Archive of Our Own

You're under him again. He’s heavy against your back. His grip on your wrist is shifty – you’re both sweating. You take in another strained breath and feel his chest against your back, resisting the movement with unrelenting pressure. 

“Come on-” He grunts. His breath is a hot wave against the shell of your ear. 

The challenge in his voice makes your stomach tighten, adrenaline and arousal boiling together. You writhe, suppressing a sound in your throat that you don't trust. Leon pulls your wrist farther up your back and the sound escapes anyway in something between a groan and a yelp. 

“You know what to do, come on.” He pants. 

You grunt in frustration, blinking sweat out of your eyes. One of his boots is planted painfully against the back of your knee, and his left knee has swept your other leg outward, rendering it useless until he gets off of you. His forearm is flat across your shoulders, his fist and his elbow digging into each of your shoulder blades, and his other hand is fighting your attempts to free your wrist from his grasp. His hips are pressed firmly against your ass, relying on his weight to keep you pinned to the floor. For the moment, you’re both ignoring his erection. He’s been trying to teach you something and you've been trying to follow. 

“Don't tap out, you can do this.” He says. His voice is gentler, but his hold remains.

“Shut up.” You snap. Your cheek is mashed into the mat and the words come out squashed.

He huffs something like a laugh against the back of your neck. It makes your spine bristle, begging to arch against him. You need to focus.

You scrape another breath past your teeth and shut your eyes tightly, trying to visualize where he is in relation to you. He explained how to do this and ran through the movements with you, but with resistance the challenge is nearly impossible. Having to ignore the heavy heat between your thighs isn't making any of this easier. 

Your left arm is the only limb available to you, squashed beneath your torso. You have to wriggle your right leg far enough to slip out from under his boot. He told you that you have to do this while essentially achieving a one-armed push-up while he’s on top of you. You laughed when he said it. You’ve tapped out three times already. 

You kick your right leg out and his foot scrapes off your calf. You swing your leg backward and wedge your left arm between your chest and the floor, praying the momentum of the kick counteracts some of his weight. For the first time, it does. With a grunt that's louder than you intended, you shove your body away from the floor. Ideally, you’d flip him onto his back and jab an elbow into his liver before rolling off of him, but you aren't made for this. He falls on his side and you have enough room to scramble out from under him.

Somehow, he keeps his grip on your wrist. You’re on your hands and knees and he’s sprawled on his side, gripping your wrist so hard it hurts in an effort not to lose it to the sheen of sweat you both wear. You freeze, looking at him wild-eyed and panting. Leon meets your eyes, staring to get up.

“Enough-” You wheeze.

He drops your hand. You both stay there panting for a few beats, coming back to yourselves.

“You okay?” He pants. You nod.

“You did good.” He says, flopping onto his back.

“I died. Like, four times.” You say with a laugh tinged bitter. Your instructor has a habit of loudly pronouncing you dead when Leon pins you in class. You realize unhappily that you've adopted the terminology.

Leon shrugs weakly.

“Three and a half. It happens.” He says. “Better than last week.” 

You sigh, wiping your face with your shirt. While you swipe the damp, gray fabric over your eyes, still stinging with sweat, you feel his hand touch your wrist again. He doesn't hold it, he just idly brushes his fingers against the skin. His eyes are closed and he’s sprawled on the mat still mastering his breath into a slower tide. You sit heavily beside him and take his hand, squeezing it gratefully between your fingers. You watch his body begin to relax by degrees. In tandem, yours does too.

“You okay?” You ask.

The twitch at the corner of his mouth is the only warning you have. His hand is around your wrist and he’s pulling you over him before you can think. You catch yourself on your hands, landing on either side of his shoulders. You blink down at him, nearly nose-to-nose. He smiles at your weight on his chest.

“486 to…” He trails off, adding an extra victory to your half of the running tally. “Thirty eight?”

“Thirty seven and a half. And you told me to stop counting.” You say, but his eyes are on your mouth.

