if i bring a book someplace it doesn't necessarily mean i want to read it mayb i just want to take her on a walk. Get her some fresh air and a change of scenery
Pairing: Bruce Wayne x F!Reader
Wordcount: 5.6K
Warnings: smut. virginity-taking. oral both ways. violence. vibes. drugs. drinking. Hair pulling.
Summary: They were waltzing around the sex talk. They kissed - they made out like fucking teenagers after they had spent a night fighting down the knife-edge of the city
A/N: reader is kind of based off a character/kind of has some promising young woman vibes going on. title is from the who's behind blue eyes. this is chaos and im on sleep meds and pad thai. apologies for mistakes!
It was hard to crack The Batman. Vengeance.
He didn’t go by that name anymore. Apparently.
They met during a back alley fight. She had lost herself at the Iceberg Lounge. Black leather pants. Emerald green corset top. Boots. She got herself in some trouble, but she’d been dying for it. She had twirled and drank and squeezed a couple Drops into her eyes until her mascara ran and she’d chewed through her lip.
Her vision had swam - gone to neon swirls and white spots. She had danced and danced until the world had flipped over. The vibrating floor. The bass drop. She was waiting - hoping - delighting at the thought of her web reeling some horsefly into her snare.
It worked as it always did. Some creep had managed to drag her outside - oily hands grabbing at her. The stink of fetid breath that was too warm. The rolling sweetheart - come on - come -
She always savored the look on their faces when she suddenly straightened - when she gracefully twisted their arm or broke their nose. Her slur gone. Her eyes now bright and aware. She could be dizzy-drunk and still manage to pull her punches. She didn’t intend to kill anyone. Just a lesson and yes, maybe, she was trying to fill all the pesky holes inside her from her own horrific past. She called it closure, but it was “closure” that was never actually fulfilled.
That night in particular had not gone as planned. The creep had security - he’d apparently been a bigger fish than she thought. How could you tell really? Everyone in Gotham was someone’s superior - was someone’s boss in an invisible hierarchy. The good guys were actually bad and the bad guys were bad, but not even as bad as the good guys because they, at least, owned it.
All of that (the security and the big fish) - she didn’t know. Not then. Not yet.
The man screeched after she’d sent the heel of her hand into his nose. Blood swirling in the rain. Like tears. What was that movie again? Something..something…the shoulder of Orion…C-beams…glitter?
“You fucking bitch,” he growled, lunging forward. She side-stepped. The alcohol swelled inside her - the drops left her skin humming. She was cold - sensitive to every splat of water. The rain drenched her hair and her clothes and left the air with the tang of mildew.
It was all fun - all very exciting until the man started chuckling - red seeping between his too-white teeth. She frowned.
“What- “
Pain - sharp and sudden - slammed through her back. She fell - knees scraping against the shimmering asphalt. The neon lights of the city danced along the tops of her hands as they found purchase on the dirty ground. The Exit sign reflected rosy red against the silver surface of her bracelets. Another kick sent her into the trash bin - the whole front denting beneath her weight.
She grimaced before glancing up to see who - exactly - had come to this fuckhead’s rescue.
Four guys. Enormous. Thick. Definitely security.
One of the men - bald and pissed - snapped his fist back band drove it toward her -
She screwed her eyes shut.
Not her most courageous move, but she didn’t care. There was just so much rain and she couldn’t hear outside of it. The Drops still had her bones vibrating. Her heart had split in two and taken residence in both of her ear canals. She waited - waited - and then nothing - a wisp of wind and a sudden howl of agony.
She opened her eyes. Oh.
The Batman. He was bigger than she expected. Broad-shouldered. Shockingly fast for someone so bulky. He’d saved the city a year ago. She remembered the flood of water. The murders and the corruption brought to light. This was the first time she’d ever run into him.
She watched - breathless and in pain from her bruised ribs - as he beat the shit out of her attackers. It took him a minute, perhaps two and then he was done - staring down at the pile of unconscious bodies with what she’d assumed was indifference, but there was really no way to tell with that mask.
Finally, he turned toward her. He dropped down - making himself smaller - a hunched form. She spread his gloved hand in offering. It was jarring to see him go from towering to eye-level. “Are you okay?” His voice was deep - raspy - like it had been wrenched over gravel. She could make out the exquisite line of his jaw - the blue around his pupils. The shade gleamed within circles of smoke-black make-up. Galaxy blue. Lake blue.
She clutched his hand - shivering as his fingers covered hers. He helped her up - mindful of her injuries that she would no doubt feel tenfold tomorrow morning.
“Thanks,” she told him - at a loss of what else to say. He didn’t leave - didn’t disappear into the shadows.
“I watched you,” he revealed. “Watched you nearly break that guy’s face.”
“He had bad intentions.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve watched you beat the shit out of different guys the last two weeks.”
She went still - uncertain if he was going to arrest her or chastise her. She didn’t know which would be worse. “Why did you wait until tonight to show up?”
He shrugged. “You were outnumbered. Didn’t feel like trying to find someone else who can fight with your…,” He seemed to search for the right word. “…creativity.”
Her brow furrowed. “Fight for what?”
“Need help on a case,” His eyes were steady on her - serious. Unsettling. “I could use someone who can defend themselves and you know the Iceberg.”
“Oh.” He didn’t even ask her why she did what she did. He saw it as a strength. He had started walking and she hurried after him - skipping over one of the unconscious bodies he had left. Her skin felt less tingly. Not as tight.
“You don’t even know my name,” she accused.
He lifted his arm - her wallet stuck between his fingers. “Nice to meet you.”
Jerk.
***
Bruce did not think of Selina. The new girl - woman - reminded him strongly of her. A fact he did not want to truly acknowledge. Both of them were bitter - angry - and remarkable at getting into places they shouldn’t. The only difference was that she desired no payment - no reward for the pain she dealt. There was no gold in it for her. No diamonds. She simply took advantage of the men who tried to take advantage of her - some form of revenge that Bruce knew all too well.
She was also less controlled than Selina had been. She drank to oblivion. She did Drops on occasion, which he’d grumble about much to her amusement. She had money - which he had not expected. There was barely any information on her, but she was rich. She’d buy tables at the Iceberg - drop her black Amex as she handled recon for him. She’d clothe herself in sparkling minidresses - too high heels. Then later in the night - she’d pull on her suit and be someone else. Someone harder and sadder and violent.
Their first case turned into a second. There was a third - a fourth. He supposed that they were partners now. They knew so little of each other and yet were together nearly every night.
She had begun to channel whatever resentment boiled inside her toward their work. She was just as motivated as him - just as excited to get to the bottom of the spoiled pot that was Gotham. She developed a type of poison that functioned like a hallucinogen, which she finessed until it practically became a truth serum. She’d put it in tiny vials, pricking throats with needles.
