#ditzy!reader

the words hit you like a physical slap. you flinch so hard your spine cracks, your head snapping up to see him standing there, blocking the only way out. he’s a mountain of tactical gear and righteous fury, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. for three weeks, four days, and what feels like a lifetime, you’ve been a ghost to him. now, he’s looking at you. really looking at you. and all you can see in his eyes is a storm of something you can’t name, something that terrifies you more than any bioweapon ever could.

panic, cold and sharp, lances through the fog of your despair. he saw you. he saw you crying, curled up like a pathetic child. he saw the absolute wreckage he’s made of you. the humiliation is a hot, acidic wave rising in your throat. you can’t be this for him. you can’t be the broken, weeping rookie.

your body moves before your brain can catch up. you scramble to your feet, your limbs clumsy and uncoordinated. you wipe at your wet cheeks with the back of your hand, a useless, frantic gesture.

“i-i have to go,” you stammer, your voice thick and unrecognizable. “i have… duties. rookie stuff. cleaning the range.”

it’s the stupidest, most transparent lie you’ve ever told. but it’s all you have. you have a million words bubbling up inside you, a torrent of accusations and questions. why? why did you do this to me? what did i do wrong? do you hate me that much? but they all die on your tongue. you can’t say them. you can’t risk it. he’s still your superior officer. he could have you fired, your career ruined before it even began, all for the crime of backtalking the great leon s. kennedy. he has every right to send you home, and the thought is so devastating it steals your breath.

so you do the only thing you can. you run.

you practically shove past him, not daring to make eye contact, your shoulder brushing against the solid wall of his chest. for a split second, you feel the heat of him and smell that familiar, intoxicating scent of gunpowder, leather, and him. it’s like a punch to the gut. you stumble and then you’re out the door, your worn dso-issued boots pounding against the linoleum as you flee down the empty corridor. you don’t look back, but you can feel his gaze burning into your spine every step of the way.

a new resolve hardens in your chest, forged in the fires of pure, unadulterated humiliation. fine. if he wants to play this game, you can play it too. you’re done being the kicked puppy. you’re done waiting for a scrap of attention from his table.

it’s your turn to ignore him.

the rest of the day becomes a masterclass in avoidance. you move through the dso headquarters like a phantom, your senses on high alert. you see him rounding a corner ahead, and you immediately duck into a supply closet, your heart hammering against your ribs as you wait for his heavy footsteps to pass. you take the long way to the armory, adding ten minutes to your trip, just to avoid the main thoroughfare where he might be. in the mess hall, you grab a protein bar and eat it in the women’s locker room, the silence a welcome reprieve.

you know it’s working because you can feel the shift in the atmosphere. the air around the agency, which was already tense, is now crackling with a new, frustrated energy that seems to emanate from one specific, pissed-off senior agent. you hear his voice, sharper and more clipped than usual, barking an order at some poor, unsuspecting tech. you catch a glimpse of him through a window, pacing in the training yard, his movements tight and angry.

oh, it’s frustrating him to his core. and a small, vindictive part of you revels in it. it feels like taking back a tiny sliver of power in a situation where you have none. he wanted to erase you? well, you’re erasing him right back.

your last task of the day is the one you lied about earlier: cleaning up the gun range. it’s menial, dirty work usually reserved for punishing rookies, but right now, you welcome it. the repetitive, mindless motion of collecting brass casings, wiping down the stations, and patching targets is almost meditative. it gives you something to focus on other than the gaping hole in your chest.

the range is empty, the silence broken only by the clatter of shell casings dropping into your bucket and the soft scuff of your boots on the concrete floor. you’re alone, finally. you let your shoulders slump, the rigid posture you’ve been holding all day finally giving way to exhaustion.

“agent.”

the voice makes you jump, and a handful of brass casings scatter across the floor. you spin around to see agent davis, one of the senior operations managers, standing by the entrance. he’s an older man with a kind face that’s currently set in a neutral, unreadable expression.

“sir,” you say, straightening up immediately.

“finish up here,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “when you’re done, agent kennedy wants to see you in his office. said it was important.”

ice floods your veins. your carefully constructed wall of defiance crumbles into dust. his office. not the briefing room, not the training yard. his office. the place no one goes unless they’re getting a formal reprimand or being handed their walking papers.

this is it. this is where he fires you for being an emotional, unprofessional wreck.

“yes, sir,” you manage to choke out, your throat suddenly tight.

davis gives you a long, searching look, a flicker of something like pity in his eyes, before he turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the cavernous silence of the gun range. your hands are shaking so badly you can barely scoop the fallen casings back into the bucket. every clink of metal sounds like a countdown to the end of your career.

the walk from the gun range to the executive wing is the longest walk of your life. each step is heavy and deliberate. you feel like you’re walking the green mile. the elevator ride up to his floor is agonizingly slow, the soft chime as it arrives at its destination sounding like a death knell.

you step out into the hallway. it’s quieter up here; the floors are carpeted to muffle sound. his office is at the very end of the hall, set apart from the others. it’s his private sanctum. you know the rumors. he’d personally requested it after the incident in tall oaks. soundproof walls. a private, secure server. a window with a panoramic view of the city, perfectly positioned to catch both the sunrise and the sunset. and the lighting was always kept dim, the blinds perpetually shut, creating an ambiance of perpetual twilight. it was the office of a man who carried the weight of the world and preferred to do it in the dark.

your feet feel like lead as you approach the dark wood door. his name is there on a simple brass plaque: leon s. kennedy. you stare at it for a long moment, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. you take a deep, shaky breath, ball your hand into a fist, and knock twice. the sound is shockingly loud in the silence.

a moment passes. then, his voice, low and gravelly, comes from within.

