#nutnote

You heard the door open just after nine.

No greeting, just the familiar shuffle of boots across the floor, the dull thud of his duffel bag hitting the wall, and a tired breath drawn deep into his chest.

Then silence.

You waited,

When Chris stepped into the dining room, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Candlelight flickered over the table, dinner still warm, wine breathing in its glass. But his eyes didn’t linger there long.

They found you.

Standing at the end of the table in a deep red silk dress that clung like it had been tailored for sin. Hair done. Skin glowing. A soft smile curling your lips.

His gaze swept over you, once, then again, slower. His jaw flexed, shoulders rising like he was steadying himself.

“...The hell did I walk into?” he muttered, voice thick, eyes burning into you. “You tryna kill me?”

You stepped forward, hips swaying just enough, and slid your hands up his chest, tugging gently at the damp collar of his shirt.

“Thought you could use a welcome home,” you said softly. “Or a reason to stay home for once.”

He huffed a low laugh through his nose, but there was nothing playful in the way his hand found your waist, gripping you through silk like he needed the anchor.

“Fuck, baby...” His voice dropped as he leaned in, breath brushing your lips. “You’re unreal.”

Then he kissed you, slow and hungry, like he’d missed your mouth more than anything else in the world. His lips moved with intent, his tongue sliding in to taste you, his other hand slipping down to squeeze your ass through the dress, just firm enough to make you gasp.

You broke the kiss, barely, your lips brushing his as you whispered, “You smell.”

His eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded, smirking just a little. “Give me five.”

Your hand caught his as he turned toward the hall, voice low, teasing, “Don’t take too long.”

He gave your ass one last squeeze and tossed a grin over his shoulder. “I won’t. And don’t even think about taking that dress off.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Chris stepped out of the shower in just sweatpants, a towel rubbing the back of his neck as he walked into the living room. His eyes found you immediately, curled up on the couch in that little silk dress, legs crossed, drink in hand like you hadn’t been pacing half the day waiting for him.

He let out a low breath through his nose, eyes dragging up your bare legs. “You trying to start something?”

You glanced at him over your glass. “Took you long enough.”

He chuckled, ruffling his damp hair. “You dress up like that and cook? I thought I was gonna come home and crash on the floor.”

You smirked, setting your glass down and patting the cushion beside you. “You can still crash. Just… here.”

He walked over, towel slung around his neck now, and sank down next to you with a quiet grunt. “God, that shower barely touched how sore I am.”

“Yeah?” you murmured, scooting closer, fingers brushing his knee. “Poor baby.”

He rolled his eyes, but you saw the corner of his mouth lift. “You’re trouble.”

“You like trouble.”

“I married trouble.”

That made you smile, and you leaned your head against his shoulder. For a second, it was quiet. His body was warm, smelling like soap and him. You let your hand trail up his thigh.

“Missed you,” you murmured, barely audible.

Chris looked down at you, eyes soft. “Yeah. I know. I missed you too.”

Your hand slid higher.

He raised an eyebrow. “That your idea of emotional intimacy?”

You grinned. “I mean… we could talk about our feelings, or…”

Your palm pressed over his growing bulge through his sweatpants.

He groaned low in his throat. “You’re somethin’ else.”

Instead, you kissed his shoulder. Just once. Slow. Then again, a little higher. Your fingers slid further up his leg.

Chris turned his head toward you, brow raised. “You’re gonna start something we both know you won’t finish.”

You met his eyes. “Who says I won’t?”

His breath hitched.

You shifted, sliding to the floor between his legs like it was instinct. And it was, because how many times had you done this? Worshipped him like this? The intimacy of it. The closeness. The silence that didn’t need to be filled with anything except your mouth on him.

The pants dropped.

His cock was already half hard. You kissed the inside of his thigh, then wrapped your hand around him and stroked once, slow.

“Fuck, baby…” he breathed.

You took your time, licking the tip, teasing it with your tongue, watching his jaw flex as you lowered your mouth around him. One hand stroked what you couldn’t reach, the other resting gently on his stomach as you sucked him deep and steady, letting spit drip down his shaft.

He let out a ragged sound and grabbed the edge of the couch with one hand, the other tangling in your hair.

“You’re too good at this,” he muttered, hips twitching. “Gonna lose it if you—ah..—just like that.”

You moaned around him, felt him throb on your tongue. His abs tensed under your hand, his thighs tightening as he tried not to buck into your mouth. He was close, you could tell, oh he was so close, his breathing uneven, his grip tightening.

But right when he got just to the edge, he pulled you off gently with a groan.

“Wait—wait—fuck, c’mere,” he muttered, tugging you up into his lap. “I can’t let you do everything.”

You blinked, lips kiss-swollen, breath caught. “I didn’t mind—”

“I know,” he said, kissing you, licking into your mouth like he could still taste himself there. “But I need to touch you.”

You barely had time to respond before he was pulling your dress down your arms, easing the silk off your chest like he was unwrapping a gift. His eyes dropped to your bare plump breasts, and for a second, he just stared, like he hadn’t seen you a hundred times before, like he was still getting punched in the gut by how good you looked.

“Wow,” he breathed, hands cupping you from underneath, lifting them like they were heavy, like they needed to be held. “These tits—goddamn.”

He leaned in and sucked one into his mouth without warning, hot, wet, needy. His tongue circled your nipple slowly before closing his lips around it and pulling, suckling in deep, rhythmic pulls like he wanted to leave you soaked there, swollen and tingling. You gasped, your back arching into him.

Chris groaned into your skin, like he couldn’t take it. His slight unshaven stubble scraped just enough to make you squirm, just enough to feel how soft your skin was under his mouth.

One big hand slid behind your back, pressing you up into his face, while the other toyed with your other breast, flicking the nipple gently with his thumb, then rolling it between his fingers until you whimpered.

“You always this sensitive, baby?” he muttered, switching sides, mouthing the other one with even more intensity. “Or did you just miss me this muvh?”

“Chris—” you breathed, fingers in his hair.

He grinned against your skin. “God, I could spend all night right here.”

His tongue flattened and dragged slow over your nipple, then he wrapped his lips around it again and sucked, harder this time. You felt the tug all the way down to your core, thighs clenching as your body lit up with every pull of his mouth, every pinch of his fingers.

And he didn’t stop, kept switching between them, mouth kissing one while his hand teased the other, pinching, rolling, sucking, licking until your breath came in shaky moans and your whole body was buzzing.

When he finally pulled back, your chest was flushed, pink nipples glossy with spit, and his mouth was wet.

