avenoirzm - Tumblr blog

[avenoirzm]

goodbye yaoi summer and hello yuri autumn

[avenoirzm]

source / inspo

[avenoirzm]

kittiiiieeez!! look at the kitty hoodie nd thank you for tagging me @vaaaaaiolet :3 just a lil tag game if you wanna play @liasmyspace @uhlillie @withonly-sweetheart @angelcakegirl <3

wasnt tagged but saw this floating around the dash! make urself as a cute kitty...

tagging: @vaaaaaiolet @celamoon @clandestinedmeetings @vampiricgf @mydarlingclaudia @feerique @mayfieldss and anyone else 🫶🏾

[avenoirzm]

sweet ride

✎ fucking vendetta leon on his bike, that's the plot <3

cw: d in v, doing it in the public, fingering, choking and breath play (?), creampie, he be rough fr, and he calls you a slut but make it affectionately?, exhibitionism, MDNI

Autumn is finally rolling in. The weather is cooler than usual and your boyfriend wanted to take you out on a different kind of date tonight than the ones you normally spend at home and order takeout pizza.

Obviously, Leon’s main motivation is to show off to you what a talented (?) biker he is, but he’d rather be reading those nerdy books you’ve recommended to him than admitting it out loud. Besides, it’s the kind of date you’ve been meaning to take for a long time. It’s been a while since you’ve been out together, considering he’s always been laid up with work while he should have been laid up by you.

We’re talking a long time without sex.

That boyish smirk on his face as he sits you on the back with his own hands and puts your helmet on your head below your chin is the tiniest harbinger of how the night might turn out.

Because your boyfriend can’t keep his hands to himself. In his defense, you look pretty precious in your plaid skirt and his duplicate leather jacket that he dressed you in. Escorted by the fact that you’re not wearing anything to cover up your legs, Leon might as well as prove how salacious he can be. Seriously, he’s steady at every red, flashing light and his warm hands under the glove are on your otherwise cold, bare skin, sneaking under the skirt, pawing up and down; he’s squeezing and caressing.

It’s like his sole purpose is to work up your cunt, wetter and juicer. Goosebumps culling everywhere.

But of course, he doesn’t stop since one of his favorite things in the world is fooling around with you. It’s a sweet rush in you as no one would ever want to topple off a motorcycle on their butt and possibly break their bones.

“’s not like I’m doing anything wrong,” he shrugs you off.

And you’re more than happy to oblige, whatever he wants. But a game is a game, and if he’s playing with a dirty deck, you just might be an even dirtier player. A tender and innocent prelude, your arms wrapped securely around his waist and your head pillowed on his back. So abstractly innocent that at one point he might think he has been acting like a fucking pervert. Leon finds it all sort of cute, but seconds later you’re relocating your hand to his v-line without wavering, sneaking past the hem of his shirt.

He quickly catches on.

“Hey, now. Watch it.”

His sullen voice echoes in your ears yet again, and you jab your chin at his shoulder quite innocently.

“Nothing wrong.” You rip him off.

Your boyfriend winces as your cold fingertips graze the seam of his boxer briefs, he’s disconcerted, the blood is flowing straight south. Giving his dick the cruelest kind of kick. Where months ago, the dick wouldn’t get jacked, but now it’s bobbing.

Over his shoulder, he looks at you with a passing judgment, his eyes flicking from your eyes to your hand under his shirt. The instant need to suck and devour your boyfriend, who looks even tastier to your eyes at the red lights, is a pressing need, but never a reality in the rush hour traffic.

“You pull your hands away good,” his eyes recapture yours. They are stern, but you like it. Less agonizing and more tenderizing. Makes your cunt all wetter. Your guilty pleasure.

“Do you hear me?” No. Absolutely not. Oh, he has to make sure you hear his words. He needs to speak your language.

“One more warning, and if you don’t listen, I’m gonna have to pull over on a back street and fuck you up in the ass,” your eyebrows draw up to your hairline, that’s what you want, but your boyfriend, who wants a romantic night out, is sulking like a bitch.

“Fine, fine.” You pull your hand away and embrace his shoulders.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’ll show you the real fun,” the sour man grits his teeth and snorts a long sigh. When the light turns green, you’re on the move again. Actually, your fate is sealed at this very moment, you know you’re bugging him, but for the sake of the art of promised hate-fucking, you keep it astute. Enjoy the sweet ride.

The pleasant breeze of the wind and the gentle brush against your skin is nice, even if your hair is all over your face. One second, you take off your helmet just to breathe in the crisp air around you, clean after the last night rain. Surely you can trust your boyfriend not to get into any accidents, right? Hopefully he won’t kill you (!).

Unpleasant topics aside, the ride is actually merry. The next stop, alas, isn’t exactly a picturesque place. At the end of an empty road with dead end streets, a precipice facing the city. The engine is still running and Leon makes no effort to get off.

“Where are we?”

He pivots when you pose the question to him, he wants to have a face-to-face conversation with you, or rather he wants to be able to see your face when he’s giving it to you—a good fuck.

“A romantic spot, city lights, my bike and my pretty girl who can’t keep her hands off my cock and all.” Leon seizes your hips and tugs you towards him, your legs dangle off his bike, but you don’t utter a word of protest or griping. Why should you?

“So fucking romantic, right?” No, it’s not.

“Wait, on the bike?”

“Mm-hmm, on the bike.” He attests you, nailing your thighs and subtly spreading your legs for himself. For his eyes.

“Wow, Leon. Who would have thought you’d switch from your old-fashioned ways to this horndog?” The playful veil in your breath is raspberry. It froths Leon’s blood.

“Less talking, more undressing, baby.” He wastes no time, slides his hand between the legs you’ve earmarked for him. Groping for your panties, he moves the fabric down your leg and guides his hand over your wet, heat-soaked skin until the lacey cloth slithers down your ankle. The two fingers stashed in your pussy speak volumes about his jitters during the ride. And the gust spilled out of your mouth is taffy.

“Don’t tell me that’s too much for you,” he snorts, vulgarly corroding his thumb over the pearly clit. Not an asshole that will deprive you of pleasure, however much you’ve pissed him off. He’s just a bitter man for a boyfriend.

“Mhmmm,” you sing drunkenly, not far from rapture. That’s so beautiful. Posting loads of twists to the fucker’s dick. There is a certain primness all over your face that’s so idiotically inept, albeit he holds the principle that he’ll starve you of the dick for hours just because you don’t listen what he says. But your face is too cute. That’s your greatest trump card against Leon, his Achilles heel, viz your enrapt eyes are begging to get fucked.

Subsequently, he pushes his fingers, slipping them out of your folds, and stuffs them between your parted lips, against your tongue. You just take them, twirling your tongue around his digits without breaking eye contact.