“come in.”

your hand trembles as you turn the cold, metal handle. you push the heavy door open and step inside, the carefully constructed fortress of your composure threatening to collapse. you close the door behind you, the soft click of the latch sealing you in. the soundproof walls immediately swallow the noise from the hallway, plunging you into an unnerving, intimate silence. 

the room is exactly as you’d imagined. dim, moody, and overwhelmingly masculine. the only light comes from the dying embers of the sunset, which paint the sky outside the massive window in strokes of orange, pink, and deep purple. the air smells like him, that signature blend of expensive cologne, old leather, and something uniquely, indefinably leon.

he isn’t at his desk. he’s standing by the far wall, his back to you, looking out at the sunset. his arms are resting on a long, dark wood shelf that runs the length of the wall. it’s covered in his achievements: plaques, medals, commendations from a dozen different agencies, and a lifetime of saving the world displayed like hunting trophies. behind his large, imposing desk is a huge, framed photograph of him with president benford, taken before… well, before.

he’s wearing the same clothes you saw him in earlier. a dark navy, quarter-zip compression shirt that hugs the thick, powerful muscles of his torso and arms. the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing the corded strength of his forearms. his pants are black, tactical  cargos, practical and durable, tucked into a pair of black boots that look like they’ve seen their fair share of action. even in his own office, he’s wearing his tac vest. always ready. always on duty.

you stand awkwardly in front of his desk, your hands clasped tightly behind your back, feeling small and out of place. as you’re waiting, the silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken words. you can hear your own blood rushing in your ears.

when he finally speaks, his voice is a low, gruff rumble that seems to vibrate through the floor. he doesn’t turn around. his gaze remains fixed on the fading light outside.

“why did you run from me?”

it’s not an accusation. it’s a simple question, but it’s loaded with the weight of the last three weeks. your throat is dry. you swallow hard, forcing yourself to find your voice.

“i told you,” you say, your tone coming out more clipped and defensive than you intended. “i had duties to tend to. rookie stuff.” you add the last part to reinforce the wall between you and the professional hierarchy. you’re just the rookie. he’s the legend. that’s all there is. “you finding me in the library… that was a mistake. you weren’t supposed to see that.”

he lets out a sound. it’s a short, bitter chuckle, completely devoid of humor. it’s the sound of a man pushed to his limit. the sound scrapes against your raw nerves.

slowly, he turns to face you, his arms still crossed over his broad chest as he leans his weight back against the shelf of his accomplishments. the last rays of sunlight catch the sharp planes of his face, casting his eyes into shadow. but you can feel their intensity, even from across the room. they’re burning holes in you.

“a mistake,” he repeats, his voice dangerously soft. “right.”

As you shift your weight from one foot to the other, the urge to flee, to run out that door and never look back, is a primal scream in your mind. “what was so important?” you ask, trying to steer the conversation back to professional ground. “agent davis said you needed to speak to me privately.” you need a reason for being here, a mission objective. anything other than this suffocating, personal tension.

he doesn’t give you a straight answer. he just watches you for another long, agonizing moment, his gaze so intense it feels like he’s peeling back your skin layer by layer, exposing every raw nerve, every insecurity. then, he pushes off the shelf and starts walking towards you.

he moves with a predator’s grace, silent and deliberate. each step he takes towards you makes your heart beat faster, a frantic bird trapped in the cage of your ribs. he doesn’t stop until he’s standing directly in front of you, so close you have to crane your neck to look up at him. he’s hovering over you, his sheer size and presence utterly overwhelming. you’re trapped between the front of his massive desk and the solid wall of his body.

“tell me about alex,” he says, his voice a low growl.

the question throws you completely off balance. “what? who–?” you stammer, genuinely confused for a second before the friendly, smiling face of the new rookie pops into your head. “alex? what about him? that’s… that’s none of your business.”

“is he fucking you?”

the question is so blunt, so crude, it feels like he just backhanded you. your jaw drops. “what? no! he’s my friend. he’s just… nice.”

“i don’t like the way he looks at you,” he snarls, his eyes flashing with that same dark, stormy emotion you saw in the library. jealousy. it’s raw, ugly, and terrifyingly possessive.

he reaches up, his large, calloused hand moving as if to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. it’s a gesture that, weeks ago, would have sent a thrill through you. now, it feels like a violation. an assertion of ownership he hasn’t earned.

your reaction is pure instinct. you flinch back, slapping his hand away before his fingers can make contact. “don’t,” you hiss, your voice shaking with a mixture of fear and fury. “you have no right to touch me.”

the moment your skin makes contact with his, a jolt of electricity sparks between you. his eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and his jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. he looks down at his hand, the one you just slapped away, as if he’s surprised by it. then he looks back at you, and the storm in his eyes has become a full-blown hurricane.