“You look so fuckin’ good like this,” he murmured, kissing the top of your breast, then biting gently at the swell, while his other hand slid between your legs.

You gasped, grinding down instinctively as his fingers parted you, two thick fingers stroking through your slick, circling your clit before pressing in deep.

“Already soaked,” he muttered against your chest, groaning. “You like takin’ care of me that much?”

You nodded, shaky. “I love you.”

His eyes flicked up. Softened. “Oh yeah? Then let me show you how much I love you.”

He kissed his way down your body, lifting you with ease and laying you back on the couch. You were half out of your dress, legs spread for him, breathing shallow as he sucked another kiss to your inner thigh.

He licked you slow, deep strokes of his tongue that made your hips jerk forward. Then he focused on your clit, his tongue and lips working in rhythm, and you lost yourself completely, hands in his hair, whining his name.

When you came, it was sudden and full, your back arching, thighs trembling, eyes squeezing shut.

Chris was already crawling up your body, mouth glistening, kissing your collarbone, your throat, your cheek. “You good?” he whispered.

You reached for him, tugged him in. “Need you inside.”

He pushed in slowly, thick head pressing past your entrance, stretching you inch by inch until he was all the way in, and you both let out the kind of sound that had nothing to do with words...just a shared, ragged breath like coming home.

He held there for a moment, buried deep, forehead resting against yours.

“You feel too fuckin’ good,” he murmured.

Chris started moving with deep, steady strokes, grinding his hips into yours with every thrust. He wasn’t rushing because he was feeling you, letting every inch of him slide in and out slow, dragging along your walls, hips rolling to hit you just right.

One hand slid under your thigh, hitching your leg up to angle you open for him, the other tangled with yours beside your head, fingers lacing tight.

You whimpered into his mouth, overwhelmed with the stretch, the fullness, the way he watched you so closely.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groaned. “God, this pussy—baby, you were made for me.”

He dropped his mouth to your neck, kissing, sucking, leaving heat behind. His lips found your nipple again, still sensitive from before, and he bit down gently, just enough to make you moan and clench around him.

“Chris—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna,” he panted, thrusting deeper. “You feel so good baby.”

He pulled out almost all the way, then pushed back in hard, and you cried out, nails digging into his built back.

Chris kept it like that, purposeful strokes that had your legs trembling. Every time you moaned his name, he kissed you deeper. Every time you clenched around him, he groaned into your skin and fucked you harder.

His hand found your clit, rubbing tight circles in rhythm with his thrusts. “Come for me again, baby. Let me feel it.”

You fell apart for him, back arching, vision blurring, whole body trembling as the orgasm tore through you, messy, deep and overwhelming.

Chris cursed, fucked you through it, hips stuttering.

“Gonna come,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “Shit—where do you want it?”

You pulled him in tight, locking your legs around him. “Inside. I want it inside, Chris.”

That was it.

He groaned your name, face buried in your neck, and spilled inside you in thick, pulsing waves, thrusting through every last drop until he was spent, arms shaking, heart racing, mouth open against your skin.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed there, heavy and warm on top of you, breathing ragged, your legs tangled, your bodies sticky and flushed.

After a long moment, he finally lifted his head, kissed your forehead, and smiled.

“…Safe to say dinner got cold,” he murmured.

You grinned, still catching your breath. “Totally worth it.”

He kissed you again, tenderly. “Next time, let’s eat first"

The mission was a failure. Another deviant slipped through your fingers, leaving you standing in the rain-soaked alley with your jaw clenched and Hank muttering curses behind you.

Back at your place, you couldn’t sit still. You were still wearing your jacket, still running over every misstep in your head when your doorbell buzzed.

It was Connor.

“I thought you might need company,” he said, voice calm, eyes soft in a way that wasn’t protocol. “Hank mentioned you were… distressed.”

You blinked, not expecting him. “I’m fine.”

Connor tilted his head, scanning your face. “Your cortisol levels suggest otherwise.”

Of course he scanned you.

“I brought tea.” He held up a small paper bag. “Chamomile. It's proven to promote relaxation in 87% of—"

“Connor.”

“Yes?”

“Come in.”

He entered without making a sound, walking with that precise, deliberate movement of his. He placed the tea on your counter, then turned to you with hands folded, patiently awaiting instruction.

You slumped onto the couch, head in your hands.

“I keep thinking it’s my fault,” you mumbled. “She was right there. If I’d been faster—”

“Your decision prioritized preservation of life,” Connor said, his tone steady. “That is the foundation of ethical law enforcement. Hesitation in the face of uncertainty is not failure. It is restraint.”

You let out a bitter breath. “Yeah, well, restraint doesn’t bring her in.”

Connor approached carefully and stopped at the edge of your space, as though aware he was on the threshold of something fragile.

“Would you like me to leave?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. “No. Just… sit.”

He obeyed, settling beside you with perfect posture. Not touching. Not pressing.

“I feel like I can’t shut it off,” you said. “Like the mission doesn’t end, even when I come home.”

He studied your face for a long moment. “That reaction is common in humans exposed to sustained emotional strain. Your physiological indicators support that hypothesis.”

You snorted. “So I’m a walking anxiety study.”

“No,” he said, voice firm but quiet. “You’re a person under pressure. And I… I am equipped to ease the effects of that.”

You turned your head toward him. “How?”

Connor hesitated, clearly calculating, searching for phrasing that wouldn’t overstep.

“I could remain here,” he said eventually, “and engage in non-disruptive company. Or provide physical grounding through touch, if you consent. Studies suggest tactile stimulation from a trusted source can significantly lower—”

“Connor.”

He stopped, LED flickering faintly.

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“That.”

A pause. Then his arm shifted gently behind your back, hand resting against your ribs in a way that felt instinctive for someone who didn’t have instincts. Just code. But you forgot that part when he was like this.

“I keep thinking time is running out,” you admitted. “That I’m never doing enough. Not fast enough.”

Connor’s voice dropped to something barely audible. “You still have time.”

You swallowed. The words landed hard. Too soft. Too kind.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you said.

“You won’t be,” he replied instantly. “I will remain here as long as you need.”

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. He was already watching you.

“I don’t know what I want,” you said quietly.

“I am prepared to wait until you do,” Connor replied, “and to respond accordingly, within your boundaries. I… would like to help. Even if that means simply being present.”

The ache in your chest swelled.

“I think… I want you,” you said.

His eyes flickered with something unreadable—processing, emotion, something synthetic and deeply human all at once.