“Dirty little slut,” his other free hand threads through your hair, “I’m gonna take you right here and fuck your pretty little pussy. That what you’ve been begging all night, yeah?” His fingers burrow a little deeper in your throat and you almost choke on them. As if on cue, Leon yanks his fingers out of your mouth and slacks his belt with a swish. Your favorite clip to watch, your favorite trailer of all time.

His cock is sticking out and it’s drawn to your warmth like a magnet such that you take him in nicely. He flows into you, makes you loopy. One fuck of a blow and you’re all stuffed, his cock nearly popping out of your cunt.

Your boyfriend, seated himself inside, just hangs still. He can’t bring himself to fuck yet, to move and stretch your plushy pussy out.

“Fuck.” A treble whine passes through your throat. You pry your head up and sling your arms around his shoulders, to keep the reins under control for a while, to give him more leverage. There’s no sound of others other than your miserere, but you don’t know if fucking openly on the edge of a cliff is a smart choice.

“Leon...” You hesitate. He takes his sweet time; your boyfriend is pushing you to the edge, pulling out ever so slowly, the slick sounds seasoning the night, “we’re screwed if anyone walks by, Leon,” you sputter out, big eyes riveted on his.

“Really?” A low titter follows and he grounds his hips into your pelvis. Not that it’s unexpected, but it blows your mind when he stiffly slams his cock back into his seat, crowning your cunt.

“Sweetheart, who cares if I’m fucking my girl inside —fuck — out?” Sarcastic but he’s winded for air. If you look closely, you can see beads of sheen of sweat forming under the fringe of his hair. You know his question is rhetorical but it gives you those telltale shivers.

“Let ‘em watch, baby, give them a show ‘cause you play so fucking good,” he seethes out. Harshly. You’re transfixed with another leg-crippling jab and he’s expunged when you squeeze him tightly inside. Now he can fuck you all the more urgently and as promised, with much onerous spurts.

His fingers in your hair somehow close around your neck during this chaotic process. A tenuous grip and no man has ever choked you to death so caringly before the sheer pleasures of the throe that has you bouncing on the spot will put out the lights of your brain except it doesn’t quite pan out the way you expect.

His lips invariably find yours. It’s a viscous kiss and it shatters all your senses; you’re a turmoil inside and out, a turmoil that’s already ravaged.

“Cum baby, I’ve got it all,” slobbery scotch-acid kisses are dragged from your lips and you open your eyes to see Leon’s the pale blues swallowed by pitches of huge obsidians. Behind him, empty, all tawny golden (maybe orangey?) street and patches of glowy city lamps.

“Gonna cum,” you echo after him, as he tinkers with the amulet that hangs around your neck, the necklace he bought you as a jubilee gift on the auspicious night for your shared times. The necklace, the one you went so far as to carry a picture of him in, ratchets in his hand and you cum right there and then, spewing on his cock. How absurd it is that getting fucked so dumb can absurdly blossom into a sort of romantic adventure with a man like Leon? It’s beyond your logic.

“Such a beautiful girl,” you can hear his breathy sigh. Tears are stinging down your bleary, semi-open eyes, the flakes of black mascara smudging your beautiful eye make-up. Fuck. How much more can he possibly hold himself back in the face of this visage?

“P — ah — please,” you’re absolutely in haze and your already frazzled boyfriend can’t deprive you of that belonging, that coziness you’ve been craving for so many days now, can he?

His forehead on yours, Leon’s lips emit gibberish tunes and your name palpitates in whispers. He’s unrestrainedly squeezing you, leaving a caustic burning in your windpipe.

“Le...on?” You are gasping; it takes you a split second to catch yourself. The stupor on your face, the parting of your lips and the bruised purple swollen lips that glisten with saliva after hunger kisses, snaps Leon back to you. He really should release your neck, yeah, he knows that.

Yet the violence is always in him somewhere, but never has been against you, never should be. And this wasn’t a life or death situation, for fuck’s sake.

But of course, a man who has spent years in such a potentially brutal environment has questionable and demanding kinks, and you? You wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he moans lowly, his jaw unhinged with sheer pleasure. He does eventually absolve your beautiful neck.

It’s only when the oxygen races to your brain that you can feel your pussy walls once again veiled with both your own juices and your boyfriend’s heavy drops of cum. Plus that thing up with the rasps that fly out of his throat in the middle of the night—the quiet whimpers (oh, he does whimper?) that you selectively record given how he’s up close to your face, buried even.

Is this really how it feels to be fucked out of your mind, you know, that mythical mindfuck shit those bitches are talking about?

He doesn’t know if you’ve ever looked this pretty, even in the wee hours of the morning when he wakes up hours before you and just lies motionless in bed observing you. Who could make you feel so pretty but him? Nobody. He knows that.

“You doing okay?”

“Mmmm,” your croon is tickly but all too familiar to him, the same sweet croon you chirp after lovemaking in your shared apartment.

“You almost blacked out with all that choking stuff.”

“I liked it, Leon.” No hesitation, you rebuff him with a rushing whisper without regard to your raw, poor throat and the stinging soreness of your pussy memory.

“Really? Well, looks like I’ve really ruined you.” The sarcasm in his words is tinged thickly, but his smile, which frames his lips and shows the enamel of his teeth, proves that he won’t prolong the conversation any longer. He’ll likely eat out the sticky mess on your glistening cunt or that’s what you’re hoping so because you love his tongue and nose.

[avenoirzm]

catalepsy

✎ What could be better than spending the last warm days of September in your boyfriend’s lap?

cw: leon being a daddy :³, fluff(ish), reader on the crack!! (doing some coke and shiii), semi public sex, dumbification, fingering, d in v, size kink, age diff, fem! reader, MDNI

Vegas to L.A., L.A. to Vegas, and Vegas to California. Then Italy. Your on-again, off-again relationship with Leon, which has been going on for a while (okay, let’s say about a whole year), is the epitome of chaos. Mobility and jeopardy. Lots of money. Your old life bears no shred of resemblance to the seconds you are spending now. You used to be an employee at the Graham mansion, a girl who would snoop in Ashley’s bedroom at midnight and drink the nectar between her legs until the morning. That changed when the president found out that his daughter was sleeping with some dumb no-name girl (you!). Wild times, man. Your dismissal came with the first light of the next day. It wasn’t a pretty story after that; at bottom, no money, no happily ever after.  

But luckily Ashley introduced you to him. Leon Kennedy. The man who will hire you to babysit the child he begot from a one-night stand. Oh, boy. Why, what can you say? The guy was tough, hot, but stone cold. At first, he was dead straight. But the years thresh everyone with grief and a lot of bullshit emotions in the name of experience. Say it’s because he liked the way you esteemed his son, or something else you don’t know, but the more time you spent with him, the good-natured his mettle grew. Gradually and incrementally. Sure, you looove money, but you’re no gold digger. A bond of trust, little glimmers of respect, and, of course, the sweet chemistry between the two of you spawned something very unique and new.  

