niki ☆

[beomieluvs]

⸻ ★ 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗴𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 <3

niki !! she / fae | random + writing acc

DNI !! basic dni criteria, homophobic, antiblack, you don’t believe in people on the aroace spectrum

acc is mostly 4 fun but i will sometimes write fanfics

spiderverse miguel o’hara txt stray kids zb1 boys planet

[12doomed]

damn…

[freekgeekazoid]

[browneyedgirll]

MOVIE NIGHT - TATE LANGDON

female!reader x boyfriend!tate langdon

word count: 719

contents: 18+, fluff

Dried fall leaves crunch under your sneakers, as you walk up the stone pathway to the front door. Your knuckles wrapped against the wood, gazing down the street as you waited for the door to open. You waited for five minutes, before trying the knob. The door quietly opened, the creaking hinges drowned out by the loud music coming from up the stairs. You peeked around quietly, ensuring Constance’s absence in the home, before making your ascent up the old wooden stairs.

The music loudened as you approached Tate’s door, your hand lifted, pounding on the door in hopes he would hear you. You heard shuffling, before the music quieted and the door opened.

Tate stood in the doorway wearing a loose fitting vertically striped sweater, his jeans dark, his sneakers dirtied, one of the laces pulled loose while the other sat in a bow, his hair laying across his forehead in soft tousled waves. 

“ I didn’t hear you come in. ” 

“ You left the front door unlocked. Your mom isn’t home? ”

Tate shook his head, stepping back to let you inside his room. 

“ Can we put a movie on? ”

You saw the distant unfocused look in his eye, as he stared off blankly.

“ Tate? ”

His head shook gently, before he refocused.

You padded around his room getting more comfortable, toeing off your sneakers, sliding out of your day clothes, and into one of his sweaters, taking down your hair before bending down to pick out a film. 

Just as you were about to call out to Tate you felt two arms wrap around your waist, one hand sliding up to touch your bare stomach. 

“ Did you find one? ”

You nodded, feeling his lips against the nape of your neck. Standing straight you felt his hips push forward, grinding against you, turning to face him, you place the vhs in his hands, “ Hellraiser ”.

“ Is that okay? ”

Tate nodded, sliding the tape into the vhs player, watching your hips sway as you hurried off to get into his bed. He kicked off his sneakers, abandoning his sweater and jeans on the way to the bed. 

Your head laid against Tate’s chest, your hand on his abdomen drawing small circles, Tate’s arm laid wrapped around your shoulder, his fingers tangled in your hair twirling the locks. 

You weren’t much of a gore fan, when the scenes came on, Tate’s hand came to cover your eyes, smiling as you kept asking if it was over yet. Slowly Tate’s hand left your eyes, freeing your gaze to focus back on the television. 

The movie ended, the room going dark as the tape ended. Your eyes found Tate’s in the dark, his hands moving under the blankets, finding your hips. His lips came to press against yours, his tongue pushing past into your mouth, tangling with yours. His hands moved, pushing down your panties, the fabric caught around your thighs, his hands moving to his boxers.

Your eyes shut, a gasp leaving your lips, feeling as Tate pushed in with one solid thrust. His hips moved slowly, pushing deep, slow, and rough. His hips rutted against yours. Soft moans left you, your hips pushing to meet Tate’s, the room's silence was filled with the sound of skin slapping, paired with the soft moans and grunts that left both you and Tate. 

His face came to hide against your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses all the way until he met your bra, hands leaving your hips he unclasped it, tossing it onto the floor. His lips came to your nipple, wrapping around, his tongue circling the bud. Your fingers tangled in his dirty blonde locs, pulling at the strands. 

A cry let your lips, feeling Tate’s teeth gnaw on your nipple, the small bud rolling back and forth. Tate’s hips rutted against yours, his grunts, turning into moans, he was becoming needier as his orgasm neared. His thrusts turned sloppy, desperation evident, his teeth dug into your breast, a moan vibrated through your skin as he came. 

Your eyes rolling back, feeling as his cum filled you, a moan fell past your lips, your own release crashing over you like a wave. 

Your eyes opened after a moment of shared ecstasy, looking into Tate’s who were hazy, and half lidded, a satisfied smile on his lips. 

[angelicchris]

𝓦𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 — 𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧 ☆

warnings — porn w/o plot, voyerusim, pillow-humping, masturbation

THE FOGGED GLASS OF YOUR BEDROOM WINDOW—the same bedroom that once belonged to him—obstructed Tate’s view of you, the thundering wind and downpour of the late hour shining through.

He reached the sleeve of his green and black striped sweater up to the glass, wiping away at a condensed spot to look through.

Then, he spotted you. You were threading your fingers through your hair as you adjusted the costume you wore—oblivious to the watchful boy outside. Your costume consisted of a matching black corset and skirt. When did Halloween costumes become so.. ordinary? Tate thought with slight disapproval, a frown on his face.

That was until you began to pull the hem of your black skirt to the floor, stepping out of the pool of fabric that landed around your feet. You stepped out of the Converse you wore, leaving them next to the discarded skirt.

Tate watched as you walked around in your small corset and black lace panties, making your way to the door of your bedroom. He couldn’t hear it, but he saw you turn the old metal lock of the door closed. You suddenly turned to face the window, causing Tate to turn abruptly away, his back slamming against the brick wall of the old home next to the glass. He panted, before peeking a narrow eye through the glass.

You hadn’t noticed him, but Tate now noticed that you had discarded your underwear, leaving you in just the tight corset. His eyes travelled from your naked bottom-half up to your supported breasts, the skin peeking through the tight fabric of your costume. He shut his eyes, feeling his dead member beginning to pulse to life through his pants.

You faced toward your bed, which lay directly in front of the window Tate peered through. Watching carefully, praying you wouldn’t notice his presence, he watched as your hand reached for the pillow that rested at the headboard of your bed.

You sat down on the bed, your knees spread apart as you placed your weight on them. You hiked the fluffed pillow between your spread thighs, your bare bottom sitting directly on-top of it.

You faced towards your shut bedroom door, leaving Tate with a direct view of your ass. He watched as you began to move, your hips dragging down on the pillow.

Your movements switched between circular drags of your hips and slight bounces on the fabric—your hands reaching behind you for a better angle of pleasure. Tate couldn’t help but imagine himself in this situation. What it would feel like for him to lay underneath you as you bounced on him, the way your hands would brace themselves on his chest.

He shamelessly reached for the zipper of his jeans, hurriedly pulling the metal zip down as his hand reached inside his boxers. He let out a small whine, the aching sensation that had been longing for attention finally drawing out.

At almost the same time, Tate could hear you let out a faint moan through the glass, as your hips worked faster to chase your high. He watched the bounces of your bottom-half, as his hand moved down his long shaft, liquid pooling.

Your movements became more sporadic, before you came with a loud cry of pleasure, your hips faltering. Tate threw his head back, his own pleasure subduing him.

You sat deflated on the pillow, catching your breath. As you breathed through your parted lips, you turned your head towards the window behind you.

There was no one there—except for a small portion of glass that was rubbed clean of fog.

© angelicchris

[polaroidsex]

your boyfriend never lets you win pushing him away while he fucks you with his mouth

you try once, twice, fingers twisting tight in his dark hair, yanking because the pleasure is so sharp it almost hurts. your thighs are already trembling around his ears and every drag of his tongue feels like it’s peeling you open layer by layer.

he doesn’t budge.

instead he makes this low, broken sound against you, half groan half whimper, the vibration sinking straight into your clit. his big hands clamp down harder on the backs of your knees, spreading you wider, pinning you exactly where he wants. like he’s saying without words: you’re not going anywhere.

“baby—” your voice cracks, barely a whisper.

he answers by flattening his tongue and licking a slow, heavy stripe from your entrance all the way up, curling the tip around your swollen clit at the end. then he sucks, gentle at first, then firmer, cheeks hollowing while his eyes flick up to watch your face crumple.

you pull again, desperate, scalp burning under your grip.

he moans louder this time, shameless, hips jerking once against the mattress like he can’t help it. the pain lights something up behind his eyes and he presses his face deeper, nose buried, tongue working faster, messier. wet sounds fill the room, obscene, unapologetic.

your legs try to close on instinct. he growls, actual growl, and forces them apart again, shoulders wedged firm between your thighs now so you can’t even think about closing them.

he likes the tug. likes the sting. likes knowing he’s overwhelming you so completely that all you can do is claw at him while he drinks you down like he’s starving.

another hard suck and your back bows off the sheets, a sob ripping out of your throat.

he doesn’t stop.

just keeps groaning into your cunt every time you pull, every time it hurts him a little, like the pain is proof you’re still here, still feeling every filthy second of what he’s doing to you.

you’re shaking apart and he’s latched on like he’ll never let go.

[x-disruptxr]

[imheaveninhiding]

if you see me getting manipulated by a dirty blond ghost boy with a questionable backstory, leave me alone, i’m where i want to be.

[aropride]

like does anyone else still feel the exact same age they were in march 2020 like 90% of the time

[tnydolly]

re9!leon x younger!reader

warnings ; age gap ( leon’s 51, readers in her 20’s ), dirty talk, dirty talk of age gap, unprotected sex, creampie, slight hair pulling, praising, breeding kink undertone, slight aftercare

your bent over the counter, skirt flipped up, panties shoved to the side. his pants are half way down his thighs, zipper down just enough so thick cock is already out and leaking. he’s staring down at where your pussy’s swallowing him, jaw clenched.

“fuck…look at that,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “so pretty baby… such a pretty little pussy.” you whimper, pushing back, nails scraping the counter. “leon—harder, please” he snaps his hips forward, thrusting in deep, makes your whole body jolt. “shouldn’t even be inside you. too fucking young for me to be ruining this pretty little cunt.”

you moan louder, clenching around him on purpose. “i love it, when you fuck me like i’m your dirty secret”

he groans, one hand threading through your hair from behind, pulling your head back so you’re arched perfect into him. “yeah? like knowing i’m old enough to be your dad while i’m balls-deep in you? like knowing i’m corrupting you every time i cum inside?”

“yes, fuck yes—” you’re babbling now, thighs shaking. “your so much older, your cock’s so big, it stretches me so good, makes me feel so small”. he speeds up, pounding you stupid, your whole body shaking. with every thrust.

