered alone. He simply wiped himself down and ran next door to get himself clean clothes. He returned, letting himself in and finding you curled up on the couch, dozing off thanks to your lack of energy and lack of chores to keep you busy.

"Ah-ah," he clicked his tongue as he approached, making you groan and sit upright on the couch, your eyes squinting at him.

"You're lucky my headache is gone." You grumbled.

"Good, because we need to figure things out." He said bluntly.

"Oh, fuck, here we go." You breathed, watching him sit down.

"I know we both agreed there didn't need to be a label, but unfortunately for both of us, I know all too well how that ends. It's going to get messy." He explained softly, but made sure you had a proper understanding of his words.

"I know." You groaned. "I know. I just.. I got a little freaked out last time. In case you haven't noticed, I have feelings for you, and with what we've done—twice now—I got a little freaked out that it was gonna be the road to ending our regular friendship. And I really like just having a friend, even if you don't feel the same way about me."

"Well," he paused, hands resting in his lap as he looked at you. "You may or may not be pleased to know that I do feel the same way."

"That takes away half of the concern." You muttered.

"What's the other half?" He asked.

"Don't play dumb. You're not oblivious to the issue." You deadpanned, blinking at him like he was dumb.

"Oh. Right." He cleared his throat. "Well, if it's the age—"

"Of course it's the age!" You grumbled, leaning back into the couch and letting your head fall back over the arm of the couch. "You're like... a decade older than me."

"It's not that obvious, is it? Visually?" He asked, leaning forward so you'd feel his weight shift and look up at him.

"Either you're saying you look young, or I look like I'm 30-something. You'd better pick carefully." Your eyes narrowed sharply.

"I'm saying the first way!" He laughed. "God, you think I'm dumb enough to tell you that you look old?"

"You're dumb enough to get involved with me." You said simply.

"I don't think that's what makes me dumb. I think what makes me dumb is not taking you to dinner first."

"Like you would've." You snorted, half jokingly. "All it took to get in my pants was being nice. Dinner is unnecessary if you want sex."

"I would. I will, if you want. No, no. I will. Let me take you to dinner. Let's restart." He said, scooting in closer and pulling you to sit upright so you'd look at him.

"Restart. So, we're going to pretend we didn't have mind-blowing sex multiple times?" You raised a brow.

Leon's cheeks flushed faintly. He shook his head. "Not exactly. I just.. I want to treat you to a few dates. Do some normal things that a couple might do."

"You want to court me?" You asked, head tilting slightly.

"Basically. If you'll let me." He nodded, taking your hands into his.

"And we just pretend we don't have any previous history?" You asked again.

"No, no. If you want to, of course we can, but we don't need to. I just want to make sure that you know I'm not here solely for sex. I'm here because you've given me something to look forward to after work. You've given me a reason to fix myself up. You've.. You've been the reason for so much of my improvement since we became close." He exhaled slowly at the end, gaze dropping for a moment as he absorbed your silence. He looked back up when you squeezed his hands.

"I'd like dinner." You whispered softly, nodding. "And maybe a few more dates. There's a new movie I was interested in seeing, if you wanna.." You trailed off, lips pursing in faux consideration.

Leon nodded, a smile spreading over his lips. "Yeah. Let's do dinner and a movie."

"Can I still kiss you?" You asked.

"We can do whatever you'd like. It's all in your control, sweets."

"Okay."

You shuffled in closer, laying yourself against him. He leaned back to accept your cuddle, an arm wrapping around you as he exhaled softly. "You want me to order lunch?" He asked.

"It's a little late for lunch, but sure." You muttered.

"Burgers? Pizza? Tacos?" He asked, already moving to pull out his phone.

"Let's do burgers. From that place downtown—the one with those reaaally good fries and the thick beef patties." You mused, stomach faintly growling at the idea of the food.

"Got it." He nodded, thumb moving swiftly over his screen to order the food.

"Mmh, gonna take a nap." Your eyes fell shut with a smooth hum.

"I'll wake you up when food is here."

"And no earlier. Please. You exhaust me."

He chuckled, patting your back lazily. "Good to know, sweets." He mumbled, mostly disregarding your tease.

Beautiful was what you initially pegged him as, eyes sweeping along the striking lines of an exhausted face and the stubborn swoop of hair spilling carelessly over his brow. Then you decided he was just prematurely aged. The silver threads catching at his temples and the aggressive shadow of a stubble made him look worn down by a decade of exceptionally bad sleep and even worse stress.

He looked like a man who could fuck good. Looked like he approached sex the exact same way he approached the rest of his miserable life, with unrelenting stamina and a terrifyingly methodical focus designed to dismantle whatever stood before him.