Seriously, if you wiped your ass in the toilet with green and fresh dollar bills, it wouldn’t even scratch the initial letter ‘w’ in the word “wasted.” 

Hold on a second. Where does this money come from? 

You did question it. Over and over. If you got an answer, all the better. Of course, getting unambiguous answers from the mouth of a man like Leon is a big hassle; it always makes your stomach twist, it puts you on edge, and your abdominal muscles and heart squeeze so tightly that you think you must be knocked up with his child, even though the tests come back negative. You are just so silly.  

So what? It’s not a big deal. He fucking loves you. Who gives a sod about the crass mistakes you guys made in the past? He loves you so much that if he ever releases you from his lap for just a second, his brain will be tangled, scratched, scribbled, all fucked up. Like the embers of police sirens flashing blue and red in the darkness. Like 21-year-old rookie Leon’s brain, struggling to fall to sleep in the bed of a shit-strewn hotel he found at random. That Leon, a loser who broke out of Raccoon City years ago.

He doesn’t know why he’s hung up on you when he knows he shouldn’t be so attached to anyone. All he wants is to spend quality time with his pretty baby. All the time.  

The only reason for the fever in your loins, especially right now with your ass in his lap. Sundress clings to your body angelically, the tulle over your lovely skin. Well, that’s why he calls you an angel. Leon devotes his life to that apparition, to you, namely.  

“Thought you wanted to go skinny-dipping?” He knows. He knows you can’t leave him for the warm waters of the Mediterranean. Not right now, you know, since there’s no pedantic baby for you to babysit right now. Understand, he’s a sweet boy, Leon’s little boy. But what would he be doing on vacation, right? On your very own private and personal vacation, obviously. It’s just you and your boyfriend, and that diet Pepsi sippy cup with the cocaine in it that you’ve leaked a pinch or two into. What a late summertime activity. 

“Maybe for tonight and definitely with you,” you say it omnisciently. A short sip of coke and nothing is stopping you from lacing kisses on lips that are cherry and pulverized pink from your previous kisses, letting him taste the tiny vestiges of vanilla icys that linger on your lips, and seconds later when you slip your tongue between his to get him as high as you are in the heart of late afternoon. Leon and getting high only go the way of neat whiskey, but you’re the kind of twist that changes his rules, the kind he takes for granted.  

When his palms find your ass snug and trace your flesh with steely resolve over the top of your dress, the kiss is only broken in that very second, a sharp shake of breath drifting between your glossy lips.  

“Oww, I already told you I don’t like my ass all purple,” your repining tonal laments with a sass that is both habitual and secretly endearing to him. And you’re lying. You like your ass purple and flushed after some spanking from him.  

“What a crybaby you turned out to be.” Leon is, as you know, cynical. His blues are coarse; the halo of the afternoon sun striking his face through his eyelashes gives them a shade of verdant teal. It’s nothing new that he repeatedly catches you looking at his face. His face is so pretty, you can’t help it. Observant, of course, as is his job. Still, watching you contemplate him under your starry-eyed gaze tugs at his heartstrings. To fall in fucking love like this after 40 is damn near unhealthy.  

He loves you when he lifts your dress and catches the licentious view he wants to capture; he loves you when you refused to put your panties on when you left your hotel room and went out for brunch on the terrace. Especially the notch you make as the air is ripped out of your lungs, embodying your purity, is everything for Leon. It’s heart-stopping, which is why it doesn’t bode well for his heart. What if he fucking died of a heart attack? The alcohol (and earlier bout of seizures that lasted for a while before you) had already fucked up and altered his body enough. Oh, meh.  

“Got wet, hmmm?” Captain Obvious can’t be more serious. But he sounds adorable, so you don’t say anything to put him off. Over and above that, his thumbing of the clam of your clit is a fucking must-have class.  

“How the hell have you been sitting like this all morning? My poor girl.” Simultaneously, his head lifts up and his finger dips into your wetness; your pussy fits just nicely; he leers at you, straight into your eyes. It’s affectionate, yeah, but his eyes are... you don’t know. There’s something about them. 

“Dunno,” you gasp out, “maybe just to keep you from overworking yourself, old man,” you tighten up, but even that doesn’t stop you from throwing in an allusion to his given age. Leon finds it funny; it’s cute, and it’s a chore, but it’s another matter that he plays rather meanly with your clit, parsing and stroking the pulp until the puck flickers on his thumb. It’s the fingers, sculpted by years of drill, that you cum on the spot. Pathetic. The grains of fizzy cola splashed from the pint in your hand and the liquid that washes over you. The mess on the navy-blue shirt Leon decided to throw on at the last minute. He’s not mad; don’t even worry about that stuff.  

“Sure, baby, sure, you’re just makin’ sure the old man stays safe.” His quirky drawl rings in your ears as your clit tinkles on his thumb. The sight is a blessing for him, but of course the cock menu before the evening hits is what you want, and in the night, he wants your pussy; he wants to eat you out before a good night sleep. It’s a must.

Isn’t that just mutual love? Aww. Then, of course, it won’t be long before you’re whining and pestering the hell out of him, and he’s taking the glass full of coke from your hand to place it on the table behind you so he can take the shaft of his cock and slap it into your warm, sucking hole, the leaky tip wetting the even wetter entrance.  

“I do assure you, I can perfectly fuck a little baby into this pretty pussy,” he whinges, throaty.

Everybody craves an afterglow, and men like Leon crave a good fuck, precisely a pretty girl bouncing on his dick on his vacation. That’s the norm.

You do the rest, taking him nicely and squeezing the dick little by little, lingering until a little bump forms in your tummy; it’s just what the book says. He’s big, no lies. Hard, too, but it’s nothing new. 

“Fuuuucks,” are panted out. You both do it. You because of that pain and sheer pleasure, and he just has pleasure, his pain is for much disparate motives. There’s always a desire to sink his dick deeper, but you are always tight, wet, too, thank God, but just too tight for him to sculpt your insides around his cock.  

When he bottoms out, your pitch is invariably more slurred and more aggressive, and your pussy plays like a virgin for his cock. You can hardly even hold your head up; it’s so heavy. It’s the voice of his in your head that brings you back to the Mediterranean afternoon when you feel like you’re caving in, like you’re just about to split in half. Beautifully.

“Baby, you’ll get us kicked out of the this damn hotel,” his cautionary lulling is in your ears at last. Who cares? He’s got the dough; he can hire; hell, he can buy a whole hotel building.  