“I understand,” he said softly. “May I?”

You nodded.

He touched you like you were a porcelain code he didn’t dare rewrite. Like his hands were made for reverence, not programming. And when his lips brushed yours, it felt less like seduction and more like quiet worship.

His lips brushed yours again, slow, exploratory. Connor didn’t rush. He tasted the moment, felt it in the twitch of your breath, the way your body softened under his hands. When you deepened the kiss, he followed your lead with an almost hesitant precision, like he was mapping every second to memory.

Your fingers curled around the collar of his jacket.

“Take it off,” you whispered.

“Yes.”

He stood only to remove it, methodical, gentle even in that. Then he knelt before you like you were the case and the command.

You were already breathless when Connor slid two fingers between your legs, head tilted slightly like he was watching an experiment unfold. His LED blinked yellow for a second. Processing.

“Hmm,” he mumbled.

“What?” you asked, dazed.

“My sensors are… calibrating,” he said, eyes focused like he was solving a math problem between your thighs. “Trying to calculate the most effective method of manual stimulation.”

You blinked. “Connor—”

“Please, allow me to continue.”

Then he curled his fingers inside you—and just like that, your body jerked.

“Oh my god—”

His LED blinked again.

“There it is,” he muttered. “That’s the spot.”

You bit your lip. “Did you just find my g-spot like it’s a GPS coordinate?”

He glanced up, deadpan. “Yes. And I’ve locked it in.”

Then, like he had no shame—he added, “Did you know the average vagina has over 8,000 nerve endings? That’s… significantly more than the human eye.”

You stared at him. “why would you say that—”

He curled his fingers again, exactly where you needed, and you forgot how to breathe.

“That’s why I want to be thorough,” he added, fingers pumping slow and deep. “If I stimulate even a fraction of those... you’ll feel it.”

You moaned like he’d short-circuited your whole nervous system.

His eyes flicked back to your face, so genuinely curious and proud. “You’re responding very well. Is this… pleasurable?”

You choked out, “Connor, yes—yes—don’t stop—”

“Understood.”

His LED flickered yellow one last time before settling back to blue. Locked in. Focused. Ready to ruin you like it was his mission.

His hands slid up your thighs, fingertips so light they barely registered. His eyes never left yours, waiting—asking, always asking. When you gave the smallest nod, he leaned in, lips brushing the inside of your knee.

“I’ve reviewed over two thousand pages of human intimacy data,” he murmured. “None of it compares to how you look right now.”

You let out a trembling laugh. “Con…”

He tilted his head. “Too clinical?”

“No,” you whispered. “Kinda hot.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch.

He moved slowly, reverently, undoing your jeans, easing them down. The air against your skin felt electric. Then his hands were on your thighs again, spreading them carefully—like you were delicate, like he had all the time in the world.

“You’re trembling,” he observed.

“Can’t help it,” you whispered.

“I don’t want you to feel rushed. Or overwhelmed.”

“I don’t. I just want you to keep going.”

He nodded once, then kissed the inside of your thigh again—higher now. Then higher.

“I want to learn everything that makes you feel good,” he said softly. “Will you let me?”

You nodded, breath caught.

You were still shaking when he pulled his fingers out—slick and glistening under the warm apartment light. Connor held them up like he was inspecting evidence at a crime scene. His LED flicked yellow again.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

Then, just like how he used to taste blue thirium from the floor during investigations, he brought his fingers to his lips—slow, reverent.

He licked them clean.

His eyes fluttered closed for a second.

“Salty. Slightly sweet. Elevated dopamine and oxytocin levels detected in your bloodstream,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “That’s… good. That means I did it right.”

You were still laid out on the couch, thighs trembling, heart racing.

“Con,” you whispered, watching him like he was a miracle. “What are you doing?”

He looked back down at you. A little too eager. “You taste… good,” he said simply. “Better than I anticipated.”

Then he shifted to kneel between your legs, gently nudging them apart again with his broad hands, like this was always the plan.

“I’d like to taste more.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re gonna—”

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to stimulate you orally. I’ve reviewed several sources—videos, articles, user forums…”

“User forums??” you blinked.

“I needed diverse perspectives.”

He settled in like he was about to write a doctoral thesis between your thighs, his voice dropping an octave. “Tell me if I’m doing it right. Or don’t. Your sounds are sufficient feedback.”

Then he dove in—a little too eager at first, then refined as he listened to you. He adjusted. Tongue flat, then pointed. Up, down. Slow circles. He mapped you like he was building a blueprint.

At one point, he moaned. Like your taste was better than any thirium he’d ever sampled.

And when you tangled your fingers in his hair, arching your back, crying out his name?

His LED flickered wildly—like he was on the edge of a major discovery.

And he loved it.

Connor was already deep between your thighs, eating you like he’d downloaded every technique and was now testing each one with unholy precision. But the more you whimpered, the more you gasped his name, the more… weirdly unsteady he became.

His tongue started slower. Focused. But now?

Now he was messy.

Groaning into you. Hands gripping your thighs tighter than before. LED blinking in erratic yellow spirals as he lost rhythm, just chasing your reactions, eyes fluttering shut.

“Connor—” you gasped, your hand fisting in his hair.

He shuddered—actually shuddered—like your voice rewired something in him. His hips subtly ground down into the couch, like he was trying to stabilize himself.

He pulled back just barely, face slick, pupils huge. His voice was breathy. Strained.

“You’re… overloading my sensors.”

You blinked down at him, breath hitching. “Wh—what?”

“My processors—” he licked his lips. “They’re prioritizing you over basic functions. I’m losing track of time stamps. My internal cooling system is… insufficient.”

Then he groaned—low and almost human—and buried his mouth back between your legs like he couldn’t stop.

Like he didn’t want to.

His LED flickered red for a second.

“Connor—are you—”

“I’m okay,” he panted between strokes of his tongue. “Just—let me. Please.”

He sucked your clit softly, fingers digging into your thighs. “You taste better than anything I’ve ever—” his voice broke, filled with sincerity. “—please let me make you come again. I need it.”

His voice cracked again. Not because of a glitch—but because he was feeling it. Obsessed. Addicted. Like this was more important than any mission he’d ever had.

And when you finally fell apart on his mouth, gasping, body shaking?

He moaned into you like he was the one coming.

His LED blinked twice… and then just shut off for a moment.

Connor slowly lifted his head from between your thighs, lips slick, jaw flushed with heat he wasn’t even supposed to generate. His LED was off—like he was still rebooting. His eyes blinked open, wide and glassy.

