SEX EDUCATION

re2!leon kennedy x afab!reader // 2.5k words

summary: You tell him that you need to practice a certain set of skills, and he's more than happy to oblige. His lack of experience is simply a... bonus of the arrangement.

warnings: 18+ only. heavy corruption and praise kink. reader is a weirdo but everything is explicity consensual.

You sink to your knees before the couch, between the wide spread of Leon's legs, and a ruddy blush blooms out along his cheeks. Timid and tender, the color of ripe cherries painted beneath the skin. You know he would taste just as sweet.

“You've really never done this before?” you ask, question absent of accusation, fingers massaging his upper thighs through the fabric of his jeans. A simple up and down, thumbs digging into the muscle.

He shakes his head, eyes glassy and reverent, hands white-knuckling the edge of the cushion. Hasn't even pulled his cock out and he's already trembling, hips twitching when your touch wanders too close to the crease of his thighs. You do it on purpose, again and again, just to watch him squirm.

The rush of power triggers something dark and miasmic inside your brain. A lurking, infectious thing with its heart set on ruining the man before you, feeding on his innocence. It opens its maw and gnashes its teeth as you palm him through his unzipped pants, mouth watering at the hardness beneath your teasing fingers.

(”You've done more than I have,” he huffs, pointedly ignoring the weight of your curious gaze. “Not sure if dry humping on your girlfriend's couch even counts.”)

Poor, needy thing.

You've had this sickness in your gut for a while, an infectious miasma that grew and grew alongside your relationship with Leon. An infatuation years in the making, brought to climax when you shared your troubles regarding a non-existent sex life.

He gasps a stuttering breath, eyes fluttering shut when you slip a hand beneath his underwear. Already, the tip slicks wet with precum. Twitches heavy against your hand, seeking, a primal plea rooted deep in his DNA.

(”Haven't sucked a dick in so long I think I've forgotten how.” Catalystic words, grumbled on the same couch he's spread out on. A simple act of testing the waters, splashing your feet around to get a feel of the temperature.

He looks over at you all wide-eyed, an eagerness stamped down by his fear of rejection, the neck of a fresh beer strangled beneath his fingers. Condensation drips down the glass, a perfect circle wetting the thigh of his jeans.

You can think of a better reason for those fingers of his.)

His cock springs up when you tug down his underwear, and a long moment passes of shuffling before his pants wind around his ankles, stuck on his sneakers. You sit back, hands resting on the inside of his knees, a steadfast, calming pressure as you take him in. Muscular legs dusted in fine blond hair, thickening as you close in on his groin. The pretty curve of his cock, the flush-pink head. You swallow down a rush of spit that fills your mouth, already anticipating the taste of him on your tongue.

The sudden sound of him clearing his throat stops your starting.

“Ready?” you ask, leaning in close, nuzzling at his lower belly through his shirt. He smells good, like the fresh pine of body wash and clean, flower-pressed clothes.

How sweet of him.

“Yeah.” His voice breaks on the word, hips twitching forward on the cushion.

Cute cute cute cute—

“Stay still for me, okay?” A test to see how well he follows directions, your smile soft, tender at its seam.

His little mutter of, “Yeah,” ignites a wave of heat down to the pit of your gut. So obedient, driven by hindbrain desperation. Fit to burst down the middle.

You start out slow—a trail of loving pecks up the underside of his cock. Ghosting your lips over the skin, depriving yourself of your urges to taste him. To sate your appetite. In turn, whatever resolve he managed to collect shatters at your touch. He gasps like he's been stabbed, hips locking at the last second to avoid disobeying your request.

Spit pools in your mouth, settles in the little divot your tongue makes when you curl it, only to be spread over the vein that runs underside his length. It pulses against your touch, jerks toward his belly when you circle over his frenulum.

“Where you going?” you ask, lips spread into a teasing smile.