“Shh, you ain’t gonna pass out on me now, doll,” somewhere in his voice there’s distress, but his expectant gaze on you is dense. Still, he doesn’t act like a complete asshole and assuredly grips your hips to tuck you back, right on the mean dick. Next thing you know, he’s tattooing your cervix as he jacks you like a doll, his doll, on his thick cock. Raw as always, so what’s a condom? That’s what the pill is for.  

The magic of kisses, sloppy blows on the lips, the trick of a cock that fires bullets in and out of you, busing your clit, rocks the whole world away, and rattles the chaise lounge beneath you. You’re already a goner. Like hell. Blood and sweat, metaphorically speaking, but that’s not going to fetch the guy cumming within you after your second orgasm. You can complain later, ‘cause realistically, no man could be that good. But Leon’s the best of the best, so who knows? Maybe he’s been in this business many times before you, with pretty girls and inside even prettier pussies.

The very thought that makes your heart skitter inside, urges you to cling to him and shove your face into his chest. It’s something he wasn’t expecting, so Leon almost hesitates to cradle your face. He’s cumming, nowhere that fast, but deep, sticky, cozy, and adhesive. It’s not the most satisfying aftermath in this summer heat, but your cunt is still milking deliciously (greedily) what’s leaking into it. So it’s exactly in these moments that Leon realizes once again that you will always accept him no matter what.

Fuck it, he should just make you his controversially younger wife.

The companionable silence between you is something; how the sun filters down over the horizon, and how your breathing is now regaining its normal rhythm; his balls are now much lighter. How romantic.

“When will you marry me?”  

His question is an impulsive one that pierces the stillness. Is this guy serious, or is he just fucking with you? Are you too high? Oh man, it was just a little pinch of crack cocaine in the cola. Can���t be that loaded, right?

Your lack of words and the fog on your face are too opium; it’s like a sugar high. What a silly girl you are, his girl. In sooth, while he’s still inside you, he needs to ask you one more time, “the ring is in the room. I shit you not. We gotta call it a wedding.” Just say yes already.

[avenoirzm]

next uuup is di leon & diet pepsi and ive been seeing so many hot edits w that song yk PONYBOY by sophie soo yeahh we are so back bc i think ihave beaten the stomach flu 😗

[avenoirzm]

disco tits

✎ one shot where leon fucks u in your kitchen (?)

cw: d in p, creampie, ooc leon soo yeah, degradation, ouch, unprotected sex, fem! reader, MDNI

You really aren’t a slut, right? And yet, the dick that’s currently bouncing off you is the reason you look like the women in those pornographic videos. As for Leon, he’s the kind of guy who rarely resorts to such things, like one-night stands; he’s just a different story.

It’s the effect of your legendary disco tits, the ones that are sprouting out of your low-cut dress right now, the ones he has been staring at blatantly. Thank God, Leon feels deeply indebted that women don’t wear bras under such beautiful dresses.

Onto the scenery.

Your panties are already on the floor; who gives a fuck? Leon can’t keep his hands to himself and clutches your right tit. Crushingly like nails and all. The other one bounces on its own.

“Look at you, so proud, huh? Pretty little slut.” Leon praises, well, grunts—no doubt he’s praising. Debauched as hell, no place in the heaven if there’s a heaven.

He has to be praising, hopefully. You’ll be the judge of that, just do it later. Now, you’re quite busy.

Your legs are wrapped loosely around his waist, and your back is on the verge of a nasty twist on your kitchen island. Implicitly, you trust him; you just know that he won’t slip you down. Have you seen this guy? The master of manhandling.

Your thighs are deliciously spread apart so that Leon can shove his cock almost out of your dripping cunt, plush pussy lips beyond stretched out. He’s holding back a smirk as you give out the most succulent whimper. Your beautiful voice is so tangy that it sends goosebumps down his spine as he fills you. You swear you can fucking see all the colors behind your blurred vision and closed eyes—the complexity of a giant rainbow whenever the tip eases inside your abscessed cervix. Maybe you should ditch the work for tomorrow since there’s no way you’re going to be working your ass off after this shit.

“This dress is made for me, for me, fuck — to watch ’em tits — too tight, shit!” Curses fly out of his mouth; no self-control. He’s fucking the most beautiful girl in the world in her kitchen, on your razed countertop, your cervix long gone, his condolences.

His thrusts are practically jostling your insides with every millisecond; yes, again with no fucking control. He knows you’re close—the stunned look on your face and the saliva glistening down from your mouth should be enough. So, Leon releases your tit and rubs your fat bud with the pad of his thumb until your nerves are frayed, leaving you crimped.

You can’t help it; you’re drizzling his cock with your own juices and swathe it so warmly that he feels thoughtful enough to consult you, albeit his normal pull-out game is shit. He’s so damn close. How could he not? What a pussy you have; he can’t stop admiring while he’s fucking. 

“Where? In your mouth or—” You disturb his query. It’s so stupid. 

“Inside! Cum... inside.” All night long, it’s the only sound you’ve made other than whimpering and whining—a high-pitched request, a necessity. Neither of you is sober enough to think about what happens next and doesn’t take long to get what you want. Leon’s watching with bated breath as your sweet pussy encases in his own gleaming cum, thick and warm.

He still won’t pull it out, though; he loves and adores your cunt as he languidly and persistently moves his hips, fucking and shoving back the residue of cum through your wasted slit. He just needs to feel more, to keep you a while ’cause you’re beautifully slick; you’re written by his mess.

He really did it; his narcissism is through the roof. He fucked you so hard that bits and pieces of your brain melted out of your flushed and ringing ears. Makes him proud; he’d be a fool to lie, infringing Pinocchio himself to live with a longer dick. And his dick is already long, mind you. 

“Good girl, what a good fucking work and pussy.” One of the few words he says minutes before he leaves your house, not that you can catch it in your hazy reverie as you’re still pining away, leaking on the counter like the dumb-fucked fool you are. At least you got his name and number... oh! Plus, his boxers laying next to your panties. Well, a start is a start, you suppose. 