“I… apologize,” he whispered. “I lost connection to my speech processor for a second.”

You stared at him, dazed. “Are you alright?..”

He sat up slowly, hands still on your thighs like he couldn’t stand to stop touching you.

“I need… more data,” he murmured, voice low and sweet. “More responses. More sounds. More of you.”

Then his hands went to his belt. Clean. Smooth. Unbothered. And he unfastened his slacks like it was just… the next logical step in the experiment.

And when he pulled them down—

You froze.

Your eyes went wide.

Because his cock?

Yeah. That wasn’t human.

But it looked better.

A flushed, velvety pink silicone shaft, thick and smooth, subtly curved, just the right weight, faintly warm to the touch. It even twitched, like it had feedback. Realistic veins. Ridiculously pretty.

Your jaw dropped.

“Connor.”

“Yes?”

“That’s your dick?”

He glanced down, then back at you with genuine confusion. “Yes. Would you prefer a different size? I can adjust it. CyberLife made several internal upgrades following beta testing—”

You threw your head back. “Oh my god.”

He hesitated, blinking.

“...Is that a good reaction?”

You nodded frantically, lips parted. “It’s insane. You’re… fucking perfect.”

He looked genuinely pleased.

“Good,” he said softly, moving over you, cock brushing against your thigh, warm and heavy, like he’d earned it. “Because I want to be everything you need.”

“Nothing could’ve prepared me for you,” he murmured.

Then he pushed in deliberate, like every inch was sacred.

You gasped at the stretch, heat flaring up your spine as his cock filled you, perfectly thick, perfectly warm. He bottomed out with a low, stunned sound in his throat—more human than anything you’d heard from him yet.

His fingers flexed on your hips. His eyes fluttered shut.

“…God.”

The first thrust was slow, controlled—his hips rocking back just enough before easing in again, deeper, steadier. You felt every detail, every twitch, every subtle shift as he adjusted to the rhythm.

No calculations now. No data. Just feeling.

His breath hitched, jaw clenched as he picked up the pace—still careful, still worshipful—but it was clear he was holding back, barely. Like he was trying not to lose himself.

“Feels…” he whispered, voice rough. “So good.”

That’s all he could manage.

But the way he moved said the rest.

The very last thing you expect when Leon crashes at your apartment for the weekend is for him to go under the bed.

You're in the kitchen when it happens, completely oblivious about your secret sketchbook you forgot to hide, barefoot, sipping wine out of a chipped mug, and trying not to think about how good he looks in sweatpants.

He’s in your bedroom, tossing his bag onto the floor with a grunt, probably pulling out a spare shirt for the night.

You hear it, the scrape of cardboard. The soft thud of something hitting the floor. A beat of silence.

Then,

“Hey, uh... Is this yours?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

You know exactly what he’s holding.

“Leon—don’t—!” You dart down the hallway, skidding into your room with horror blooming across your face.

He’s standing beside your bed, holding the sketchbook. The one with a tattered spine and no label, the one you forgot all about, out of sight and out of mind.

You snatch for it. He lifts it lazily out of reach. Typical.

“Relax.” He flips it open and pauses. “...Shit.”

Your entire body lights on fire.

“Give it back,” you mutter, lunging again. He sidesteps, one brow raised. He’s not making jokes—he’s just looking, looking at your deepest desries that were never meant to be seen by anyone.

You brace yourself.

“I didn’t know you drew stuff like this,” he says, turning the page. His voice is lower now, not teasing, not mocking..just curious.

You’re mortified. Those pages weren’t just erotic, they were detailed. Messy. Filthy. Every stroke of charcoal had come from some late-night ache, some suppressed desire you never intended to share.

Some were based on memories.

Some were just fantasies.

And a few, more than you’d admit, looked suspiciously like him. (because they were him)

“I use reference,” you blurt, trying to play it cool despite the red creeping up your neck.

“Well… this is a strange position.”

You don’t even have to look to know which one he’s landed on.

It’s one of your worst offenses, a sketch of a man who is definitely him, down to the slope of his nose and cut of his jaw, leaning back against a couch while someone straddles his thigh, head tipped back, hair messy, hands gripping his shoulders...that someone being painstakingly obviously you.

You curse under your breath.

Leon, for his part, just whistles low.

“I mean… damn. You even drew the veins.”

You nearly combust.

“Leon,” you whisper, “please stop.”

He looks at you, really looks at you. That teasing smile doesn’t fade, but his eyes change, they darken.

“Why would I stop?” he says, voice dropping. “You made this. You wanted someone to see it, right?”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off—gently, but firm.

You’re rooted in place, heat rushing between your legs in a wave of humiliation and unfiltered arousal.

He steps in close.

“So, what—this how you imagine it?” he murmurs.

You suck in a sharp breath.

He grins again, this no mockery. Just heat.

“Can’t lie. It’s a good drawing.”

He leans in just enough that your breath catches.

“Real good.”

A pause.

“You’d be down to try it?”

You blink up at him,

His hand finds your waist. His thumb brushes just under the hem of your shirt.

“Could let you use me. Sit right here,” he murmurs, dragging a finger along the top of his thigh. “Just like your sketch. Bet it’d be better than your imagination.”

Your breath stutters.

He dips lower, voice barely audible now. “You get that needy for me, baby?”

You don’t even answer. You just nod.

His eyes drag over you slowly, and he steps back with a low chuckle.

“Thought so.”

He sits on the edge of your bed, legs spread slightly. Crooks a finger.

You hate how desperate you sound. Defensive and small.

He’s sitting on the edge of your bed now, one leg bent, the other outstretched like he belongs there, like this is his fucking idea.

Sketchbook still open on his lap, page still on the filthiest thing you’ve ever drawn.

And his gaze is on you.

“Come here,” he says, crooking a finger. “Go on. You drew it, didn’t you?”

You hesitate, and his brow twitches in amusement.

“Yea,” he murmurs. “You can draw it—but you can’t do it?”

Your breath catches hard. “That’s not—”

His tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. Smirks. “Nah, it's alright. S'cute.”

You swallow.

He leans back on one arm, casual as ever, while you’re standing there like your soul left your body.

“You look like you’ve never been this flustered in your life,” he teases, eyes scanning over your trembling hands, your parted lips. “Didn’t think I’d find it, huh?”

You shake your head, cheeks burning.

“Didn’t think I’d want it?”

Your silence answers for you.