“Are we dating?” she’d joked once as they sat together at their meeting spot. The wind blew through the plastic tarps, kicking up gusts of construction dust. She was nursing a fat lip. He had a bloody nose he couldn’t seem to plug up. It had been a successful night.
He exhaled - huffed a laugh that he tried to swallow. She caught him and her lips spread apart into the most unbearable smile. It lit up her entire face. Bruce felt something clench in his gut and he had to look away.
***
Batman weighed a ton - a thousand fucking tons and part of it might have been his damn suit.
“C’mon,” she wheezed between clenched teeth. She had her hands under his arms as she pulled and pulled. He’d hurt his head. An explosive had blown up right in his fucking face. At least, his body parts were still attached. She finally got him into a deserted hallway in a shuttered building. The chaos of the fight was still roaring outside.
She searched his face - tilting his helmet back and forth. Shit. She didn’t want to betray him. They’d developed a connection - trust - respect. Things that neither of them gave easily. He was out cold. He could be bleeding. She shook him gently. Nothing.
“Batman,” she murmured - not wanting to draw attention from outside. “Vengeance.”
Nothing. Fuck.
“Batsy,” she tried - which she knew he fucking hated - absolutely bristled at. He didn’t flinch.
She had to.
“Please don’t hate me,” she whispered as she gingerly lifted his helmet up. She pulled and pulled until it came free, but she didn’t want to look down. She didn’t want to see him bare-faced if he wasn’t going to give it to her conscious. She tried to move his head so she could check the crown of it. Black hair slipped between her fingers. If she tilted his chin - she’d see the bridge of his nose.There was an egg-sized lump at the center of his skull. She hoped his brain wasn’t bleeding.
Just as she laid his head back in her lap, he suddenly gasped.
He jerked violently - sitting up with his hands flying to his face. Another unsettled groan burst from his mouth. She winced and then shoved his mask at him - eyes firmly glued to the floor. “I was careful,” she assured him. “I had-had to check your head. I didn’t see your face.” But then he said her name and, as a damn reflex, she looked up at him.
Bruce. Wayne.
“Oh fuck,” she breathed because it actually made a lot of sense. He had to have had money. The poison of the city had killed his family. He had the motive. The means. That fucking bone structure. How could she not have known?
She blinked at him. She didn’t know how to approach him. He was like a terrified animal caught in a trap. He simply stared back at her - the muscle in his jaw flexed - his nostrils flared - the whites of his eyes vibrant and intense. He remained silent for a few moments - before yanking his mask back on.
“ But - your head,” she cautioned - her voice weak - vulnerable with uncertainty and shame. She felt like she had done something terribly wrong. Had she screwed this up? There were tears in the back of her throat. She was drowning. The last six months had given her purpose - had made her oddly content with her own loss - her own unstable grief. She had him as a friend. Had she ruined it?
He left her there.
***
Bruce stormed out of the abandoned building. His boots slipped through puddles - greased asphalt. He wasn’t even mindful of where he was going - of being so out in the open. His suit covered him. His suit kept him safe.
She’d recognized Bruce Wayne immediately. Now - she knew everything about him - who he was - what that meant - the entire sordid history of his life. His childhood splashed across gossip magazines. His adulthood peeled apart despite the fact that he had tried to hide away from all of those hungry eyes.
Granted - he’d been a little more public since the Riddler. He’d donated heaps of his wealth - started a new fund. He tried to make peace with his name.
Now - she knew him as both. Batman. Bruce.
What did that mean? Why did it matter in the long run? You didn’t even give her a chance.
He stopped. Everything inside him was at war - a hurricane of conflicting emotions. They shared things. They’d developed a quiet sort of camaraderie. He doubted that his identity would change that -
Poor Little Rich Boy
You like her.
You want her. You want her to want you as the Batman.
Bruce is helpless in that regard. Bruce is lonely and pathetic. Bruce doesn’t understand women - sex -
Bruce is not the man that she teases and taunts. Bruce doesn’t know shit.
He stepped further into the alley - toward his car.
Fuck it. He turned around. Back to her.
***
She thought it was someone else - someone marching heavily through the hallway to attack her. Another teenager - some dumb kid. Get the fuck up. You’re acting ridiculous. She couldn’t move - her limbs felt heavy and weighed in stone. They were still coming.
She frowned. The steps were too distinct. She knew them because she knew him. She glanced up and it was Batman - Bruce - rushing toward her. His entire body took up the hallway - enormous and shadowed and consuming.
“I’m sorry,” she told him as she tried to stand. “I didn’t -”
He crashed into her - stealing her breath. His lips were on hers - clumsy and damp - his hands cradling the hinge of her jaw. His thumb was digging into her cheek and he tilted their heads to deepen the kiss - his tongue nudging - curious - testing -
She grabbed at him - palms scraping up the back of his suit - brushing his cape. He buried her into the wall - the scent of old paint - smoke - and his scent, which was masculine and clean and dirty at once -
His kiss lacked finesse - lacked talent. It was frantic and unsteady, but his hands held her in place as he pinned her to the wall. He held her to him - lifted her onto her toes.
He was a virgin. He had to be or perhaps he just never kissed people, which made her simper with delight. Far - far - from a playboy.
“Bruce,” she purred and he shuddered in the circle of her arms.
***
They used his penthouse as their base. She met Alfred who appeared utterly thrilled by her presence. Even if she was another vigilante - another slightly off poor little rich girl running around and enthusiastically supporting Bruce’s violent habit.
Not wife material. Not girlfriend material, even.
“Bruce seems very fond of you,” Alfred remarked as they studied a note that the latest Gotham serial killer had left on his disemboweled victim. They’d carved a grin into the poor guy’s face. Ear to ear.
She chuckled - doubtful. “He has a funny way of showing it.”
“He can be closed off, but I know him - known him since he was a child. He cares about you.”
“I think you’re seeing things, Alfredo.”
“Uhuh,” he murmured as he turned the note to the light - a message within a message found in the thin material. “Strange,” Alfred flipped the note. “I don’t know what this is made from.”
She squinted her eyes - looking closer before inhaling sharply. “I think human skin.”
“Oh Jesus Christ.”
***
She perched on a stool as she delicately sewed up the horrifying gash in Bruce’s forearm. Her tongue peaked between her teeth. The light from the overhead lamp was raw and white - it showered his arm in stark relief. The blood was candy-red.
His kiss was sudden. The pressure of his mouth firm on her own. When he drew away, he seemed shocked that he had done it. There was a gorgeous pink flush over his cheeks. It drifted up his throat.
She bit her lip and continued sewing.