“no right?” he whispers, his voice dangerously low. he takes another half-step forward, closing the last inch of space between you. his body brushes against yours, and the heat from him seeps through your clothes. “after everything? you think i have no right?”

“you gave up that right when you decided i didn’t exist anymore!” the words burst out of you, raw and wounded. “you don’t get to ignore me for weeks, treat me like i’m nothing, and then get to be jealous when someone else is actually nice to me!”

“he’s nice to you?” he scoffs, his lip curling in a sneer. “he wants to get in your pants, you idiot. is that what you want? some fumbling rookie pawing at you?”

“it’s better than being treated like a ghost by the one person i…” you choke on the words, unable to finish. the one person you care about. the one person whose opinion matters more than anyone else’s.

his expression changes. the anger flickers, replaced by something else. something that looks suspiciously like pain. “the one person you what?” he presses, his voice softer now, more urgent.

you just shake your head, fresh tears stinging your eyes. you can’t say it. you won’t give him that.

“say it,” he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb stroking gently over your pulse point. your heart is beating like a drum machine.

you shake your head again, a single tear escaping and tracing a hot path down your cheek.

and that’s what breaks him.

with a low groan that sounds like it’s torn from the very depths of his soul, he closes the last remaining distance between you. his other hand comes up to cradle your face, his large, rough palms holding you as if you’re something precious, something fragile. his thumbs wipe away your tears, and then his mouth is on yours.

it’s not a gentle kiss. it’s three weeks of silence and frustration and jealousy poured into one. his lips are firm and demanding, moving against yours with a bruising force. you’re so shocked you freeze for a second, your mind reeling. this is happening. this is actually happening.

then he groans your name against your mouth, a broken, desperate sound, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips, seeking entrance. he wants to taste you, to devour you, to reclaim you. and your body, the traitorous, needy thing that it is, responds instantly.

you let out a soft whimper, and your lips part, giving him the access he craves. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, hot and wet and tasting of coffee and mint. it’s a taste you’ve missed more than you ever let yourself admit. you kiss him back, your own desperation matching his. your hands, which had been trapped between your bodies, come up to rest on his massive forearms. the muscle is hard as rock beneath your palms. heat, sharp and immediate, pools low in your belly, a familiar ache that you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

he grunts in approval, a deep, throaty sound of satisfaction, as you kiss him back with equal fervor. this isn’t the first time. far from it. you’ve done this countless times before, in stolen moments in quiet corridors and dark supply closets, before he’d erected that wall of ice between you. you know the taste of him, the feel of him. and your body remembers even if your mind is trying to protect you.

his hands slide from your face, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to give him better access, the other sliding down your back to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him. you can feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach, even through the layers of your clothes and his. the knowledge that you do this to him, that even after everything, you still have this effect on him, sends a jolt of pure, feminine power through you.

he breaks the kiss, both of you panting for air, your foreheads resting against each other. his eyes are closed, his expression one of pure, agonizing relief.

“fuck,” he breathes out, his voice thick with emotion. “i missed you.”

the words are a balm on your wounded soul. but before you can even process them, before you can respond, he’s moving again. with a strength that still manages to surprise you, he hooks his hands under your thighs and hoists you up as if you weigh nothing. you let out a surprised yelp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. he takes two steps back and sets you down on the cold, smooth surface of the long shelf he was leaning against earlier.

the sudden change in height puts you at eye level with him. the framed medals and plaques dig into your back, cold and hard against your thin compression shirt. his hands don’t leave your thighs. they slide up, his large palms mapping the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively. he knows all the right places, all the spots that make you squirm. he squeezes again, harder this time, and you let out a little gasp, your hips instinctively bucking against him.

“just–fuck,” he growls, his gaze dark and hungry as it roams over your body. “i missed your body, mamas.”

his lips find yours again, another deep, soul-stealing kiss, while his hands get to work. he’s surprisingly deft for a man his size. he reaches down and unlaces your dso-issued boots with quick, efficient movements, tossing them carelessly to the floor. then his hands are at the button of your black cargo pants.

“lift up,” he commands, his voice a low rumble against your mouth.

you obey without thinking, lifting your hips off the shelf. he tugs your pants down your legs, taking your socks with them, until you’re kicking them free. they join your boots in a heap on the floor. now you’re sitting on his shelf of achievements, clad in only your black dso-issued compression tee and your panties. your favorite pink lace thong, a secret rebellion of color and femininity under your dull uniform.

he pulls back to look at you, his eyes devouring you. the last of the evening light filters through the window, casting long shadows across the room, highlighting the flush on your skin.

“perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

he leans in, his body pressing yours back against the wall of trophies. his mouth leaves yours and begins a slow, torturous trail down your jaw, your neck, and your throat. his lips are hot and wet, smacking against your heated skin, and the office is filled with the obscene, wonderful sound. you tilt your head back, giving him better access, your fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders.

his hand, the one that was on your ass, slides around to the front, settling over the juncture of your thighs again. even through the thin lace of your panties, you can feel the heat of his palm. you’re already so wet for him. it’s humiliating and exhilarating all at once.

he grunts, a low, appreciative sound, as his index and middle finger press against your slick entrance, right over the fabric. he rubs you a little, a slow, circular motion that has you gasping against his mouth, which is now busy planting open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. the combination of the rough pressure between your legs and the hot suction on your skin is overwhelming. 

