avenoirzm

[avenoirzm]

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fav dilf fr

[avenoirzm]

dirty little secret

cw: age gap. leon is 21 and reader is in her late 30s. sooo. yeah. potential cheating? probably. awkward flirting. no beta reading. idek what to add ;(

a lil note: controversial topic but listening to artemas’ song i couldn’t help but think of re2 leon and the reader in her late thirties who is an aspiring milf... so yes... here it is the first chapter of the series and idek how many chapters it will take me to finish this bc lately im just feeling intense disorientation?? anywayz i just want some angst and some yearning and it’s all about rookie leon with his questionable mommy kink & his sad big blue eyes.

chapter 1

“Leon, ventilate your stinking room!”  

The morning routine begins with a refreshing shower and Leon’s combing his hair when the voice of Giselle, the biweekly working housekeeper, jars him out of his thoughts. He huffs and puffs since the song he was humming got halved halfway through.  

“Jesus, man. It’s not like I’m running away,” he rants to himself. He dumps his comber on his bedside drawer, barely finding a gap between the volumes of books. Careless and haphazard.

The morning breeze caresses his face when he reaches for his window and cranes it open, the zephyr brings sweet sweet repose after his long slumber. 

The fresh aroma of autumn rain wafts through the city. It rained non-stop last night while he slept soundly all night. Best time of the year, Leon’s absolute favorite season, had come barging through the door. Lovely morning. Gives him a certain contentment. 

Leon’s eyes, lit by the pale blue and cerulean purity as he surveys the block, fix on the move-in truck. It had been rumored for a few days that there would be other residents moving into the neighborhood. His curiosity about this new family was naturally peaked, considering he hadn’t personally heard much about the new family moving in next door. But all he could see were men working, packing things into the lift and a few weary groups of old and some young faces.  

Maybe he should go down and help them. Sounds like a good idea.  

He didn’t have much to do on the weekend anyway. Except that the rumbling, fluttery growl of his stomach thwarts his plan of introducing himself. Breakfast time. Shouldn’t be too much trouble to grab a bite to eat right now and head downstairs, he thinks to himself as he flaps the window shut. 

In the kitchen, he helps Giselle with breakfast, pours himself a fresh cup of coffee, and there’s an empty seat at the table. Somebody is out of the usual, all too cloying family picture. His dad is the missing part. 

It doesn’t take long. Leon knows his dad has already out, probably to the station.  

“Wasn’t dad on patrol yesterday?”  

“Yeah, kid, but he didn’t show up yesterday. Tried ringing him, sure, but Mr. Kennedy didn’t pick up the phone.” Giselle ruffles Leon’s hair as she always does before she settles the breakfast plate in front of him.  

With a gruff retort, Leon smooths back the hair that has fallen in front of his eyes. God, he hates when they fuck up his perfectly washed hair.

Now don’t get him wrong, Leon sees Giselle as the granny he never had—she’s a part of the Kennedies and a sweet aunty who knows some good cookie recipes, but this kind of cuddly gesture is starting to grate on him now that he’s all grown up. It’s been like this for the last couple of years, since he hit puberty, so to speak.  

“Why on earth are you talking to me like you’re talking to a 12-year-old kid?” It’s hard to comprehend, really. Leon isn’t a 12-year-old kid anymore—he’s a goddamned adult and he thinks he should be treated like one.  

“Because your hair is always soft, my sweet boy.”   

“Whatever.” He waves it off abruptly, but his cheeks do flush.

“The folk moving in the next door got a boy just like you. Oh, how adorable. Unlike you, he thanked me when I brought some cookies and didn’t pout at me like you always do." Giselle grouses to herself as she walks over to the sink, to the dishes. Typical and ungrateful grandma.  

“Giselle, have you ever heard of the term first impression? The guy probably did that so he’d paint himself as a good neighbor. Jeez!” Leon bites into his morsel of food with a know-it-all lecture. So dramatic, as per usual.