***
They were waltzing around the sex talk. They kissed - they made out like fucking teenagers after they had spent a night fighting down the knife-edge of the city. He was so quiet - so stone-faced sometimes. They’d be heaving from whatever battle they’d won or whatever battle they’d lost. The air would burn - the oxygen melting between them - the tension growing and then he’d just look at her. That was it. The world zapped to a sudden overwhelming focus that settled on Bruce. He’d storm toward her, cradling her face before dragging her to his mouth for a dirty, slick kiss. They fought with it. Pushing and pulling. He had gotten better - far more practiced, which wasn’t a surprise since he took to everything with ease. He learned and adapted.
“I want you,” he growled against her tongue. “Fuck - I can’t - I can’t think of anything else.”
His stubble would chafe her jaw and chin. She’d knock his mask off and tug his hair. His belt would dig into her hip - his hands all over her.
One night - she went farther.
“Let me give you something,” she pleaded - pushing him away until his back smacked against the column. They were at their spot - the bat sigil butter-white and frothy in the sky.
He looked confused. She could read him despite the mask.
“What are you talking about?” He asked in a low voice - ragged and dripping with hunger. “You’ve given me everything.”
Fuck her cunt clenched at that. “Trust me,” she said as she pressed her palms to his chest - as she kissed him lightly before wrenching herself away. He tried to follow with his greedy mouth, but she stopped him.
She dropped to her knees.
“What are you doing?” he rasped. She saw his skin redden against the black seal of his mask. He really was handsome - beautiful and untouchable and it was so very strange to have him like this. She constantly had him shivering beneath her touch - moaning for her - and then she’d see him fight like nothing could stop him. Legendary out there, but with her? Something secret and tender…
The sky was turning. The sherbet bloom of the sunrise peeking through the skyscrapers. The color of it: violet and blush and tangerine rupturing against the muddled gloom of Gotham. The air tasted bitterly of the smog and oil from the enormous cargo ships in the bay. She could hear the scattered chirp of morning birds. She was sore from the fighting tonight. Her neck hurt, but she still found herself reaching for his belt.
She peered up at him as she unzipped his pants. The square flex of his jaw. The stubble. The pretty pink mouth.
She gingerly eased him out. He was long - lovely - and he twitched in her hand as he filled the circle of her palm. She delicately placed her tongue at the head of his cock and he jumped.
“Easy,” she coaxed. She took him into her mouth.
***
He had to concentrate not to spend into her mouth the second he felt her tongue. It was too much. The suction of her cheeks - the hot, wet pocket behind her teeth. She was swallowing him - nearly choking on his cock as her lashes fluttered prettily up at him. She gagged - sunk down until her nose was shoved up against his groin. He had no words.
Struck. Dumb.
His hips stuttered. He found himself reaching for her hand that was resting on his thigh. He threaded his fingers with hers - curling into a knot - a tangle - don’t let go don’t let go don’t let go - i didn’t know - i didn’t know it could be like this -
***
She’d never tell him, but she lived for every moment that Bruce unwittingly revealed himself to her. His past - his likes and dislikes - his strange hobbies that didn’t involve crime fighting.
He sketched. He read the same classics over and over again: Moby Dick, Hamlet, The Grapes of Wrath, On the Road, Othello, War and Peace…
Those activities seemed on brand.
But then she found that he loved comics - that he enjoyed nineties action flicks - that he liked to take apart his cars and put them back together.
Alfred would bring them huge pieces of cherry pie if they worked late.
“Is this your favorite?” she’d tease.
He shrugged. “I guess. I liked pie as a boy. Hated ice cream.” She rolled her eyes and then he kissed her - lips sweet and sour and sticky. He deepened it - smearing maraschino-red filling along the top of her mouth.
***
He’d never tell her, but he devoured every fucking piece of herself that she gave him. Her past slipped from her in hints - vague recollections.
I loved the beach. I miss it.
I used to go to this summer camp in the mountains and got lost in the woods for two nights. I was eight - you’d be shocked by the kind of holes a small body can fit into. It was totally great.
My dad owned this bear and I named him Gabe. Fed him live salmon.
I went to med school and then had a bit of a breakdown and they put me away for a bit.
She never got farther than that. Bruce was left trying to solve the riddles of her background. He didn’t want to press her - didn’t want to upset her. They were tiptoeing around each other and all the unsaid shit between them was beginning to fester - was threatening to blow.
They could not stop touching. Not for a minute. It physically pained him to be away from her.
Every night, she found him in the cave like she always did. She straddled him - her beautiful face revealed only in the light that gleamed soft blue from his computer screen. She licked his ear - tugged the lobe between her teeth. He bucked into her - grunting - groaning - he said her name and she took it from him -
“Bruce,” She smiled around it - her teeth a half-moon in the dark.
***
It was the way he shouted her name. It pulsed with panic - desperate and horrified. She’d never heard him use that tone and she paused in her fighting - reeling back only a few inches so that the bullet meant for her chest - ripped into her shoulder.
“Oh,” she breathed - whistled. “Shit.”
She stumbled to her knees - boots splashing up dirty puddle water. Another storm had slickened the city - had made it difficult to see who she was fighting. She groaned as she scrambled to plug up the blood squirting from the tiny hole in her suit.
Fuck.
She pawed uselessly. Her visions swam and drifted. She heard Bruce. She heard him speak to her - call to her - baby
She came to underground with nothing but shadows above her. She raised her head - the pain splintered through her - but she wanted - she needed to see -
Bruce was sitting there - his expression broke into tangible relief.
***
He had not felt fear like that in a long time - well since Alfred. But it had still been different. The grief in him. The anxiety. The debilitating terror that she could be dead and he’d be alone again. He’d lose her before he knew her - really knew her - he couldn’t stand it.
He’d carried her back to the cave - frantic - panicked - shouting for Alfred to help him. When they unzipped her suit - blood had spilled with it - pooled around her shoulder - staining her skin.
He held her hand. He brushed his lips over each knuckle. “Don’t,” he growled - demanded of her. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
***
“Like this?” he murmured as he dipped his head lower. She arched - her feet kicking against the mattress. The bandage around her shoulder served as a constant reminder. He lapped - dragged his tongue and used his fingers.
“Shit-t,” she whimpered. “Where - where did you learn that?”
“Never done it before,” he muttered against her folds. She tasted good - slightly salty - musky - the hint of sweet that got clearer with every lick. The room ached with sex. She was all over him. He was hard as a rock - he’d probably blow in his sweats.
“You’re lying.”
He lifted himself up to look at her - amused. His chin felt sticky. “When would I have the time to do this with anyone else?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you do when you’re not with me.”
“Think of you,” he quipped. “Obviously.”