[avenoirzm]

✮⋆˙ ─── 「writings」 ✮⋆˙ ─── 「ao3」 ✮⋆˙ ─── ✮⋆˙ ─── ✮⋆˙

˚ · • . ° . about me: merve (23, she/her, ♋) im in love loooove w resident evil, i also love nana, poe, hotd, doja, lana, idek :3

[avenoirzm]

masterlist

pretty fly for a white guy (you stole leon’s remembrance knife from marvin and lost it, leon mad 💢, fucks u mad in a bathroom during a party idek?)

understanding the kennedy (on the same mission, he gets sour soo uhhm things kinda change when you and leon got struck in an elevator)

disco tits (one night stand, leon basically fucks u in your kitchen)

catalepsy (DI LEON! reader is leon’s kid’s babysitter, make it an established relationship and you’re on a vacation in italy)

[avenoirzm]

changed my @ bc my rising is gemini smhhh

[avenoirzm]

ohh your leon fics are so delicious 😭😭

im giggling, kicking my feet staawp 🥺:3

[avenoirzm]

understanding the kennedy

✎ sadly, leon isn’t the most optimal guy to enjoy the time with cause he is the bluntest man out there, but your time spent together and your adventures in the process of survival prove just how cuddly and sweet he can be… in an elevator, preferably his hands on your body.

cw: fingering, leon being an ass, tit play, dirty talk bc auugh i love his voice, mentions of gore? kinda, fem! reader, idk if i should add anything else bc my mind is not minding, MDNI

You’re about to throw up, no kidding. Your dubious gaze flies between Leon and Ashley, bouncing between two blonde heads. Okay, so how did you end up in this situation? Let’s recap. First things first, you’re an agent with an orderly and strict life under the rules of the government. Being good at your job is what pockets so much trouble plus fresh green dough, which you deserve to earn to the bitter end.

Let’s proceed to the second reason. When the President’s daughter suddenly disappears and an anonymous tip comes in that she’s been sighted in a village in Spain you’ve never heard of, the President himself appeals to two names he can rely on with his very life.

You and Leon Scott Kennedy.

As crystal clear as it is that you’ve heard his name before, pretty much every ear in this business you’re in has heard of this man at least at one point in time. Funny thing is that this may be exactly where things get tricky. People only know a name, Leon, but nothing about the personality or the story behind his name. You’re very much aligned with this category of people. Yes, and in the middle of the mission, not to mention how crucial it is, you don’t exactly expect to playhouse with Leon Kennedy, granted. Still, it’s not entirely flattering that the man projects himself to you with nothing more than a short nod. He certainly doesn’t like to talk, albeit occasionally overhearing him talking to himself, or cracking one liner to infected villagers that make the skin chapped and dry in winter, paints a much different picture of Leon in your mind.

He schemes on his own and rarely consults your point of view when he takes the matter elsewhere, which naturally leaves you feeling inferior to him. The sour grimace on your face is always preceded by a wisecrack, conveying the image of a self-righteous and, conversely, insecure man. Is this what the infamous Kennedy is like?

“Psst, amp up your game, agent.” A laconic tone, a haughty flow to his voice, as if to say, ‘I know best around here, and you don’t.’

In a riot you never expected to stumble upon, the villagers clogged with armaments composed of pitchforks, axes and hacksaws, your life is miraculously salvaged by an anonymous clarion call of a bell. Now you are looting a random house in the village for Leon’s ridiculous reasons, or rather he’s the only one doing the looting because there is no way you would ever touch anything of these ailing locals.

“Hunnigan warned that the sooner the better, herring brain.”

“Herring brain?” His back is turned to you so you can’t quite see what sort of emoticon is hanging on his face. But the inflection is the same. Sarcastic as hell. He jams his elbow into the glass of the vitrine and it’s not hard to discern whether he’s pivoting to protect his prissy face or to prove to you how pinched his frown is. Definitely the former one even though his face is too pretty to harm.

Putting a grenade in his gear as if it will be enough to slaughter the entire village because it certainly won’t be enough, he tosses another curt retort back at you, not that you weren’t born yesterday.

“Oh, nice.” It’s woven with acrimony and malcontent. Seriously, where does his assertiveness stem from?

“We need to get to the mill straight away.” You try again. Nothing that can’t be solved with a little more civility, right? It’s worth a try.

The soles of his boots crunch on the chunks of broken glass as he trudges forward in front of you. Okay, Mr. Vanity. All humor aside, his gaze is unnerving, as if there are vines tied around your ankles holding you in place, so much so that you can do nothing but loiter in his presence, bunglingly.

It’s as though for a moment you forgot about his joke, mainly about playing bingo and his usual goofy mentality, how dare you be demeaned in front of him, seriously this guy is nonentity, for his sheer size, he has a giant head full of cheesy jokes and an enormous high forehead that he tries to cover with a fringe of his hair. Ugh, lame alert. But… He’s still handsome, let’s face it. Could be the work of charm that these drone men so rarely acquire.

Still, don’t give him the time of day on this one, not after seeing how obnoxious he’s proven to be.

You roll your eyes, undeterred, your steps already dragging you forward, and you make your way down the stairs to exit this ramshackle excuse for a house that smells of dung and blood in equal measure.

If only you could get out of the seconds, you’re in now, as you got out of that moment. It’s not that simplistic, it transpires.

“Hey Leon, there’s some armor. Bet you could use it like a bulletproof vest.” Well, Ashley is a cute girl and denial can be deemed as a blind existence, or deafness, whatever. But when she starts to fill up your patience drop by drop, as it has been the case ever since you reached the Salazar Castle, she gradually grows more and more friendly with... Leon, not with you. The president’s daughter’s words are clear and concise, one hundred percent of flirtation. It’s fine, you don’t care. But usually speaking to you as if you are not the part of this mission, or sometimes outwardly ignoring you, is an aspect you don’t understand.

“Little old fashioned for my taste,” Leon quips in the world’s blandest tone. Damn.

It’s a wonder what happened to the girlhood chumminess. Maybe Leon and Ashley are more apt to form a closer friendship, or perhaps you’re the low-key of the group, or else Leon alone spotting Ashley in the church fostered a stronger bond of trust between the two of them, when you went your separate ways and found out that Leon had gutted a lake monster or something. Absurd as fuck. To your credit, you weren’t a fat lot of good, a few diary fragments of your findings were the remains of a scientist who had scribbled on a piece of paper about a brand new virus, the plagas. Anyway, back to the shit you’re in. It’s pretty obvious that there’s nothing too serious damage of emotions here, in fact Leon is so thick that he turns Ashley down time and time again, not in a rude way, never in a crude way, but just with his inane and arid jokes.

“Too bad. I think you’d look pretty dashing,” Ashley’s chirping, but it’s no good. She gets no reaction. You think this is the signal for the end of their conversation, and you just follow the two of them into the moonlit room, keeping silent. I mean, why join in, since watching this awkward thing going on between the two of them is frankly like a cutscene in a sit-com. You know, Leon sucks at the whole flirting thing, you figure it out, so all that bravado, all that stoicism, it’s all a veneer. Insecure, yet cute.

The romp with Luis is a very specific narrative. It’s short and abrupt, so sudden that it’s unreasonably all tied to him. The only thing you know is that Luis has the medicine to treat the poisoning of Leon and Ashley by the parasite that was probably written on the pieces of scrap paper you found and... that’s it. It’s obvious that you’re his ticket out of here, and that he’s telling you how he no longer works for Los Illuminados as a way out of this clusterfuck while ogling your boobs is extra hassle.

