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Your lips are, above all else, impossibly soft.
Granted, Leon has always thought that you were crafted from a gentler substance than the rest of the world, a creature of honey and silk whose stubborn empathy refuses to callous no matter how much of his darkness bleeds onto you.
Probably the remaining pure thing that’s unscarred by the nightmares he carries—and God knows he drags a graveyard's worth of them. Rucksack full of trauma that has worn his spine down to a constant ache.
A miracle you’re still untouched by it all. Still as selfless as the day he first met you, as kind as the day he first took you out. He’s long accepted this four dates in, of course, letting himself fall asleep next to you because he felt safe whenever you offer peace through the delicate weight of kisses.
On his cheek, his palm.
On every surface of his body.
His own lips are naturally his favorite, as he can let you go on and on and on through slow exchange of sighs in a language that only the two of you speak. His neck comes in a close second. Never knew how sensitive that narrow stretch of skin was until the plush drag of your mouth raises gooseflesh across his pulse.
But it’s hard to deny the smoothness that follows when your lips wrap around his cock.
Christ, the things you do with your mouth.
He thinks it’s a given that you’d be good at giving head, easy to suspect when the capacity of your brain is a dead giveaway. Anyone with a mind that sharp and witty is bound to have a dangerously articulate tongue.
A smart mouth in the daylight, he figures, is absolutely devastating in the dark.
He’s entirely thrilled to have his theory confirmed—for the most part. His only flaw in logic is the schedule. You don't really wait for the sun to set, you’re more than eager to sink down to your knees right in the middle of a sunlit afternoon at any given time.
In any given place, too.
Just keep working, baby, you won’t even notice I’m here.
(He did not get any work done)
Can I put it in my mouth while you drive? Please?
(There had been a few minor violations)
Shhh—! I think someone’s in the next stall.
(Hardest fight he’s had to keep his voice down)
Today, however, the bed plays witness, which is more than fine because his back is fucking killing him. Carrying over fifty years of heavy mileage does that to a person, half of which involved being thrown through drywall or fighting for his life. Sinking into a plush mattress is a highly preferred battlefield when the pillows are cool against his spine.
Especially with you naked between his thighs on all fours. Hips up, spine curved, accompanied by a dangerous tongue teasing kitten licks along his cock.
Normally he’d have a fit by now. On any other day, his hands would already be tangled deep in the roots of your hair, gripping the back of your skull to dictate the rhythm he pleases.
But he can’t do that when his dick is still fucking limp, can he?
And it’s been thirteen minutes.
Fourteen now, because he can't stop glancing at the clock right above the dresser. He looked at it when you first went down on him, glared at the stupid sweep of the hand when your tongue traced a vein.
Cursed plenty to himself, too, but nothing much has happened.
It usually takes a matter of seconds before his blood rushes south, an instinct that naturally gravitates toward you. His flesh has long since been conditioned to you, for you, by you—the mere act of looking at you is mostly enough to have him rock-hard as a pole.
You could be doing laundry and his cock would stand at strict attention. Probably five seconds of seeing your ass in a pair of sweatpants would get a better reaction out of him than whatever this is.
Hell, even disassembling his firearm sounds a lot faster in his mind. Yeah, the one tucked in his drawer. He could drop the chamber, rack the slide, pull the lever and ease the slide right off the frame. Could pop out the recoil spring, wipe down the barrel, reassemble the whole damn thing blindfolded and slam a fresh round with fucking time to spare—
He feels a sharp pain on his leg.
“Stop it.”
The sting of your nails biting into his thigh snaps his attention away from the clock. He lets out a harsh breath, “Can’t.”
Which pains him to even admit it because you look so comfortable tracing the salt of his skin, pulling him past your lips with the slow relish of someone savoring a meal. The way your tongue rolls the tang of sweat across your palate pulls a shudder right out of his chest.
“Stop—” You give his cock a kiss. “Thinking.”
The spasm ripples through the tense muscles as you suck his flared tip, savoring the softness of his meat like melted candy. His hips would've snapped off the mattress if it weren't for the sharp tick of the clock striking minute fifteen.
“Your brain is too loud,” you muffle, pulling back just enough to let him go with a wet pop.
His lips twitch. “You can hear it?”
“Loud and clear,” you quip. “Thought we had a deal.”
The wrinkles between his brows deepen.
Calling it a deal feels like a stretch. He considers it more of a passing remark made in the dark, a tired promise he hadn’t actually put much thought into. Mostly because his immediate response to being caught numb was flipping you onto your back, weaponizing his mouth and hands in a mission to track how many times he could make you cum.