He also looked like an easy target, staring into the amber depths of his glass with a level of sad depression that practically radiated off his shoulders. All it took was you stepping directly into his line of sight, ordering another shot with a dramatic sigh, and offering him a painfully cynical comment about the state of the world (while deliberately showing off your cleavage).

The guarded set of his jaw twitched into the faintest ghost of a smirk.

You offered your name, he offered his (Leon—was it short for Leonard? Leonel?), and he leaned in when you laughed at his terrible attempt at a joke. A genuine chortled laugh because you hadn't expected a dad joke from a man who looked as brooding as he did.

You licked your lips, he followed your tongue.

Hook, line, sinker.

Which explains how you now find yourself trapped in a mating press on a mattress that probably costs more per night than your rent. A dingy, cheap motel would have been your practical choice, but you had noted the expensive gleam of the watch on his wrist within five minutes of sitting next to him. Freaking Hamilton that looked distinctly like a limited edition, judging by the brushed steel and intricate dial.

Frankly, you shouldn't be surprised he carried that much net worth. He’s handsome, weathered beautifully into his age (Late forties? Early fifties?), and clearly paid an exorbitant amount of money to survive whatever horrors are actively ruining his mental health.

What does surprise you is how you’ve underestimated the scope of his physical abilities.

Over the past blurry hour, this complete stranger has effortlessly folded you into positions that defy your understanding of your own flexibility. Knees pressed so securely beside your own ears you start to believe the fee you pay for your weekly reformer pilates class might be a scam.

Apparently what you needed to achieve this level of advanced mobility was the unrelenting dead weight of a very, very capable man. So fucking capable that you’ve genuinely lost count of how many times he’s wrung you out on these expensive sheets.

Four orgasms? Maybe five? Whatever the number is, another one is dangerously crawling up the base of your spine.

Your sanity might be beyond saving at this point. You’re sweating profusely, and the backs of your thighs are screaming in dull protest from being pinned back for god knows how long. Leon pulls out and snaps his hips again with a jarring impact that seems to grow more ruthlessly aggressive with every single grind.

He does it again and again and again until you’re basically screaming from the unavoidable crash of yet another orgasm, toes curling frantically in the suspended air while your nails bite into the heavy muscle of his arms.

This man is something else, obviously nothing akin to the standard parade of disappointing men who talked big but possessed absolutely zero game. They were a flimsy attempt to scratch the very surface of your boredom. Leon, by comparison, is clawing straight down to the bone.

There’s a slowness in his thrusts now, and you blink to find an actual smile breaking through the sweat and exhaustion on his face. The warm puff of a chuckle against your cheek tells you he isn't simply amused. He’s actually entertained.

You huff, making a valiant but entirely useless attempt to mock him, "Stop laughing."

The sweat beading along his heavy brow does absolutely nothing to detract from how devastatingly smug he looks right now. “You’re shaking so much. It’s cute.”

So much for playing the femme fatale act at the bar. He swipes a thumb across your blotchy cheek, courtesy of his rough afternoon shadow.

“You okay?”

You sigh out a harsh breath, blowing a damp strand of hair out of your eyes. “Have you," you manage to wheeze, "even cum yet?”

He shakes his head, blue eyes glinting with unapologetic amusement.

"Are you ever going to?"

His low laughter rumbles warmly in your ears. “Why, you want me to stop already?" he presses a kiss against your jaw. "Thought you were having a good time."

“I’m having a great time.”

“Then what’s with the rush?”

“Maybe we should take a break,” you whine, gasping sharply when the weight of his pelvis rocks aggressively against your lower belly. “I-I need to pee.”

He seems unfazed. Moves like you didn't utter a word to begin with. Instead, what he does is press you even further into the mattress. “Is that right?”

“Fuck—Leon—” You arch your back as he maliciously tilts his hips. “You’re not helping.”

“I actually am,” he argues.

“What—”

“Let's test a theory," he drawls, hot breath ghosting over your pulse. "Do you really think you just need to pee, or are you about to squirt?”

You go completely still for a moment. Considering your track record of thoroughly uninspired hookups and non-lasting relationships, there is absolutely no palpable evidence to suggest you are capable of doing what he’s asking.

“I’m pretty sure I need to pee,” you reason quietly. “I’m not a squirter.”

He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve never done that before?”

“I have no prior experience to suggest it's even an option.”

He looks genuinely offended by your answer. “Do you want to try?”

Your head falls back to fully take him in. He really is pretty. Never mind the faint, tired wrinkles bracketing his pale blue eyes, or the harsh features of a man who has clearly seen too much and slept too little. He’s simply too devastatingly gorgeous for his own good.

Even with the fragments of scars you’ve spent the last hour subconsciously counting on his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Scars that make you wonder what kind of terrifying life he leads when he isn't in a hotel room with a stranger, fucking their brains out.

