Resident evil has literally been out for almost a week now, has sold 5 MILLION COPIES, and yet there’s only like 5 FICS OF GRACE??? And I’ve read every single one already (they were all peak) 😞 if I was good at writing I would totally write a fic about her myself, but it’s just so shocking to see that there’s not even a /reader tag on ao3 with her 😭
𓇢𓆸 ivy
v. magnificently cursed
knight!leon kennedy/princess!reader | medieval au
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word count: 2683 gahdayum
cw: explicit sexual content
a/n: speed-proofread like an absolute madwoman. apologies for any typos and i hope the wait was worth it <3 this is my fav chapter yet ily peeps thank u for the support hehehe
don't hide behind oath. speak it true.
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The dream lingers.
You don’t speak of it. You don’t even dare to write it down. But it clings to your ribs like the cobwebs that gather in the corners of the chapel windows. Soft, stubborn, and impossible to shake.
When you pass the barracks or catch the scent of woodsmoke from the kitchen, you think of Leon. Of the way he smiled at you in that cottage, like he had nothing to lose. Like you were his. But here, in the daylight, in reality, he won’t even look at you.
Leon hasn’t touched you since the king’s announcement. Not a brush of his hand. Not a single stolen glance.
He still stands guard during audiences with nobles. Still bows in court. Still walks three paces behind you and the king on promenades through town like this is duty and not punishment.
You try not to let it bother you at first. You tell yourself that he’s protecting you. That he’s scared. That he’s grieving.
In a naïve display of hope, you went to the chapel once, twice, three times. You sat on the bench where he first kissed you. You waited until your fingers went cold and your candle burned down to the base. He never came.
Your patience hardens after days continue to pass without a word, after you catch him in the the corridor and he steps back like your presence burns.
That night, you slam the door when you return to your chambers, but you don’t cry.
You think of the first time you ever spoke. Of the nights that came after where he met you in those ivy-eaten walls like a man starved, like every second apart from you had been killing him. His absence now is pain. A wound that bleeds slowly, but never quite heals.
How magnificently cursed it is, to love someone who doesn’t want to be held, to grieve for someone who is still very much alive.
The staff begins preparations a few weeks later. A celebration, they say. A ball, to mark the coming equinox, to honor the king and his bride-to-be.
You don’t ask for the details. You don’t comment on the embroidery of your gown or the choice of flowers. But when one of your ladies braids your hair, you snap at her for tugging too hard.
You sit alone at your vanity as the sun starts to set, minutes before you’re expected in the ballroom. You think that maybe if you’d known that last night you shared in the chapel was going to be the last, you might have held on a little tighter.
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The ballroom glitters.
Candles drip from the chandeliers, and golden light pools on the marble floor. The strings swell. Silk rustles. Courtiers whirl across the floor like the dolls you used to play with as a girl.
You wear the gown your betrothed chose for you, stitched with the kingdom’s crest, a train long enough to trip over, opals glinting at your ears. You’re made to look celestial. Holy. Untouchable.
And yet you burn.
You burn every time the king touches you. A hand too low on your back, a whisper too close to your ear. Every time a noble toasts your future like it’s something to be grateful for.
Leon is across the room.
Over his armor, he’s wearing the ceremonial blue of the royal guard, sword at his hip, jaw locked tight,
You feel the heat of his gaze on you with every dance you accept. You laugh when a duchess asks what you’ll name your firstborn. You sip wine. You watch him from beneath your lashes and fight the urge to scream. To cry. To hold him until he finds his sense again and the walls fall down around you.
At one point, the king kisses the back of your hand, lips lingering against your skin. Leon turns and walks out.
You see red.
As soon as you can find an excuse to slip away, you sweep after him in silence, silk hissing behind you like a blade unsheathed. Courtiers part for you instinctively. One of your ladies calls your name. You don’t look back.
You catch him halfway down the corridor toward the east wing.
“Leon,” you call.
He shakes his head and keeps walking.
“Leon.”
“Go back to your party, Your Highness,” he says without turning. He continues down the hall, turning the corridor. You chase after him with a huff.
“Sir Leon Kennedy.” Your voice slices through the silence, clean and sharp.
He stills, mid-breath, and faces you in full. He looks like a man unraveling. Storm-swept and starved, like just being near you spells his end. But he says nothing.
“You will follow me to my chambers, and we will talk,” you say, quiet but firm.
His expression hardens — wild, furious, wounded. “Princess, you cannot—”
“I command it.”