He‘s a completely alternative man to the intangible and abstract man Leon is, flirting is Luis’ breakfast, lunch, appetizer and, of course, his dinner. Like the water, he has to drink so he can exist. Like his cigarettes, you can say.

One small maneuver could stop him, you could even tell Leon that you won’t go along with his scheme to trust this guy (he somehow doesn’t like the attitude), put a bullet in his head and take his life on the spot. But it’s the inner attention whore fairy in you that permits Luis to flirt like there’s no tomorrow simply because you like the limelight. That and he’s pretty cute, his hair looks great, you can work with that.

Basically, it’s a peculiar combo. There’s nothing stopping Luis. Even when you’re underground, literally underground, and you’re trying to get back up, there’s not a single thing stopping him from alternating between you and Leon, sometimes putting a few bullets in the infected villagers in between, and watching you and Leon do most of the work. Two hot agents wrestling their way out of the mess, what can he say? It’s hot. If Leon asks him to participate and assist, he just shrugs and says, “Hey, I’m the brains. You’re the brawn and the señorita is the vision.” A walking paragon of bisexualism.

But what impression did this little oversight strike in Leon’s eyes? Just one word, bleakness. The others are sourness, everything about unpleasantness.

Trusting someone, especially someone he didn’t necessarily know, to get things fixed was beginning to become a habit of Leon’s. Yes, he wants to help everyone whenever he can and that’s where all the shit hits the fan for him. He is, notably, reluctant to put his trust in someone (formerly!) working for a corporation that has razed a young rookie full of dreams and wrecked several lives in one simple night. Call it a survival instinct or whatnot. Besides, it’s quite asinine for Luis to act so laid back or to think he has that luxury in the midst of so much grime and squalor. The flirting game doesn’t cease, and Leon’s pestering you as well, blatantly flaunting around with a flamboyant of a flirt would suggest that you’re neglecting your expertise and don’t give a damn about the mission.

That’s exactly what bothers him, never for any other reason. Yeah, right? Uh, or... How an agent of your reserve falling for Luis’ tricks and snubbing Leon might (it is a certainty) be playing a small part in his aggravation.

“Really? I didn’t take you had such a low standard,” he says so casually in the elevator that’s now hauling you upstairs, in a rare moment when you can have some privacy, and you wonder if he’s never spoken or at least ever bothered to talk to you.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You quirk an eyebrow and watch as he cocks his gun, giving it a quick once-over, an idle thing he almost always does, but one that makes your skin prickle with welcoming tingles. What the fuck is going on? Intensifying gun kink moment, perhaps.

“WhAt is thAt suPpoSed to mEan?” He emulates your intonation effortlessly. Hey, come on, your voice isn’t that squeaky.

It would be a challenge for him not to miss the wintry glower on your face, he’s observant and to tell the truth, watching your face makes him feel good, at times. At times is the key ingredient. For after all, he had made that mistake once before, of falling into the maw of the sweet trap of the woman he had known overnight in Raccoon City and in whom he had tormented his heart. Except things are, otherwise, he’s not a rookie anymore and he even finds these traps interesting. Or rather, he likes you.

“You need to watch your mouth, asshole.” Your voice lectures him with a sharp vibrato.

“Huh?” Quite the sport that he is. What, was he guarding his stone-like reticence in order to torture you for hours on end? Or has he gotten over the familiarization period and is suddenly expecting you to click like best pals? Reading men is the toughest exercise in the world, everyone knows for a fact that they don’t use their brains, but reading Leon is much more demanding. It’s a lot of strain and it’s the kind of maltreatment that can cripple a person both physically and cognitively. It takes a lot to tune in to the energy of the likes of Luis, a verse of assertive words for a few more ambitious words and, well, he’s a good warm-blooded friend now. Then Leon? It is very very shaky to figure out what to do to stay on his good side.

“Whatever.” Your voice echoes with finality and your follow-up answer is disrupted by the juddering of the elevator accompanied by a beeping sound. Lights flicker and breaths are held in short gasps, as these things often don’t augur well. Then darkness blankets the space like the teasing gloom of a sky before the copious rain patters fall on the soil.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” His peevish voice is more sizzling, smooth like butter. So caressing against your skin, now you can give people with vocal kink their due. If it weren’t for his absurd jokes, you would fall to your knees thoughtlessly and su—

“Hey, I’m talking to you. Better tune your ears.”

“Wh-What?”

“Come on, are you daydreaming in the middle of a mission? Man, looks like you’re not as polished as the president thought you were.”

He points a flashlight directly at your face, before a clicking sound, an endeavor to render you legally blind.

“Stop it,” you hiss in rebuke to which he reciprocates with a ragged snort. There is something staggering about the fact that the man who didn’t say a word to you last night is surprisingly toying with you like a schoolboy. So much so that there can be no other conceivable answer to the vermouth tint of your cheeks. The grin on his face provides a unique glimpse of his crooked teeth. Or his soft jawline. Up close, he’s full of his flaws, but he looks cute, you can’t lie. And you can’t just imagine being dissuaded by someone so full of little foibles. Especially on duty, in a malfunctioning elevator.

“Shy, or am I living things in my head?”

“The latter and for the first, dream on, buddy.”

“Oh, well. I shouldn’t be dreaming much then.”

None of these rejoinders are smooth, they’re frankly lame, painfully corny. Except that you have an infinite penchant for pretty-faced men and their languishing eyes, namely Leon.

Which is why in the darkness you can’t visualize how his hand is tucked into your pants. The sound of his fingers curling inside you is the root catalyst for the darling mantle on your cheeks, and the pilgrimage is the secondary motivator. Alongside his drenched and glove clad hand, his other hand is under your shirt, cupping your right tit, which is sticking out of your bra, with gusto.

“Tsk tsk, how long have we been on post, hm? For how many hours?”

He bombards you with queries as if you have the breath to center on his inquiry. How blunt. Leon jeers when he sees your eyes blinking disproportionately at his. You’re a dumb blur, wet and yes, only for him. Not for Luis, not for anyone else. It’s just a finger dipping in and out of you and the second he sticks a second one in, you adopt a piquant pout, your lips pursed, eyes glazing over. Too pretty a spectrum for Leon.

“Let me answer that for you, sweetheart, it’s been about 7 hours and you’re getting fingered by someone you barely know.” His scratchy drawl tickles your ears like a freshly scabbed wound scratching vigorously like he’s the only thing that will soothe the pain inside you.

“That’s what all your bitterness was for? To get me and keep me for yourself?” His questions almost never conclude, fingers pumping and scissoring the daylights out of you.

“Ashley walks out ‘cause you only want me for yourself. To be all yours?” In return, a protracted, keening whine rolls out of your mouth, your lips bruised from his previous kisses, his teeth. Ouch, so utterly ignominious. When this is over, you will definitely remember this moment and break your sleep. His swelling hubris just like the twitching dick inside his pants gives Leon a feeling of entitlement and conceit. At least he looks more appealing in that way.