A second passes before he breaks into a laugh, head collapsing against the back of the couch, and all the tension is vacuumed from the room. Easy to pretend that this arrangement is long-followed routine, more for his sake than yours.

When the giggles have settled, you take him into the wet heat of your mouth. You hum at the taste of him, the salt-musk of precum, the cleanliness of his skin—

The beast settles, bares its belly from within the cage of your chest.

“Oh, fuck.” Leon reaches up to grip your shoulders, fingers fisting in your shirt when you hollow out your cheeks and swallow him down. “Shit—please—”

He babbles as you work him over, languid bobs of your head that leave him shivering, each inhale a shaky gasp. A lightning-strike fire of unused nerves, impossibly sensitive.

Each reaction from his body licks over your ego, whispers to it sweet nothings, strokes you between the legs with a timid finger. You knew he would be good (so, so good for you) but you never could've imagined this. A sweet little thing, fully ripe, tasty. Skin and all.

When your nose meets his groin, cockhead lodged in the sheath of your throat, he cums without warning—hips grinding against your face, knees locking against your shoulders to keep you in place; the poor thing reduced to basal instinct, rationale fried by orgasm. He attempts some semblance of one, a pitiful whine that dies in his throat, but it doesn't bother you.

You swallow it all anyway.

A tinge of sadness curls in your belly. If only you could have tasted him.

You pull away from him with a wet pop, eyes darting up to his face. You're no better than him. No less a kneeling dog, hungry for validation.

It was good, right? Didn't I do good?

He dips his chin toward his heaving chest and meets your gaze, eyes lidded and watery, cheeks flushed. Pretty. So so pretty.

“That was… fast. I'm—”

“Don't. I liked it.” You crawl up next to him on the couch, hand soothing the skin of his thigh. “And besides, we can always work on it.”

He blinks at you, sluggish in his haze. Can only say, “That was… Jesus. Good.”

Inside, you preen. “Guess I didn't need the practice after all.”

“Fuck no.”

He dissolves into a fit of giggles. Exhales a deep, relaxed sigh. Turns his head to grin at you, and your heart swells to the point of sickly-sweet pain.

Yeah, you can work with this.

He looks at a wet pussy for the first time and forgets how to act.

Sat on his knees before the couch, your legs spread out atop the cushions, he flushes red from the tops of his cheeks down to the neckline of his shirt, eyes alert and searching.

(”Can you teach me how to… ya know?”

You don't know, but then his eyes dart to your lap, a nod of his head following.

Oh. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Quite the opposite given the well of heat that rises in your belly.

“Are you sure?” you ask. “I don't want you to feel like you have to—”

“No, I want to.” His cheeks redden, a shy smile stretching his lips. “A lot.”)

You bite back a smile, adjusting your hips to balance on the edge. “You can touch me, ya know.”

He gives your face a glance, shoulders unfurling from around his ears at whatever expression he sees (no doubt one of anticipation, expectancy). Curls his fingers around your hips, touch gentle, almost wary in the way his thumbs soothe a path over your skin.

His lips twitch into a wincing smile. “I don't really know where to start.”

Something black and viscous twists in your belly. The source of your wickedness—why your insides clench at the plight of his innocence; why you fight the urge to grin at the smallness of his voice.

“Just give it a little kiss. Try different things.” You brush a hand through the silk of his hair, smile loose on your lips. “There's no rush, okay?”

He nods, and a warm breath of air washes over the slick of your cunt. Relief at your relaxation. You reach down and part your inner labia with fore and middle finger, your other hand stretching over the crown of his head to coax him closer.

When his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, your muscles clench around emptiness, a gnawing ache that pangs in your belly. A great chasm of need begging to be stated.

Baby steps. Patience stretched thin for the end reward.

“Have you ever seen a pussy up close?”

He shakes his head, hums his dissent as his eyes dissect you between the legs. You must look a needy mess, slicked up and spread open for him, ready for feasting.