Six was the limit. Swallowed your breathless cries and stretched your tired pussy until you squirted all over his face.
That was a month ago, and a one time thing. He didn’t think it was possible to feel that numbness below his ribs for a second time, not when he’d been perfectly fine since then. Your little 'Promise me you’ll let me try' in mind for the future was easily shoved to the very back of his head, dismissed as a sweet sentiment he’d never actually have to collect on.
Turns out, it isn’t the only thing crowding his mind. A lot of static is apparently vying for space right now. Indistinct, overlapping. Leaving no room for him to think straight, let alone breathe.
The only clarity he wants, however, is you.
You and the unhurried gravity of your mouth. Losing himself in the sweltering press of your lips is what he truly craves. Desperation claws for you to coax back the blood into his old, sagging cock.
A pity his body won't let you.
“You’re wasting your breath,” he says gruffly, thumb coming up to rub the rough scruff along his jaw in a restless habit.
You wipe a drop of spit with a swipe of your tongue and meet his gaze. “Do you hear me complaining?”
“No.”
“Does it not feel good?”
The silence stretches for a long beat before a defeated sigh rattles off his chest.
“It feels good.”
“Then stop overthinking and help me hold my hair.”
Stubborn as hell. He grumbles under his breath, yet slowly snakes his hands into your roots. Doesn’t really guide you, or force you up or down. He simply rakes his nails in gentle patterns on your scalp, holding the messy strands out of your way.
“Have I ever told you that you have the prettiest cock?”
His chin dips into his chest. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t… patronize me.”
“When have I ever?” Your hand curls at the base of his cock. Soft movements start, dragging the loose skin along the tender length. “We need to work on how bad you are at taking compliments.”
The hold on your hair tightens ever so slightly. He doesn’t have a defense for that, mostly because his brain is currently struggling to reconcile your words with the uncooperative reality of his own body.
Value, to him, has always been tied to utility. A thing is only as good as what it can do.
Right now he feels undeniably useless.
Sure, he has the clinical capacity to process physical pain, knows how to survive bioterrorist threats or even how to cheat his own death. He’s literally felt a weaponized virus multiplying in his veins and somehow managed to walk away from it.
What he doesn't know is how to process the patient warmth of your heart. To hear you call him pretty feels like a foreign language he hasn’t earned the right to speak.
"My love?"
There you go again with that unearned affection, bleeding out the tension in his own heart. He slowly loosens his grip, beckons for you to continue with the same amount of love reflected in his own eyes.
You rest your chin on the warm junction of his hip. “Do me a favor and drown out your thoughts for a minute.” When he tries to open his mouth to argue, you quickly add, “At least for me.”
The furrow on his brow eases. Now how can he refuse to that?
The soothing smile on your face is already melting him into a puddle.
Your voice is tender when you slide closer, drawling, “Just try to focus on what I’m doing.”
Takes a conscious effort to pin himself to you, but he eventually does.
He focuses on the brush of your nose along his pelvis. He locks his attention to the way you lift the sagging weight of his cock to suck the underside, repeatedly pulling the skin into your mouth like you would do to his lips.
Then his eyelids start to feel heavy, narrowed sliver of blue parted just enough to watch you use what little precum there is to soak his tip. Pumping, stroking, squeezing, as you trail open wet kisses down his length and over the heavy curve of flesh.
He senses the temperature in his body rising, and the sheets suddenly feel like a fucking furnace the second your tongue touches the patch of skin beneath his balls.
Leon isn’t sure if his mind is playing tricks on him, but he can feel the shape of your smile. “You like it when I do that?”
Surprisingly, he does, so he agrees, “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” You nudge your face deeper between his thighs. “Spread out your legs for me?”
He follows what you ask of him, even when he’s not sure where you're leading him. But he reminds himself that this is you, and his body intrinsically knows that it is safer with you than it is alone.
And it’s been alone for years, decades. An emptiness so vast it became the only gravity he knew.
Lonely years where he functioned like a machine running on fumes, using the burn of alcohol and the distraction of nameless pleasure to mask his depth of exhaustion. He can admit that the sparse nights spent chasing casual sex before you were nothing more than a biological transaction, a fleeting exchange of heat that his body performed entirely on autopilot.
Far from the intimacy you bring—just another way to survive, driven by obligations that kept him constantly operating on exposed nerves.
Yet despite how far he’s come from those unhealthy habits, he’s spent so long treating his body as a weapon that sometimes he still forgets how to let it be anything else.