“Wish I could understand your blabbering, beautiful,” he jests, his thumb darting over your puffy clit, rushed but attentive as he knows you’re inching close. The face buried in your bosom, his lashes and hair delicately brushing over your skin, shrinks the knot in your belly, warmth flutters. Leon’s urge is stirred by the tight grip of your lovely cunt squeezing the fingers inside of you that are ebbing and flowing incessantly. A harsh and crass mark, a tiny imprint his teeth leaves on your neck, faint, purple, the kind you will carry with you tonight, on this mission and for a time being as it appears.

A seal that is almost bruising, hard enough to draw blood and so irascible because it can’t draw blood, a brand that quickly grows purple, a sting that is the right match for the pinch it leaves on your nipple. A brand that says you are Leon’s, for a fleeting while. It’s absurd that it’s been so long since the last time someone fingered you that you can’t remember cumming. Guys just suck at this shit. And you never dreamed that you would just melt and cum in the fingers of a trite man like Leon. The sight of you paralyzed in rapture is so captivating that his craving to lick and devour you is eclipsed by the sudden illumination of the elevator lights. Pulling out his two fingers, he finally succumbs to his instinct to taste you and allots them close to your lips.

In a very non-sanitary, even grossly insensitive method, his fingers are swabbed thoroughly, as if your tongue were a gauze pad when he pushes them inside your parted lips. He’s spectating you in a blissful trance, and if he were to claim that he didn’t put his fingers in place of his cock gliding between your lips, he’d be the world’s biggest fibbing bastard, and he’s not the world’s biggest fibbing bastard—mind you. Only at the last second does he catch your hand sliding down his hip, grabbing it by your wrist.

“Ah, ah, not so fast.” He winces in pain and the longing to impale himself inside you eats him up, but he has some principles, and he doesn’t want to break them. So, he wipes his fingers on your shirt once they’re out of your mouth knowing it’ll leave a big ass stain. For real? Well, ew.

“H-hey, why the hell?” Your outburst is both about the dick he’s detraining from you and his juvenile antics. He just shrugs his shoulders and hitches up your jeans, notwithstanding that your panties are still damp and caked in juices.

“Sorry, but I’m keeping myself back for the right time. Maybe we can finish it in a hotel after the op, yeah? That’s if we survive.” Oh, but really? Did he really cockblock you?

“Don’t tell me virgin or something?” You just can’t let him go easily.

“Don’t tell me you are a loser to cum on a virgin’s fingers.” Message received. He can't just let it go without a stupid quip.

He reaches down under your shirt and grabs your utility belt lying pointlessly on the floor and your holster. On his knees, like a man designed to minister to you. What can you say? He knows he’s a fucking pain in the ass and he looks hot, that’s for sure. He fastens the belt around your hips, not too tight, certainly not too loose, snaps the holster back to its original place on your thigh, and adjusts the straps with a fair dollop of precision.

“There you go, agent. Ready for action and about to kick some serious cultist ass.” He pushes himself to his feet and strolls out of the elevator, as if his fingers, which minutes ago had been rearranging your pussy walls, had never been inside you. When he opens the elevator door, the gray eyes that await you greet you with a look as if they know everything, as the man waves the inoculum tube in his hand.

“Finally, eh? You should have paged me, Leon.” Luis says flippantly, while Leon looks at him with a dismissive dazzle and your insistence on biting your fingernails out of abject embarrassment is the solitary subject on your mind. Never ever again. (Lies!) It’s not like you’re here to shoot a porn video, right?

[avenoirzm]

pretty fly for a white guy

✎ there has always been a thing between you and leon. but you didn't give in, yet you screwed up, taking something treasured that belonged to him as a prank and ending up losing it. welp. the years somehow got in the way till you saw him at a party. he's the same cynical man and all he wants is his sweet revenge (aka he's fucking u during a party)

cw: getting it in a bathroom, creampie, snitching panties (as a souvenir oop), unprotected sex, fem! reader, MDNI

bonus(ish): i just imagined the OG re4 Leon and thought yeah let's write something about his brat azz

The music is blaring. The blood is running red hot, and the alcohol is falling out of the air. It’s free for you, you’ve joined some kind of a charity and it’s the kind of boon you can enjoy for no charge, it’s that kind of a night. What else can you do when there are bone-crunching gusts of wind blowing through your bank account?

It’s another thing to swallow your pride and agree to be here. As an ex-agent. And why’d you leave? Well, depression. One simple word. It’s more or less enough. Of course, you were, and still are, a competent woman. But even the shitload of money you made wasn’t curing your post-mission blues.

Resign and use the money you have left to buy a cabin in the woods and a country life away from the city, away from the racket. The kind of life that every agent aspires to, or people who have fucked up at some point in their lives wishing they could reset everything.

But even now, in the midst of all these faces, all the while, you feel numbly alone. Everyone knows about everyone else, but not sober enough to give a shit. Just like Chris Redfield, who’s now in communion with the karaoke machine. He’s clearly stoned. Or Jill, who’s sitting next to him, and the only thing she’s doing is tipping her bottle of hooch over her head. Definitely worth a look. Worth going up to her and striking up a conversation with her. No matter how dumb drunk you are, old friendships are always of inestimable value.

“Aaaanddddddd I uuuuuuuhh—” Chris is humming a Celine Dion song in an earworm of a pitch, and you’re hunkered down next to Jill, sipping your Merlot. A huge bottle is already gone. You’re definitely in deep doo-doo.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Will this guy ever shut up?”

“So exceptional. Chris’ tipsy ass.”

“Like his voice?”

Inebriated laughter tends to be more hysterical, which indeed it is, since you are getting quite enough judgmental looks from other tipsy and judgmental eyes. So what? Chris’ voice and singing is bearable, but your laughter is not? The absurdity is immeasurable.

Jill storms angrily to her feet and leaves you sitting where you are. As if she’s never been so methodical in putting the others in their place, she clenches her fist and knocks out the first person who happens to be in her way.

Then that blonde secretary woman from those movies (seriously, why is she here, at an all agents gathering?) jams the pointy end of her heels and shouts a long “FIIIIIIIGHT!” at the top of her lungs in her treble high-pitched voice. Is this even real? A fucking high school? Grown-up people, men and women with jobs and in charge of protecting the country are fighting like immature adolescents.

“Chris! Jill’s in a fucking fight. She just punched the shit out of a guy!” You frantically point to the crowd. But the guy is so banged up that the microphone falls out of his hand, and he collapses, ass out, like a Sim passing out on the spot from the lack of sleep.