You glance at the open door across the gym. The hallway is dark and quiet. His hand finds your jaw, pulling you down into a kiss. You feel your body surge, threatening to abandon the shred of sense you’re clinging to. 

“Careful.” You murmur into his mouth, eyes still on the door.

He tips his head back, glancing toward it.

“Shit.” He breathes. “Sorry.”

His Adam's apple shifts up the column of his neck. You try very hard not to scrape your teeth along the exposed skin. 

Instead, you plant your hand in the center of his chest and push yourself off the ground. He catches the wheeze you press out of him with a smile and takes the hand you offer him. When he stands, it takes a few seconds for him to let it go again.

Together, you gather scattered gear in electrified silence. You feel his eyes on you as he stoops to collect the rubber knives you abandoned a half hour before. You struggle with the accordion folds on the vinyl mats – they cooperate under two sets of hands. 

You watch the muscles in his shoulders shift under his damp shirt as he hitches one end of the folded mat under his arm. You carry the other end behind him, watching him move. When he elbows open the door to the storage closet, you reluctantly look elsewhere.

You shuffle into the small, dim space and wrestle the mat into the corner while he holds the door. The humid haze that has been occupying your head fades a little while you struggle with the uncooperative vinyl, but you can feel him moving in the space behind you. You feel his eyes on you when you step back from the mat, hoping you’ve managed to successfully wedge it between the shelves. You hear him let go of the door and the light in the little room shifts from harsh fluorescence to a few dull bulbs above you. 

Time is slowing between breaths as you pretend to shuffle the mat a little longer, waiting for him to move again. He’s done this before, teasing your slow reflexes with halfhearted surprise rounds. You think it was an excuse he invented to touch you before you confronted him in the showers. You smile to yourself. He steps toward you. You feel one arm reaching somewhere around your midsection, and his right arm is reaching over you, anticipating your right-handed reflexes. You whirl around, your left elbow lifted.

Instead of colliding with his awaiting palm or swiping through empty air, your elbow strikes his jaw with an audible smack. Pain shoots up your arm and you watch him stumble backward against the door. His shoulders collide with the steel and the room shudders with the rattle. The rubber knives he had in his hand tumble to the floor and you realize what he was doing – the bin full of the others sits untouched on the shelf behind you.

“Shit-” Leon mutters thickly, his hand skating over his mouth. 

One hand claps over your mouth while your other hangs limp and ringing with the pain radiating out of your elbow.

“I’m so sorry-” You sputter. “Shit- I’m so sorry-” 

You take an anxious step across the few feet between you. 

“Are you okay? I didn't- I’m so sorry-”

“I’m alright.” He laughs. His fingers come away from his lip bloodied. 

He works his jaw open, wincing at the fresh split in his lip. You don't know where to put your hands – they float somewhere between your mouth and his, too afraid to touch. He sucks on the swelling and swipes his bloody fingers on his chest. 

“Who taught you how to do that?” He asks. He’s trying to be suave but his eye is watering and his words are lopsided while his lip swells. 

“I thought you were sneaking up on me! I thought you’d duck or something! Why didn't you-?” You say, surprised by the laugh that’s coming out with your question. He smiles, then grimaces at the stretch of his lip.

“I was sneaking up on you. I was gonna-” He laughs at himself. “I was trying to ‘accidentally’ brush past you and- I don't know.”

You both laugh at him. 

“I’m sorry.” You say again.

“That was a good hit.” He says.

“Did I get your teeth?” You ask, wincing a little at the thought.

You watch him run his tongue between his teeth and his lip. A confused flutter lifts your stomach as you watch the blood and saliva mingle. He hisses quietly at the soreness and the fluttering grows stronger. 

“I don't think so.” He says. “I’ll take a second opinion though.” 