“should be ashamed of myself. fucking a girl half my age like this. but you keep begging for it and squeezing me like you want me to breed you.” you cry out, pushing your hips back harder. “do it, fill me up please…” he moans low, hips snapping non stop till he cums hard with a choked “fuck—baby”. he pumps you full, hips jerking as he empties inside you. you cum right after, pussy milking him dry till your legs give out.

he stays buried inside you, his heavy breath on your neck. his cock twitches inside you one last time before he pulls out of your fluttering pussy. his thick cum drips out almost immediately, running down the counter. he almost lets out a moan as he watches and reaches out to push it back in your pussy. you lay there whimpering and dreading to have to clean up the sticky mess.

[hheaven-sentt]

gentle intimacy

summary: leon would not describe himself as good or kind, and he's cut open and bleeding at your feet, but you know he can be gentle | leon kennedy x f!reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: a sickening amount of yearning, leon taking care of you, seriously this guy is down bad, leon being self deprecating, alternating povs, acts of service as a love language, mentions of injuries, sherry birkin appearance /// 18+ MDNI, SMUT!!!, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), creampie by technicality, trust me there's plot, this is LOVE MAKING at its core

notes: re9 gave me the leon bug BAD. personally, I wrote this with DI!leon in mind but re9!leon also works here bc that old man's still got it | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That was stupid,” Leon says, hauling you into him. The words aren’t unkind, but they’re not gentle either. You stumble against him.

“Have I been known to be anything else?” you ask. He grunts. “Besides, I’ve got you to take care of me,”

He doesn’t respond. He finds a quiet spot, a reclusive corner where he can assess the damage. There’s a wicked gash along your side, cutting from near your navel up towards your ribs. It makes your vision tunnel when you finally lay eyes on it. You hadn’t known how bad it was. His fingertips are gentle around the surrounding skin.

“You’re lucky evac is two minutes out,” he says. His voice is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. Maybe he is.

“Yeah?” you ask, a breathy noise that you’re not certain you could recreate. The sound is deep, rooted in desperation and blood loss. Leon’s eyes flick up at you from where he’s crouched, icy gaze cutting through his lashes. He looks pretty like this, bent low in front of you, looking at you with something you can’t place. It makes you shiver.

“You’re losing blood,” he says. You nod.

“Gonna give me yours?” you tease. Your vision tunnels a bit, and you slump forward. Leon catches you, pulling you flush against him. He smells like sweat and cedar and smoke, something that nearly lulls you into sleep. You hear a distant rumble as the building continues to crumble.

He helps you out of the derelict building. You’re barely even walking, just sort of stumbling beside him as he carries most of your weight, and you feel strangely guilty for making him do all the work. The helicopter’s blades never slow as it touches the ground. Leon helps you into your seat, guiding you gently. He’s soft as he slides the headphones over your ears, even going as far as to smooth a piece of hair out of your eyes. You can hardly keep them open.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs. It feels like a promise. “Can’t have you dying on me, now,”

“That would ruin your whole week,” you say, trying to smile. It’s a weak attempt at a joke, and he knows it. You can see tension make its home under Leon’s skin. It rears its head with every pull of muscle, every furrowed brow.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says. You nod. You’re not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself.

When you do finally land, you’re pulled away from him for medical attention. You fight as best as you can, attempting to sit in on the briefing, but Leon levels you with a gaze you’ve never seen him wear, and you accept defeat. There’s two medics standing idly in the room, and they turn to see you hobble in, eyes widening.

“What the hell happened?” one of them asks. You shrug, sitting down on the bed.

“Caught something sharp,” you say. They lift your shirt, which is in ribbons. A shock of pain rips through you, and you stifle a groan.

They work quickly, giving you a tetanus shot. You wince as the needle sinks beneath your skin. The pain only adds to the rest of it searing through your muscles. Now that you’re sitting, adrenaline having dissipated, everything hurts. The gash oozes blood, which makes you feel dizzy. Your back hurts, your legs hurt, your side hurts. Every time they touch you, you suck in a breath.

Finally, you’re stitched up. They tell you to take it easy for a week, shove pain meds into your hands, and send you out the door. Leon leans against the opposite wall, watching his boots. He looks tired, run down. He’s covered in dirt. Black streaks smear across his cheeks, his biceps. His hair falls like a golden frame over his eyes. You sigh.

He looks up then, watching you. He scans over your body, checking for any lingering injuries the medics managed to miss. You offer him a weak smile.

“No hospital?” he asks, pushing off the wall to meet you where you stand. His steps are heavy, tired. You shake your head. “Good. Let’s get you home,”

You follow him out of the building. It’s winding turns and desolate hallways until fresh air smacks you in the face. You take a deep breath, trying to let the residuals of the mission fall off of you. Leon’s car faces you, a beat up old Buick–he refuses to get anything newer–and it stares at you like it knows something you don’t. You fit easily into the passenger seat, like you were made for it. You lean back against the headrest. You feel suddenly exhausted, like a two ton weight rests in your chest. You just want to sleep. The drive to your apartment isn’t long, and you’re counting down the seconds until you’ll be able to slip into the shower and let the day wash down your back.

Leon helps you upstairs. You try to protest, tell him that the elevator isn’t going to exert you any more than the walk to the building itself, but he refuses to listen. He follows silently behind you until you reach your door. He’s like a shadow as you enter the apartment, still bathed in the darkness of night. You hate to do it, but you turn on the light, flooding the room and making you wince. Leon holds your arm to keep you steady as you toe off your shoes.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, not looking at him. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt,”

He doesn’t say anything for a long, pregnant moment. But then, “I would like it to be the last, preferably,”

You huff a weak laugh, something hoarse and weary. “You and me both, partner,”

He follows you from room to room, picking things up as you drop them. Your right arm is effectively useless because any movement on that side sends shockwaves of pain through your entire body. You sigh heavily, fighting back tears. Leon stands in the threshold of your bathroom, holding your bundle of clothes and hairbrush. He looks at you with something you can’t identify–not quite pity, but something adjacent. He looks so pretty, so collected, even in his dirty state. You clutch your side.

“I can take it from here,” you say, breathless. “I’ll see you in a week,”

Leon stares at you. His fingers fidget with the hem of your sleep shorts. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Then, “Do you want help?”

You blink at him. You hadn’t considered he’d be willing to help you. You hadn’t thought so far ahead as to know what you’d do to get out of your clothes.

With a breath, you say, “Yes, please,”

He nods wordlessly. Your clothes find their home as a heap on the sink counter. He pats the top of it once as if casting a spell to make them stay put. He turns to you then. He’s broad, forces you to dial in on him. His hands linger at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You lift your left arm above your head, a silent encouragement to get him to touch you. His hands fall on you like a caress. Gently, he lifts your shirt up. His knuckles brush against your side, making your breathing hitch. He’s not watching you, fully focused on his task, but you can’t look away from him. He looks so focused, like one wrong move would paralyze you. He catches one end of the shirt in your armpit, pulling the other side out so you can slip your arm through. He helps ease your head through the collar, then pulls it off entirely via your other arm. He breathes in heavily through his nose at the expanse of skin he’s revealed. Then he takes a step back. You swallow thickly.

“I need…” you mumble, brain rotting inside your skull. “I can’t reach-”

“I got it,” he says. The words sound broken on his tongue.

You spin for him, presenting the clasp of your bra. You purse your lips when his warm hands make contact with the smooth skin on your back. He makes surprisingly quick work of it. Within seconds, you feel it loosening around your ribs, a small blessing. You breathe out something heady and heavy.

“I’ll be out there if you need anything,” Leon says. He leaves little room for argument by bustling out of the room as quickly as he can. You blink.

The shower water is hot on your skin, but it feels good. You can feel the tension slipping down your shoulders in rivulets. Somehow, you manage to wash yourself one handed, which you feel mildly proud of. The steam loosens you. It’s only when you step out of the water that you remember that you have to put a shirt on.

You struggle for what feels like hours. Every movement pulls on your stitches. You’re near tears when you finally call out for Leon.

“Yeah?” he asks, cracking the bathroom door. You sniffle.

“I can’t…” you say, taking a breath to recollect yourself. “I can’t get my shirt on,”

“I’ll help,” he says. His voice is so soft, so intimate. He enters quietly, staring at anything that isn’t you.

The shirt looks miniscule in his hands. Carefully, almost reverently, he eases the collar over your head. His gaze still lingers just past your shoulder. You frown. You slip your good arm through the sleeve.

Leon finally looks at you. You nod, letting him know it’s okay to put his hands on you. You see the turmoil in his eyes, the need for consent.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods once.

He grips the hem of the shirt, pulling as far down as the fabric will let him. Then, softly, he helps guide your arm through the sleeve. His fingers brush against you again, just along the curve of your breast, but the touch is electric, crackling with something unsaid. The moment is so intimate, so personal, you could burst into tears. Then the shirt is fully on your body. You wonder if Leon can hear your heart hammering against your chest. If he can, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Thanks,” you say, breathless. He nods. “I can handle the rest,”

“You sure?” he asks. There’s no suggestion in his tone, and that almost makes it worse. You breathe heavily through your nose, nodding.

He stands there as you fumble with your hairbrush. Your lips are pursed as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re barely halfway through the tangled strands before he stops you.

“Let me help,” he says–no begs. You glance at his reflection. He looks as wrecked as you feel. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze unblinking as he waits for you.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice hollow and breathy as you pass him the hairbrush.

He’s gentle as he works the brush through your hair. His gaze remains focused on the wet strands, but yours is on him. His brow furrows slightly, that bottom lip pulled snugly between his teeth as he pulls on a particularly tough tangle. His eyes look so blue in the yellowing light above the mirror. The care he takes with you is enough to make you sick. His hands are frustratingly warm as they bump against the back of your neck. He never once pulls or yanks, never scrapes the bristles against your skin, never gets frustrated. He works until it is done, unwaveringly, and you didn’t expect anything less. The moment is so soft, so delicate, you’re afraid that something might break when you pull away.

“I think I got it,” he says, soft as a whisper against you. You nod.

“Thank you,” you say. You stay idle for a moment, just watching him. He looks so unsure.

You think, in another lifetime, miles and miles away from here, that you could’ve loved him. He’s funny when he wants to be, charming in a boyish sort of way. You count on him, but he doesn’t let it get to him. He gives because he thinks it a privilege that you let him. You reach up to wipe away some of the dirt still smudged on his face. He stiffens beneath your fingertips, not prepared for such affectionate contact.

He swallows thickly. You remove your hand, and you see him relax just a fraction.