“leon,” you gasp, your voice breathy and weak.

“i know, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “i know.”

he teases you for another moment, rubbing and pressing until you’re writhing on the shelf, a low, continuous whine building in the back of your throat. with a final, rough kiss to the hollow of your throat, he moves his hand. he doesn’t take your panties off. he just hooks his fingers under the lace edge and pushes them to the side, exposing you completely to the cool air of the office and his hot, hungry gaze. 

you gasp as his fingers, now bare, find you. the rough pads of his fingertips brush against your swollen, sensitive clit, and you cry out, your back arching. he lets them settle there for a moment, letting you feel the promise of what’s to come, before he slowly, so slowly, eases his index and middle fingers inside your sopping wet hole.

a loud, unrestrained moan tears from your throat. you’re so tight, warm, and slick. his fingers feel so thick, so good. the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, is almost too much. you wrap your arms tightly around his neck. burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, trying to muffle the sounds you’re making. you can’t believe this is happening in his office. anyone could walk by... or even worse, someone entering without knocking. the thought is both terrifying and incredibly arousing.

he lets his fingers settle inside you for a moment, letting your body adjust to the feel of him. then, he starts to move. he pumps them in and out of you, slowly at first, then picking up the pace until he’s fucking you with his fingers in a hard, fast rhythm that has your brain short-circuiting.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” he mutters into your shoulder, his voice a hoarse growl. he bites down gently on the soft skin there, and you cry out, the pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. you can feel your orgasm building, a tight, coiling knot deep in your belly.

“leon, please, i’m close,” you pant, your words slurring together.

“i know,” he says, and he changes the angle of his fingers, curling them up slightly so the pads press directly against your g-spot.

your whole body convulses. you scream his name as the pleasure crashes over you, a tidal wave of pure sensation. your inner muscles clench tightly around his fingers, and you come hard, your body shaking uncontrollably. you feel the hot, slick mess you’re making, your cum dripping down his hand and onto the polished wood of his shelf. you came all over his achievements. the thought makes a fresh wave of heat rush through you.

he doesn’t stop. he keeps his fingers moving inside you, riding out your orgasm until the last tremor has faded. then, with a wet pop, he pulls his fingers out of you. you’re left panting, your body boneless and weak, your face still buried in his shoulder.

you feel him move, and you lift your head slightly to see what he’s doing. he brings his slick, glistening fingers up to his mouth. his blue eyes, dark and hooded, never leave yours as he slowly, deliberately, sucks each finger clean. you watch, mesmerized, as he licks and sucks the evidence of your pleasure from his own hand. you could have sworn you saw his eyes roll back into his head for a split second as he swallows.

the sight is one of the most depraved, most possessive things you have ever seen, and it makes you wetter than you already were.

“my turn,” he says, his voice thick and raspy.

he steps back just enough to give himself room. you hear the click of his belt buckle being undone and the rasp of his zipper being pulled down. he frees himself from the opening in his black boxer briefs, and your breath catches in your throat. he’s thick and long and so hard. it’s been so long since you’ve seen him, felt him. he has his issues, you know that. the stress of the job, the trauma he carries… it affects him. but never with you. with you, he’s always been perfect.

he spits a generous amount into his palm and wraps his hand around his length, lubing himself up with a few quick, rough strokes. his eyes are still locked on you, watching your reaction. he loves seeing you watch him.

“legs up,” he commands, his voice pure gravel.

you do as you’re told, your mind hazy with lust. you bend your legs, bringing your knees up towards your chest, and hold them in the air, your feet braced against the edge of the shelf. the position is vulnerable and open, and it gives him the perfect angle. he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours once more. he lines the thick, pink head of his cock up with your entrance. you can see your cum, dripping from your folds and coating the tip of him. the sight is so beautifully obscene it makes you shiver.

“look at that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a prayer. “jus’ for me.”

with one slow, powerful thrust, he pushes inside you.

a strangled cry escapes your lips. he’s so much thicker than his fingers. he fills you completely, stretching you, seating himself deep inside you until he’s buried to the hilt. you can feel every inch of him. he has to pause for a moment, his body tense, his eyes squeezed shut. you’re so incredibly tight around him. it’s a perfect, searing pressure.

the only sound in the office is the wet, slick noise of his cock sliding into your drenched pussy. that sound alone is enough to send shivers down your spine. only he can do this to you. only he can turn you into this pliant, needy putty in his hands.

he stays still inside you for a long moment, letting you both savor the feeling of being connected again after so long. then, slowly, he begins to move. he pulls back almost all the way and finally thrusts back in, a slow, deliberate rhythm that’s pure misery and bliss.