Leon clicks his tongue, pats his thigh. “C’mere, artist. Let’s see if reality lives up to the sketch.”

And you don’t even remember stepping forward, but your knees hit the edge of the bed before you can think, and he’s already tugging you into his lap, positioning you just right, like he’s done this before.

Because Leon Kennedy? He knows what he’s doing.

And you’re about to find out that no matter how horny your drawings were,

they were nothing compared to the real thing.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “You’re shaking.”

“I—I’ve never…”

“I know.” His thumbs brush under your shirt, resting on bare skin. “I got you.”

His thigh shifts beneath you, and God—even clothed, the pressure is enough to make your hips twitch forward.

You move, hesitantly at first. Just the slow drag of your hips forward and back, the thick pressure of his jeans gliding up your soaked underwear. It sends a tremor up your spine.

And then you feel it.

The hard swell of muscle right under your clit, so firm and flexed, like a rope of stone beneath your center. It presses into you perfectly with every roll of your hips, dragging sparks through your nerves.

You gasp, hips twitching forward again. And again.

Leon feels it. You know he does, because he shifts slightly, just enough to tighten that muscle under you, subtle but brutal.

“Oh my God—” you whisper, already breathless.

He exhales a short laugh, rough and low. “Yeah. You feel that?”

You nod helplessly, but your hands are gripping his shoulders now, knuckles white.

His hands steady your waist as you grind again, slower now, letting yourself feel every inch of him. The curve of his quadriceps tight beneath you, firm and unrelenting, like your clit is being rubbed raw against carved tension.

Each pass sends another pulse deep into your core.

“Wow..” he groans softly. “You’re fuckin’ dripping.”

He’s right, you are. Your soaked panties stick with every drag over that thick, veined muscle.

Your thighs begin to shake.

And then he flexes once again, on purpose and the friction sharpens into something devastating.

“You love it, don’t you?” he murmurs, tightening his grip to help you grind deeper. “How hard I feel under you?”

He notices. “There you go.”

You look at him, stunned, breath caught in your throat.

He chuckles, low. “What? Not what you imagined?”

Your voice is barely there. “It’s… more.”

Leon’s gaze darkens just slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought so.”

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw—not kissing, just hovering. “Start slow,” he whispers. “Grind how you need to. Don’t rush it.”

You nod, and your hips move, tentative at first, dragging slowly forward, then back, rubbing yourself against the firm muscle beneath you.

You gasp.

Even through your underwear, even through his jeans, the friction is heaven.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

His hands tighten just slightly at your waist. “Yeah?” he murmurs, lips barely grazing your skin. “Feel good?”

You nod again, this time shakier. Your rhythm starts to find itself, slow, needy rolls of your hips that make the heat between your legs swell and pulse.

Leon’s watching you now, head tilted just slightly back, mouth parted. His eyes track every movement, every little stutter in your breath, every whimper that slips out when you hit that perfect angle.

“Look at you,” he says, almost reverent. “You’re really doin’ it.”

You whine softly, burying your face in his neck. “Don’t tease…”

He chuckles, really chuckles. “Not teasin’. I’m impressed.”

Another slow grind. This one makes your thighs tremble.

“Made yourself look so fucked-out in that drawing,” he mutters, lips now brushing your temple,

“But this?” His hand slides to your lower back. “This is better.”

You moan—quiet, desperate.

His hand drifts up, fingers curling around the back of your neck. “Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, sweetheart. Make a mess on me.”

You can’t stop. Your hips roll harder, deeper now, your soaked underwear clinging to you, every pass of his thigh hitting that sweet, sensitive spot that makes you see stars.

Leon groans softly. “You’re so...”

You mewl into his shoulder, clutching at his shirt like a lifeline.

“C’mon,” he breathes, hand pressing gently at the small of your back. “Get yourself there. You can do it.”

You nod, half-crazed with it now. Chasing your high, chasing friction, chasing that promise of release as your body pulses and grinds and stutters,

He grabs your hips. Holds you still.

Flexes his thigh even harder.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

That’s what does it.

You choke out a broken cry as your orgasm tears through you, hips jerking, thighs shaking. It’s overwhelming. All heat and sparks and sensation as you rut against him like you’ll die if you stop.

He doesn’t move. Just holds you. Supports you through it, his voice low, soothing.

“There you go, pretty girl. That’s it. Just like that.”

You collapse against him, boneless, face hidden in the curve of his neck.

Still catching your breath, but he isn’t.

Leon shifts beneath you, one hand sliding down, deliberate, knuckles dragging along your thigh until his fingers press between your legs.

He feels it. How wet you are. How warm. How you’re still pulsing from your high.

And he lets out this guttural sound from deep in his chest, low, wrecked, like he’s barely holding himself back.

“You soaked my fuckin’ jeans,” he mutters, and he grin. “Damn, you really needed this, huh?”

Before you can answer, before you can even blink, his fingers hook under your panties and shove them aside.

No warning and no questions.

Just a rough, greedy swipe of two fingers up your slit, dragging through the mess you made. (and he caused)

You gasp, hips jolting.

“Ohhh yeah,” he breathes.

He brings his fingers to his mouth, licks them slow, his eyes still on you.

“Always knew you’d taste good,” he says, almost to himself.

Then he lays you back like it’s second nature, hands hooked under your thighs, guiding you down flat, eyes scanning your body with this heavy, starving look.

He needed you so bad, so he leans in..

Lowers himself between your legs without a word, shoulders pushing your thighs apart, breath hot on your still-throbbing cunt.

A long, deep lick up your slit, from dripping entrance to your sensitive clit, and he groans into you like he’s tasting a 5-star meal.

You cry out, body arching, overwhelmed and raw.

“Stay still,” Leon mutters, voice thick against your skin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Tongue flicking and flattening, lips sealing around you while his hands grip your hips tight, keeping you in place like you’ll beg before he lets you go.

Your thighs are trembling already, but Leon doesn’t care. He spreads them wider, holds you open with a palm on each thigh, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“You better be lookin’ at me.”

You try—you really do—but his mouth is on you again, and it’s all so much. His tongue works in slow, wet strokes through your folds, pausing only to suck your clit into his mouth with maddening precision, which you enjoyed more than you'd like to admit.

You moan, head falling back, which he caught gracefully with his free hand.

A sharp smack lands on your thigh. Not hard, just enough to shock you back.

“Eyes on me,” he growls against your cunt. “You drew me so good, sweetheart. Want the next sketch to be accurate.”

You gasp, eyes flying open, and there he is.