You touch his jaw with gentle, anxious fingers. He tucks his chin and opens his mouth, letting you look in. A thin sheen of bloody spit covers his lower teeth, but they all seem to be in place. You sweep your thumb across his upper lip, pulling it back to reveal more teeth, bloody but intact. You shake your head; you didn't get any of his teeth. His exhale rolls out over your hand, cupping his chin. You’re watching the blood well up against the inner rim of his lip, your gut spinning in a regretful and fascinated spiral. You want to keep his mouth open. You want the pad of your thumb against his tongue, coated with the mix welling up in his mouth, heated by his breath.

“I’m sorry.” You say again, distant.

You feel his body relax against the door. He sucks his lip and swallows the mess that threatened to dribble out of his mouth. 

“Tooth fairy’s gonna be disappointed.” He says.

You scoff a laugh in spite of yourself. You want to tell him that was stupid, but you're stuck watching his lip swell.

“I’ve survived worse, y’know.” He says. His hands find yours on his face and echo around them, wordlessly asking you to keep holding him there.

You step further into him, pressing you both against the door. Your eyes keep flitting around his face, lingering longest on his mouth. You want to apologize again.

“They don't keep you around here if you can't take a hit.” He says, reading the guilt on your face. You watch him consider something. He can't look at you when he says it. 

“Helps if you find a way to like it.” 

You remember the way his breath catches in his throat when your hands find his bruises, and the way your gut tightens when he throws you on the mat. You look at the red-purple stains across both of your knuckles and know where the rest of his bruises are. Pressed against him now, you know without seeing each spot where you’ve made his skin tender to the touch, and you know he can do the same. The knowing hums in your body as a secondary heartbeat, hot and tenuously transmitted through the layers of fabric between your bodies.

Leon pulls his hands off of yours and brackets your waist, his fingers tugging gently on your shirt – another silent request for you to keep him here. You close the remaining inches between your bodies, slotting your hips tightly against his. He’s hard against your thigh and staring hazily at your mouth. Your eyes are still fixed on his bleeding lip. Your pulse throbs low in your hips. 

His breath shakes out of him when you draw your thumb over the swollen skin of his jaw. You press against it, feeling the ridges of his teeth through the puffed skin under his lip. A small sound sneaks out of him at the pressure, but he stays still as you prod the welt you've given him. His thumbs run across your lower ribs, finding the dark shape his boot stamped into your skin yesterday. He presses into it and you lean your forehead against his. You let a heavy breath fall out of you into his awaiting mouth.

He meets your lips with his and you feel his body jolt again at the pressure. Your head spins with the salt-copper taste that finds your tongue when you press into his mouth. He loses a quiet groan and grasps at your belt loops, needing you pressed harder against him. Your body answers before you can, snaking your hand under his shirt and dragging your nails over his skin. He shudders into your mouth and your hand finds his jaw again, lifting his chin – you paint the column of his neck with the red mix on your lips. His hips begin to move against you. 

Your teeth are skating over his jugular and your hand has found him hard through his pants. You squeeze him in your hand and bite down on the cords of muscle between your teeth – one of his knees buckles. The whine in his voice as he exhales snaps the last shred of control you had. 

You start tugging on his shirt.

“Off.” You tell him.

He nods, hurrying to wrestle it over his head. While he does, you work on unbuckling his belt.

He drops his shirt to the floor and watches your hands move. You undo his pants and step back to admire your work, watching his abdomen tense and stretch with his heavy breaths. He’s flushed pink from his chest up and his skin is smattered with splotchy evidence of your hands, knees and elbows. You want to keep him here, just watching him twitch and breathe.

You stand there, watching him feel your eyes on him, enjoying the way your gaze makes him fidget. He’s looking at you, visibly overcome with wanting but inexplicably restrained. For half a breath, you wonder what he's waiting for. Then, you realize. You haven't told him to move, so he hasn't. He's waiting for more instructions. 

You've gotten used to leading him. You've been toying with him, teasing him in the showers with your words, your hands, your mouth. You've been guiding his hands over your body and enjoying the way he keens when you murmur praise against his lips. He's leaned this weight against you before, but he hasn't yet put it directly into your hands. Now, it's lying between you as the looped handle of a leash; he's staring at you, wordlessly nudging it into your grasp.