“oh, god,” you whimper, your hands coming to rest on his chest, your fingers curling into the material of his compression shirt.

he finds his rhythm, and it starts to get faster, harder. his hands come up to grip the backs of your knees, holding your legs up and open for him. he’s fucking you deep, his hips slamming against yours with a force that makes the shelf beneath you tremble. you watch, your eyes half-lidded, as your pussy grips his length, sucking him back in every time he tries to pull out.

you’re a moaning, rambling mess. your words are all fucked up; your brain has completely short-circuited. all you can do is feel. the feeling of him inside you, the rough texture of his tac vest against your hands, and the sound of his grunts and whimpers and muttered curses filling the room.

he’s losing control. his thrusts become harder, faster, more frantic. you can hear some of the smaller items on the shelf, a framed certificate and a heavy challenge coin, clatter to the floor by his feet, but neither of you cares. you’re lost in the storm you’ve created.

you move your hands behind you, your palms flat against the shelf to support yourself as you arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet his every thrust. he groans, a firm, animalistic sound, as the new angle allows him to hit that one spot deep inside you, that spongy, sensitive place that makes your toes curl and your vision go white at the edges.

“right there, huh?" he growls, and he starts hammering into you, hitting that spot over and over and over again.

the back of your head rests against the cool, tinted glass of the window. your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. you swear you’re seeing stars. the pleasure is too much! it’s overwhelming; it’s everything.

“leon!” you scream, your voice cracking.

his name is the only thing that breaks him. with a final, low growl, he thrusts into you one last time, his whole body seizing as he floods your womb with his hot seed. the feeling of him coming inside you triggers yours, a second, shattering orgasm that rips through you, making you cry out and convulse around him.

he doesn’t pull out. he stays buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting and slick with sweat. the silence of the office settles around you again, broken only by your ragged breaths.

but he’s not done with you. not even close.

after a minute, he lifts his head, his eyes dark and wild. without a word, he grips your ass, and with him still buried deep inside you, he lifts you off the shelf. you gasp, your legs tightening around his waist, your arms clinging to his neck. he carries you, the two of you still joined, over to his big, leather office chair behind his desk.

he sits down, adjusting you on his lap so you’re straddling him. he’s still hard inside you. impossibly, he feels like he’s getting harder.

“bounce like you want it, baby,” he orders, his voice a raw, ragged command.

oh, you do.

you start to bounce on his cock, your movements feverish and desperate. your thighs are already burning from the intensity of your last orgasm, but you don’t care. you need more of him. you need all of him. his hands come up to hold your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. your own hands find his strong wrists, holding on for dear life as you ride him.

the old chair creaks in protest with every bounce, a rhythmic counterpoint to the wet, slapping sounds of your bodies colliding. the room is filled with the sound of skin on skin, of your wetness, of your own whiny, pathetic moans. you’re a mess, completely unraveled for him, and he’s watching you with an expression of pure, savage satisfaction.

you can feel another orgasm building, this one faster, sharper, and more intense than the others. your body is so sensitive now, every thrust sending lightning bolts of pleasure through you.

“leon, i’m gonna… i can’t…” you sob, your hips moving faster, more frantically.

“i know, doll, let go for me,” he grunts, his own hips bucking up to meet your downward strokes, driving himself even deeper. “let it all go, ‘s okay. dad’s got you."

and it happens. with a choked cry leaving your lips, your body clenches violently around him, and you’re squirting, a hot gush of fluid soaking his lap, running down his thighs. it’s your third orgasm, and your body is completely overwhelmed. you collapse against his chest, sobbing and shaking, completely spent.

the feeling of your release, of your hot fluid coating him, is what pushes him over the edge for a second time. with a loud, desperate groan, he comes again, a release so powerful it truly feels like it’s filling you to the brim. he stays inside you, his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you in place, making sure not a single drop of him escapes.

for a long time, you just stay like that, wrapped around each other, your bodies aching and trembling. eventually, he stirs. he pulls back just enough to kiss you again, a sloppy, messy kiss full of spit and hunger.

you feel his hands slide down to your ass.

smack.

the sound is sharp and loud in the quiet room. you moan into his mouth, the sting on your skin sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. he bucks his hips up, his still-hard cock pressing deep inside you.

smack. smack.

he starts squeezing the flesh globes of your ass, his grip firm and enticing, alternating between hard squeezes and sharp, stinging smacks. you’re sure it’ll hurt to sit for days, but right now, you don’t care. you just moan and whine, your body a pliant, willing toy in his hands.

he’s marking you, branding you as his. you love it, fuck yeah, you do. you care deeply about this man. in the disarray of his office and the ruins of your secret professional relationship.

[ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ] ꒰ 𖥔 ꒱ @kissfems @filthgf @sturnsflirt @funkycoloured @fleouris @pittsick @kill3ill @branchesofmagic @allinitformofusand @cainflictions @riddikulus-obsessions @laprvphette @treelogirl @astraioses @aspinny @pinkpearlstar @dragonflymoony @xanhnax @ycine11 @sephirothapologist @thisaintviolet69 @venus-in-roses @tophollands @gabithefanwriter @krolqlen @itty-bitty-baby-face @jouryuu @angels-tearss @rawr3ds @princeintheshadow @youngestleclerc ✶࿐໋

❕SFW

clark finds your clumsiness both terrifying and adorable. he’s always hovering—hand at your back on stairs, ready to catch you if you trip because you trip a lot.

you say things that make no sense but somehow hit him right in the soul. “you’re like a saturday morning.” and clark will catch himself thinking about that for the next few months.

you absolutely do not clock that clark is superman. like. at all.

he laughs so much around you. like real, unguarded laughs. you make him feel normal in a way.