“Do you need any more help?” he asks in an almost broken way. You shake your head. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah,”

He ducks his chin at you, then shuffles out of the bathroom. You hear the front door open and click shut a moment later, leaving you alone in your apartment.

...

Leon is not sure that he would describe himself as kind or good. But on his drive home, as he thinks about your withered form presented to him in the dim light of your bathroom, looking up at him through your lashes like he was something holy, he starts to think that that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he is kind or good because you kept looking at him like he was all you ever needed. He can still feel your skin against his fingers, sending shivers down his spine. 

He’d frozen up. He knows that he probably looked ridiculous, like a flushed school boy who had just stumbled into the girl’s locker room by accident. Your skin had been so soft. The expanse of flesh he’d discovered beneath your tattered shirt lives in his brain as he shuffles into his apartment. The space is dark and empty. He has very few personal items, unlike you. His space looks abandoned, which he guesses it usually is. He really only uses this place to sleep and eat sometimes. 

He crashes onto his couch, still unshowered and unclean. He just needs a moment, he tells himself. Just one moment, to collect the memories of you like precious items to set on his vacant shelves. The way you shivered against him when he brushed your side, the way you watched him, doe eyed, in the mirror as he brushed your hair, the humidity of the room clinging to you; they all go, framed and perfect, on shelves in his mind. He breathes out, something heavy and soft all at once. 

He’s unfamiliar with this feeling. He doesn’t know how to embrace it, so he decides that he shouldn’t. He’s not sure he deserves something as sweet and gentle as you. You’re better than him, in almost every way. You don’t let the job wear you down, you take pride in what you do. You tease him. The mercy and compassion you give him are foreign in his brain. And he feels so selfish for accepting every last scrap. He eats up the way you look at him, the way you laugh at his weak attempts at jokes, the way you worry after him even with a ten inch gash on your side that very easily could’ve gutted you. He is gluttonous and greedy and selfish. You are consuming him, and he is letting you. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let you plague him this way. He knows that it could all too soon be ripped away from him, but in this moment, in the dim light cast by the moon streaming through his curtains, he doesn’t care. A shudder rakes through his body, from head to toe. 

It would be all too easy to blame you. He could curse you for whatever spell you’ve cast to make him stupid in this way. But he knows the fault is his and his alone. It’s his fault that he mistakes your casual compassion for anything more. It’s his fault that he devours whatever good comes his way, just to corrupt and blacken it. And he doesn’t want to do that to you. He doesn’t want to see where this will end, even if he has before and knows it as intimately as he knows every other aspect of death and decay.

He tips his head back against the couch. There’s a crack in his popcorn ceiling, cutting through the expanse of white like a vein. 

He knows he’s cut open and bleeding at your feet. He’s wounded in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t want you to help him. Not because he doesn’t ache to feel your gentle hands smooth over his scarred flesh, working out the evil with every electrifying touch, but because he does, and that would make you the universe’s top priority. 

He is cursed, a bad day after a worse one. And he knows that if he were to let you have him the way he wants, you’d become cursed too. Cursed with him and his aches and pains, his scars and bruises, his anger and resentment. 

When he settles beneath the sheets that night, he dreams of you. He dreams of your soft skin against him, your laughter, your easy smiles. He dreams of the life he could have were it not for his exceedingly awful luck.

He could save you. He could prevent you from ever coming nearer. But that somehow feels like a worse, more torturous ending. And he is nothing if not selfish.

...

The next time you see Leon, it’s nearly a week later. The swelling on your side has gone down and most of the pain has subsided, but it’s still tense and unforgiving, especially so early in the morning. There’s little light coming through the curtains thanks to the steady stream of rain pelting the earth.

His hair is soggy, casting thick shadows over the high points of his face. There’s crystal droplets on the shoulders of his jacket, ones you want to reach out to shake off, but you refrain. He smiles at you, that gentle half smile he only ever wears when he’s half exhausted. 

“Came to check on you,” he says softly, words turned plush on the corners of his lips. You smile.

“Unfortunately, I’ve succumbed to sepsis. You’re seeing a ghost,” you joke. He rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the apartment.

He shakes off like a dog as he hangs his coat on the hook. A few rogue water droplets smatter your face. You take a moment to observe him. The lines of his body are rigid like there’s something pulling him taught. For a moment, you ache to reach out and smooth your palms over his muscles, to help him relieve some of that tension. You wonder if that’s something that would be okay, if he would welcome your touch. There is a line that stands between you, and you’re not sure which side of it you reside on. 

“Anything interesting happen in the week that I’ve been gone?” you ask, leaning against the back of the couch.

Leon hums, pursing his lips as he thinks back on the last few days. “There’s a new coffee machine in the break room,”

You huff a laugh. “Can’t wait to try that baby out,”

Silence stretches thick between you, like a rope that’s been left out in the rain. You watch him move with careful precision, finding where would be the best place to exist within. You wonder why he never seems to relax, even in your space. You wonder if he knows how much you care. Subconsciously, you run the pads of your fingers over your injury. It’s a rough stretch of skin now, bubbled with scar and scab. You frown.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, suddenly standing again to get to your side. He catches your wrist where it hovers near the tear.

You shrug. “Only when I think about it,”

He purses his lips and emits a low hum, giving you a once over. “Have a fever at all?”

You shake your head. He nods, once and curt, before dropping your wrist and stepping away from you. 

“Do you need any help?” Leon asks, avoiding your gaze by scanning around the room. “Any chores that have been neglected? Any errands I can run for you?”

You feel the corner of your mouth tick up in a small smile. Shaking your head, you say, “No, Leon. I’ve been able to manage on my own,”

“I know,” he says. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on the soft flesh there in thought. Then, soft as a whisper, he says, “I was worried about you,”

You feel your heart catch in your throat. You think back to the way he looked at you that night, like you were broken before him and he couldn’t do anything to fix you. You think about how gentle he was with you, how careful he was like you were bursting at the seams. You see his cheeks turn a tinge of pink as the silence stretches thick between you. You reach out, placing a flat palm against his chest. There’s no sound in the apartment, just the rain outside and your own heavy breathing.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Leon,” you say, just as soft. “I know you’ll always take care of me,”

He swallows, something heavy and unsaid, and nods. “I will,”

It feels like a promise. It feels like a vow.

With an intake of breath, you say, “Anything on our docket?”

Leon purses his lips. “Not on yours,” he says. You frown. “You’re on light duty for a while,”

You twist your face up in a nasty expression, which makes Leon smile a fraction. “I don’t like that,”

“That’s what I figured you’d say,” he says. He moves around you to finally sit down. You’re almost surprised as he gets comfortable on your couch. You move to join him. “I tried to tell Hunnigan you wouldn’t go down easy,”

“I can’t imagine I have much choice,” you say, grumbling. “Did they say for how long?”

Leon shakes his head. “Could be a while,”

You groan.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “You took a hard hit. It’s either office duty or a grave,”

You scowl at him, and he flashes you a smile. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed while I’m gone,”

He makes a motion over his chest. Cross my heart.

The next week, Leon is shipped out to God knows where. They won’t tell you, probably afraid you’d commandeer a craft to chase after him. You’re checking in with Hunnigan by the hour, who tells you you’re being paranoid. How can you not be? He’s out there, alone, doing something, something dangerous, and you’re stuck writing reports and drinking watered down coffee from the new machine in the break room. He could be hurt, he could be dead, and you would never know the difference. It makes you sick, it makes you scared.

“Separation anxiety?” Sherry asks, taking a seat beside you. You’re staring at a monitor, feeling like your eyes are melting out of your head.

“Shut up,” you retort, making her laugh. “I just worry about him,”

“Y’know, I think I had this exact conversation with him a couple weeks ago,” Sherry says, grinning at you. You scowl at her. “You two act like if you’re not attached at the hip, you’re basically dead,”

“That’s what it feels like,” you murmur. You sigh. “You don’t get it,”

“Maybe not,” Sherry says, shrugging. “But I do know what it’s like to feel,”

You blink at her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go be annoying?”

Sherry jabs a finger into your side, making you yelp. “Don’t be mean to me just because you’re grumpy,”

You huff.

You are not grumpy.

...

Leon feels half dead on his feet as he trudges up the stairs of your apartment building. He’s been gone almost two weeks, with little to no contact with you. It feels like it’s killing him. He feels like it’s sucking out his will to live. He just wants to see you.

He knocks gently on your door. It’s late, just past midnight, but he knows you’re still awake, always the night owl. You open it a second later, wearing a shirt three sizes too big and an old pair of sweatpants; he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. You give him a once over, scanning him for injuries, and when you don’t appear to find any, you crash into him. He lets out an oomph as his arms settle around your waist. You smell like home, and he feels his heart crack open a little.

“Worried about you,” you whisper into his shoulder. He holds you a little tighter.

“Not over yet,” he says, and you pull away, squinting at him. He shrugs his jacket off to reveal a nasty cut along his bicep. He smiles sheepishly at you.

You sigh, and it’s like the greatest symphony ever written. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll patch you up,”

His pain ebbs as he sits. You return to him moments later with a first aid kit and a scowl. Your soft hands against his skin are what keep him tethered to the earth. Pain threatens to eat at his muscles and sinew, to consume him. But you’re gentle, easing through it like a softbed creek, curving over already smooth stones.

“Did you even try to get out of the way?” you murmur. You don’t look at him, but he’s watching you. He sees the twitch at the corner of your mouth as you clean the wound, the pull of your brows in concentration. You look so beautiful like this, like a pink sunrise, a reminder that good is out there.

“Sort of,” he mumbles back. You frown at him. “I didn’t really have time,”

You hum. Once the wound is thoroughly disinfected, you prime the needle for stitches.

“This will hurt,” you say, sinking the steel beneath his flesh. He doesn’t react. You make quick work of the area, making sure to tape over it to protect the stitches. When he’s all patched up, you pat his other arm, saying, “Try to make time so that this doesn’t happen again,”

He nods, watching you. You’re a breath away, inspecting him for any other injuries he may be sequestering. He reaches up hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He feels giddy at the way your eyes widen.