It rolled off his tongue so easily - the flirtation - the truth of it. He was being sincere and the effect it had on her was stunning. She beamed and wiggled closer to him. He slapped her thigh.
“Now shut up and let me eat you.”
He returned to her cunt. It was gaping for him - clenching around his knuckles. It was pretty - shiny and glossy and calling to him. He latched his mouth to her clit and she shrieked. He held her down with his forearm banding over her hips. She fisted his hair - grinding into his face and he drowned in her - smug and pleased when he felt her pussy spasm around his fingers. It leaked all over his bed. She wailed and he felt the exact moment that she released and gave in. It beautifully echoed against the walls - sprang against the wallpaper his mother had picked out that he refused to remove
He’d never tell her that he’d spent five hours studying videos and reading articles on oral sex. He took notes.
***
It happened on a mundane night. They were on the shitty cot in the cave -the one he’d pass out on when he’d get too tired. The serial killer responsible for the ghoulish grins and skin notes was still at large.
Bruce was frustrated and her eyes were beginning to cross from the amount of files she’d read. Yellowed pages. The smell of old libraries. She was at a loss.
“We should sleep,” she suggested. “I should probably go back to my place. I need to -”
“No,” he protested and then was right up in front of her - chest to chest. “This psycho is still out there.”
Her lips quirked. “I can handle myself.”
He gripped her injured shoulder and squeezed it. She yelped. “No - you can’t.”
She knew this Bruce. It was when he got in his own head. Too protective. Too anxious. Fearful.
“It’ll be fine.”
“No it won’t.”
“You’re being a fucking dick.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re -”
He kissed her to shut her up. He probably only meant it to be that. A kiss. His apology wrapped up in - let me make you feel good -
She wanted more. She wanted all of him. She wanted to possess him because the intimacy with him had been nice. Consensual. Beautiful. On fucking fire. She grabbed the back of his head to haul him closer. He gripped her hips and then her ass as he lifted her onto her toes.
He crowded her - deepening the kiss until it hurt - until their teeth clicked together. The back of her knees hit the cot and when she fell on top of it -it creaked and squealed. He followed her - crowding her body into the mattress - clutching her wrists and pinning them above her head.
“Fuck me,” she whispered as she licked his mouth - as she spread her thighs for him.
His black-blue eyes widened - his lips swollen and bruised from her kissing gaped in surprise. He frowned. His brow creased and those vibrant eyes of his bloomed with shadows - with secrets and concerns and fear. Vulnerable.
“Stop dwelling,” she ordered as she pulled her wrists from his grip. She found the band of his pants and shoved them down until she felt the hard length of him bounce against her skin. He softened minutely. He grunted. Thank God she’d worn a dress because it took nothing to yank it up - took nothing for Bruce’s gaze to shift into something ravenous as he reached beneath it, curling his fingers around her panties and ripping them off.
He blinked - his gaze stupefied as it traveled from the fabric in his hands to her pussy.
“Fuck - sorry,” he mumbled - scooting backward. She rolled her eyes, putting her fingers to his mouth.
“Stop,” she warned. “You can buy me a new pair.”
“If only I could afford it.” He quipped wryly.
He was joking. This was good.
“C’mere..” He did - climbing over her - wedging himself between her legs.
She felt the head of his cock smear against her thigh. She reached down - touching it - enjoying the velvet slide of his length. She watched as he thrust into the circle of her fist - the swollen red tip appearing and disappearing in her grip. She spread herself wider.
She lifted her chin and he caught her mouth tenderly - sweet as kisses between them went. “Should we?” He stumbled through it. “Do we need something?” he finally managed and she shook her head.
“Safe,” she smiled as she guided his cock closer. “Safe.”
He bit his lip - his chest rising and falling. Sweat beaded at his hairline. “I trust you, Bruce.”
***
He buried himself too fast at first. It punched a whine from her throat - it made her dig her nails into his ribs. He immediately tried drawing back, but she held him to her. “No - no - keep going -”
She didn’t realize that it would hurt. She knew he was big - she had blown him for fuck’s sake. Inside her though - inside her pussy - he was stretching her - making room for himself. Her head fell back on the pillow. He hadn’t moved - simply remained rigid between her parted legs. His body was shivering against her.
“You can -”
“I know,” he snapped before softening his tone. “I know - sorry - give me - fuck - give me a minute.”
Her tits were smashed against his chest and there was the audible thrum of his heart. Slowly - he began to move. He eased himself back - the tip still inside her before he drove forward. He did it again. Again. He rubbed their noses together and her hands cradled the back of his skull - threaded through his damp hair.
“Kiss me,” she pleaded and he did - his brow wrinkled with concentration - his lids heavy. She’d never seen him look like this - warm and buttery with pleasure. He continued and the springs under them squeaked. He panted in her ear.
“You feel perfect,” he praised in a low voice. “Perfect.”
***
He ran his calloused fingertips over the tattoo that wrapped around her hip - her thigh. The gray, wispy outline of ivy. He did not know it would be like this.
Of course - he could have guessed. He could have assumed. He knew how it felt to fuck his spit-slick fist. Her mouth. But sex - fucking her - this girl he had found - who had found him - who clung to him and relied on him and saw him at his worst and at his best (if he had one best).
Her breasts bounced. Her grip on him grew tighter. He sank as far as he could - wanting to reach the end of her.
Bruce felt as if he only existed to suffer - that he had, unconsciously or consciously, made an art of it. He had been fueled by a cold sort of rage - icy and terrible and similar to an illness. As he watched her smile at him - her lovely lips parting with every clumsy stroke he delivered, he realized that he had never truly lived.
The punishments he dealt in Gotham were inexorable - again and again. A snake eating its own tail. He removed the cancer and ten rotten cells would spring up in its wake. His forearms framed her face as he dropped his head to claim another frantic kiss. His tongue slid overs hers - tasted the cup of her mouth as he fucked her.
Was this fucking? Or was this something else? Making love sounded too serious and yet -
Bruce was a serious guy.
“Oh my god,” she panted as he picked up his pace - as he slowly got the hang of it. After all, sex was organic - it had been sewn into every human’s foundation. He could have had women. Several. But he just hadn’t thought of it - hadn’t considered the idea of sharing his life with anyone besides Alfred and his cold, barren home and who had time when there was change to be done - to be made. That had been his love.
His love was vengeance.
He had watched her - this girl who beat and maimed lecherous man after lecherous man and he had felt her truth - her desire lost in the blood she shed. Vengeance. Love. The same. Their lives had been emptier for it and what a thing to discover now? That events had been wasted. Years lost. They had both figured they’d die young.
“Bruce,” she whimpered and he returned his attention to her. He broke for her - a puddle - a fucking sap. He thought of only her - all the time - always.