“That still makes him a politer boy than you, Leon. Have I ever told you before that you’re growing more like your father as you get older?”  

“Oh, come on. Don’t play the granny card with me now,” Leon says it facetiously, but inwardly he knows Giselle’s making a valid point. It’s as if it’s Leon’s instinctive nature to emulate his father, even if he doesn’t want to, not necessarily anyway. But the motivation to be a cop just like his dad is pressing, driving. Knowing that the world he lives in is laden with acidic and poisonous clouds in lieu of rosy skies, Leon never lost his dreamy streak; he was welcomed into a warm home by this very cop when he was a little boy, before he even knew his own name.  

Little by little, Leon treads a path he has decided to take so that every person in trouble, not least kids without a mother or a father, can emerge with that feeling of penchant. Sure, makes him uneasy, sometimes it’s hard to walk, but it’s always better than nothing. For many more Leon’s to save, to protect. Call it Pollyannaism, call it overly optimizing, even a white savior complex—Leon wouldn’t mind. He has a solid goal and that’s it. 

The pandemonium he encounters when he comes downstairs after his breakfast is more convoluted than he expected.

“Jesus, a hell of a mess,” he maffles, sotto voce.

Leon paves the way towards a burly man carrying a vast television set, its screen packed securely in bubble wrap. His eyes, searching for the owners of the apartment, fall on you for the first time—a woman he has never seen before—when he was watching this blight from his window this morning. 

With your back straight to him, a notepad in your hand, you’re recounting something to another staff member. Pencil skirt, button-up shirt ensemble. Ohh, professionalism is talking now.

You must be the daughter of the proprietor of the house or something, in Leon’s opinion. Maybe he should introduce himself before jumping into the conversation. 

Without further ado, he approaches you from behind and calmly pays a detached ear to your conversation with the second worker, who listens to your every word with a perpetual tartness on his face, as if he’s constantly sucking on an acerbically godawful lemon. 

“As I said, the leather on the canapés is authentic, very very prone to ripping. All I ask for is your undivided attention, sir.” 

“Of course, ma’am,” the worker sheepishly gives partiality to the subject, and, relieved that at least your belongings are safe, you look over at the... boy who stands next to you. His powder blue, beaming eyes are the first thing you notice. 

“Hey,” he begins, confidently, to say the least. A sweet attempt. Who could this be?   

“Do I know you?” 

“Oh, yeah— I meannn...” He opens his mouth, and with your proverbial raised eyebrow and probing gaze, Leon simply freezes. He should have known from the start that he was about to engage in a conversation with a hard-ass girl.  

He clears his throat. Awkward tension is killing the both of you, but you do a better job of hiding your emoticons than he does.

“As a matter of fact, yeah. Say hello to the boy next door. I’m Leon Kennedy.” Undeterred, precocious Leon still does what he has in mind: cracking a more sophomoric joke with a raised hand for a handshake. 

“Oh!” You draw on. No need to get rude now. 

His eyes twinkle, agleam. And you give your name to the boy you consider to be the next-door neighbor’s son, shaking his hand cordially. Piece of cake, baby, he knows your name now. 

“It’s been an exhausting day, Leon. Please forgive me if I started with a rude attitude.” You release his hand and then smack your forehead with the hand holding the notebook. Leon thinks it’s very amiable—the moue on your face and the way you switch off the bitching mode almost immediately. 

“No problem, no problem.” Leon raises his hands, palms open and facing outwards.  

“Man, where are your parents? Are they running off with all the work on you?” 

Your parents?  Parents?

Aww, that boy’s got it all so wrong. Normally, if you weren’t so knackered, you would have burst out laughing. Anyway, keep it as a memory that you will remember later and laugh your head off.  

“My parents are on vacation in California, Leon.”  

“What?” His jaw slacks open, “that’s cruel, damn.” He shakes his head in negativity, as though he has heard the world’s most insipid news. 