And you’re very much aware you’re one of the few he’s taken to bed.

But is he always this attentive? This generous?

Does he fuck everyone else this hard yet still find the gentle grace to cradle their face and brush the hair out of their eyes?

You instantly hate how territorial you sound. It's wildly hypocritical for someone who values the cheap thrill of a purely physical transaction just as much as he clearly does. He’s just a good lover, you decide. And if tonight is the only night you get to have this man all to yourself, then so be it.

If he thinks he can make you squirt, then who are you to deny?

“You really think I’m about to squirt?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

You frown. “What if it’s just pee?”

He kisses the wrinkled line between your brows. “Make a mess then, I don’t mind.”

Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight.

“Then make me squirt, Leon.”

He dips his head, breathing the hot air of his lungs directly into your open mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

Your pussy tightens reflexively at that, which he obviously catches. He catches on to every desperate tell your body gives him, actually. Probably the sole reason why you've already come an embarrassing number of times.

Not enough, apparently, because he’s already moving his hips in rapid rhythms—not too fast or too slow, but enough to have your eyes sliding shut, focusing on the stretch of his cock driving deep in and out of your cunt.

“Fucking beautiful,” he hums, binding your wrists together above your head. “Just lying there looking all pretty."

“H-harder,” you whine, weakly pushing your hips up to meet him.

“Yeah?” He squeezes your wrists together, leaning even more of his massive frame over you. “You like it when I go hard on you?”

Like it? You thrive on it, nodding frantically as your trembling thighs try to lock around his waist. Try is definitely the word when he’s practically flattened you beneath his crushing weight, effortlessly trapping your body. You can feel your limbs turn gooey and powerless, your stomach contrastingly hard.

“I know, baby, I know,” he rasps, ramming his hips harshly against yours. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Ngh—h—”

“That’s it, give it to me. Make a mess on me.”

The panic hits you first, quickly swallowed by an absolute wave of pure heat. Starts as a buzzing ache in your core before violently spiking into an unbearable sensation. Your belly burns, coils, rattles—and you blink your eyes open, brimming with tears. “Leon—”

He instantly reads the panicked clench of your muscles.

“Don't fight it.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

Your groan is feral. “I can’t—”

“Come on, baby, you’ve got to trust me,” he croons softly. “Do you trust me?”

Surprisingly, you do, even if your only judgment on this man comes from the three hours that have passed since you sat down next to him at the bar. “Yes.”

“Good. Then let it happen.”

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

“Breathe through your nose.”

He plunges in with a particularly harsh thrust and you gasp. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Oh, fuck—”

“That’s it.” He closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads touching. “Let it go.”

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding.

It’s like a switch. One moment your muscles are tensed, then a passage of whines pitches upward as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Strong and gut-wrenching. Body hot in bliss and shame—only for two seconds. Quick as it hits, he abruptly pulls out, instantly replacing his cock with two calloused fingers.

Your mouth gapes in a silent scream. Even more so when his offhand curls around your neck. Fingers pressing against the sides of your throat, palm flat against your windpipe, but exercising barely any pressure all the while his fingers fucks your swollen, dripping cunt.

You’ve seen yourself getting wet, you’ve felt yourself getting drenched, but you’ve never experienced anything as wild as this.

Speckles of liquid spatter across the sheets the more he drags his hand in an up-and-down motion, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.

He pushes his palm against your clit.

“Oh fuck! fuckfuckfuck—”

A sudden rush spills over him. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot onto his thighs. He continues to pump his fingers while you lie there—crying openly, violently shuddering. It goes on for what feels like forever until he smoothes out his pressure around your throat, kissing the drool glistening on your lips with a disbelief chuckle.

“Should’ve met you sooner,” he laughs into your mouth, easily slipping his cock back in.

Maybe it’s the bliss completely corrupting your nervous system, or perhaps it’s the overwhelming stretch of his thick cock driving back into your overstimulated cunt. Whatever it is, you completely lose your grip on the casual nature of a one night stand, eager words spilling past your wet lips before you can even screen them.

“Can we meet again?” You pant. “Like—after tonight?”

He withdraws his hips with a smug grin.

“I would,” thrust, “very much,” thrust, “like that.”

Thrust, thrust, thrust.

You’re somewhere right on the edge of a pathetic whimper and a helpless laugh, entirely too pleasured to think straight, dangerously too giddy at the possibility of actually getting to know him. To uncover those scars in daylight, to figure out what kind of hell he had to survive to inherit those devastatingly sad yet kind eyes.

To learn his last name. To unearth his middle.

You gasp when he effortlessly flips you over, twisting his fingers in your hair and pulling it back.