Even in the rare moments of peace. More so after surviving the infection. That shot of Elpis might have made him feel better for the first time in years, but the eradication of a foreign pathogen in his bloodstream couldn't stop the withering of his spirit.
So many walls built out of guilt and duty.
So many instincts honed to anticipate the next tragedy.
Tragedy that, for all his skills, left him unequipped to navigate a simple sexual act without the desperate need to perform.
It’s the reason why he's forcing his chest to rise and fall, counting the seconds between every ragged inhale and trembling exhale, just so he can finally let himself feel. Stripped of his armor, piece by piece, submitting to the relief of being dismantled by you.
To be unshackled and unarmed, allowing himself to marvel the sloppy work of your tongue, blindly trusting the slow rush of blood to the point of your touch.
There’s a build-up ache taking over him, tendrils of syrupy hot warmth that snake under his skin down to his toes as you keep stroking. It feels so devastatingly good that he senses the first strain lock up his thighs, making his head feel woozy and his skin sensitive.
He knows you can feel it too, the slight twitch of flesh pulling stiff. You’ve witnessed it enough times to know it’s the exact moment before the tension wracks his muscles. It's then that your pace picks up, hand and tongue all the same.
He groans loudly, and his hand in your hair instinctively clenches in a fist. The pull at your scalp only solidifies the knowing curve of your smile where it lingers against him, right up until your lips replace your fingers with a wet slurp.
And Jesus fucking Christ help him.
He fits perfectly inside your mouth that he physically can’t force himself to look away. From the eager stretch of swollen skin to the trail of spit spilling down your chin. Wrecks him down to the bone.
But having his cock actively throb to the back of your throat is what gets him, steals whatever breath he has left. He tries to drag air past his slack jaw as you take him as much as you can, accompanied by a slow twirl of your hand to cover what your mouth can’t.
He’s profusely sweating. The sheets are clammy beneath his large frame, and he’s awfully aware of the feverish heat painting his pale skin, all the way from his chest up to his neck.
There is no way you haven't felt the tremors wracking him, he thinks. It’s probably why you’re suddenly lowering your head, trying to press your nose closer and closer to the scatter of hair along his groin.
You choke eventually, because he’s swollen much too thick now, and your gag reflex is tested to its limit that tears start to sting your eyes. He carefully untangles his fingers from your hair, wiping a wet drop with a thumb.
“Bit slower, honey,” he croaks, breathing heavily through his nose.
You draw back just enough for him to catch a string of drool pulling before it snaps. “‘M fine.”
Sometimes he really thinks about cursing your stubbornness, but he can’t find it in himself to argue with the satisfied smile crinkling the corners of your glossy eyes.
It’s essentially the foundation of your entire relationship, come to think of it. He expects the worst of everything, you give him your best. He tries to pull away, you dig your heels in. You’re an absolute terror to his self-control, devoted contradiction to the ugly world he knows.
Tonight is no different. His muttered concern for your breath falls on entirely deaf ears as you meet his hooded eyes, hollowing your cheeks to stubbornly keep on swallowing.
And swallowing.
And again, and again, and again.
If Leon could easily measure the exact minutes it took for his cock to scrape against the roof of your mouth, it’s sure as hell hard to read the clock when you’re stimulating every sensation all at once. The only pause in the haze is when your lips finally leave him, hips jerking in subtle discomfort from the brush of cool air.
“Hey, look,” you coo, smearing the wetness to your cheek. “It’s the size of my face now.”
A sluggish laugh escapes him because you look so undeniably smug.
“That’s enough,” he huffs, trying to reach for you. “C’mere.”
“Nope. I’m seeing the end of this.”
“But—”
“Relax. I can tell you’re about to cum.” You press the softest of kisses to the flushed tip. “Do it.”
His mouth opens in a hint of a smile that holds a pinch of disbelief. It softens, then.
How the universe is kind enough to let him deserve this much affection, he’ll never know. He must’ve cashed in a lifetime’s worth of luck just to earn someone as wonderful as you.
What he understands, though, is the lack of liberty to dwell on it for long—not when time has done nothing but rob him of the chance of being patient.
And isn’t that exactly what you’re demanding of him? To stop tearing his own mind apart so he can blindly take what you’re so eagerly offering. He shouldn’t have to negotiate with his own logic when the answer is right in the flutter of your tear-clumped lashes, or in the hungry way you’re sucking his thumb as it traces your lower lip.