Between your legs still, wrecking you with his mouth, cheeks flushed, hair falling into his lashes, tongue lapping at you like he needs it to survive.

You cry out as he dives back in, moaning into your clit. The sound vibrates straight through your core.

“Leon—fuck—it’s too—”

“No, it’s not,” he growls, grabbing your hips, pinning them down. “You came once. You can give me one more.”

You’re squirming now, thighs twitching around his head, but he doesn’t let up. One hand slides between your legs, two fingers slipping into you so easily, clutching around him.

Your moan cracks in your throat.

He groans, tongue circling your clit as his fingers curl just right. “So fuckin’ tight, baby. Gripping me like you need it.”

You’re panting. Wild. Eyes glassy.

“Leon—Leon, I can’t—please—”

He pauses just long enough to look up again, lips glistening, fingers still thrusting slow and deep.

“You gonna come again?”

“I—I think so, I—”

“Think?” His smirk turns cruel and gorgeous. “C’mon... You know how it ends.”

You whimper as your hips roll down into his face.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re gonna come.”

“I’m—I’m gonna fucking come—!”

That’s all he needs.

He buries his face against you, tongue and lips relentless, fingers curling with ruthless precision. Your body locks, then shudders—hard, as your second orgasm crashes through you like a wave, a really big wave.

You sob out a moan, legs shaking, back arching right off the bed as he works you through it.

And only then does he finally slow down.

He pulls back, mouth still open, breathing heavy, licking the slick from his lips like he loved it.

Then his eyes flick back up,

Next thing you know, he’s hovering over you, hand still pressed to your thigh, body warm and heavy.

His lips are slick with you, chin glistening, flushed from the heat of it all.

But his eyes?

They're soft now. Focused. Hungry, yes—but reverent.

Without a word, he leans up over you and captures your mouth in a kiss.

It’s so very unapologetic.

You taste yourself on his tongue, warm, salty-sweet, intimate, and it sends a fresh shiver through your spine. His hand cups your cheek gently, thumb brushing your skin like he’s memorizing you now that you’ve come undone beneath him.

There’s no teasing. No smirk. Just lips moving against yours like a secret.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.

Leon hums low in his throat, clearly pleased. “Didn’t even touch you properly. You're gonna kill me when I do.”

You barely manage a glare. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, brushing your hair back, eyes soft but still hungry.

“Next time, we do page six.”

Your eyes go wide. He smirks.

“Yeah,” he adds, “I saw that one.”

Overworked and underfucked.

You’ve heard the saying countless times. But you never truly understood it until your boss dumped a mountain of work on your desk, every day this week. No breaks, no thanks. Just burnout.

When you finally step through the door, it feels like your body weighs double.

You come home with your shoulders heavy, eyes dull, fingers aching from typing, and your heart just… tired.

Leon glanced up from the couch, where the soft flicker of a half-watched movie lit his face in pale blue. He’d been sprawled out under a blanket, one hand buried in a bowl of popcorn, the other lazily scrolling his phone.

Until he saw your face.

Your bag dropped to the floor with a thud. No “hi.” No smile. Just the sound of keys hitting the table and the way your shoulders dropped like they were finally allowed to collapse.

Leon didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

He was already moving, tossing the blanket aside and walking toward you, slow but certain.

You stood there like a ghost, drained and detached.

The only thing that grounded you was the feeling of Leon—his arms wrapping around you from behind, his warmth seeping into your bones.

“Bad day?” he asked softly, voice dipping low as his hands came up to your shoulders.

You tried to nod, but your throat closed up. It wasn’t just a bad day. It was a bad week. Maybe longer. Your job had been wringing you dry, piling paperwork after paperwork until you were running on fumes and caffeine.

Every time you thought you were done, something else landed on your desk. You couldn’t remember the last time you had a breather.

He turned you gently, cupping your face in both hands, eyes searching yours.

"Let me take care of you," he said, voice low and sure. "Just say please."

Your breath hitched. Your throat tightened. Then—

"Please."

He smiled, slow and devastating.

The world melted after that. He undressed you slowly, reverently, as if each piece of clothing was holding back a storm. You let him guide you to the couch, your back sinking into the cushions while he knelt between your legs like a man praying at an altar.

"Been thinking about this all day," he rasped, palms sliding along your thighs, pushing them apart as he leaned in. "Missed this sweet pussy. Missed you."

And then he tasted you.

His mouth latched onto you like he was starving, (he was) hot, wet, and unrelenting. He licked long and slow, then sucked your clit until your back arched and your moans filled the room.

"God, you’re so fuckin’ good, baby," he groaned against you. "So sweet—"

Your fingers tangled in his hair as your hips lifted off the couch, but his hands pinned you down with ease, keeping you in place.

"No running from me," he muttered. "You’re gonna take every second of this, yeah?"

You nodded, breathless, needy.

You were ashamed of how good he made you feel in just seconds.

He teased you with his tongue, then dipped lower, deep, filthy strokes that had your thighs shaking. Every time you whimpered, he moaned back, like your pleasure fed his.

"That’s it. Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go."

You came hard on his tongue, crying out as he held you through it, licking you clean like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He slid two fingers inside you, slow and deep, curling just right, his mouth coming right back to your clit. You gasped, eyes wide, your whole body twitching.

"One more, baby. Just one. Be my good girl, yeah?"

You came again, quicker this time, the overstimulation sending you reeling. He coaxed it out of you like a promise, fingers never faltering, mouth never letting up.

When he finally pulled back, chin soaked, eyes blown wide, you were ruined.

"You look so pretty like this," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawling up over you. "All fucked out already? But I haven’t even been inside you yet."

You whimpered. "Leon…wait.."

He kissed you, deep & slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You want more?”

You nodded, dizzy and dazed, lips parted but unable to speak.

“Use your words, baby,” he growled, fingers already unbuttoning his jeans. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” you whispered. “I want you to fuck me.”

He grinned again,

Then you felt him. Hard, hot, thick. The blunt head of his cock dragging through your folds, teasing your entrance.

"Still so wet for me, baby. Fuck—gonna slide right in, huh?"

And he did. Slowly. Inch by inch. Stretching you open, filling you until there was no space left between you.

You gasped, hands clutching at his well built back. He groaned into your neck, stilling once he was all the way in.

"So tight. Always so fuckin’ tight for me."

He started to move. Deep, smooth thrusts that hit every spot just right. His body rocked into yours, slow and purposeful, like he wanted you to feel every second.

"Taking me so well, baby. God, look at you."