“Sure, of course, dear. Only, I must tell you, as the woman of the house, I can take care of a small house relocation.” You cross your arms beneath your chest, tucking them close.

A pause.

Okay, did you really call him dear and oh so randomly? And why are you talking like you’re a character out of those grievous novels?

He’s tense. You’re making Leon reconsider everything he has done, everything he has been through as a numskull that he is. 

The what? The lady of the house? What’s a what?  

You’re married?

....  

You’re married. 

And most importantly, was Leon mindlessly flirting with a married woman? A chick, actually, just look at you! That, however, isn’t the point. 

His pupils are pinpoint, his blues are narrow and indigo spheres. The poor boy is in a state of sheer perplexity. 

“Holy shit!” His reaction doesn’t last long to be blurted out of his plump lips; it’s visceral and the picture is unbelievably ridiculous to follow.  

“You’ve got to be kidding. You barely look in your twenties. Ahem! Well, you look great, ma’am.” He mumbles again and again; he’s rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

Where is his initial and boyish verve now? 

Alas, you let him compose himself. Let the poor boy take a breath, right? 

“I feel like I should be thanking you,” you interrupt, so that the boy who’s fiddling uneasily with the fabric of his jacket sleeve will feel a little better. You don’t want to look like a scary and heartless witch in his eyes, anyway.  

“Heh,” he snorts, but futilely. It’s not a pleasant feeling—the guilt wracking fumes swelling deep inside his belly and clenching his muscles in a huge balloon that will eventually implode and burst. 

“Anyway,” he says resolutely; there’s no need to drag it out any further. Let this little talk be a funny and unforgettable and endearing first impression, for both of you.  

“There seems to be a lot of stuff here. Thought I’d drop by to help you out with those,” Leon smiles, all warm and sincere. Playing the role of a wonderful and helpful neighbor, a hero, is his favorite sport.  

“I never turn down a kind helping hand.” 

And you’re up for it.  

With your hands on your hips, you take a cursory glance around and tip your head at the rows of plants in large pots on the floor.  

“I’d be truly grateful if you could help me take these up to the living room. I’ll need them watered, those poor poor lovelies,” your eyes fall on his blues again and it feels gratifying to capture that sheen of sparkle in them. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He... salutes you.

Alright... Boy with a goody-goody attitude. 

You don’t have to tell him twice. Carefully and effortlessly, Leon lifts two heavy pots (show off!), almost child-sized, and you follow him into the elevator with the tiny cactus succulents in your hands. 

[avenoirzm]

WTF LIAM FROM ONED JUST FUCKING DIED LIKE WTFF

[avenoirzm]

Gabriette for Rhode 🎂 🎀

[avenoirzm]

jeune et jolie // young and beautiful

[avenoirzm]

we are so back (relapsing)

[avenoirzm]

sexting responses

likewise

is that so?

:o

well yes!

[avenoirzm]

a quick carlos just for fun :3

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Turkey should be destroyed immediately i cannot fucking take it anymore just bomb it to the ground

[avenoirzm]

source / inspo

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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. No wonder 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 stardust 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 good 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? Uh-oh. 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.

“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.

Leon finds it funny; it’s cute, and it’s a hernia precursor 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, that’s pathetic. The mess on the navy-blue shirt Leon decided to throw on at the last minute, too.

He’s not mad; don’t even worry about that stuff.  

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 smack 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. Dirty talk is on the spot.

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, anyway, 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 himself deeper, but you are always tight, wet, too, thank God, but just too tight for him to sculpt your insides around his cock.  

“Fuck, Leon. F—fuck.”

When he bottoms out, your pitch is invariably more slurred and more aggressive, and your pussy plays like a virgin for him. 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 man 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.

“Looking so pretty — pretty — fucking pretty,” he says again and again.

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 her. It’s exactly in these moments that Leon realizes once again you will always accept him no matter what.

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

And he has got some plans in his mind, well assured.

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 😗