“Pretty,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure you hear it. He wonders if he’s concealing the deep, desperate love he has for you, or if he’s bearing it all with his gaze. At this point, he’s not sure he cares. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kennedy,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m still mad at you,”

Soft as a whisper, he says, “I think I can handle that,”

Without much further thought, Leon closes the gap. You let out a little squeak when his mouth meets yours, but you almost melt into him. He’s so relieved that he could cry. Your hands find purchase along the curve of his jaw, his own grasping at the loose fabric of your shirt. You sigh sweetly into him, coating his nerves in a saccharine so destabilizing he can’t help but return it. When you fall into his lap, parting your lips and winding your arms around him, he’s afraid he’s died and gone to Heaven. And when your tongue finally meets his, he groans, something deep and guttural and unbecoming.

You pull away, a string of saliva hanging from your kiss bitten lips. You rest your forehead against his. His every perception centers on you; your hands on his chest, your nose bumping his as your chest heaves, your smell, the skin of your neck, open and exposed for him. He wants you, needs you like you’re the only thing that can save him. And when you kiss him again, a fire burns anew in his chest. Your hands are everywhere; his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and they find a home winding into his hair. A gentle tug against his scalp has his hands tightening their grip on your hips, begging you to still.

“Leon,” you murmur against his mouth, heady and soft all at once. 

“I’m here,” he says, and he means it. He has never been more present. And then he’s standing, lifting you with him to place you back on the floor. You stare at him, pupils blown wide, gnawing on your bottom lip.

He pulls you flush against him because he can’t help himself. He is nothing if not selfish, nothing if not gluttonous and greedy, and now that you’ve given him this small victory, he wants to see if he can keep winning you. He sees the quiet desperation in the deep color of your eyes, the way you’re watching him with your full, rapt attention.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice low and barely audible. He wants to eat you alive.

He wastes little time after that, mouth crashing against yours with renewed energy. His heart swells in his chest when you cling to him all the same. Your fingers dig into the tops of his shoulders. He taps his fingers once against your thigh, signaling you to jump. He catches you, carries you close against him until you’re laid out against the sheets. He doesn’t stray far, following you into the linen, soft and sweet.

He watches you for a moment, taking it all in. You’re smiling at him, grinning really as he hovers above you. You brush your fingers against his cheek, smoothing away whatever doubt may be lingering. He ducks his head, pressing feather light kisses to the column of your throat, making your breath hitch there. He doesn’t get far, not when you pull his mouth back to yours, grasping at his shirt in an effort to rid him of it. Leon is a compliant man, flashing you a grin as he pulls back to yank it off. He wonders if your cheeks warm like his, if you can hear the hard hammer of his heart in his chest.

...

Leon is all rigid muscle, sinew pulled tight and corded along his arms, the plans of his stomach, his shoulders. You feel almost animalistic, feral. You run flat palms over him, feeling him twitch and tremor under your touch.

“Pretty,” you say, soft as a whisper. He huffs a laugh.

You push him back slightly, only giving yourself enough room to sit forward to pull off your own shirt. You watch him swallow thickly as it gets discarded somewhere across the room. His hands are soft, gentle against the revealed skin as he kisses you again. Feather light touches across your waist, your stomach. Rough and callused palms against your breast, thumb finding your nipple. You arch into him at the contact, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

You’re aching, cut open and bleeding. His hands leave goosebumps and fire in their wake as he lays you back against the sheets, tracing his lips down your torso, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He looks up at you, chest heaving. You nod, a gentle duck of your chin. Your breath catches in your throat as he slowly–painstakingly slowly–tugs your pants down. He lets his hands wander over your exposed thighs, hopefully ignoring your choice of underwear. Light touches against your hips cause them to fall open. You wonder if you look as vulnerable as you feel. He presses the gentlest kisses to the insides of your thighs, head bouncing between them.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, a mumble against your skin. It sends shivers down your spine.

When he presses an open mouth kiss to the apex of your thighs, you think you black out for a second. A breathy gasp echoes off the walls. He tugs your underwear out of the way to flatten his tongue against you. The sound you make is unbecoming, head dropping back against the pillows. He wastes little time, sucking and kissing and licking as he finds his rhythm, finds what you like, what makes you the loudest. He eats you out like it’s a game, like he’s determined to get the highest score. Your vision is nearly white, fingers buried in his hair. When you tug on it a bit, he groans, deep and sultry, sending shocks to your brain. 

Your thighs begin to shake when he pulls your clit between his teeth, a breathy moan escaping you. He locks an arm across your hips to keep you in place. You’re shamelessly grinding against his face, chasing release. You keen high and whiny as he slides two fingers into you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, low and heavy. “Make a mess on me,”

He curls his fingers against you. The stretch and tempo and timbre of his voice were nearly enough to send you over the edge, but what does you in is seeing him lean back to watch you, stubble brushing the inside of your thigh. You clench around his fingers as you come, writhing and panting like an animal. You watch him lick his fingers clean before you’re clawing for him, pulling his mouth back up to yours. You groan as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers fumble with the clasp on his belt, fighting to free him of it. You feel him chuckle against you as he reaches down to help you. He pulls away a bit to shuck off his trousers.

Your mouth waters when his cock springs free from his boxers, thick and flushed and dripping. Instinctively you reach for it, but he stalls you, gently grasping your wrist. You frown up at him.

“Won’t last very long,” he says by way of explanation.

“Next time, then,” you say, chest heaving. He grins at you, climbing over you again.

His kisses are addictive, you decide. You’re not sure how you ever went without them. They’re all consuming, send you spinning. You’re flat on your back again, pulling him as close as you can, running your hands down the expanse of his chest. He lines himself up with your entrance, gently pushing himself inside. The stretch is devastating. You break the spell of his kiss to gasp, jaw slack. His chest heaves as he buries himself in you, arms flexing on either side of your head. He stalls once he’s fully seated inside you. You smooth his hair away from his face, thumb swiping against his cheekbone. You feel so full; of him, of want, of love.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse and heavy. You grin at him.

“Never been better,” you say.

You lock your legs around his waist, begging him to stay close to you. He drops his head, turning into your palm more as he begins to slowly pull out of you. The drag of him against your walls has you keening. He almost pulls out fully before pushing back in, setting a languid pace that has you boneless. One hand smooths up your side, cupping your breast. You pull him back down to you, mouth meeting his in a devastating kiss. He sighs heavy against your lips, a whimper so delicious it has you rolling your hips just to hear it again. He moves to bury his face in your neck, pressing gentle kisses to the skin there.

“So pretty,” he mumbles. You sigh. “Like you were made for me,”

The praise has you scratching your nails lightly down his back, earning you another pretty noise. His thrusts pick up their pace but never lose their softness. He ruts into you like a man consumed, mumbling against your sweat slick skin.

“Dreamed of this,” he says. His hands wander over you, fingertips gentle against your injury. “Dreamed of you. My pretty girl,”

There’s a pressure building in your stomach, a coil wound tight, threatening to burst every time he opens his mouth.

“Yours,” you say. “Always have been,”

His thrusts turn shallow, deep. He says, “Doin’ so good, fuckin’ perfect,”

You clench around him, huffing a breathy moan. “Leon,”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here,”

His thumb finds your clit, and you’re seeing stars. White hot pleasure radiates throughout your body, threatening to consume you. He picks up the pace, chasing his own release. He thrusts one, two, three more times before he’s groaning in your ear and filling you up. He collapses against you, chest heaving and panting. Your fingers wind into his hair, toying with the ends. Every now and then you feel him press kisses to the column of your throat. 

“Leon,” you whisper. He hums. “I think your stitches split,”

He laughs then, a bright, airy sound that splits your chest open with want. He pulls back to look at you, and you note the way his eyes brim with adoration. You feel suddenly shy.

“You gonna patch me back up?” he asks, soft against you. You grin.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I will,”

When he kisses you, it feels like a vow.

[dollyzdaydreamz]

re9 leon kennedy x reader

the work dilf

description: after a long day of work at the dso, you were streaming when a subscriber admits they embarrassed themselves in front of a crush. to make them feel better, you tell them about the time you embarrassed yourself in front of an older agent, who you just so happened to have a fat crush on.

fluff ✿ 2.3k words -> leon kennedy masterlist

You had been working at the DSO for about two years. It was pretty mundane until you were moved to the location where some of the best field agents and dispatchers clocked in for work.

Among them, 30 year veteran Agent Leon Kennedy.

You heard so many stories about the guy growing up. You couldn’t believe he was the one to save the president's daughter by himself, let alone survive Raccoon city in ‘98. 

Needless to say, it was sort of surreal seeing him stalk around the office your first day at work.

He was insanely good looking, but the years weren’t kind to him. You could tell from the way his shoulders were slightly hunched over from carrying the weight of the world for so long, the silver strands paving their way into his otherwise dark hair, and the faint lines etching their way across his face.

But, man, was he delectable.

You couldn’t help it! It wasn’t just the way he looked, but the way he acted.

He was kind to everyone around him. His dry jokes were awful in the best way. He was smart and you could tell he went out of his way to make everyone comfortable, including you. 

You actually felt a little out of place on your first day, but he made sure to introduce himself to you first and mention you to his other colleagues to save you the awkward introductions. 

Sometimes when he’d stumble into headquarters fresh from a mission, you’d steal a few glances, partly in concern and partly because a hot older guy was groaning and panting around headquarters with blood all over him.

Leon always looked a little rough when he returned. His hair would be slightly disheveled, jacket gone for whatever reason, clothes creased and worn from travel. 

Sometimes there were faint bruises under his eye or temple or dried blood that wasn’t even his, splattered across his collar and arms. 

Despite looking like a hot mess, he still carried himself with that conviction that made everyone move out of his way without even thinking about it.

Almost every single damn time you snuck a glance, he’d catch you red handed. Those sharp blue eyes would flick your way and he’d nod, or if he still had the energy, come over and talk to you. 

You always looked away in record time, suddenly finding the report in front of you wildly interesting.

You internally screamed whenever he’d walk over to your desk, lean against it, and ask you how your day was like he didn’t just come back from hell.

It took everything in you not to act like a horny teenager and stare at the veins in his forearms, the little hairs and the speckles of blood decorating them.

And you could never weather that beautiful stare of his.

Why’d he have to look at people so intently when they spoke?

Damn blue eyed stare.

You needed to convince him to get brown contacts or something.

As exciting as the job was sometimes, you just wanted to go home, hop on your computer, and forget the world existed by playing whatever games you found interesting.

You started streaming about a year ago and had recently reached a following of about two hundred thousand.

It was insane, but you were glad you weren’t popular enough to be blasted all over TikTok or Instagram.

You were mid stream when someone donated fifty gifted subs.The message attached admitted they’d embarrassed themselves in front of their crush.