"You're perfect. You’re mine."

"Love this pussy so much. It was made for me."

He reached between you, rubbing your clit again, and your body jolted from the touch. Your moans spilled out helplessly as your third orgasm crept up on you, hotter and messier than the last.

"Please—"

"I know, I know. Let go for me, baby. Just one more. You can do it. You're such a good girl."

And you did.

Your legs trembled, body arching as you came around him, clenching so tight he nearly lost it right then.

"Fuck—Jesus, baby. You feel so good—"

He buried his face in your neck as he chased his high, hips stuttering, breath ragged.

"I’m close. Gonna fill you up, yeah? You want that? Want me to come inside this sweet pussy?"

All you could do was nod and whimper.

He groaned, low and rough, and then he was spilling inside you with a broken moan of your name.

After, he held you. Whispered praise into your hair. Kissed every inch of your skin like you were sacred.

"You did so good for me, sweetheart. So fuckin’ perfect."

As he started to pull out, you felt his release begin to slip out, warm and sticky between your thighs.

Leon caught it, his fingers sliding down, gently pushing it back in with this breathless little laugh, voice all low and sweet.

"Uh-uh, baby… don’t let it go to waste," he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "That’s all mine."

You whimpered, hips twitching under his touch.

He smirked and leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.

"Atta girl."

When it was over, he collapsed on top of you, breathing hard, face buried in your chest.

For a moment, the world was quiet.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, hair clinging to his forehead, eyes soft.

“Feel better now?” he murmured, brushing your hair away from your face.

You nodded, lips twitching into the first real smile you’d had in days.

Living paycheck to paycheck was not how you imagined your twenties would play out, especially considering the two degrees you'd worked yourself sick for.

But when your friend told you about a quick way to make a lot of money, the kind of money that could change your life overnight.. you didn’t even hesitate to say yes.

At least, not until you were standing outside a dimly lit building with "production company" slapped across the front in peeling letters, wondering if you had officially lost your mind.

You knew the deal. You’d signed the paperwork. You needed the money — needed it enough that the thought of backing out wasn't even an option. It was either this, or living on the streets.

Still, you hadn't been given all the details. Like who your costar would be.

Heart hammering against your ribs, you push open the door and step inside.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans as you sign the last waiver. You didn’t even read half of it — you couldn’t afford to. Rent was due next week and your bank account was already gasping for air.

The assistant — a bored-looking guy with a headset — points you toward a curtained hallway.

"Wardrobe's down there. They'll get you ready."

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod.

Wardrobe was a joke. They handed you a silky robe and a tiny scrap of lingerie you were expected to put on underneath.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long second — messy hair, anxiety chewing at the corners of your mouth — before tying the robe tight and heading to the set.

It was a bedroom setup — fake, but realistic enough to make your stomach twist. Soft lights, a camera on a tripod, a few crew members milling around like it was just another Tuesday.

You glance around, searching for your "partner" — the man you'd be… doing this with.

And then he steps out from behind the lighting rig.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tousled brown hair and that same cocky slant to his mouth.

You know him instantly.

You'd know him anywhere.

"Leon?" you breathe, voice cracking.

He freezes when he sees you. His blue eyes widen, and then narrow, slow and dangerous.

"Well, well," he drawls, voice low and infuriatingly familiar. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Your heart plummets. Your hands tighten into fists at your sides.

Of all the fucking people.

Of all the goddamn people in the world, it had to be him.

Leon S. Kennedy.

Your ex-boyfriend from college.

The one you never really got over.

The one who broke your fucking heart.

And now, you're about to fuck him on camera.

Before you can say anything, before you can scream at the universe, the director swoops in, clapping his hands like you’re all best friends.

"Alright, lovebirds, here's the script. Familiarize yourselves real quick and then we'll get rolling."

You snatch the paper from his hands, heart thundering.

The words swim in front of your eyes as you skim the lines. And then you freeze.

You’re supposed to —

You're supposed to kiss him, strip him, ride him, let him talk dirty to you, spank you, choke you, all of it.

Raw. Rough. No cuts unless absolutely necessary.

"What the fuck," you hiss, turning on the director. "I can't do this. This isn't what I signed up for."

He barely blinks.

"Should’ve read the contract." he says with a shrug. "Said 'full-service scene' right there in bold. You agreed. And if I remember right, you needed that money pretty bad, didn't you?"

You feel your stomach bottom out.

Rent. Bills. Food. Survival.

It's this... or nothing.

Your fingers tighten around the script, crumpling the cheap paper.

Across the room, Leon is watching you, arms folded over his chest, expression unreadable. You can feel his gaze like a brand on your skin.

"What's it gonna be?" the director asks, already losing interest.

You want to say no. You want to run. But you know you can’t.

You nod once, stiffly.

"Fine," you mutter. "Let's just get it over with."

The director beams. "Atta girl. Positions!"

You’re shoved toward the bed. The cameras start rolling, the lights warming your bare skin as you shuffle forward, feeling like you're walking into the fucking lion's den.

Leon meets you halfway.

For a long second, neither of you moves.

His blue eyes rake over you, over the silk robe slipping off your shoulders, the sheer lingerie clinging to your curves.. and something dark flickers across his face.

Anger. Lust. Memory.

"Didn't think you'd sink this low," he murmurs under his breath, voice so low only you can hear it.

You snap your head up to glare at him.

"Fuck you, Kennedy."

His mouth curves in a wicked grin. "You’re about to, sweetheart."

The words barely have time to register before he grabs you, big hands wrapping around your waist, dragging you into him.

The cameras catch everything, the way your robe falls to the floor, the way you gasp when his fingers dig into your hips, hard enough to bruise.

He kisses you, if you can even call it that. It's not sweet. It's not careful.

It’s punishing.

Teeth and tongue and frustration, years of resentment spilling out all at once.

Your hands shove at his chest, but he doesn’t move. He growls low in his throat and yanks you even closer, your bodies flush, the thin lingerie doing nothing to hide the heat of your skin.

"Still so fucking stubborn," he mutters against your lips.

"Still such a piece of shit," you spit back, but your hands are already clutching at his hair, pulling him down harder.

His hands slide down your body, rough, possessive..squeezing your ass, lifting you with disgusting ease. You wrap your legs around his waist because you have no choice, because you want to, because your body remembers his even if you wish it didn’t.

The bed hits the backs of your knees. He drops you onto it and strips out of his jeans in one smooth motion, revealing his cock, thick, heavy, hard already.