“What do I—” He cuts himself off with a thick swallow, a blink, before the wet muscle of his tongue licks a slow path from hole to clit.

Poor, lost baby. So ready to please, to make you feel good in spite of his inexperience. But you'll teach him. Show him how to properly eat a pussy.

Your hips jolt, a low moan punched from your chest. On instinct, your fingers twist in the silk of his hair, fist a steady weight against the back of his head. He shifts, hands moving to grasp the back of each thigh, opening you up as his tongue licks over your cunt.

He lacks rhythm and just misses your clit on each upstroke, but you applaud his tenacity. The wet squelch each time his tongue dips into your hole, a tease that makes your hips jolt.

When you catch his gaze (his eyes so pretty as they look up at you, puppy-doggish, the blue swallowed by a central sea of black just begging for praise), your teeth catch on your lower lip.

“How's it taste?” you ask, free hand rising to pluck at a nipple.

He sighs against you, pulls away a moment to groan, “Good,” before diving back in.

For all his eagerness, you refuse to cave easily. He needs to earn your pleasure, learn for himself what makes you feel good. But he's observant, malleable. Internalizes your reactions, files each of them away until he hits his mark. Unfortunately, he doesn't understand the importance of consistency just yet.

His desperation keeps you engaged, indefinitely on edge. An anxious bird flitting between trees, never settling in one place—the nest is right there, swollen and sticky and so so sensitive, and if he'd just touch it—

You end his torment by grabbing his face, palms cupping his jaw, a cooing voice that says, “Here, baby.” A finger ghosting over your clit, a map for his tongue to follow.

A jolt shocks your spine when his lips seal around your clit, fingers dimpling the fat of your thighs, and he sucks. Mouth impossibly hot, drooling down the seam of your cunt. The hum of his groan leaves you fisting his hair between your fingers, pulling him closer.

You trap him there with both hands on either side of his head, orgasm unraveling from the base of your spine, a slow spill of sticky molasses. A long-played game of accidental edging wore down your resolve.

He whines against you, suckling in uneven spurts that, in any other circumstance, would leave you groaning in frustration, but his eyes stare up at you all wide and wet. Pleading. Starving for it.

(what a sweet, pitiful thing he is; how could you not wish to keep him?)

The dark miasma of your need rears its ugly head, a steady purr vibrating your ribs—

You cum with a sharp jerk of your thighs, a tightening of your abdomen, and everything burns white-hot in the blackhole darkness behind your eyelids. He grips you hard enough to hurt in an effort to tug you closer, and pleasure-pain grinds your hips against his face.

And then everything stops. You sag against the couch with a heaving sigh as he licks his tongue over your cunt, cleaning you much like a dog would a wound.

Your very own obedient little puppy.

“Good boy,” you sigh, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. “So, so good.”

Behind him, you swear you see a ghostly tail begin to wag.

The following weekend, he lets you fuck him. You only ask the question once, phrase it as polite as possible lest his brain leak out through his ears—

(”Ya know, you're missing out on the whole sex thing.”

“Is it really that good?”

“Yeah. I can show you, if you want.”)

You seat yourself on his cock and admire the honey-silk stretch, the tautness of his belly beneath your fingers, the shine of his eyes as he stares up at you. His hands suspended in air next to your waist, body frozen as all rationale drains from his brain down to the pinpoint pleasure of velvety heat.

He cums after the fourth bounce of your hips—long, languid pumps that swallow him from root to tip. The squelch from your cunt overwhelms the hush of your bedroom, following each involuntary clench of your muscles.

It took nothing to get you wet for him: the mere thought of being his first, a bit of kissing, his fumbling touches beneath your shirt. A tangible devotion. A need to impress.

How pretty he looks spread out on your bed is just a bonus.