You thanked them of course, but chuckled at their admission.

You sighed, the memory of the other day resurfacing.

“I know how you feel, girl, trust me,” you said, giving the camera a knowing look.

Your chat instantly exploded with people egging you on.

And Leon surely wasn’t on Twitch so…

you spilled.

“If it makes you feel any better, I embarrassed myself real bad in front of my crush at work the other day too.”

You bit the skin on your hand as the memory plagued you.

Then you shook your head with a nervous chuckle. “Oh man, I don’t even know if I should say this…”

Another gifted sub popped up.

girl spill the tea I won’t tell anyone I promise

“Alright but if you clip this you’re all banned. Well actually I’m like ninety nine percent sure this guy isn’t even on social media okay he’s…he’s older so I don’t have to worry about him finding out.”

You rolled your eyes as new chats came in.

OLDER??

like how much older?

You scratched the back of your neck, “he's like....50?”

FIVE ZERO?

beekeeping age

an older man you say???

Dilffff

Oh so he’s a dilf

You gave the webcam a flat look.

“…Okay yeah he’s kind of a dilf, “ You faltered, “but he doesn’t have children okay, not that I know of.”

You shifted in your seat.

“This guy is very well known within our company. And I don’t know—he’s just great. He’s nice to everyone, he’s funny, and he cares about people.”

You huffed at the incoming words of encouragement, or words of delusion.

girl get him

SEDUCE HIM

Ooo a little age gap momentt

WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE

whats his name

“I don’t know if I should describe him cause I wanna respect his privacy,” you said with a small laugh. “But let’s just call him ‘the dilf from work’. He’s so out of my league it’s ridiculous.”

You leaned closer to the mic.

“So the other day I was in the break room grabbing a snack before my shift. I was half asleep, okay? Like barely functioning and he walks in.”

You buried your face in your hands for a second before continuing.

“And I panic because I didn’t expect him to be there so early. So I try to move out of the way really fast so he can get to the coffee machine. He sort of leans down to grab a coffee pod, while I grab my steel water bottle…and it sort of swings down—”

You pause, biting your tongue. 

Your chat instantly filled with NOOOOOOOOs and you're assuming people know what comes next.

“…He stands up and slams his head into the water bottle as it’s swinging toward him—”

You clutched your forehead, “So now I’m panicking and apologizing cause I bonked him in the head and he’s just crouching there looking confused while I'm holding a hand over the area to prevent it from bleeding more.”

Oh honey…

Yea i would clear out the whole room

loll no he probably thought it was cute trust….

real

“I felt like a fucking idiot!” you cried with a little laugh, rubbing your face in anguish. 

You covered your eyes with your palms and peeked through your fingers to read chat, "At least he was nice about it, he didn’t even complain.” 

You sigh, “but that was still embarrassing.” 

“I would never wish harm on anyone,” you continued quietly, “but I hope he got a concussion and forgets that even happened…or just forgets I exist in general.”

Comments rolled in again.

imagine he sees this

help

yall better not clip ts

“No, don't worry,” you reassured. “He’s not gonna see this. No one at my work is on Twitch or social media or anything like that.”

You let your arms fall back to the armrests and rocked the chair once, eyes flicking over the flood of messages.

Most of them were variations of there’s no way that’s true.

You just smiled to yourself.

And despite yourself, you suppressed a stupid little smile.

Because there was still a part of that embarrassing story you hadn’t told them because thinking about it still made your heart do something extremely annoying.

It happened right after the water bottle incident.

You’d found the little first aid kit in one of the cupboards and patched the cut on his forehead as best as you could while apologizing about twenty times. Leon had been sitting on the edge of the counter, head tilted forward a little so you could reach him, one hand braced against the surface beside him.

You were trying very hard not to think about how close he was. Or how embarrassing it was that you had nailed a federal agent in the head with a metal water bottle.

“There,” you muttered once the bandage was finally in place.

Your fingers were still a little shaky as you stepped back. “Sorry,” you added again.

Leon waved you off with a soft grin, “Ah, don’t worry about it.”

You turned toward the sink to throw the wrapper from the bandage away when you noticed there was dried blood on your fingers.

His blood. You froze for a second, staring at it.

“Oh,” you murmured quietly to yourself.

You reached for the sink to wash it off before it could smear on anything else, but you barely had time to turn the faucet when Leon spoke.

“Here, " he slid off the counter, "Let me.”

You glanced back.

Your pulse jumped the second his fingers wrapped around your wrist, they were huge and a little dry and calloused. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, before he gently rinsed your hand under the faucet for longer than necessary and squeezed it a bit to ring it dry, like all this was his fault.

Back in the present, your chair rocked softly as chat continued flying up the screen.

“But anyways…I’m sure I’ll get over it someday.”

The next day at work you were running on maybe four hours of sleep.

You barely noticed Leon approaching until his shadow fell across your desk.

When you looked up, there he was with two cups of coffee in his hands.

He slid one toward you, and you straightened in surprise, “Oh—thank you!” 

“Figured you’d need it, you’ve been here all day,” His voice was low and warm, a little rough around the edges like he was tired too.

Leon leaned forward, resting both elbows on your desk like he always did. The sleeves of his dark shirt were pushed up just slightly, revealing those familiar muscles you tried very hard not to stare at.

His hair was a little messy today, strands falling loosely across his forehead. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes that hinted he hadn’t slept much either, maybe he was working late, but somehow it only made him look better.

Your eyes were so dry they almost made the SpongeBob blinking sound, so you rubbed them. 

“Tired?” He asked, gaze flitting around your face. 

“Yeah…I was up all night finishing some reports after streaming.” You grin sheepishly. 

He nods, “Streaming huh?”

You blinked.

“Yeah—you know…like on Twitch. Playing games and talking to chat and stuff.”

Leon’s mouth twitched faintly as he raised his cup to take a sip, 

“I know what streaming is,” he clarified, eyes nearly piercing at you over the rim of his cup, like he was staring right into your soul. 

You shifted in your seat, “Oh.” 

“I’m not that old,” he added, voice softer this time. 

You laughed, “Sorry, I just figured it wasn’t your kind of thing.”

He shifted his weight slightly against your desk, one shoulder dipping as he leaned more comfortably into the conversation.

“You’d be surprised,” he continued. “I’ve actually seen a few of yours.”

You froze completely.

“…Huh?” You said stupidly. 

“Yeah.” Leon gave a small shrug like it was nothing, though the corner of his mouth and the glint in his eyes hinted he was enjoying your turmoil.

“I’m not really online myself, but Sherry said you had a big following…figured I’d take a look and see what you got up to after work.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Damn Sherry. 

Whenever he talked with the two of you, she was always looking at you with that little smirk. Or worse, nudged you on the shoulder whenever he approached you guys and made up some lame excuse to leave you alone with him…you knew she could sense your fat crush on him from day one.  

“Oh.” Your brain was replaying every second of last night. “Okay.” You cleared your throat, trying to behave normally. 

Then you noticed him rub the side of his head absently, fingers brushing along his temple.

“I’m so sorry again about hitting your head the other day,” you blurted out. 

“What do you mean?” he blinked.

You stared, “When I hit your head with the water bottle?”

An amused huff left him, “I actually don’t remember much, I think I got a concussion. Been forgetting everything lately.”

You straightened immediately.

Wait, he actually got a concussion?…From a water bottle? So much for America's toughest agent. 

You shook your head, what were you thinking? 

So insensitive. 

“I’m so sorry,” you frown, a wave of guilt washing over you, “Is it like a short term memory loss kind of thing?”

Leon watched you for a moment, then a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You could call it that.”

You nodded slowly, completely serious.

His eyes softened slightly as he looked down at you. Then he pushed off the desk, standing up straight again, “Ah, forgot I’ve got a meeting to head to.”

“Good luck,” You say a little dejectedly, expecting him to walk away, but he leaned closer. 

You blinked, swallowing at his proximity. 

“You might have to remind me what happened later over dinner,” he crooned. 

What. 

“Over dinner?...”

“Over dinner,” He concluded, leaning away to slip his jacket on, “You know, since you ‘bonked’ my head so hard.” 

Your soul left your body.

“But—“ 

“I’ll pick you up at seven.” Leon winked and walked away, leaving you sitting there, face burning, realizing two horrifying things at once.

One.

He definitely watched your stream.

And two.

You were absolutely going to dinner with the dilf from work.

A few months later, things were different, but in a good way.

You had somehow survived the embarrassment of that stream and maiming Leon, the panic of realizing he heard about the stream, and the nerves that came along with that first dinner.

And now here you are, still streaming.

Except now there was a six foot government agent occasionally wandering through your apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You were mid stream when your front door clicked open.

Your chat was already moving fast, colorful messages flying past your screen as you tried to focus. Behind you, you heard the quiet thud of footsteps and the rustle of a jacket being set down. You didn’t turn around right away since you were in the middle of a fight in your game, but you could hear him moving around the apartment, unhurried and quiet in that way he always was.

Your chat, unfortunately, noticed.

who just came in?

DOOR?

Is that a mannn???

You tried to ignore them, but a second later Leon stepped up beside your desk.

You caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. His hair was a little messy like usual, the collar of his jacket slightly rumpled, and he looked tired the way he often did after work. 

He was holding a small paper bag. Without interrupting you, he quietly set a couple snacks down beside your keyboard. You looked up, giving him a soft grin as he crouched to give you a quick kiss. 

Your chat exploded again.

HELLO?????

wait guys whose that

SNACK DELIVERY???

IS THAT HIM

tHe WORK DILF…

You snorted softly under your breath.

Leon leaned a hip against the side of your desk, folding his arms loosely as he watched your screen for a second. 

His expression was calm, faintly amused for someone being examined by thousands.

When the chapter of the game ended with a cut scene, you leaned back in your chair with a relieved exhale. 

“Okay guys, relax,” you said, grabbing one of the snacks Leon brought.

You glanced sideways at him. 

He raised an eyebrow slightly, “Don’t be rude, Hon, aren’t you gonna introduce me?” 

You rolled your eyes.

“Chat this is the work dilf I told you guys about a few months ago.”

Leon let out a quiet chuckle at that, ““The work what?”

He braced one hand on the back of your chair and leaned down further until his head appeared on the edge of the camera frame. He squinted slightly at the screen, trying to read the messages flying past. 

HELLO SIR

Yo is that Leon Kennedy??

HI LEON

easy white chocolate 

Your work dilf saved the presidents daughter? 