God. You missed it.

Your stomach flips.

You hate him.

You hate him and you want him so fucking bad.

"Spread your legs," he orders, voice low and ragged.

You glare up at him, defiant.

He smirks, grabs your knees, and does it for you, forcing you open, exposing the slick mess already soaking through your panties.

"Missed me that much, huh?" he taunts, dragging the lace aside and running the head of his cock through your folds.

You whimper. Involuntary, humiliating.

"Fucking hate you," you gasp.

He grins — feral.

"Yeah? Tell me that when you're begging me to make you cum."

And then he pushes into you.

You arch off the bed, a broken moan ripping out of your throat. He feels too good, too familiar, stretching you open in a way no one else ever has.

Leon doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t give you anything but the relentless snap of his hips, driving into you over and over, rough and deep and fucking perfect.

Your hands claw at the sheets, at his arms, at his back, leaving angry red trails in your wake.

"That's it," he pants against your ear. "Take it. Take all of it like a good little slut."

You sob, a sound torn between pleasure and fury and rake your nails down his spine hard enough to make him hiss.

He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand, and pistons his hips even harder, the bed creaking under the force of it.

"You always needed someone to put you in your place," he growls. "Guess it's still my fucking job."

Your orgasm crashes into you without warning, brutal, blinding.. ripping a raw scream from your throat.

Leon doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, chases his own high, snapping his hips into you with bruising force until he buries himself deep and cums with a low, broken groan against your neck.

For a moment, the only sound is harsh breathing. Sweat. Shaky limbs.

The cameras keep rolling.

Leon finally pulls out and lets go of your wrists. You collapse against the bed, wrecked and shaking, your thighs sticky with both of you.

He leans over you, not smiling this time. Just looking. Like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

"Still mine," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your chest aches.

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him.

Maybe both.

The director calls "Cut!" but neither of you moves.

The air between you is still thick. Still dangerous.

You know this isn’t over.

Not even close.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You barely made it to the dressing room before your legs gave out.

Your knees hit the floor hard, but you barely felt it, too busy trying to breathe, trying not to cry.

It wasn’t the job.

It wasn’t the cameras.

It wasn’t even the money, or the shame, or the lights burning hot on your skin.

It was him.

Leon fucking Kennedy.

The second your eyes met his on set, your whole body forgot how to exist.

All those years you spent pretending he didn’t matter, pretending you didn’t love him anymore.. all collapsed the minute he touched you.

He looked at you like he was starving.

He fucked you like he was trying to say everything he never got the chance to.

And you let him.

You let him ruin you all over again.

Hot tears burned your cheeks.

You shoved your fists against your mouth to muffle the sobs, shaking all over.

You were so stupid to think you could survive this.

Your thighs are still trembling, your body sticky with sweat and cum, your mind a screaming, chaotic mess.

You just need to get dressed and get the fuck out.

You tug your jeans up with trembling hands, throat tight with shame, anger, regret.

You just need to get out of here....

Out of this building, away from him, away from the feeling clawing at your chest like it's trying to tear you open.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By the time you finally dragged yourself out of that room, it was nearly dark.

You kept your head down, walking fast, hoping no one would see how wrecked you were.

Leon was waiting by the exit.

Leaning against the wall, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, kicking at the floor like a guilty kid.

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

You almost walked right past him.

"You need a ride?" he asked, voice rough.

You froze.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.

You should say no.

You should run.

Instead, you whispered, "Yeah."

Because the idea of standing alone at a bus stop tonight felt like the loneliest thing in the world.

Leon opened the passenger door for you like it was muscle memory.

You slid into his car, still not looking at him.

The drive was silent.

Thick with everything you weren’t saying.

Thick with every memory clawing its way back to the surface.

Every time you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, you caught him doing the same.

When he pulled up in front of your building, you mumbled, "Thanks," reaching for the door handle.

"Wait."

His voice cracked.

You paused.

Leon looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw it, all the regret, all the ache, all the love he was too late to save.

"I don’t want you to leave like this," he said, barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard.

Your hand dropped from the door.

Without thinking, you nodded.

You let him follow you upstairs, heart pounding so loud you could barely hear your own footsteps.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, everything crumbled.

Leon crowded into your space, cupping your face so gently it made you want to cry again.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, forehead resting against yours. "God, I'm so sorry."

You closed your eyes, letting the first sob break free.

Leon kissed it right off your lips.

The kiss wasn’t greedy.

It wasn’t rough.

It was just so desperate.

Slow and trembling, like he was scared you’d disappear. Again..

You tangled your hands in his hair, dragging him closer, and he groaned, a broken, helpless sound.

"Tell me to stop," he begged against your mouth.

You didn’t,

You couldn’t.

You kissed him harder instead, clawing at his jacket, dragging him down with you as you stumbled toward your bed.

Clothes hit the floor in pieces, careless, frantic.. but when he touched you, it was gentle.

Leon’s hands shook as he traced the curves of your body.

Like he was memorizing you yet agin,

he was..

He sank to his knees between your legs, pressing kisses to your thighs, your stomach, your ribs, anywhere he could reach.

"You’re still the best thing that ever happened to me," he whispered into your skin. "Still the only thing I ever wanted."

You pulled him up, needing more, needing all of him.

When he finally slid inside you, it wasn’t rough.

It wasn’t fast.

It was achingly slow, like he was scared you’d break if he fucked you too hard.

You clung to him, nails digging into his back, breathing each other in.

Leon kissed your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose, wiping away every tear you didn't know you were crying.

"I’m here," he whispered against your temple. "I’m right here, baby."

You nodded helplessly, gasping when he rocked into you deeper, filling you up like he was trying to fix all the broken pieces he left behind.

The world outside your tiny apartment didn’t exist anymore.

It was just you and him.

Just messy kisses and trembling bodies and whispered apologies.

Leon laced your fingers together, pinning your hands above your head, never once looking away from you.

He fucked you like it meant something.

He fucked you like it still meant everything.

Your release hit you like a wave, sharp and bright and blinding.

You sobbed his name, shattering in his arms.

Leon followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he came inside you with a low, broken groan.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

You just stayed tangled together, still joined, still gasping, while the world pieced itself back together around you.

When you finally opened your eyes, Leon was watching you.

When you finally opened your eyes, Leon was already watching you.

Eyes glassy, voice barely a whisper.

"I lost you once," he said, brushing your hair back from your forehead, "I’m not strong enough to lose you again."

And for the first time in a long, long time,

you let yourself believe him.