She was tight and hot - her nails dug into his biceps and their kisses had changed to something feral - unhinged - out of control. He was murmuring against her lips - swallowing her moans as he thrust deep.
“You feel…” he husked - overwhelmed. “You feel so - so fucking good.” He definitely already said that. He had lost all sense. It was true though.
She did. She was nodding at him - her eyes wide and brilliant in the dark of their cave. He’d always considered it a shell - a place to rest between all the fighting. Not really a sanctuary. He regarded it differently now. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to stare down at this cot or even the black sheets of his bed upstairs and not see her splayed out before him.
“More,” She wrapped herself around his torso - bit into the muscle of his shoulder. He replied by planting his knees and clinging to the top of the mattress to leverage his weight before sliding into her more fiercely - punishing - the same violence of a hit.
“Harder,” she gasped on a particularly rough snap of his hips. Every drive of his cock into her soaked heat made a lewd noise - echoed against the rock. The cheap iron railing rammed into the wall - thwack thwack thwack - as he curled his fingers under her knee and hitched her thigh higher over his waist.
“Did you want this?” She touched his face - ran her knuckles down his cheek. It caught him off guard - the sweetness of her question. The sincerity in her voice. He never thought her sweet - she was far too prickly - swathed in thorns and that particular venom that he could taste off her skin. He had shaved down her edges just enough or maybe she’d done it herself.
“Tell me,” she implored - hiccuping - boneless.
He laughed - soft and breathy - before once more lowering his head so he could kiss her. He pulled back - just enough that his eyes bore into her own - just enough that he could tangle his hand through her hair and lift her face to his. “How could you think I’d want anything else?” he mumbled as he tilted her chin - dragging his cock slowly and sensually into her - grinding deep. He brushed his lips along her jaw - her throat. Her breathing cracked. It was comical, really. He’d given his consent just as she had given him hers. Here he was - fucking a beautiful, dangerous woman into his mattress for the first time and she still had to question him.
It surprised him. Perhaps, she was more unsure of herself than he had thought. Perhaps - she was just like him in that regard. Two people desperate for the comfort of a home that had long since escaped them.
***
He could feel her on him - inside him. He was wet with her. Drained.
“Bruce,” she hummed - tracing her fingers over his arm - through the dark hair on pale skin. She said his name often - repeated it all the damn time. He’d asked her why once.
Because it’s you. You’re not The Batman to me. Even in that suit. Just Bruce.
“Should we go out?” she murmured - burrowing her face into his throat - his hair. Her breath fell warm and soft on his flesh like the touch of the sun. “Fight something?”
“Can I just hold you?” His voice was more reticent than he had meant to sound. He had given himself to her. He already wanted more. She clung tighter to him.
Thinking about being soft with either re4 or re9 Leon. He’s finally home and he’s beyond exhausted laying in your stomach and you playing with his hair and running your hands over his scars as he’s falling asleep. He didn’t deserve what happened to him over the years :(
a/n; I love soft Leon. He's such a sweetheart, I just wanna hold him and love him and let him retire early 😞 I kinda took the basic idea of this and spread it out over this piece, so I hope it's still good!!
sum; re4!leon is exhausted after a mission, so much so that he can't be bothered to hide how badly he'd been crying on the way back just from pure exhaustion and missing you so badly
content; fluff, comfort, leon being honest and vulnerable (he cries☹️)
wc; 1.9k
Leon didn't cry often. Not because he didn't let himself, but because he had made it so far in life without feeling the consistent need to do so. Sure, he'd cry every now and then, but even when something major happened to him, it just... didn't happen. He let himself be sad, he let himself be angry or tired or anxious, but the tears often didn't follow like they did when he was a little boy.
Meeting you helped that. Something about you helped him a lot, helped him find safety in a person for what he felt was the first time. Over the first year of being with you, his body naturally let the tears flow when it got bad. The first time, he apologized through sobs, trying to hide from you as he fought to stop the flow of hot tears. You never told him to calm down, to stop, to get a hold of himself. You just held him once he stopped running from you. You let him fal against your chest, curled against you as he cried into your shoulder and gripped onto you like you were going to leave if he didn't hold you like you were his lifeline.
Leon still didn't cry often. You cried a lot, much more emotional than him, often crying over movies or books or how small and cute an animal looked. Leon found it adorable and so human that you felt so deeply. You rubbed off on him over the years, and now, with everything piled up from Spain, Leon came home around 6 p.m. with tears staining his cheeks, eyes puffy and red, breath uneven and shaky as he dropped his keys and bag, barely making it to the couch before he collapsed.
You heard the door open and close, so you rushed out to greet him, only to have your heart squeeze when you found him, body shaking from exhaustion and crying. You stepped carefully to the couch, kneeling down next to it before you reached to gently press a hand to his back. He looked at you, a small hiccup leaving him.
"Hey," you whispered quietly, offering a gentle smile as your other hand brushed hair out of his face. "Gotta cut your hair soon, 's gettin' long again." You observed quietly.
Leon sniffled, blinking some tears away so his vision would clear up momentarily to look at you and take in your features. He reached out, shaky palm touching your cheek. You pressed your cheek into his touch, kissing the spot where his palm and wrist met. It stayed quiet as his tears slowed, comforted and relieved by the reassurance that you were still here, still loving him, still his.
"I almost died." His voice shook. Your heart squeezed, but you let it sit in the back of your mind as you stood and gestured for him to sit up. He was dirty, very much in need of a shower, but his emotional comfort came first. He sat up, and you took your spot next to him. He didn't hesitate to crawl to your lap, head burying into your chest. He was like a large dog that never understood how big he was, never getting rid of his lapdog habits. You liked it. Especially in moments such as these.
"I'm glad you made it home." You whispered softly, hand brushing through his hair.
"I almost didn't." He seemed to dwell on how close he'd come to death, how close he'd come to that goddamn parasite being the reason he almost never saw you ever again.
"Lee," you lifted his head, making him look at you so you could cup his cheeks. "You made it, baby. You're home. You're safe."
"I was so scared." Another sob bubbled from his throat, and you let him hide himself, holding onto you tighter than he ever had in the past. "I was so fucking scared. I wasn't sure I'd make it back to you, and it was so late when I left, you were barely awake a-and the last thing I would've done with you was leave you behind in the middle of the night while you were barely awake to hear me say goodbye." He practically heaved, clutching you tighter as his fingertips dug into your clothes.
You let him rant, sob, and squeeze you for as long as he needed. It took another twenty minutes for him to calm down, to realize that all of the 'almost' and 'what if' scenarios weren't reality. Once he eased out of his panic, he melted against you, beyond exhausted and drained.