Easy there white chocolate

BE cool chat

guys she said she works for the dso it makes sense

His brow furrowed with genuine confusion. “Why are they calling me white chocolate?”

You shook your head as the chat spammed even more at the sound of his voice. 

ooo he’s real 

HIS VOICE

flash us

BEEKEEPING AGE 

Leon leaned a little closer to the monitor.

“…What’s beekeeping age?”

You dropped your head into your hands.

Leon glanced down at you, a small crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Should I be concerned?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head in defeat, “I don’t even know.” 

While your chat was having the time of their lives, Leon leaned one arm on the desk, settling in like he had officially joined the stream.

He scanned the chat slowly.

“Alright,” he murmured, “I’ll read some more.”

You winced,

“Maybe don’t—“

Too late.

HOW OLD ARE YOU

Leon huffed, “Old.”

Wait so what do you guys do for work?

Leon paused, “…We work for the government.”

ARE YOU ACTUALLY THE WORK CRUSH

Leon glanced sideways at you, eyes softening just a little, “I hope so.”

aww how did you fall for her??

“Well, I knew she was the one for me when she clocked me in the head with a bottle.”

You smacked his chest, “It wasn't on purpose!”

Your heart flipped a little when he grabbed your hand and placed a soft kiss on your palm.

He straightened up after a moment, grabbing a snack from the bag. “Well, this has been…enlightening.”

“Sure was,” you muttered under your breath. 

He glanced down at you, “You’ done embarrassing yourself online for the night?”

You huffed, “…No.”

Leon chuckled quietly, then ruffled your hair as he walked away.

You looked at the webcam like your chat was in timeout. “I hate all of you.”

Leon’s voice drifted from the kitchen.

“Be nice.”

Your viewers immediately sided with him of course.

shiii i mean, if leon worked with me, the world would neverrr hear the end of it.

I FOUND OUT WHAT IT MEANS and I was right :D i was worried it had some crazy double meaning

[gtgbabie0]

I wanna get headlock by Leon fucking Kennedy while he fucks me hard, also I wanna be his controversial young gf😝😝 (sorry I’m in my ovulation phase)

no ur so real for this babe don’t evaa apologise!! 18+

because like yes… it starts out innocently, warm morning light spilling through the kitchen blinds as you cook pancakes in your lacy little bralet and a pair of his boxers with him behind you, rubbing his hands all over your curves, kissing at your neck and shoulders, hard-on pressed against your ass.

It doesn’t take long until you’re bent over the sleek marble countertops with those boxers pooled at your ankles and his fat cock buried deep inside your dripping cunt, stretching you out around him, groaning against your shoulder as you writhe against him.

“You’re too perfect, baby, looking all pretty, cooking me breakfast, letting me fuck this tight pussy— fuckin’ angel.”

Then his big arm wraps around your neck to keep you still, warm muscles tucked snugly under your jaw, your cheeks all squished between his bicep and forearm… and your cunt clenches around his thickness, pressing your ass back against him with a choked whimper of his name.

“Ooh, does my girl like that?— y’like when your old man chokes you a little, gonna cum, huh?” He coos roughly, his arm tightening just a fraction to feel your slick walls clamp around his cock once more. your eyes flutter shut as he ruts himself against your ass, the tip of his cock hitting that perfect spot deep inside you over and over again, the wet slap of skin filling your mind.

“Answer me or I stop.”

You gurgle, fingers desperately curling at his arm, blabbering nonsense, spit dribbling down your chin and pooling filthy at the crook of his elbow before finally managing out a whiny, “Fu-ck— yeah, yes!- hnng-” gushing around his dick as he fucks his load into your fluttering pussy, his face buried in your sleep tussled hair, moaning about how fucking perfect you are.

Then he’ll make you pancakes with extra syrup <3 (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

જ⁀➴ Resident Evil Masterlist જ⁀➴ General Masterlist

[halbravd]

[n3ptoonz]

Leon Kennedy p links!

Links posted are from Twitter and some include him with other women from RE (but you could prob still see it as reader if you want); hetero pxrn

He physically cannot relax unless you're riding his face

Part 2^

Part 3 but it's him between your thighs^

He pulls out just to watch it drip

Riding him slow

Part 2; reverse cowgirl

Riding him fast just to hear him

It doesn't matter how long he's away, he remembers that angle

He's sooo big...

How quickly making out turns into eating out

Bunkering down for more than 12 hours turns into... (grace x leon) | 1 | 2

He'll need more time to make sure this ID is legit (animation)

Bonus

Part 2^

You don't listen to orders, you ride (ashley x leon)

Idk what to caption this it's just Ada and Leon being hot

No caption just Leon with his dick out

[machiavelliam]

SHOW ME YOUR TEETH ‧ L.S.K

──── ` His condition worsens, and you do everything you can to help him, but things get complicated when you can't get him what he needs, leaving you with the only option he refuses to accept, which happens to be your blood.

Tags: GN reader - Vampire Leon - Poor plot - Codependency - Sensitive content - Feeding as Intimacy - Unhealthy dynamics - Virus mutation - Blood drinking - Biting - Coercion - Power imbalance undertones - Eventual smut - Messy makeout - Dry humping - Coming in pants - Sub Leon undertones - Dub con - Some tags missing

He's getting worse.

And even though he doesn't say it or ever wants to mention anything related to it, you notice it every time his eyes accidentally linger on the curve of your neck when you talk, something that didn't used to happen.

You also notice it at night, when you— sometimes— wake up with his nose in your throat, inhaling without even realizing it, his hands pressing possessively against the small of your back, clinging to you in a deep sleep brought on by the strong sedative specifically designed for him.

Sometimes you wake up with a damp neck during midnight and fortunately, there are no marks or signs of a struggle, no pain to alert you, but the dried saliva stays on your vulnerable skin. You run your fingers over it to feel its coolness and how far it spreads. Then you turn over and find him with his back to you, and out of sheer curiosity and caution, you peek in and find him mistreating the back of his hand during his sleep, biting and sucking on it to soothe himself and instinctively prevent himself from doing something he would never forgive himself for.

In the morning, he wakes up with no memory of what happened hours earlier, ignoring the sharp pain in his hand with raised marks and dried blood.

After small fragments of memories surface in his mind, he later apologizes for the saliva he left on your neck, feeling ashamed for having approached you in such a vulnerable moment, for having laid a single finger on you without your awareness. He can't look you in the eye when he does, and you promise him that you understand, that it's okay, and that you're okay.

Even if you forgive him in that moment, he can't forgive himself because guilt overwhelms him, as does paranoia. He believes you're afraid of him, even though he doesn't perceive a trace of fear in you when you're near him, not even a hint of that distinctive scent that signals your terror. That doesn't change the fact that Leon wants you to fear him, but you aren't able to because your devotion to him is something he'll never fully understand.

The paranoia, the guilt, the need to distance himself, the constant arguments about your safety when you're around: all of this indicates that the virus is consuming him relentlessly; it's much easier to identify it in the way he moves around the house during the day; he seems to be fighting tooth and nail to avoid breaking something or someone.

The virus had started mildly, due to his body's constant exposure using little protection in toxic environments where anything could enter his system, proliferate, and corrode everything in its path.

He thought it was just one of those chronic flus he got from time to time when he returned home—those that go away with a few pills, or some tea. But this illness began with a fever that wouldn't break after a mission.

After the fever, he began vomiting a strange, disgusting-looking black substance, which he had been hiding from you for weeks until you discovered it in the worst way when he suddenly collapsed in front of you.

After the vomiting, darkening stains began to appear under his skin like spilled ink, which then became prominent marks as it spread through his veins as quickly as black mold. After the marks reached his neck and hands, they extended to the pads of his fingertips.

Following this peculiar transformation, he developed an insatiable appetite that nothing could satisfy, focused on meat. For weeks, he ate meat cooked to less than medium-rare, consuming no other foods from his usual diet. He would cook his steaks for mere seconds, just so you wouldn't worry about the fact that blood was still oozing from the food he was about to eat. Along with this, he also suffered from a constant, unquenchable thirst. His throat dried out far too quickly, and his lips turned sickly pale.

The sudden change in his appetite was strange because, generally, hunger is the first symptom to appear in an infected person. This dangerous and insatiable need to devour raw meat should have been the initial symptom, but you weren't in a position to question the order in which the disease manifested itself.

It had been manageable once you both realized what was really happening, both of you found stability in hospital blood bags, the occasional transfusion substitute created by people who knew far more about human biology than they ever cared to admit, and a few trustful scientists from the organization who had no idea how to reverse his condition, secretly helping him out of gratitude and admiration without saying a word because it was more than obvious they would lock him up like a guinea pig or try neutralize him in a heartbeat upon learning what was growing inside him.

There was a time when everything was “fine,” if you could call it that, but the virus kept growing and growing, consuming him, becoming a plague that was difficult to contain.

Leon, of course, always joked that if life were fair, he would have become a simple, clean vampire like in those cliché romance movies. An occasional bite, maybe a sensitivity to the sun that would force him to wear cool sunglasses to match his leather jackets.

Instead, he got this, on the verge of becoming a creature worthy of a test tube, destined to become part of Umbrella's collection as one of their most expensive weapons thanks to the superhuman abilities the virus was granting him—which is the height of absurdity considering his abilities when he was just a regular human.

When the hunger intensifies, the toxic marks spread across his body, alive beneath his skin, seeping rot into his organs that beg to be healed. Dark, branching veins run down his arms, his collarbone, dusty patches spreading where once there was a pretty rosy blush, reaching his mouth and mutating his teeth in the most revolting and painful way imaginable.

There are two distinct phases in the growth of his teeth, depending on how hungry he is or how fiercely the virus wants to destroy him.

Sometimes the marks spread to his eyes, turning them into pits of darkness where the abyss is nothing but hunger, and the first time you saw those marks appear on his face, he disappeared for twelve hours, only to return terrified and trembling, collapsing in front of you. Luckily, there was no trace of blood on him when you examined him closely.

After that, he told you—heartbroken— that he didn't want you to see him like that.

You told him that didn't change anything.

He didn't believe you.

The harrowing transformation reached a critical point, and he learned to control it in no time, determined to keep his promise not to harm innocent people thanks to some damned parasite. The blood bags kept him stable, and over time, so did wild animals when he realized he could just go and hunt other predators because, yes, the blood of other predators satiated him the most.