You smile. The weight settles, comfortable and heavy in your core. Your chest swells and your head fills with a fog that sends everything else into soft focus. There's just him, panting, flushed, and waiting for another command. 

“On your knees.” You breathe.

Leon kneels, his breaths coming slower as he looks up at you. There’s a bare, open look in his eyes and his lips are parted and bloody. You think you see something like relief smoothing out the tense restraint on his face; his effortful hold on himself melts effortlessly into your grasp.

You take a slow step closer to him, making him crane his neck to look up at you. His chin hovers at your belt. You hold his eyes and lift your foot, setting it down on his thigh. You slowly lean your weight onto it and watch the pressure distort his expression. His bare chest rises and falls faster. The stiff, corrugated soles of the boots you’ve been issued have a particular way of digging into your skin; you’ve become very familiar with the feeling. Now, you watch him feel it imposed by your weight.

You nod toward the laces. 

“Off.” You say. 

You swear you see a hint of a smile tug at his lips before he stoops to untie them. He frees you from the boot and looks up at you again. You press your other foot into his other thigh and tell him to take care of this one too.

Your boots end up in a corner and he’s still kneeling for you, waiting for direction. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears; you feel yourself throbbing in tandem. You scrunch your fingers in his hair and you watch his shoulders slump as he leans into your hands. You hold his face and it's like you have all of him in your hand, pliable and eager.

His hands start to run slowly up your legs, tentative without permission. He hooks his fingers in your belt and finds your eyes again. His pupils are blown wide. 

“Please.” He says. 

His voice is low, heavy with need. It feels like a blow to the gut. You take in a shaky breath and nod.

He starts to carefully unbuckle and peel away the layers between you. Each inch of skin he uncovers feels new. His breath teases down the valley between your hip and your thigh. He won't touch you, you haven't told him to. You shuffle back and grip the shelf behind you, kicking out of the pants crumpled around your ankles – the metal is cold against your ass, but half-perched on the shelf, you don't have to rely so heavily on your shaky knees. He’s looking up at you. You can see the straining bulge between the open halves of his zipper.

“Come here.” You say. Your voice is steadier than you feared it might be. 

He does. When his fingers graze over your scuffed knees, you remind yourself you should be breathing. He presses his lips against a bruise, finding your eyes and holding them as he does so. The mark is still pink; the spot above your knee where his heel struck you an hour before. You watch him, trying to measure your breaths. He finds another welt, higher this time, still keeping cautious eyes on your face. His lip is hot from the swelling and each time he presses it against your skin you feel the whirling of guilt and fascination in your gut. 

You let him keep inching up your bare thighs, your skin humming under the heat of his breath and his hands’ tentative searching. He’s nearly up to your hips. You hold Leon’s eyes as he carefully hitches one of your knees over his shoulder. The wordless question hangs in the short distance between you and his mouth. 

You’re nearly overcome by the thought of keeping him here, making him beg, watching him twitch at your feet, but the same need you see written on his face is pulsing through you. Finally, you nod.

You swear beneath your breath when you feel his tongue against you. You feel the tension in his body melt. He muffles a sound between your thighs that you hardly hear over the rush in your ears. His jaw starts working, dragging slow, persistent pressure over sensitive skin. His hands find your hips and your ass, pulling you toward him, needing to be buried deeper. You lose a breath and grip the shelf beneath you. His slow breaths work in time with his tongue, soft and unrelenting. The rhythm starts to pull you from the room – the dim closet begins to fade. It's just his mouth and his hands and the air in your lungs. You find a handful of his hair, trying to anchor yourself – you can't go too quickly, this is too good to cut short. 

You should've let him do this the first time he danced around the subject. The time you've been spending together in the showers pales in comparison to this. You’re trying to stifle the sounds he’s bringing out of you but each time something breaks past your defenses, he chases another out. Every time you scrunch a fistful of his hair, he groans into you, digging his nails into your hips and leaning into your touch. 