he’s obsessed with you. not in a scary way—just that quiet, steady, “this is my person” way.

you accidentally say the most unhinged romantic things. “if you ever turned evil I’d simply remind you you’re a farm boy and it would fix everything.”

you forget things easily. clark just casually superspeeds to grab whatever you lost and hands it to you like it’s no big deal. “oh! i was looking for that!” “i know.”

you accidentally flirt without realizing it. “your arms look really… hug-shaped today.” and he blushes. hard.

when you fall asleep on him, he won’t move for hours if needed to. because you look too peaceful and comfortable. his legs could go numb and he’d still be like, “worth it.”

you trust him completely, without hesitation. that trust means more to him than you’ll ever know—especially with the secret he’s carrying.

you’ll randomly cup his face and squish his cheeks because “he looks too serious.” clark melts. fully. every time.

he’s so careful with you. always. even when things get heated, there’s this restraint—like he’s hyper-aware of his strength. you once whispered, “you won’t hurt me.” and that nearly undid him.

❕NSFW

you get him hard without even trying. and you won’t know he’s hard unless he tells you.

you start laughing mid-kiss. he’s aching under his pants and you’re fucking laughing.

you absentmindedly trace the veins in his forearms while talking. he stops processing anything you’re saying. wishing you were tracing other veins—

most of times you’re making out or having sex, he keeps his glasses on. because you love them so much. he tries his best to keep them on his face just for you.

he loves when you get loud. not because he likes the sound (which he does), but because you’re mostly trying to be quiet, so when you get really loud, he knows he’s hitting the right spot.

you like feeling how solid he is. running your hands over his chest whenever you’re on top. clark doesn’t last long because of that.

he’s a tits guy. sleeping together in the same bed? his head is on your chest. watching a movie? he’ll be lying on top of you with his head between your breasts. and sometimes, without realizing, his hand slips under your shirt to squeeze them.

you love kissing along his neck because it makes him inhale sharply. the fact that you can make someone that strong react like that? it gets you wet.

sometimes, he might get quiet during sex. he likes watching you. like he’s trying to memorize every single reaction.

when you get needy and impatient, you tug him closer with a soft, “clark…” just his name. the warning in his eyes before he kisses you senseless? yeah.

you love when he lifts you. effortless. one hand at your thigh. it makes you feel small in the best way. it makes him feel dangerously close to forgetting how strong he is.

he has too much stamina. so, when you’re tired and he wants another round, he reassures you he’ll go slow and stop whenever you want. he’ll do anything for a little more of pleasure and you.

You’ve been watching your nerdy otaku boyfriend game for hours.

Flipping through your vogue magazines, he’d bought for you to occupy your time with. Hearing the crunchy sound of paper flipping back and forth for a good 30 minutes now—Sitting in his spread lap. He’s playing some game called variant? Or was it called Valorant? You don't remember anymore, you’ve seen him play so many games—you don’t even know when he’s switched over to a new one. 

You were bored out of your mind. Usually he’d give you as much attention as you want. Doing anything you’ve asked of him, without a second thought in his little hentai filled mind. But when he was in his gaming mode, there was no stopping him from playing until he was satisfied. 

Sometimes he’d teach you how to play, not wanting you to have nothing to do—but the only game you knew how to play was roblox, it was the easiest game you could comprehend, and you didn't hurt Your long blinged out nails from pressing the keys too hard, you could go as slow as you want. you liked buying robox—robux for your little cube character to dress up, and playing the princess game royal high. You started playing the game so much—he made you an account.

You’ve been waiting for him to finish playing variant so he could set up the game for you and help you play, but he’s been too—what was the word called? occupied…. You roll your eyes at the thought.

“You suck so much ass, just log out bro”

Your boyfriend yelled into his mic, he was clicking the keyboard so hard. It made your body jump up from his arms moving so much over you. The clacking noises irritated and overwhelmed you. He was playing so rough you’d occasionally jump up on his lap.

“Baby, when’s it my turn to get on the game…..” you whined and pouted, trying to get his attention, lips glossy—jutted out. You even leaned your tits onto his desk, making them look nice and squishy. You didn’t get a response from him, not even a glance. Focused on the pixels on the lit up screen. Usually he’d be all over you—poking your tits out.  He seems really distracted today, you hummed at the thought as he continued to yell obscenities into the microphone. 

Suddenly an idea popped into your mind….

You knew how much he liked it when you dressed up as his little anime characters. You didn’t know what the appeal was, but it still did the job getting him easily horny and aroused. Sometimes he’d be so hard he’d spill in an instance when you’d bat your pretty lashes, and pout your lips. It always worked.

He’d bought you so many costumes to the point where some of it had to stay in his closet, usually you’d throw a fit about wearing the wigs and outfits, because of how itchy the fabric were but he’d always promised you a shopping spree after you’d dress up, along with photo shoots.

You shivered and rolled your eyes at the thought of the photo shoots. He’d have you pose for hours getting the perfect angles—his favorite poses. Just to get them done professionally,  he’d be the only one laying eyes on them and hanging them up on the walls. His apartment is practically filled with merchandise of you—and his little cartoon figurines combined together.

You thought it was a waste of money and it could have been put to funding another birken bag, but hey, it was something he enjoyed doing, and you wanted your baby to be happy too.