It's almost hilarious, a developing predator consuming others of its kind; that's what he thinks of himself when he does it.

He drinks all that blood with the same silent shame every time, sitting on the kitchen counter late at night as if taking bad medicine or injecting crack inside his veins, hidden so you can't see him accidentally getting blood all over himself out of necessity, the mess he makes when the metallic taste spills over his taste buds, how his teeth mutate, yearning to sink into soft and tender living flesh.

And when too much time passes without him feeding…

That's when things get dangerous.

That's when he begs you to leave while his voice is breaking between painfully sharp teeth, salivating to a point where it becomes obscene. You witness the sickening way he slowly loses his mind in front of you, still trusting him that he will not hurt you even in that state, and that's when he realizes you'd never leave him, so he decides to take care of the situation himself.

This led to that time he packed his suitcase in the middle of the night, swearing you were fast asleep, and left your side, leaving behind a letter he didn't even finish writing because his hand was trembling pathetically. He then returned in less than a week, because the virus complained and throbbed inside him when it couldn't sense you near, twisting his insides while rotting them until he wanted to stab himself to stop it from torturing him this way.

A codependent parasite, what a redundancy.

On another, more brutal and unexpected occasion, Leon attempted something worse, something more definitive where he wouldn't have to grapple with the agony of a dangerously insatiable appetite and the fear of harming innocent people or the person he cared about most in life. And as expected, the virus wouldn't allow it.

His body simply refused to die.

So, finally, you both established agreements and rules because the disease had chosen you along with Leon's body as the host.

You both decided that when his hunger became critical, he would take the updated sedative to make him drowsy but not completely asleep, strong enough to diminish his strength and slow his reactions without eliminating the virus entirely, since it seemed impossible to eradicate.

That drug or “sedative” makes him dizzy, leaving him defenseless, but still hungry.

And when his condition worsened, in every possible way, you kept him in the basement, which was redesigned until it looked less like a part of a house where old things and junk that will never be used are stored and more like something taken from a laboratory in a research center where dangerous things are observed through a glass.

The walls are made of sealed concrete beneath reinforced stainless steel, so well insulated that sound doesn't penetrate them.

Down there, everything feels dull and sterile.

Intense white lights are recessed into the ceiling, reflecting off the stainless steel surfaces and the large panels of reinforced glass that divide the room into two sections.

On one side is the refrigerator where the blood bags are stored and a minimalist counter containing everything needed to create the sedative and a few other supplies. On the other side, that soulless, sealed side, is the chair.

Right in the center and visible from any angle.

The glass is thick and transparent, stretching from floor to ceiling, allowing you to monitor something dangerous without touching it.

From the safe side, you can see every movement, every spasm of his fingers as hunger shoots down his spine. The chair in the center was his idea, and you reluctantly agreed.

That chair, is a heavy metal structure permanently bolted to the concrete floor and its restraints fit his wrists and ankles, custom-made to his measurements, and padded so they don't chafe his skin when starvation compels him to pull. The seat itself is comfortable—because you insisted it be padded—since, after all, he's still human even if the room around him looks like it was built for something that isn't.

Right now, it's one of those nights when he feels anything but human.

The basement smells of antiseptics and the pungent, stinging cleaners used to clean blood after bringing in those enormous animals to feed. The room is lit by a single, dim light, designed not to hurt his retinas when his body is at its most sensitive state, feeling even the slightest breeze on his overheated skin.

Leon is slumped in the chair with his chin touching his collarbone, indicating the drug has taken effect. His breathing is calm, and the monitors show his vital signs are stable and the virus is under control.

You feel nauseous as your eyes scan his body, settling on his half-spread legs, moving down to his calves until they end where the cold metal is pinning his ankles against the chair, completely immobile with no possibility of getting up from that prison, and even so, he is in a deep trance-like state with his senses blurry and unable to focus on the position his body has been forced into during hours.

Despite his placid state, the rot is there, awake and waiting for anything it can take and you can see it in the veins of his forearms exposed by the old, loose shirt he's wearing.

It mortifies you to see him like this, especially while he's wearing those comfortable worn-out clothes, clothes that should only be worn when he's sleeping next to you, snuggling up with you losing himself in your warmth.

The soft vibration in the room caused by the involuntary sigh you let out wakes him and Leon slowly opens his eyes, a bit unfocused for a few seconds until he can finally see your figure clearly.

He can already sense your worry, even through the thick glass that separates you. He realizes you're nervous, worried about something that's upsetting you.

“Hey,” he murmurs raspy and his throat is dry along with his lips, and you're aware that the last thing he needs is a glass of water.

You can't even meet his eyes, the bitter taste of helplessness lingering in your mouth pushing the urge to vomit to the surface.

His brow furrows slightly. “Something wrong?” Understanding dawns slowly in his face because of the lack of response, dulled by the sedative but still sharp enough to hit the mark.

You finally make eye contact with him, and your eyes suddenly feel wet with frustration because he looks like he's on the verge of death.

You failed, and he knows it.

Your state is starting to affect him; he can hear your racing pulse and is increasingly worried about you, so he has to do whatever it takes to control your emotions, to loosen the sour mood and he makes a calculated move.

“Why so quiet? Vampire got your tongue?” There's a long pause, and as expected, that stupid bullshit he said didn't work, so he takes a deep breath in defeat.

“…Couldn’t find them?” he mumbles quietly.

You shake your head in resignation, taking a breath to begin speaking despite the lump forming in your throat. “I tried three hospitals, the donor bank, and the lab. They—they told me the shipment never arrived, and the only bags left were…” you swallow hard, “the wrong type.”

Leon exhales softly, shaking his head, then letting it fall back against the chair. Chuckling amusedly as if you just said the funniest joke, “well,” he mutters, “that’s inconvenient.”

“Leon—”

His eyes meet yours again, a gentle expression on his face, and you can't tell if it's the chemicals in his blood or genuine compassion. “It's okay,” so tender. The veins beneath his skin pulse slightly when your breath trembles at his answer, and the virus is writhing inside him as your eyes flicker back to the monitors.

“Don't make that face, you look worse than me,” he tries to lighten the mood again, and you still feel like sobbing.

Your voice cracks as panic begins to take hold, because that little joke could be the last. “You could die.”

He smiles, as if it's nothing.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs gently, “we both know I'm terrible at that.”

You hate the casual and careless way he talks, trying to downplay the situation just to make you feel better, knowing it won't work. He acts like the night he tried to disappear never happened, like you didn't cry for hours until you were dehydrated, like the blood on the bathroom floor never existed, and the bullet scar on his temple wasn't visible. The whole situation makes you want to get angry at him, to yell at him for not taking it seriously, but then you remember he's drugged, his mind is foggy and dazed, and that doing what you want will only make his jokes worse— somehow.

You approach him, your fists clenched, reaching the barrier between you, and his eyes sharpen as you get too close to the glass.

“You haven't eaten in four days.”

“Four and a half,” he corrects lazily.

“Leon.”

“I'll be fine.”

The lie hangs between you, and you can't tell if the sedative is wearing off because of how he's increasingly focused on your body. You don't need to be an expert to see that the uncontrollable hunger is starting to gnaw at him. His fingers twitch slightly against the restraints, and his breathing is heavy. Your presence is affecting him. His nostrils flare from time to time, and you know that the scent of your blood mixed with your panic and the fear of losing him is suffocating him, leaving him no air to calm the waves of need.

His eyes constantly drift to your neck and wrists, focusing on your lively, intense pulse. The sound of your racing heartbeat makes him want to tear his ears off, but his only response is to clench his jaw and look away. That collar he suggested that time, which you refused, is starting to feel necessary.

Leon clears his throat when the silence becomes uncomfortable, “see?” he says, then breaks into a weak smile for you. “Like a million bucks.”

You feel your heart breaking in two, but you must come up with something quickly, find a solution to this problem before the structure of his bones changes like that time and the man you love disappears before your eyes replaced by a creature that will die if it doesn't devour something soon.

Obviously eating people is out of line, not even because people will die, but because there are blood types that could make him sick and deteriorate his body, so you move on to the option you considered countless times.

“Wait… W—What if…” you begin, approaching the glass door, typing the code he doesn't know to open it.

“No.” The word came out more sharply than before, a warning you're going to ignore.

Leon is looking at you with sudden intensity, even though the drug is clouding his mind. Your pulse is racing, and everything in your body is throbbing, just as it is in his. The light in the room is shining brighter for him, starting to burn his skin, and the disease is twitching, dancing in his system, reveling in your disregard for the warnings.

“I know that look.”

You don't stop, stepping into the other room and closing the door behind you, and he continues speaking. “I'm serious, don't do it.”

Your hands tremble at your sides as you close the distance between you. Standing in front of him, you lick your lips, preparing to speak.

“You're starving, s—stop being so fucking stubborn.” Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and he clenches his jaw, resisting; the sound of your voice feeds the parasite with the pleasure of that delicious melody full of sweet fear, the repulsive poison whispering to him to try harder to break free and come closer to you so that whatever has to happen, happens.

“I'll live.”

“You don't know that.”

“Oh, but I know 'cause when I put a bullet through my—”

“Don't.”

He sighs, his gaze softening as he looks up at you when you get closer. “Yes, I know.”

You shake your head while your lower lip is trembling, and you do everything you can to appear strong in front of him, “I can't lose you.”

Leon let his head fall back against the metal frame of the chair, exhaling ragged breaths through clenched teeth, trying to expel the air from his burning lungs when he instinctively inhaled and found himself again with that divine fragrance, more intense than before.

“You won't lose me, okay? you won't, please don't do this...” he insists, his voice hoarse, worn from the effort of keeping his body still even as it continues to burn him alive from the inside.

His eyes meet yours again, glossy with tears and dark, pupils dilated with no trace of the icy blue, and a mixture of defeat and panic takes hold of them as they realize that, once you make that face, nothing can stop you.

“I made you a promise,” he mantains, trembling when he has a little more control over his breathing. “Remember?”

You ignore what comes out of his mouth, begging yourself not to respond to his constant pleas.

“I said I'd never feed on you,” he insists needily, trying to reason with you, but you already lost all reason the first time you witnessed him feeding.

Leon's attempts are utterly futile, but you admire his determination even while drugged. He gasps when you gently sit on his lap, but doesn't fully react immediately, as the sudden contact has left him dazed.