A long silence. The tempest behind his eyes is fierce.
The ache in your chest sharpens. You push it down, hold your chin high, and try not to break.
But he bows his head, and through gritted teeth he mutters—
“…Yes, Your Highness.”
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Even in his anger, Leon lets you into your chambers first. But the door slams shut behind him when he finally meets your gaze, his jaw held tight.
“You can’t do this, Princess,” he spits. “I am not yours to summon and command as you please.”
Slowly, you take off your crown and set it down onto your vanity. “You are mine,” you say quietly. “Just not in the way that you say.”
Leon doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you in that awful, silent, stone-cold way.
It doesn’t shake you. Not this time. You see it, beneath the glint of the armor he tries to hide behind. In how his eyes remain soft on your face while the rest of him is held rigid.
Boldly, you step closer.
“You do not deny it,” you say.
“Princess—”
Heat builds in your chest, temper lost. “Call me by my name.”
Silence. It hangs heavy in the air, like a blade about to find purchase.
“It’s the least you could do, after leaving me like that,” you continue, sharper. “You vanished like a ghost for days, for weeks, and still, I waited for you. Night after night. I waited for you at that chapel until my candle burned out and I thought maybe I’d gone mad inventing it all—”
“I had to,” he snaps, stepping forth. The moonlight from the window illuminates the anguish that lies in the lines of his face. “You believe that I didn’t wish to see you? That I didn’t burn for it? Each night I told myself no, each time I passed you in the halls and kept my hands at my sides, it near unmade me.”
“Then why?” Your voice breaks, wrought with grief. “Why let me believe that I imagined it? That none of it was real?”
“Because you are promised!” he roars. “And I am owned.”
Your breath catches. He’s so close now that you could strike him if you wanted to. And you do.
You shove him, hard.
He barely stumbles, but his eyes blaze, and he closes the distance between you. His mouth opens like he’s about to snap or curse or yell, but you don’t give him the chance.
“You’re a coward, Leon,” you cry, eyes stinging. “If you care for me, truly, don’t run. Don’t call it duty. Don’t hide behind oath. Speak it true.”
He flinches. His lips part, but they close again, and he swallows his words down.
You turn away. Wave him off. “Then go. If it is easier to forget me—”
“I cannot!” he shouts.
You freeze, eyes wide, heart in your throat.
“I cannot…” His voice breaks, and he looks as if he’ll shatter at any moment. “I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”
Leon sinks to his knees in front of you, in ruin. His hands clutch your skirts like he’ll unravel without the anchor of them, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
“I love you,” he says again, voice hoarse. “I love you, and I don’t know how to stop.”
Everything inside you stills — your bones, breath, your blood. But your shaking hands find his face before thought can catch up, and you kiss him, fierce and desperate, teeth and tears and disbelief.
Leon makes a sound, soft and aching, torn from somewhere deep. He rises with you, hands dragging up your spine like he’s afraid to let you go. The kiss turns open-mouthed. The air between you heats. Slow and simmering at first, then searing, like kindling catching flame.
You keep yourself pressed against him and reach with trembling fingers for the buckle at his throat. “Let me,” you whisper.
He swallows, and you feel him still under your hands. For a fleeting second, you think he might deny you. But then he nods, just once, like too much movement will shatter the moment.
You work gently. The metal of his armor is cool against your skin, worn with years of duty. You undo each strap, each clasp, each layer. Cuirass, pauldrons, gauntlets — one by one, they fall away with soft thuds against the stone floor.
Only once he’s stripped of steel and leather, down to the plain tunic beneath, do his hands rise again. His touch is slow and careful, asking wordless permission.
You give it in silence, eyes never leaving his. He starts to undo the fastenings of your bodice. The silk slackens as they come loose, and the dress slips from your shoulders. When it pools around your feet, you’re bare beneath the pale moonlight, save for your shift.
His fingertips trace the outline of you, and the warmth of him seeps through the sheer fabric, up the small of your back, the curve of your hip, the swell of your breast. You shiver and let your eyes close.
“God,” he breathes. “You’re…”
“Yours,” you whisper. Your lips find his again.
You’re lost in it. His hands on your body, the slow burn of his touch. Before you know it, your back hits the furs laying before the hearth, your legs tangled with Leon’s as his fingers graze your bare skin.
You tense. He stills. Leon breaks the kiss, a shaking hand coming to your cheek.