"Just close your eyes." You muttered softly, laying back on the couch. He shifted, laying his head on your belly. "I'll be here. Just rest. Take your time and breathe." You brushed through his hair, fingers gently massaging his scalp.
"Will you shower with me when I wake up?" He asked, looking up at you with glossy eyes.
"I'll do that and whatever you need." You nodded. Leon snuggled closer, holding tight around you like it was the only thing regulating his nervous system right now. It was, and you both knew that. Leon laid there, dozing off over a twenty minute stretch of time, your fingers soothing through his hair and massaging his shoulders and shoulder blades, his body finally going limp as he let himself slip into a much needed sleep, finally realizing he was safe, you were safe, and you were still here for him to come home to, for him to love and take care of for the rest of your days together. That's all he wanted.
He didn't wake up until the clock ticked just past 10 p.m., long past dinnertime. He should've stayed asleep, and you hoped he would've, but he heard a car revving their engine a little too loud outside the apartment building, causing it to give that backfire sound that sounded far too similar to a gunshot. Leon grasped onto you, heart dropping as he shot upright, only to be dizzy with how quickly he'd rushed to try and stand. You eased him back to lay over you, letting him groan.
"It was just a car. They've been doing it all week." You reassured him.
"Sorry." He mumbled.
"Don't be." You slid a hand over his forehead to hold his hair back, making his brows furrow.
"That's my forehead." He looked up at you.
"I know." You hummed, scanning his temples and face for any bruises. You noticed a cut on his cheek, clearly not taken care of. You found another bruise at his cheekbone opposite of the cut. "Let's get you in the shower so I can make sure you're not hiding any cuts or anything from me."
"I'm not." He huffed, but he followed your lead as you stood up with him, tailing behind as you went straight to the bathroom and reached for the first aid kit beneath the bathroom sink, readied for once he was cleaned off.
"Do you want a bath or a shower?" You asked.
"Shower then bath?" He asked, quiet, almost shy.
You nodded. "We'll wash the yuck away, then we can just soak and talk."
You let the shower warm up, helping Leon out of his clothes to avoid having him hurt his muscles further. It ached to move, to stand. You gave him a scan, only finding a few scratches and bruises along his body. You helped him into the shower, letting him soak in the hot water. He tilted his head back, wetting his hair. You scrubbed it with shampoo, and he rinsed it. You ran conditioner through the ends of his hair, letting it sit as you washed yourself. Usually, Leon would wash you in return, but you refused to let him pamper you when he needed your pampering more. Once you were both clean and rinsed fully, you let the tub fill with water. Leon had to hold onto you to ease down, muscles of his legs burning with the slow descent.
"The water will help you feel better." You reminded him, reaching out to gently massage the tense muscles of his achey thighs.
"I know." He whined, leaning back. He let you massage him, allowing you to help him stretch his arms and torso to relieve some of the ache.
After about 15 minutes, you let some water drain, refilling the tub with hot water. You knew baths weren't the best for water bills, but he needed it. Once you finished your gentle massage, he turned around and leaned back into you, head laying against your shoulder. You played with his hair as it dried. Having such short hair made his hair quick to dry, combined with the lack of thickness. He had a lot of hair, but it wasn't thick or thin, just normal. Before he dozed off again, you coaxed him into getting out of the tub. He reluctantly agreed, letting you guide him to stand as you dried him off gently. Once he was dry, you cleaned the scratches and scrapes, placing a bandaid or bandage over some. You applied some ointment to the bad bruises, being extra gentle to not apply pressure to the ones that made him stifle a hiss.
Leon knew you'd always take care of him, but he was still not fully used to the routine of your love. Despite being together for a few years now, he was always a little awkward with you taking care of him. Now, he wanted to thank you, but you hated it. You didn't want him to feel like he needed to show gratitude for the bare minimum of being loved. So once you finished caring for his bruises and scrapes and scratches, he pulled you close. Both of you were still unclothed, but it didn't mean anything. The skin-to-skin helped, if anything. Leon held you close to him, and you returned his embrace.
"I love you. So much." You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, just below where you'd placed a small bandage over the cut on his cheekbone.
"I love you so much more." His voice shook, but he wasn't crying this time. Just the sheer love and gratitude making him a little emotional.
"You wanna lay back down? Or are you hungry?" You asked softly.
"Can we go back to sleep?" He asked, still holding on.
"Yeah. Let's get to the bedroom." You nodded, letting him lead to the bedroom. Neither of you bothered with clothes, unconcerned with temperature with how warm Leon stayed 24/7. It was nothing new, especially after missions. Leon just needed to feel you to realize that it was all real and not a dream. He'd even have you pinch him sometimes.
You two laid together, blankets loosely draped over your bodies. "I'll make us some breakfast in the morning."
"Can we just order something? I don't wanna get up til we have to.." He asked quietly.
"'Course we can. We'll order breakfast and I'll cook for lunch and dinner. Sound okay?"
"Okay." He curled his head to lay lower against your chest, tugging your waist closer to him to feel as close as humanly possible.
"You're home. You're safe. And I'm still here, forever and always." You gently soothed over his back, tracing scars along his back, arms, and chest with your nails, coaxing his body to relax just with your touch.
He'd definitely need to request a real vacation soon.
mention of blood, wounds, stitches, etc. mostly hurt/comfort/fluff as usual. brief suggestiveness.
first actual fic in a few years, but leon kennedy got me so bad rn.
playlist for leon yearning. title from the hayley williams song :)
You really wish your blood would stay in your body more often.
"Fuck," you mutter as you slump on the ground against a wall, trying your best not to bleed out. You aren't sure you can do much; your muscles are already fatigued from fighting. You use what little strength you have left to put pressure on your wound.
In your daze, you hear Leon yell your name. All you can manage is a weak noise to signal you were alive. You watch him helplessly. Even if you tried to move, you could barely sit up. Your body's exhaustion took over, protecting you from using too much energy while you were losing blood.
You're stuck watching as he's thrown across the room, hit after hit landing on his already surely exhausted body. One particularly nasty swipe had him on the ground for far longer than usual. Tears well in your eyes and you stop breathing for a moment until he finally shifts and wobbles back to his feet.
Somehow, he musters the strength to get up again and again. Gaining on the creature and eventually landing a killing blow, black and green goop flying everywhere. You're focusing so hard on not passing out, vision vignetting more and more despite you trying to blink it away, that you hardly notice the bits that splash on you.
You're so out of it you don't realize until he's already next to you that Leon is there, his hands holding your cheeks gently, firmly. He's trying to keep you awake.
"Hey, you're gonna be okay," he sounds like he's convincing himself of it, too. You must look pretty bad. Which is saying something, because Leon is covered in gashes and blood, the latter covering his body so much that you could no longer tell what's his and what isn't.