It's the cutest thing you've ever seen. How he reaches for your hand (he needs the comfort you suppose), bucks up into you, moans high-pitched and whiny. Head pressed back into the pillow, blushed neck on full display. You wish to sink your teeth into the thrumming pulse, taste blood in the back of your throat. A gift for the occasion.

But you don't. Can't scare him away just yet—not when you've made so much progress.

You stay seated until his breathing evens out and his eyes flutter open, and then you catch them in the reflection of lamp light: a line of tears that disappear into his hairline.

“Ohhhh, poor baby. It's okay.” Your hand cups his jaw, lips pressing soft to his forehead. “You did so well.”

“I didn't last,” he whines pitifully against your shoulder.

And yet you still ache. A bottomless pit of need, the thing inside you more ravenous than ever. An ache so great you could cry, too.

But you have plenty of time to get yours.

“Then we'll have to do it again, won't we?”

He grunts in response, big hands grabbing your hips. The air thickens as if your bedroom holds its breath, waiting on a decision.

When he rolls you onto your back and crawls down the bed, your legs part on instinct.

Alone Time

Summary: Daryl needs some time alone in the woods.

Length: 2388 words

Era: Not important, Post Prison-ish?

Warnings: Mature content 18+, Male solo, thigh riding, fantasy.

Daryl PoV, Unnamed female pronouns

A/N: One of the last (if not the last) Daryl pov stories I had planned. Just finally finished it.

Daryl watched her roll on to her side, a soft sigh tumbling from her parted lips. She was dozing, just like everyone else except him and the second watch of the night. After the long day they'd had and then with her making him carry all of her shit on top of it he should have passed out damn near instantly, but that fuckin' girl was in his head. That seemed to be happening more and more. Wouldn't bother him so much if it was the usual day-to-day shit they had to worry about, but this was something different. Something he shouldn't be thinking about.

It wasn't like he meant to. He tried thinking about anything else but when he closed his eyes all he could see were little soundless clips of her his subconscious collected through the day. The way her big doe eyes looked up at him as she pleaded for him to carry her clothes in his bag because she wanted more room to carry books they found or the ruddy flush of her cheeks when she was struggling to keep up with him in the woods. It was these little things that made his cock stir and curse god that he had a half decent memory.

The more he tries to sleep the more he recalls and the more he recalls the more his cock begins to ache. The way her teeth catch her bottom lip when he's telling her some stupid story he doesn't even care about. The color deepening the longer he talks until by the end those lips look kiss swollen and red. He shouldn't even be thinking about her because she's just a friend. He almost snorts because friends don't think about how those lips would taste. No, he ain't sleepin', not like this. He needs to clear his head.

Sitting up makes the very source of his uncalled for fascination stir. "Daryl...?" his name on her lips makes his cock spasm.

"Back t' sleep." he tells her. It's barely a rasp is sound but she moans a tired hum of agreement that's a shot of lightning down his spine. Fuck clearing his head! There ain't no sleepin'. Not after that. He grabs his backpack and his crossbow, a sick idea forming somewhere in the back of his skull. If he doesn't move now he'll talk himself out of it but he has to get her off of his mind. He needs to sleep. He tosses a languid hand up to whoever is on watch before vanishing into the trees lining the old road.

Reckless is what this is, sheer fuckin' stupid. He keeps heading deeper into the trees until the group is out of sight and the firelight is just a faint winking dot. He's far enough away that he can hear them if one of them yells, but out here he's alone. No group to worry about, no girl to drive him wild, just him and his backpack and his hand.

He's disgusting for this. He tells himself that even as he palms his length over his jeans and has to choke back the sound that nearly left him. She's just a friend. She understands that side of him he's only ever been able to share with a small few and here he is thinking about what her tits would feel like smashed against his chest. Disgusting doesn't cover it but he can't help it, not now.