You’re also shuffling along the sheets like you're trying to clench your thighs together, seeking a relief that he can’t wait to give. Though he reasons that if pleasure is a delicate balance of give and take, he owes it to you to let himself bask in what you are currently giving him.
He nods briefly when he surrenders. A jerky movement of his jaw as he swallows thickly, replacing your fingers with his.
His cock is hot in his fist, burning from the surge of blood and the messy glaze of your spit. Your jaw goes willingly slack, then, allowing him to draw your tongue out as your throat dips with keen.
Slow is what he anticipated, but his head is spinning too fast too suddenly, snapping his pace into rapid jerks that immediately draw a harsh pant coming from his chest. Your fingers smooth the rogue strands of hair on his thick thighs, head nodding, eyes smiling, encouragement woven in your warm cheeks.
It doesn’t take long until he feels an earthquake ripple through his tensed limbs. The shudder initiates from his tightly curled toes, up through his locked calves. Slams right at the base of his cock all the way to the wet tip where he strokes frantically.
Then he finally lets go, like you asked. With a tear-jerking sound he’s never heard leave his own lips, surrendering to a wave of sensation that spirals on and on and on.
And he takes his sweet time with it, too. He cancels the frantic ticking in his head and in the room alike so he can absorb the sight of white painting the soft pink of your tongue. Watches the rope of liquid running past your teeth, pooling deep inside your mouth. An image that sears itself directly into his tired soul.
His offhand caresses your damp hairline, your delicate jaw, reaching for the soft nape of your neck while you arch into his palm, taking down a full swallow as if it’s your well-earned reward. A satisfied grin wears across your wet mouth that Leon fully expects to hear a brag.
He tips his head to get a better look at you, and finds you doing the same.
“I’m not gonna gloat,” you say, reading his thoughts. You crawl over the wide expanse of his chest to slot your heart against his, feeling the vibration of his shoulders as he softly laughs.
He runs a hand up your back, “It’s fine, you can gloat.”
But you simply shake your head, sweet girl that you are. “How are you feeling?”
He senses a peculiar warmth as you smooth a thumb over the creases decorating his mouth, settling into the shadowed dimple of his chin.
It dawns on him that he doesn't know how to give you a proper answer, lacking the words to explain the lightness in his bones. Not because he’s naturally bad at communicating, but simply because there is a limit to what human vocabulary can actually hold. No syllables seem good enough to carry the magnitude of peace you bring him.
Calmness that stems from trusting you, into trusting himself. Learning that it’s actually safe to completely disarm in your presence, trading a life full of survival for the privilege of getting to feel again. Emotions that, he acknowledges, rewrite how he views his battered skin, which is no longer a weapon expected to function on command.
His body might’ve taken longer to catch up tonight, but that’s okay.
It meant more time spent tangled with you, letting your gentle hands remind him that he doesn't always have to be strong.
There will be other nights where he can’t fully perform, but that’s perfectly fine, too.
He guesses that's the whole point of surviving—to finally reach a place where he doesn't have to fight his skin anymore. Especially when he has you.
And with that in mind, he draws you impossibly closer, molding your soft frame against the rough angles of his, deciding to choose the simplicity of words to answer your concern for his wellbeing.
He opts for good.
He settles on grateful.
He makes sure to add in I love you so damn much, ya know that? because there’s nothing he can do to ever repay the amount of grace you give him.
You smile then, a magnetic force that pulls him forward, only to be stopped by a palm pressing flat against his cheek. “Wait, you just came in my mouth.”
He looks at you as if you’ve completely lost your mind, depriving him of your lips. He crowds your space, anyway, lets his mouth slant over yours lazily, perfectly content to share any body liquid and fill his lungs with your air. Leaves a bunch of peppered kisses at the corners of your mouth until he catches your laugh.
“Love you too, baby,” you giggle fondly.
He’s aware of that, because he can feel it. In the fine vibration of your voice against his mouth, senses it in every steady pulse of your heart. There isn't a single ounce of hesitation in your muscles as your legs naturally slide up his sides, pressing flush against his hip.
He can tell just how wet you are, and he craves nothing more than to satiate that sweet hunger of yours. Unravel you the same way you unraveled him, pouring devotion across every delicious curve and dip—give you every piece of himself he might as well lay the entire world at your feet.
He’ll give you all the orgasms you want. A house, a ring. Anything.
But he allows himself one moment of greed as he tightens his hold around you, knowing how kind you are with time.
Just for a minute—or maybe two.
He doesn’t think you’d object to sparing a few more heartbeats when he’s planning a lifetime with you.