You’re holding his head in your hand and your hips have started rocking. You slide restlessly against his tongue – your pace is picking up and your pulse is in your ears. His eyes are distant and half lidded as he looks up at you. You watch his upper lip bulge as you rut into the space beneath it. The sight of him like this makes you dizzy.

You hear words coming from your mouth and grasp them out of the buzz in your head a moment later. 

You realize you swiped your thumb over his cheekbone and breathed,

“Good boy.” 

You feel Leon’s body tense beneath you and hear him exhale shakily. It fans out, ruffling your shirt as you lock eyes again. You feel yourself tightening, coiling in your core – it makes your breaths come short. You keep holding his head, rutting into his mouth, watching his lip gliding over your skin. The distance in his eyes has doubled. Your head is spinning.

“That's it,” you breathe. “Good boy.” 

He exhales a whine, grasping your hips tighter, pressing himself harder against you. You’re teetering on the edge, rutting into him faster and losing your grip on the sounds coming out of your mouth. He whines again. His eyes are locked on you, far away and helpless. You feel the leg he hitched over his shoulder grow tense with the beginnings of the fall. 

You’re half aware of the accidental headlock you’ve put him in as you plummet. Your mouth keeps working in your absence, sputtering a strained stream of whispered “good boys" punctuated with gasping breaths. The bright burst of sensation echoes through your body in harsh jolts. His hands start to smooth soothingly over your skin. His head is heavy against your thigh as he lets you roll through the last of it. 

When you return to yourself, you’re still holding his head. His heavy eyes come back to you.

“You okay?” Leon murmurs thickly.

An airy laugh shakes out of you.

“Are you okay?”

He sits back on his heels, raking a hand through his ruffled hair. He tongues his split lip, his chin shines wet. He’s grinning. He nods, still a little starry-eyed.

The overwhelming need to taste yourself on his bloodied mouth sends you onto the floor with him. Your knees press into the cold concrete and then his hands are on you again, running up your chest, cupping the back of your neck. Kneeling together, he drinks eagerly from your mouth, pulling you tighter against him. 

You pivot around him to push his back against the shelves and straddle his thighs. He’s still straining against his open fly, and you grin at the little wet splotch on his boxers. He sees you seeing it and you know if he could flush pinker than he is now he would. 

You tug at his waistband and smile at the glassy sheen smudged over the underside of his head. You take him into your hand and rub your thumb in slow circles around the slick tip. He presses his forehead against yours and you both watch him twitching in your grasp, your heavy breaths mingling in the humid space between your bodies. Each of his exhales are coming out with more of his strained voice. You want to keep feeling the surging twitches rush into your palm, but you're throbbing too. 

You move up his thighs until you’re straddling his hips. You sit, but you don't take him into you – his tip brushes the base of the dark curls that trail up to his navel. Leon blinks up at you, resisting the instinctual twitch in his pelvis. You can see on his face how badly he wants to shift your alignment and rut into you, but he stays still, waiting.

Still wet from his mouth, you grind a slow stroke up the underside of his shaft.

“Fuck-” he pants into your mouth. 

Your body thrums with the wet pressure. You loop your hands behind his neck, leaning back a little to watch his abdomen clench under you. He keeps his hips still, but his hands find your waist. He wants to lift you, to move you himself; you know he can and you know he won't. You grind another stroke against him and watch him shudder again. He’s looking up at you, the beginnings of desperation furrowing his eyebrows upward. He swallows hard.

“Can I-?” He huffs. You grind against him again, interrupting his words. “Fuck- Can I, please-?” 

“What do you want?” You cock your head to the side, smiling at the breathless, naked need on his face. You know what he wants, you need to hear him tell you. 

You start moving your hips steadily, trying hard to keep yourself from gasping as he slides against the underside of your clit. Leon’s grip on your hips grows tighter and his voice comes out shaky.