“You’re kidding me?” Like a farmer who has lost everything in a tragic fire, you slam your palm on your forehead in abject despair. The familiar voice ringing in your ears and the hand on your shoulder are rather startling, if not downright unexpected.

“Take a look at this mess.” Sounds apathetic. He spins you around with a shallow swoop. Hah. Of course. That face.

A cocksure smile, the blond Ken himself, and his gun-metal eyes. Leon.

The man you haven’t seen in years and whose face you realize is ashen from the grind of the time, has rendered him jaded, but handsomely. How the hell?

He claps his hand against each other as if he’s picked up something dusty and lets fly your shoulders. Or rather he’s just acting dramatic.

“Oooff. One hell of a scrap.”

“Yeah... About that. Jill got caught in the middle. God, we’d better help.” No sooner do you step in than he jerks you by the arm and shakes his head as if you’ve just made the world’s most irreversible fuck-up.

“Tch, not so fast, dummy.”

Yup. On to the mayhem. Your and Leon’s kerfuffle is a cluster of turmoil within a monolith of tumult. The thing is, on a mission years ago, you snatched a knife that he owned, a souvenir of a man named Marvin. And why did you do that? A little prank between the two of you, of course. Till you mislaid the knife and sucked all of Leon’s goofy humor right out of him. That flirtatious, carefree man was long gone, and he became a bitter, frustrated man.

Yeah, you were quite in tune with that playboy side of him. He flirts with everyone, for God’s sake, as if tomorrow is the last day of the world and he just can’t leave like a lame virgin before diving into a hole. In this throng of women came the receptionists, Ingrid Hunnigan, and then you.

One rejection, followed by another, and he was back you. And what did he get? A nasty rejection plus a resounding bitch slap right across his cheek.

Such ’a one at a time ladies’ moment for the poor guy.

To him, you’re the cherry he wants to pop, so to speak. A pretty, pretty girl who would nail a dynamic Leon while he fucks and whack the dew out of him as he goes in raw. His fantasies are sordid enough to be taboo, but fortunately Leon has no qualms about airing them and watching your ears flush red with sheer indignation. The precise reason why you’re the one directing the flow of blood directly to his dick, and you’re the one stimulating him to spike a mean boner. That’s a big yikes.

“Jill can take care of herself. Gotta give credit to our super cop.”

“So what? You’re just going to dump your friend in the middle of a fight?” The tremor in your voice, the touch of pure aggression and the scowl he had grown inured to is a thing he has missed about you.

“Eh. No trouble. The tigers are playing around. ‘Cept that big boy,” he motions with his head to Chris and his fat bum as he loudly snores.

“Some friend you are.”

“Yeah. Like you, a decent friend who totally didn’t lose anything that’s sentimental to me.”

“You’re seriously still there? Jesus Christ, Leon.” With little regard for your words and the implications behind them, Leon pushes you away from the crush of people with his gloved hand on your back. Seriously, the gloves must be important. Even during a fancy event, he’s got those fingerless ones, like the ones he wears during every mission.

Quite effectively, maybe perfectly, he drags you out of the room, when you express an adverse reaction, nothing but a raspy gasp comes out of your mouth.

“Well, shame on you. Haven’t even done anything yet and you’re already gasping like you got hot and bothered.”

Trouble personified. Maybe he should have a third name or something, right after Scott. The sound of the ruckus, the staccato of the music, the click of your frantic heels on the slate tiles. Everything is abrupt but at some level thrilling.

Spine-tingling because it’s an enigma how exactly you ended up in this bathroom, perched upon the basin of a sink in a marmorean surface. Your dress is hiked up, your dainty thighs are proffered to him, wobbly legs tangled around his hips. The panties are already a wet patch and on the floor, your tits jutting out of your low-cut cleavage, free since there is no bra to hold them up. Are you shooting a porn movie or is it just a small reunion between old friends?

Freshly filed fingernails scrape like rakes on his back, the glove of his gun-wielding hand is soggy, his cock slams into that spongy spot deep inside, as if it’s always been there, slipping in and out. That same stroke can knock you off balance, or worse, knock you fall and land on your butt (with a dick inside you!), but the grip of his free hand on your hip is assured. Yet it doesn’t inhibit you from jolting.

Brazenly. You can’t reproach the way his eyes drifted to your tits, the way they bounce with every thrust, it would be a felony in Leon’s mind, if he didn’t pay attention, if he didn’t appreciate them. And you, surely.

“You little cunt. Could’ve taken me every night if you weren’t stalling me so much in the first place, day and night.”

“What more do I have to do to get you to shut the hell up?” Your teeth kiss your bottom lip and the hand that is now wrapping around the base of your throat no longer detains your hips. You’re on your own and on top of that you’re now lightly getting choked. His slick hand brushes the loose tresses that have tumbled in front of your eyes back from your scalp and probes the glazed glow in your vision. This face, this glare of yours, this body, everything is his handiwork in Leon’s eyes. Those fantasies of his are finally real, much more exquisite than he imagined in his head.

“Nothing. Pussy’s so fine, I’ll bet she hasn’t taken anything as good as me.”

There’s something about his voice that you can’t really understand. You don’t make a peep; you just stifle those pathetic whimpers, tasting the coppery tinge of the blood on plush lips. Like an inspired artist, he decides right then and there to fill you up. You deserve this, after all. His big mouth just won’t shut up how debauched you’re looking right now.

“No retorting? Too fucking big for you?” And yes, right then your eyes roll back to your skull, a long whine chanting on your lips, a labor to your cervix, bruising the pits of your cunt. You cum on the spot. The clamor outside the bathroom breaks into peals of laughter, Leon’s panting and potentially dirty words are wasted as bullets whizz past your ears, deafening you in the process. In that split second he releases your neck and yes, your beaded, pearl necklace is severed in pieces so fast that you barely register how it happens. The whole thing is too chaotic, to say the least, he’s still buried, twitching inside you.

But a shot that fills you to the hilt, he cums inside, leaving everything as your lovely cunt milks the remaining drops. He certainly leaves you as the kind of mess that you’re gonna be leaking of him for days, all the while you leave him as a grunting mess, his eyes sealed shut so he can feel you.

After a beat, he speaks again, dick softening. “There you go, beautiful. Nice and all clean, took me prettily.”

Oh, he can be a gentleman just like that? Credits to the power of the pussy you got for him.

Before you know it, he pulls out of you, zips up the fly and snags your panties off the floor. A puckish grin on his lips, his hand on the edge of the counter, the azure of his eyes twinkle with tenacity. No need to rest up? Talk about the stamina he has.

“What?!” He mouths, feigning a pure state of stupefaction. “Is this a little gift from you for making me hold on for so many years?” He gives a dry fit of chuckles, and just casually smacks your already overstimulated cunt.

“Oh, how sweet. Hell yeah, I’ll take it.”