Your name leaves his lips like a prayer. “If we do this…” His thumb brushes your cheek as he speaks. “There’s no taking it back. Not with who you are. Not with who I am.”
You cover his hand with your own. “I know.” Your voice is steady. “I’d give it up for you, you know. The crown. The title.”
His brows draw together, pained. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs.
“But I would. I love you,” you say, and that’s all that matters. “I love you, and you’re here.”
A breath passes between you. Against yours, his chest rises, then falls.
“Then gods forgive me,” he murmurs, voice breaking. He kisses you like this might be the last time.
Now, he doesn’t stop.
It deepens. You feel yourself start to grow wanton with desire. His mouth falls from your own, down your throat, then to your collarbones. Each kiss pressed to your skin makes you ache for another.
“Leon,” you whisper.
“My lady,” he returns softly, sliding your slip down your shoulders. “My love.”
His tunic comes off too, moonlight painting silver across his bare skin. For a moment, all you can do is stare. His chest is littered with old scars, pale slashes and half-healed wounds, a living record of everything he’s survived. Muscle ripples beneath his skin as he exhales, eyes dark and searching, as if he’s afraid of what you say.
You smile softly. Sit up and reach for him. You feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm. “You’re beautiful,” you say, reverent.
Leon huffs a breath of disbelief, but he looks at you like you’ve unmade him.
“I’m yours,” he murmurs. He guides your hand from his chest to his shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him. “Even if it kills me.”
You press a chaste kiss to the underside of his jaw when you lower yourselves back down. His hand runs down the curve of your side. You shiver when you feel his fingers slip under your the fabric of your shift, over your thighs, between your legs.
A groan escapes him when he feels how wet you are already. The sound sets you ablaze. With need, yes, but also with trust. Longing. Your back arches into his touch.
His thumb finds the place that makes your breath falter, and all of a sudden, the heat inside you flares into something bright.
Two fingers slip inside you with ease. A gasp breaks from your lips, hand coming to his forearm and grasping it tight. Your hips bow upward as he quickens his pace, tension building deep inside you.
“You’re perfect,” he mutters, barely above a breath. “You’ll be the death of me.”
Your only answer is a whimper. He chases it away with a kiss to your temple.
It’s almost overwhelming — the pressure of his thumb, how his fingers curl with intention, with need, with want. A knight’s hands. Scarred and calloused, gentle only for you.
You’re trembling for him now, breath catching at the loss when his touch slows. You take his face in your hands, gaze pleading. “I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”
“You have me,” Leon says. He turns slightly, catching one of your palms with a kiss.
“Not just tonight,” you say. “Forever.”
Something breaks in his expression then, but he doesn’t speak. His lips brush yours once more, reverent, then he shifts above you, guiding himself between your legs.
Your breath hitches at the stretch, the fullness, the way his fingers thread through yours and squeeze.
His jaw tightens as he sinks inside you, inch by inch. Your body opens for him easily, wet and aching and ready. You both moan softly when he bottoms out, and you wrap your arms around him.
He holds still for a moment, every muscle of him trembling with restraint as he lets your heart find its rhythm again. The firelight flickers across his face, and you realize now that you’ve never loved anything so much as you love him.
Leon starts to move, and the world begins to blur.
His hips pull back, then roll forward with a deliberate snap. This time, the sound you make isn’t quiet. Something in his gaze darkens, and he does it again. And again.
The rhythm builds steady. You cry his name. He murmurs yours in return.
Each thrust drives deeper. Your legs tighten around his waist, drawing him closer. You can feel the weight of him, the heat, the want, and you cling to him like ivy to stone. When his thumb starts to circle where your bodies meet, you feel yourself tighten around him.
You find it together breathlessly — your end, your breaking point. Your hands slide from his shoulders to clutch at the nape of his neck. Pleasure crests inside you like a tide, then crashes down like thunder through your spine.
He follows soon after, groaning into the crook of your neck. The sound is raw and helpless, his fingers knotting in your hair as he pants your name into your skin.
Everything goes quiet then, the air heavy with something tender. You relax beneath him as he pulls out of you and let out a breath of a laugh.
Leon grins, the kind no one else ever gets to see, and you go warm all over. Your hand finds his like home, and you lace your fingers together, pressing your forehead to his.
“That was… ungodly,” you remark lightly.
He chuckles quietly, a thumb caressing your cheek. “You wound me, my lady.”
You close your eyes, still smiling, and you whisper, “Stay.”
His nose brushes yours. “For as long as you’ll have me.”
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