"Fuck..." it leaves his mouth as a sigh. He needs to go back to the group, lay back down next to her and pretend this hasn't happened. He won't though, it feels too good and he needs her too bad. Uttering a curse he drops his crossbow to the ground, sliding the back pack off his shoulders so he can lean against the tree proper. He's still palming himself, flexing his fingers around his length, the friction just heavy enough to wipe out most thought until he looks at the bag again. The blood rushes from his face, a soft trill of excitement running over his shoulders and down his spine. Her clothes are still in there.

He shouldn't.

God knows he shouldn't but he was going to.

Movements stiff and jerky he opens the zipper at his feet and fishes for the first piece of material inside. Even in the dark he knows exactly what his fingers find just by the feel of it, that ugly yellow shirt. It takes him only a second to press it to his nose, the smell of her intoxicating and overwhelming, bringing fresh life to the gentle images of her he was conjuring. His cock pulses, throbs. He leans his head back staring at the material balled in his fist. If she knew she might hate him. She might never talk to him again but her scent is tickling his nose and his cock demanding satisfaction from a woman he can't have.

He's imagining her there now; leaning against the tree across from him, head tilted back looking down her nose. Her delicate fingers toying with the end of her shirt that's barely covering her pussy and her teeth catching her lip turning it oh, so red again. He should put away her shirt, go back to the group and forget about all of this but that image is branded behind closed eyes and he just-- can't. Uttering a whispered curse he starts pulling on his belt until he shoves his pants down his hips just enough to free his dick. It's weeping at the thought of her closing the distance, practically dripping at the thought of her crawling into his lap.

He knows what she would think if she found him. He's a pervert. Daryl is repeating it in his head even as he spits in his hand and grips his length. Doesn't matter what she thinks now because whatever was left of him that felt actual shame was gone now and in his head all he can see is her. She's breathing against his ear, soft shallow pants with his knee between her legs. He's gripping her hips to keep her there, to encourage her to rock against him because as badly as he wants to be in her, he needs to see her, needs to see more.

Daryl is desperate to see that wanton pink flush tinting her cheeks, her lips parted in a tiny 'oh' as she grinds down on him. He won't kiss her, not yet. He won't do that until he's buried in her. He's too infatuated with the hazy hooded look of her eyes to think of missing the soft flutter of her lashes.

That makes him groan. His lips press in a thin line as he strokes himself in time with the imaginary version of her, no longer teasing himself with slow strokes. He's a fuckin' teenager all over again thinking about the dampness between her legs smearing over his jeans as she bears down on him. Her head falling back, a throaty moan breaking up her labored breath as her chest juts in his face. Pumping his cock he needs to see her get off. He needs her to use him, to make him a fuck toy for only her pleasure.

Daryl takes the shirt in his hand and buries his face in it taking the smell of her deep into his lungs. His muscles are shaking, straining, and he has to lean back against the tree trunk, bark scraping at his biceps. He pretends that it's her nails and not the tree biting at his shoulders. He wants to cum but it's way too soon. Not yet! Not yet. Not yet...

He stops breathing her in and spits on his palm again, a sticky glob that mixes with the wetness of his tip. He fists himself again pushing the cloth back against his mouth, tongue tasting the salt still lingering in the fabric. He's imagining it as her skin, pressing his face against her breasts, whining as he nips tender flesh. She's close, so fucking close and he can't breathe but he'd die happy. If this was love then he could learn it.

She's pulling his hair, forcing his gaze upwards to watch as her rhythm stutters in an uneven dance as she chases her high. Breath catching as she rides him, she's the most dazzling thing he's ever seen. He's awestruck as she goes rigid, chest flushed red as her back bows and there's a split second while she's frozen with pleasure tearing through her that he wants to capture forever. This is beauty, a painting he can finally appreciate in all its splendor. Then all too fast that second is over and she's gasping for air as she bucks against him but then comes the knowing that he can give her what she wants, that his body is enough for her. It's a sick sort of satisfaction, a joy, thrumming in his chest when she falls against him half out of her head from cumming on his thigh. His thigh.