"You okay?" You manage to get out, and he chuckles at you, eyes softening. You were on the verge of passing out, and asking if he was alright.
"You kidding? I'm the picture of health," his thumbs rub over your cheeks. He glances down at your torn open shirt, ribs covered in a gash deeper than he's ever seen on him or you before. You laugh weakly as he tears a bit of fabric from your already shredded shirt.
"You should take me to dinner first before ripping my clothes off me," you feel him wrap the strip around you, tying a secure knot to keep pressure on it.
"All the shit we've seen, I think we're past the dinner phase," he wraps his arm around you. "You think you can stand with me?" You nod, and he begins to lift you up to your feet. The room shifts violently, vertigo making you sway a bit. He moves closer, bracing you with his chest. "C'mon, I got you, baby. Let's get the hell out of here before you pass out on me." You try to pretend that even in your dazed state, the name baby doesn't send a flood of emotion through you.
It's a slow limp back to Leon's car, which is miraculously still there after all this shit. At least zombies don't know how to drive.
Leon basically lifts you into the passenger seat, but not before trying to lay you in the back. He quickly (willingly) loses an argument with you and your half slurred protests. He didn't want to waste time while you were actively bleeding, the once beige fabric now a deep red. It's easier to keep an eye on you this way, anyways.
You spend the entire drive answering Leon's questions, which you know is just a tactic to keep you conscious while he speeds to the nearest motel. Normally, you'd patch each other up in the car, but there were some stray infected wandering around, ones that had escaped your bullets. Leon didn't want to take any chances lingering around that hell hole. You're pretty sure he went near 100 miles an hour, but you're also drunk on blood loss, so maybe you imagine it.
Once you finally find a motel, Leon lifts you out of the car. You had started to be lazier and lazier in talking to him, so he bypasses any of your stubbornness by picking you up without comment. You need to be patched up now. You had barely registered him leaving the car briefly to retrieve a key and unlock the door before you were inside, and he deposits you gently on the bathroom counter against the aggressively yellowed wall, next to the world's grimiest mirror. He opens his massive first aid kit next to you, and you thank god for his insane level of practicality. You aren't exactly in the mood to walk into a drugstore to grab bandages and alcohol.
"Is it okay if I take this off?" He tugs at the hem of your shirt. You almost laugh. You either let Leon see you shirtless, or you bleed out and die. But you give him consent nonetheless.
Leon begins to peel away the makeshift bandage. You're so numb to the pain at this point, all you can do is shiver as he removes the fabric stuck in your open tissue.
"I'm gonna have to stitch you up," he murmurs, and you catch the look on his face that says it all. Guilt, worry. "I'm sorry."
"Nothin' to be sorry for," you close your eyes and wince at the antiseptic he swipes over your wounds. "You killed that asshole, I really should be thanking you." Leon just sighs through his nose as he threads a needle.
"This isn't gonna feel good," he moves in closer to get a better angle. Before doing anything, he grabs your hand and moves it to his shoulder. An offering of something to hold onto to distract yourself from the pain. He looks up at you to ask if you're ready and you grimace with a nod.
What follows is the longest 10 minutes of your goddamn life. You suppose that it's good you can feel every bit of it. It means your nerves aren't shot, and it shocks your system out of its exhaustion.
Leon dabs over the newly closed wound again with disinfectant when he's done, and the coolness, even with the sting, feels good against your hot skin. You shiver pleasantly as Leon's hands ghost over the rest of you, wrapping up your side, and searching for other injuries that may need tending to. Every scrape, minor cut, he's wiping it with disinfectant and carefully inspecting the severity.
"'M alright, Leon," you wave nonchalantly. "Got a killer headache, but I'm not gonna die."
"I wasn't so sure for a minute," he says, tucking your hair behind your ears.
"I could say the same about you," you smile softly, eyes combing over the cuts and reddening bruises littering his body as he begins to tidy up the medical supplies scattered everywhere. "You're one stubborn asshole, Kennedy."
"You're one to talk."
"Touché, emo boy," you grunt, knees almost buckling as you go to stand up. Leon catches you without hesitation. His hands rest securely on your hips, letting you use his chest for safety while you start to regain your balance. "Jesus, you've got a full-time job saving my ass."
"Don't pretend like you haven't done the same for me before," his voice goes soft. You're fully standing now, but his hands still grip at your waist. "Besides, you never owe me anything. It's just... not like that," he pauses before going further. "I don't know what I'd do without you." This is what may make you pass out, you think. You can feel your cheeks start to burn at the way he looks at you. Your eyes betray you, flickering to his lips, and you take a stutter of a few steps away, managing to flip on the shower without falling over.
"I'm gonna clean up," you spot the towels folded on the counter and suddenly find them the most fascinating thing you've ever seen. "Thanks for stitching me up."
"Don't mention it," there's a touch of dejection in his voice. Fuck. "You still feel okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," you manage a smile. He nods with one last long look at you. There's an almost shy look on his face, something that's the antithesis of Leon these days. It's just been a long time since he's had that look. A thousand lifetimes ago, a rookie you met in the middle of an infected war-zone had that look. When he's around you, you see him come through a lot. Boyish grins. Soft chuckles at his own jokes.
The hot water feels like heaven on earth washing away the grime and blood, even via your half-assed sponge bath. A scratchy washcloth and cheap soap that has your skin uncomfortably squeaky clean aren't exactly your first choices for a shower. At least it's better than zombie goop.
You try your best not to let your mind wander, but it's hard not to. You dip your head under the faucet, letting the cheap shampoo rinse out, and let the popcorn ceiling become a canvas for everything you had just seen. The dead. The reanimated. Some of them children who had their lives ripped from them. The terrified look across Leon's face when he was across the room and was too far away to block the claws ripping at your side before you could even register it. The way his body went limp when being thrown into the ground. Tears welled in your eyes at the mere memory. You thought he had died. You really did. And in that moment, with your vision going in and out, you were struck with a pit in your stomach at the idea of having to do this, do anything, even wake up without that man's endless calls, his dumb jokes, his mere presence next to you.
You had acknowledged your feelings long ago, hell, you and Leon got drunk one night after a debrief and some heavy petting had ensued. You don't know if he remembers that; you only have foggy memories of sloppy touches and his body against yours. But it's enough to make you blush thinking about it.
It isn't impossible that he felt similarly towards you. You aren't stupid. But in this line of work, relationships like that aren't exactly ideal. Naming it would bring it fully to fruition. And the cruelness of the world would punish you for it, you fear. But the need for that certainty, the freedom of being open about that with him, and to be loved so candidly in return? It was overwhelming.
Eventually, you force yourself to be done. And soon realize that you need clothes that aren't ripped and covered in blood.