You climbed out of his lap hoping it wouldn’t get too much of his attention, wanting to catch his eyes at the perfect timing just so you could deny him in the end…. You smiled at the thought. You were so smart for coming up with this idea. You were totally getting off at the thought of edging him.

You tiptoed over to his closet. Opening the closet door, you noticed there weren't a lot of options—most of the outfits being at your dorm. You searched through the options nevertheless hoping to find something good, although the options were limited you spotted a K-Angel outfit, it was a game you watched him play a while back and you thought the cartoon girl was pretty cute.

The outfit was something he’d recently bought as well. You pulled out the two toned wig and pastel uniform from the closest. It was perfect—your boyfriend had been such a gamer boy today, it was only right you’d be the streamer girl.

You hold the wig and outfit close into your arms as you tell your nerdy boyfriend that you're going to the bathroom, he still doesn’t seem to hear you. You roll your eyes at his behavior, sauntering down the hall to go change into the bathroom. Once you finish changing and managing to get the wig on. You change up your makeup style.

Satisfied with your looks.You walk back into his nerdy haven of a room.You notice that he’s still playing variant. You walk over normally, and plop down onto his lap

He doesn’t notice you yet, still focused on his game. Fingers are still clacking on the keyboard roughly. “hah… fucking online daters—I solo all of you, yeah?”

You began to grind against his clothed legs, trying to alleviate the wetness in your cunny—all the degrading talking he’s been doing all this time starts to get you off. He never talks like this—you thought it was sexy. He ignores the feeling of you grinding against him. He chalks it off as you getting uncomfortable in his lap and trying to adjust yourself for being there too long.

You grind a little harder, the friction of your rough grinding against his clothed leg sends electric shots to your throbbing clit through your clothed panties. “Haa… oh fuuuck—that, ahg… feels s’good~♡!” He hears your pretty high pitched moans, and finally locks eyes with you. He immediately feels himself grow underneath you.

Shit, you looked so fucking cute. You were only grinding, yet you already looked so fucked out already. Rubbing your cute round ass against him—thighs looking so huge and squishy in those thigh highs—looked like you came right out of one of his hentai mangas. He finally began to realize how much you need him—need his attention. 

You never willingly got into the cosplays he wanted you to wear unless you were promised another handbag, or some crazy shopping spree at the mall. so you in that cute k-angel cosplay almost had him busting into his pants right then and there. He needed to contain himself—to feel your sweet cunt wrap around him like a snake, that was way better than cumming now. 

“Fuck baby…. you feel s’good rubbing your cute ass against me.”

Players in the game heard your sweet little moans, and he swears he heard one of them congratulate him on finally being able to pull. Your boyfriends face flushes—the tips of his ears growing red, embarrassed. You stuck your tongue out. maintaining eye contact with your nerdy boyfriend, trying to seduce him—bait him into touching you.

Your pretty ass starts to dry hump against him. The chair gets squeaky, rocking with the weight of the both of you on it. He gets a full blown boner from your humping. The tent in his pants growing— Getting too tight. He leaks precum, growing a patch of wetness onto his pants. You bounce atop of him more, trying to keep the friction in your cunny going.

He tries to wrap his arms around your waist, to gain control of your speed—You weren’t having it though. Immediately slapping his arms away.  “no touching or I’ll stop” you said in a bratty tone, or so he thought.

 Even though he wanted nothing more than to spear you on his cock he sure as hell listens to you though, trying his best not to lift you up for a better angle and taking control of you. He didn’t want the pleasure to stop—He took what you gave him. 

He whines into your shoulder, having thrown your head back to give him better access to mark up and suckle on your neck. Like a puppy being deprived of his favorite toy. “C’mon, s’not fair baby…. You know I can’t survive without slurping you up.” He frowns into you, hips grinding up into you to meet your clumsy, sloppy, thrusts into your clothed cunt.

“You should've… agh~ paid more—attention to…hahh~ to me !” You say hazed and dazed out. Having felt yourself getting too close to the edge you had enough of the grinding. You decided to pull his grey sweat pants down, his underwear coming down along with his pants. Your otaku boyfriend immediately feels the fresh air hitting his aching cock the minute it’s freed from his naruto patterned underwear. You cringe for a second, but continue nevertheless.

You wrap your pink long nails along his cock, adjusting yourself so you are directly above it. You pull your silky pink panties to the side—rubbing him back and forth against your silky slit, making your slick gather along his veiny cock. You felt so good rubbing against his him.

 “ahh—shit…. Baby, j’st wanna… Ngh~ put it… into your sweet—sweet, cunny….. already~♡!”

He could’ve sworn that he was already inside of your succulent cunt. But he felt you continue to slide back and forth against him—slick making obscene noises. You felt his meaty cock almost enter into your hole and you swear you let out the loudest mewl. 

You could feel the vibrations going through your clit. You finally decided to sheath his cock inside of you. You hear your baby whimper loudly. His twitching hands not knowing where to go. He still wanted to follow your rule but fuck you were making it hard for him.  

You glance at the bright computer screen, little characters running around. “C’mon baby don’t you wanna—ngh~…. Play the game?” You look behind your shoulder—to see sweat dripping from your baby’s face. You moved your hips a little more—teasing him. He whimpered into his arm, to keep from too much noise coming out.