He needs her. Standing there in the middle of the woods with his cock in his hand and her shirt to his nose he's never needed anything more. Now he wants to take as much as she's willing to give.Laying her down on the ground she's watching him with glazed sated eyes, tiny creases at the edge of a smile. He needs to know the greedy suck of her mouth, the press of her teeth swollen lips kissing his crown. He needs to see those ruddy cheeks bulge with his cock as he fucks the shallow of her mouth, her tongue laving his shaft. He needs, he needs, he needs…

His knees are weak, his vest catching on bark as he slips down to the ground. He's choking on the smell of her, the shirt damp from his breath as he fucks in to his tight fist. Behind his closed eyes all he can see are the sloppy strings of saliva connecting them both as her grabby hands try to bring him back. He's whimpering into the shirt, pleading with himself not to finish. He wants to drown in her and with her but his cock is so sensitive it nearly burns as he pumps furiously.

And her? She’s just lying there, her hair haloed around her head like a crown as she whispers filthy things that all too sweet smile narrowing her puffy eyes. She's praising him, her naughty boy, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He zeros in on that, the words. He's groaning, the sound muffled by the cloth. “Naughty boy. Naughty boy. Naughty boy.” It's on a loop, her eyes wild with fascination when his body shakes. His breath seizes. Her hand covers his as she looks up at him demanding his full attention as she says, “Cum baby.”

He does.

His shoulders bow inward, hips thrusting at the air as thick ropes of spend hit the ground between his booted feet. Daryl tries to stifle the sound he makes before he's choking from the force of his orgasm, unable to breath as his abdomen clenches over and over, hips twitching as he cums and cums. Her shirt falls from a loose grip as he slumps, his whole body sensitive and shaking. He's ruined and whole and ruined again, completely and utterly spent on the forest floor.

Daryl uses his bandana to clean off his shaking hands enough to light a cigarette and he fumbles the lighter twice before he gets it right. It takes him the entire thing before he can make himself stuff her shirt back in his bag and put away his dick. How the fuck was he going to look her in the eyes? How was he going to be able to see anything other than her spread out on the floor below him with her knees pressed together with want?

He'd figure it out tomorrow. Had to. It wasn't like he could avoid her, they were traveling together. The only good thing that came of him emptying his balls (other than blowing his own damn mind) was that he was tired now. Tired enough to sleep until morning and he was going to enjoy that rarity even if it was only because he didn't know if he could meet her eyes.

He groaned as he stood, his legs fighting to sit back down the entire walk back to the fire's edge. The watch had switched and was adding twigs to the flame to keep it going. If they knew what Daryl had just done they didn't say, just a nod of acknowledgement that he hadn't died and that was more than enough for him. Now all he had to do was tip-toe back to his spot on the fringes and pray he didn't wake her up.

He was careful setting his stuff down, his movements as slow and steady as he could manage praying to any god that would listen that she wouldn't wake up. Frowning he eased down on the ground next to her, the starring role of his forbidden fantasy. He'd made it to his back before she stirred beside him and without opening her eyes she whispered to him, "I'm cold." His heart slammed into his throat, his sluggish mind struggling to come up with something, anything to say to her.

“Don' care.” He muttered. Closing his eyes he silently admonished himself. He could've tried to be a little nicer but it didn't matter because she was already scooting over. She snuggled up to him, slipping her hand under his shirt to rest on his belly. “God dammit woman!” He hissed but not because it was cold.

She hushed him, pressing her body up against his side. “Daryl, go to sleep.”

Only now he couldn't because her touch was electric, tiny sparks of it dancing across his chest stirring up a weird feeling in his rib cage. He sighed, resigned to his fate, a punishment from God probably for what he did only minutes ago and stared up at the stars above them trying to count them. Anything to pretend he wasn't honed in on the pads of her fingertips drawing tiny circles near his naval.

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heathermason6060

10 months ago