It's only later that a pitiful groan escapes him, a sharp inhalation tears at his lungs, and his head tilts slightly in an attempt to surpress your scent, but there's no escape, and he has to get used to it. Your heat oppresses him, your pulse throbs just inches from his face, the steady, vital rhythm resonating in the room and stirring the poison.

Your hand finds its way into his hair, your fingers intertwining in the sandy strands, touching deeper, all the way to the roots where his hair is damp with sweat, cooing at him.

“No…” he groans breathlessly.

The parasite is reacting in pure ecstasy, reveling in the pleasure of having you so close, and the marks on his neck begin to move, dark, thin, sickly lines thickening and branching beneath his pale flesh, sliding up the sides of his throat like ink in water. You watch them slowly ascend toward his jaw, becoming bruises of the same hue, much smaller and thinner lines sprouting from them as well, rotting him alive.

His hands tremble under the pressure of the restraints as the burning sensation intensifies this time, the stinging pain traveling down his arms, irritating them from within. His head falls forward, resting on your chest as his fingers curl inwards and begin twitching forwards. His muscles contract, trying to hold something tightly, and the tendons in his fingers make him gasp from a sensation that tortures him, feeling an agonizing torment eat his flesh, only for his fingernails to begin changing afterward.

The matrices and cuticles fade into a profound darkness as you stare horrified as fascinated how they spread like a painful fungus to the tip, so that true agony can begin when they lengthen dramatically, sharpening to a point and pulling at the flesh of his fingers as they push forward, escaping the skin.

You hold him through the change, trying to soothe his discomfort, tears welling in your eyes at the small sounds he stifles against your skin.

“Shhh, I know, I know baby, you'll be okay, I p—promise it's okay,” you comfort him tremulously, cradling his head against your cleavage. You feel him purr, a sting of pain blossoming in your clavicle as you feel something sharp scrape against your exposed flesh. Then you realize his teeth have mutated too. You pull his face away from your chest, and he looks at you with devotion, hunger, but he's still him, terrified of what might happen to you.

Your hand travels to his cheek, studying his contoured features while he lets himself be guided by your hand, which is moving down until you caress his sensitive lower lip with the pad of your thumb, eliciting a little gasp. Then you lift his upper lip when he's distracted by your neck to reveal a sharp canine tooth. He tries to turn his face away, but you hold him still with the grip you have on his warm cheeks in response.

“Please, please let me see them, show them to me,” you plead in a small voice, a subtle manipulation. He responds with a huff and opens his mouth slightly so your fingers can inspect the newly canines. There's no sign of the virus in his mouth, but there is a little blood on his gums where the new teeth emerged.

After making mental notes, you test how sharp they are, pressing with the pad of your thumb until one pricks the soft skin, drawing blood to the surface too quickly surprised by how easy it was and Leon grunts, so thirsty and tense but focused on your intentions. You can hear his nails scratching the hard metal of the chair.

“You don’t have to do this…” he insists wearily, and your gaze softens, filled with love, noticing how he has started to salivate and yet he's still trying to push you away.

He’s so good.

“But I want to,” you whisper so close to his lips that he has to resist the temptation to crane his neck to bite your mouth off with nothing but his teeth.

You slide your hand down directly to the restraint on his left wrist, and there’s a soft click that he doesn't know where it came from. The chair mechanism responds and releases his hand, but he clings to the metal, still resisting. You—regardless of his actions—gently place your wrist just beneath one of the sharp claws, pressing it into your skin, then move it to the side to make an almost clinical cut in the thin skin. Blood starts flowing quickly and effortlessly, not even measuring how deep the cut was.

Leon tenses up when the intense tang reaches his nostrils, so fresh and so enticing, you can't waste any more time and you put your wrist right in front of him and that little piece of self-control remaining in him breaks, just a bit of hesitation before his lower lip starts trembling and his chest rises and falls in rapid breaths.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whines closing his eyes and the distance between you. His lips press against your skin immediately, gripping you without hesitation, and you gasp in pain as his teeth dig into your skin, disregarding the cut you just made, tearing so easily through the soft flesh. Leon begins to suck hungrily, the flavor exploding in his mouth and he starts purring with sheer pleasure, his eyes tightly closed as he feeds, and you press yourself against him, murmuring words of encouragement for him to continue.

His free hand grips your waist, pulling you impossibly close to him in such uncomfortable position, but you’ve never felt better sitting on his lap like this. Your attention shifts to other parts of your body and you feel how his nails are digging in, pressing dangerously harder than they should against your waist, however, you dismiss it; not even the stinging pain can make you pull away because nothing compares to the pleasure you're feeling, the way it makes you bite your lips from the tingling sensations that raise your temperature is enough to make you hum happily, and the open raw wound he's feeding on deepens as he moans, gently lapping the mouthwatering flesh, soothing the itch as he continues to suckle viciously.

Eventually, he opens his eyes to look up, still feeding on you, and he looks prettier than ever. Surprisingly, the virus hasn't affected his eyes, and you're so grateful for that, so happy with your sweet boy needing you—worshiping you this way.

You grin mesmerized, and if it weren't for the way your eyes are about to close, you could swear you see him smiling back at you.

God, he's so precious.

Each time he sucks a little harder than before, a strangely pleasant shiver runs through you, ending in your lower belly, a mixture of pain and something more rotten and alarming that makes your breath quicken.

He grips your wrist tighter, biting harder than he should, and you huff softly.

“You're doing so good, Leon… such a good boy, keep going,” you purr, so fuzzy, lost in the sweet but filthy sensation.

Your fingers slide through his hair, caressing the blond strands damp with sweat.

Up close, you can see the dark veins running down his cheekbone, disappearing beneath his sweaty neck. Now he looks calmer, relieved, that sickly pallor of his skin replaced by his natural tone and his cheeks are flushed, and his brow is relaxed, something you haven't seen in a long time.

His humming softens as the euphoria subsides but the hunger remains and the rough tugs become slower and more careful, his tongue continues to graze the wound, cleaning the damage he's causing. His grip on your waist loosens slightly, though his fingers still clutch the fabric of your shirt as if afraid you might disappear.

You're dizzy when he finally pulls away to let you react and there are thin strands of saliva mixed with blood clinging to the skin of your battered wrist that connect with his swollen lips covered in your warm and addictive blood. He licks them to clean off the excess and your eyes are glued to the ugly, delicate, raw wound he left on you.

“So gorgeous,” you mutter under your breath, bringing your finger to touch the open bite and Leon watches you attentively, reveling in the soft gasp that escapes your lips as you measure your how much pain you can take with that simple touch, the drug that kept him serene completely out of his system now, your blood made him tipsy almost in the same state as you are at this moment.

“Like you,” he whispers, raising his hand to caress your cheek and you respond with a silly little giggle, moving closer to his face until you can smell your own blood on his breath.

Appetite mixed with an unfamiliar need takes hold of you, causing you to push yourself toward his lips for the first time in days and he's so eager when he returns the kiss, deepening it with enthusiasm. Both of you itching for each other, surrendering to the delicious metallic taste that ends on your tongue as Leon plunges his into your warm mouth, so wet and inviting, fucking you with it.

They rub together frenetically while he's swallowing your saliva like it's water for his insatiable thrist. You tilt your head to go deeper, and he obediently follows your movements, his hand moving possessively up your arched back to your neck, squeezing gently until you gasp within the passionate kiss.

One of his sharp canines hooks into your lower lip, effortlessly splitting it and eliciting a hiss from you that Leon immediately swallows with nothing but pleasure, proud of his vulgar work, sucking on the wound as your hips instinctively thrust forward into his lap.

That's when you realize how hard he is inside his clothes, feeling it pooking against you causes you to start moving firmly against it, feeling Leon tense up and to then release a low little whine, squeezing your neck tighter until you feel like coughing and everything around you feels so different, so good, your hands settle on his firm chest, fingers squeezing the hard muscles covered in a soft layer of fat making them perfect to massage under your restless hands, and taking into consideration his susceptible state he pants pathetically against your swollen mouth, his hips pushing up feeling a painful twitch on his sensitive cock from how good it feels when you play with his tits, humping you needily, you push back down to give him the friction he craves for through the clothes.

He responds to every tiny sound, grinding and pressing against you, eager for more, hunger compelling him to take more than your body can offer.

The kiss grew clumsier and more painful, letting you be swept away by tongues that slipped indecently against each other, wet lips smacking loudly, ragged breaths, saliva and blood pooling obscenely at the corners of your mouths.

Sloppy sounds make your face heat up; he's so loud with his mouth that if you weren't in this state, you'd mock him and then you both break apart when you need to catch your breath, Leon chases you with his mouth, so needy, panting like a thirsty dog.

“More, more please, I need —I need you,” he begs with that sweet and hoarse voice of his breaking between words, nothing like how he was acting before, his hips fucking you through your clothes, his cock leaking constantly, making a milky mess inside his pants. He leans forward until his lips brush your neck, and you stifle a moan at how sensitive your fevered body has become.

“Do it, don’t hold back, please do it,” you pamper, hugging his head while urging him to continue. First, there’s a hot and soaked tongue licking your skin, sending sparks of burning pleasure beneath your flesh, and your hips press down drawing a little breathy whine from him.

A muffled sob escapes your stained mouth as he sinks his fangs into your neck roughly, beginning to suck ravenously, knowing you're letting him, allowing him to release what he's been holding back for so long in a pathetic attempt to protect you from his disease and all you can do is tilt your head, exposing your neck to him even more.

You finally made it.

Leon is lost in your taste, reduced to a ravenous uncontrolled animal unable to recognize how many boundaries he's crossed and that there's no going back now. You taste so sweet, so good, so warm and wet and fucking delicious in his mouth and he wants to stay there forever, so much so that he ends up breaking the restraint on his right hand to fully embrace your trembling body as that deep red liquid slides down his throat and the arousal consumes him like flames impossible to extinguish. The damaged metal hitting the floor echoes in the room hurting your ears, and you are so absorbed and overwhelmed by Leon's essence to pay attention to why you could hear so deeply in your head or to the fact that you can now smell parts of Leon that an ordinary human could never smell.

And when those overwhelming waves subside and he continues to devour you mercilessly, the appetizing and intoxicating musky smell of his sudden frenzy hits your nose, so intensely that it makes you suspect that perhaps now, the twisted disease living within him, has been passed into you.

© machiavelliam | 17 / 03 / 26

The pictures at the start belong to @nocturnetmxc and @acidqz on Twitter, give them a look. (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)

[witchsamlizzie]

Hold me and let's stay like that, in those arms.