“I want to-” He loses his words to a groan. He tries to continue. “Inside you- I-” 

You’re grinding faster, head getting hazier with each stuttering huff you pull from him.

“Please-” He breathes. His eyes are getting distant again. His hips stutter upward. You can't keep denying yourself. 

You lift yourself just high enough to align him under you and begin to sink back down. You feel him pushing slowly into you and watch the feeling overtake his face. The slow push and stretch into your core threatens your legs with unsteadiness; the fluttering radiates upward, catching your breath in your chest. His chest heaves with restraint. You kiss him to silence the shaky moan growing in your throat. 

He starts to pull your hips further down and shifts upward to meet them with his own. His voice breaks. You swear under your breath and rock against him, feeling his thighs bunch and relax under you. Your hips begin to roll in tandem, drawing closer together on each achingly slow repetition. He’s trying to stay quiet, but his heavy breaths and stifled groans are filling your head with more fog. You plant a hand in the center of his chest. You feel his lungs swell and his core tighten as you finally sit flush against his lap. 

His words are lost to him, all he can do is hold your face and breathe with you. You kiss him again, running your tongue over the split on his lip. His breath comes out shaky in your mouth. You grind against him again and your body rings with the sensation. He answers, pulling back and pressing in again. 

You nod against his forehead, needing him to do it again. He grips your thigh and pushes in again. You lose hold of another huffed curse. His fingers are pressing into a bruise; the low burst of pain swirls into the dizzy mix in your body. He keeps moving, watching your breaths come quicker. You grip his shoulder to steady yourself, reeling from the smooth friction as he thrusts into you. 

He starts to move faster, lifting you a little higher on each thrust of his hips. You have to bite your lips to contain the cry building in your throat. You watch him losing himself to the movement. His hands find the swell of your ass, taking handfuls to guide your hips down as he drives upward. 

You feel yourself tightening, clenching around him as he pushes you closer to the edge again. You're starting to lose yourself again when he starts to whisper,

“Shit- Shit, I can’t-” 

Leon looks up at you and he’s all eyes. His breath is hitching.

You grab him by his jaw.

“Don't tap out.” You pant. 

You can feel yourself cresting. He’s straining, panting into your palm. He doesn't stop. 

“Don't tap out,” You beg him. “I need you.” 

He groans against your palm and grips you hard. The bruises under his fingers sing. You’re clenching around him and then your breath is gone, suspended in the bright flood coursing through your body. Distantly, you hear him straining over the rapid smacking of your skin meeting his. You’re floating for a few heartbeats before your body pulls you back. He’s still working into you, his eyes pleading, his chest seized in a desperate effort to give you what you need. 

You struggle to pull together the crumbs of control you have over your body. Eventually it cooperates and you lift your hips too high. The waves of the climax are still rolling through you and you need to feel him against your skin; you grind against the underside of his shaft again, pinning it between you and his low belly. His chest swells and his hips begin to stutter. You’re still throbbing as you feel him pulse under you, sending little rivulets to drip down his abdomen. Your hand is still clamped over his mouth – now it muffles the strained sounds of his release. 

He eventually slows, rocking through the ebbing throbs. You pull your hand from his mouth. For a long moment you both stay there, fading back, grounding each other where your bodies meet. 

When your breaths grow steadier, a watery smile spreads across his face. You kiss him and come away with it on your lips. 

“You okay?” You ask.

He sweeps his hands up and down your thighs. 

“Yeah. You?” He says.

You nod. His fingers mingle in the folds of your shirt, bunched up around your belly. He looks down at the two of you, smiling.

"What?" You ask him. 

“Together we’ve got one whole uniform on.” He says. 

You’re confused, then you realize. He’s shirtless and you’re naked from the waist down. You sputter a laugh. 

“You’re a dumbass.” You tell him, watching his flushed face bloom into the wide, boyish grin you don't get to see often enough. 

“Let’s get cleaned up.” He says. 

Together, you do.