 You put a finger to your lips in a ‘shh’ motion. He was clearly struggling to contain his fantasies. Knowing this, You bounced a little harder against him to fully sink your glistening cunt onto his girthy cock. 

He might not look like he gets bitches. But fuck, his dick was 11 inches…. !

The obscene noises made you both even hornier for each other, his cock making 

fap fap fap noises into your cunny  and your cunt continually squelching and squeezing against him made it feel like fucking heaven. He was so grateful he was able to get a tight cunt like yours. He never wanted to leave it !

He swears his brain turned to mush—hazy and sluggish. All he could grasp about reality was how your sweet gummy walls were squeezing his cock. It was like she had a mind of her own, joyous and happy at the feel of him inside of her, like she personally took a liking to his cock. Just sucking him in like a vacuum.

“Oh fuuuck baby—I can feel… hgn~ feel you—ahh~… inside me…..feels s’gooood~♡!” You felt like you were on cloud 9, as if it was Black Friday, hearing those sales go 80% off, your eyes were dilated—rolled back. Feeling his cock fuck into you—veiny, and girthy, bulge very noticeable in your tummy— You would’ve thought you were 3 weeks pregnant.

He moaned hard hearing your pretty voice, you were like a siren, luring him to drive deeper into your cunt with your pretty moans. 

“Haa… think m’gonna— think I'm gonna.. shit~! … mhmm~ cum— cumming…. Cumming, gonna cum….fuck~♡! He whimpered.

You feel him grind his hips up to fuck into you faster, you felt so fucking good, but you had to stop, the plan was to edge him till he felt like doing anything you asked and you weren’t too fucked out not to forget how he was ignoring you. 

You slow down your bouncing. You knew your cunny was gonna try to hold on to him as much as she could, but you had to put yourself first….

He whimpered into your neck, hands still holding onto the desk. He was frustrated. Almost having come into your sweet cunt, like a sneeze he couldn’t get out— huffing and puffing leading up to it. He practically begged you. To let him cum

“Please mommy, can’t— I can’t…. mhm~ take it, anymore… need y’so bad ahg…need you rlly bad mommy, need you….pleasse—please—plsss~♡!” This was music to your fucking ears, he was so desperate, he even called you mommy. This was his first time calling you something like that. You flushed hard. You didn’t know your otaku boyfriend being needy and whimpering could be so fucking sexy.

“Promise— haah~ promise ….. you’ll listen— gahh~ to me~♡!” You say, although you were going slower, the feeling of him in your cunt still got you going. “Fuck baby— anything you, mhmm~ need….anything you ask for !” He promised to pay attention to you from now on. You smirk at the declaration. “Pinky promise~?” You muttered, out of breath. “P-pinky promise…” you reached back to intertwine fingers with him.

“Take control baby~!” Upon giving him the green light he didn’t let any second go to waste. He grabbed onto your hips, and rammed you onto his cock. Strands of his hair plastered to his forehead. The bounce of your tits, the jiggle in your hips—recoiling. Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull. Fap fap fap. You can feel his hips twitching. He was fucking up into you. Hard. He was clearly Pent up. It wasn’t gonna take much for you to cum. 

He thought you looked so hot in that k-angel outfit. Everything was practically still on, just with your pink silky panties twisted to the side. One of your thigh highs were Down and the other was still up, giving him a view of your jiggly thighs. The long pigtails in your hair moving and bouncing along with his thrusts p, it was sending heat to his cock.

“Ahh~ … shit baby, m’gonna—gonna cum, please cum in me—please baby, need it, need your seed…. in me mhnm~♡!!! Upon saying the magic words You swear he pounds into you faster, hips slamming and stuttering into you like a hammer. Your drool drops onto your bouncy tits. You felt so fuckimg good. 

You felt his lips latch and suckle onto your neck, you were feeling so many sensations, the slam of his hips, the bounce of your tits, and his hand rubbing on your clit. Your hips stuttered as you orgasmed on his cock. You felt your cunt squelch as he continues the pace, fucking your droopy cum back into you, as he chases his own orgasm.

His cock uncontrollably twitches inside your cunt—overwhelmeimg you—making you feel good, despite cumming already. 

"Y-you, feels so— i– ah—! ohh... shit, fuck… g’unna come… agh.. g’nna—fill you up~♡!” He felt his cock tighten up as he finally came into your overwhelming heat of a cunt. Of course your cunny sucked him dry in return. 

You finally relax and slump against him. Feeling his sticky seed slosh around your tummy—he fucked it into you. Your tummy’s gonna be feeling full for some time. You just hope you’re able to clean all of the cum good enough—luckily you were on the pill. 

His gaming chair was a sticky mess from the both of you. Your nerdy boyfriend gets a clean wet  rag to clean the both of you off. 

“Still up for playing roblox?” You nodded your head, still a bit hazy from your orgasm—the thought of playing around with your cube character still up for fun though. 

“Fuck, I should take some photos of you—you look so fucking cute right now.” He muttered to himself. Your boyfriend reaches over to the computer monitor to set up the game. Only to realize that the server he was in before was still running.

Fuck, his mic was still on too… he’s pretty sure those degernates have already gooned to your voice.