You wrap a towel around you and peek out of the bathroom. Leon had settled in one of the rickety chairs, eyes closed, brow furrowed. He looks up at the squeak of bathroom door hinges. His eyes flicker over your collarbone, your legs. You aren't sure if the heat down your spine is from the shower or his eyes.
"I had some extra clothes in my car," he brings you a pair of neatly folded sweatpants, a soft, worn shirt on top. You thank him and pop back into the bathroom to change. The outfit is clearly an extra set of gym clothes. Loose and comfy, with a hint of his cologne still lingering. You re-enter the main area of the room, and Leon swallows thickly at the sight of his clothes hanging off your frame. His mouth can't help itself.
"Cute," he says, so quietly you almost don't hear him. He follows it with a regular volume. "Feeling any better?"
"A little," you shrug, sitting down on one of the beds. The springs squeak obnoxiously under your weight. "Your turn."
"What? You think I stink?" He opens his arms, showing off every inch of now dried, brown bodily fluids across his body. "Would've never guessed."
As Leon showers, you stay stationary on the bed, wondering how on earth you'd be able to sleep tonight with remnants of anxiety lingering over you. It's not like you hadn't dealt with it before, but having nearly watched Leon almost die... you're pretty shaken up.
You nearly jump out of your skin when the bathroom door opens a while later, a freshly clean Leon padding out in an almost matching set of shirt and sweats to you. Cute.
The two of you don't talk much the rest of the night. Leon retrieves an utterly nutritious dinner of vending machine food with a generous helping of water, and you watch some rerun of a sitcom on the world's tiniest TV. The wrappers crinkling and soft voices on the television is enough to fill the space. It's a calm reprieve from all the chaos the two of you had been engulfed in the past few days.
It takes a few hours of laying in bed after your shitty dinner before you give up pretending to not know what would make you feel safe enough to sleep.
"Leon?"
Maybe he's already asleep.
"Yeah?"
Fuck.
"Would you-" You have to squeeze your eyes shut to get what you really need out. "Can you come over here? I... can't sleep." You don't explain further. You don't have to. He climbs into your bed without a second thought, laying on his side to look at you. The world seems to shrink down to just the mere inches between the two of you in this tiny, shitty bed.
"Thought I was gonna lose you earlier." Leon finally says.
"Me too," you meet his gaze. He looks at you, eyes kind. You can almost feel the static in the air between the two of you. "Don't do that again."
"I'll try my best," he scoffs with a smile. That rookie cop you met so long ago flashes in his expression. You feel like you could melt into the mattress. It only gets worse when he reaches out to touch your cheek. His thumb grazes over a scar just over the top of your cheekbone. He was there when you got it, and you can see his eyes flickering, thinking about that very same memory.
You can't believe what's happening when suddenly he pulls you into a tight hug. It takes you longer than it should for you to remember to hug back. He squeezes you close to him, and you can't help but wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers coming up to brush the hair at his nape. He shivers against you at the touch, and you feel brave enough to go further, gently stroking his hair. His fingers knead at your waist.
"Don't go anywhere," you mumble into his neck. He wraps his arms around you, holding you impossibly closer.
"I won't," he says, confidence ignited in his voice again. "As long as you stay here with me."
———————
You don't remember how long that lasted before the both of you fell asleep.
The late morning light shines through the barely opaque curtains, casting over the room in a golden glow. Leon's arm is still slung over you. You watch his chest rise and fall, brow devoid of the furrow normally persistently there. You brush his hair away from his face, and he leans into your touch. You smile. Everything felt right, despite the day before's events. Despite the ache in your body. Despite the shitty, bumpy mattress and the nicotine-yellowed walls around you. Next to this man, that's what it means to feel safe.
You grunt as you manage to sit up on the side of the bed, going to check on your injury. The bandage is dry and there's only a little blood peeking through. A good sign. It hurts like fucking hell though. You nearly jump when you feel a hand touch your hip on that side.
"How's it feeling?" Leon's voice rumbles deeply, gruff with sleep.
"Not too bad," you shrug. You turn to look at him already staring up at you. A bruise had begun to turn a deep purple near his chin. You reach out and rub your thumb over it. He leans into your touch, eyes closed. He looks like he's never been worried a day in his life. "They got you good."
"I've been worse," he mumbles. "I'm feeling pretty good right now, actually." A laugh falls from you lips. There's something so easy about the way he's laying it on thick now. Something so unspoken before seems to have broken through the normalcy, and it feels as average as saying hello.
"Is that so?"
"Yeah," he opens his eyes again to look at you. You meet his gaze this time without any hesitation. He covers your hand on his face with his, giving a squeeze as he sits up, moving closer. Your hand falls to his chest, and he's suddenly so close to you. Your eyes flicker to his lips again, and this time Leon doesn't take any chances. In a flash, he's kissing you like his life depends on it. Heat floods your body, your stomach turning over, your heart soaring. You let your body fall into his, and he takes you willingly into his arms. The kiss turns messy, frantic, and in an instant you're moving to climb on his lap. He groans against your mouth, doing his best to ignore the tent rising in his sweatpants. "We can't."
"Why the hell not?" You laugh against him, continuing to plant kisses everywhere you can get your lips on.
"Your stitches," He gently pushes you away, all kiss-bitten lips and heavy breathing. You're almost pouting, and it nearly has him giving in. "Don't look at me like that. The last thing I need is you bleeding out on me again."
"Would be worth it."
He chuckles, tilting his head back against the wall. His eyes don't leave you, scanning over your face. Enjoying the light flush of your cheeks, sitting on him. He commits this vision to memory. Every detail, every feeling. The fabric of his clothes covering your body, pressed up against him so comfortably like its a daily occurrence. Your fingers tracing his shoulders, his neck, his chest. The warmth of your skin underneath his palms. He's afraid he'll never get to feel this again. But it can't hurt to try.
"Hey," The lightheartedness is replaced by an air of something more serious, but still dripping with affection. "I love you. I'm tired of pretending like we both don't know it." The words leave his mouth before he has a second thought, and you go still. Here it is. Out in the open. You swallow hard. You're not sure if you're ready to dive in, but you do so anyways. It's the obvious impulse, just like jumping in front of a bullet for him is. Leon's eyes search yours for your reaction, and you can't bear to leave him in desperation for that long. You press a hard kiss to his mouth. He breaks it after a few blissful moments.
"Tell me, baby," he breathes so, so sweetly. There it is again. Baby. You've never heard Leon Kennedy beg before.
"I love you, Leon," you're surprised at how easy the words flow off your tongue, like it was just as natural as breathing. He kisses you again, a relaxed sigh escaping him. The tension in his body goes fully limp as he pulls you in, desperate to feel every inch of you against him.
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