in which leon kennedy tries his best to get out of paperwork
(re9!leon x f!reader)
cw: sfw, but very suggestive
“What’s goin’ on?”
He takes up your doorframe, one arm braced against it, leaning in with the ease of someone just passing through. His eyes find you, then Mike—resident bane of the office—seething at the foot of your desk.
Too casual. Too controlled.
Like he’d already decided how this ends before he hit the door.
Mike, clenching his jaw hard enough to crack teeth, must sense it, too, because when he looks back, he does a double take.
His gaze slips to you, jaw slackening, bravery fizzling under Leon’s presence at his six.
Figures.
You answer for him. A sharp bite.
“Nothing. He was just on his way out.”
He doesn’t argue.
Instead, he compresses himself through the doorway, Leon’s gaze boring into him as he pointedly stares anywhere else. His boot catches on something—Leon’s foot—and his breath hitches as he glances back before stumbling away, muttering.
Leon closes the door. Not enough to echo, but more forceful than necessary.
You stare at him, then busy yourself with your computer.
“You didn’t need to do that.” You slam the spacebar. “I can handle him.”
He huffs, sinking heavily into the chair in front of your desk, fingers knitting over his stomach as he reclines. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“Then don’t come charging in here like that. People will talk.”
A quiet laugh leaves him as he swivels the chair back and forth. “And they don’t already?”
You tut, shaking your head.
“You're gorgeous when you’re angry, by the way.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, all warmth and fondness. “Can’t stop staring at ‘cha.”
Bastard.
The smile comes anyway, and you glance at him sidelong, your fingers drumming along your keyboard.
“Don’t you have something to do?”
He rolls the chair forward, bringing an elbow to your desk to rest his chin atop a fist.
“Stopping by in the middle of you reaming into everyone's favorite was on my to-do list.”
You flick him on the nose.
He snatches your hand, trapping it against his cheek.
“Wanna make out?”
You snort and yank your hand back. “You’re three seconds from Mike part two if you don’t leave me alone.”
He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh no, can't have that.”
He stands and meanders around the desk, slow, deliberate—giving you plenty of time to glare at him.
Never mind the twitch of your lips betraying you completely.
He drops to his knees in front of you, hands coming to your waist to stroke gingerly up and down.
Your brow hikes upward.
His grin widens.
“Leon,” you mutter, pushing loosely against his chest.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Stop. We’re at work.”
He hums. “I’m not doing anything.”
He edges a finger into your waistband and snaps it against your hip. You huff, planting your palms on his cheeks, smushing them once.
“Leon Scott.”
His brows lift at the middle name. You ignore them.
“I’m busy, you’re supposed to be busy…”
God, his stupid eyes.
You bite your lip at the softness in them, too close now to resist. He takes it as an invitation, closing the distance and capturing your mouth with his. His arms snake around your waist, scooting you forward so that he’s between your knees.
You sigh into the kiss. Involuntary.
He matches it, his tongue edging into your mouth.
“Okay.” You push a finger against his lips. “That's enough.”
He only stares, amused and slightly miffed.
You roll your eyes, shaking your head, and bring your forehead to his.
“We. Are. At. Work.” Each syllable accompanies a light bump of your head against his.
“I’m aware.” He kneads the curve of your ass, aiming for your lips again.
You smile and lean back despite his arms heeling you. Your fingers walk under his chin, edging the stubble there.
“Look. The sooner we finish here—“
“Yeah, I’d like to finish here,” he interrupts, deadpan.
You slap his shoulder. “Listen. I was going to say, the sooner we finish here, the sooner we can continue this,” you run your thumb along his lower lip, “at home.”
He groans, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
You laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Oh god. Where’s my camera. The Leon Kennedy on his knees, begging? Nobody’ll believe me.”
He only plunks facedown into your lap, grumbling something that vibrates against your skin.
Your fingers comb through his hair, twisting the strands into small ringlets. “What? Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
He turns just enough to free his mouth from the fold of your thigh.
“Please don’t make me write another goddamn report today.”
Summary: An attack during an attack leaves Leon injured and increasingly delirious. After extraction, he’s whisked away, and nobody’s fucking telling you what’s going on.
Finally, you get a phone call.
It changes everything.
WC: ~5k
CW: NSFW, like REALLY NSFW, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, Leon is injured, fuck or die, sex pollen, sex venom, shaky safety practices, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, first time (together), handjob, unprotected p in v, creampies, multiple orgasms (Leon), he's a hopeless romantic at heart
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You say you saw the suits.”
“Yeah, in passing.”
“You didn’t think they were important?”
“It’s a fucking lab. Labs are rife with hazmat suits. We’ve never had to equip them before.”
“There were warnings posted all over the exit.”
“There were zombies all up on our ass.”
The splattering offspray from Leon’s last-minute shot paints your back like a gory Jackson Pollock. The infected hits the floor, tripping two more.
It would be more helpful if there weren’t about a thousand of them closing in.
You’re running side by side with Leon, shoes eating up the sterile white floors, trying to divine an exit through the branching arteries of the lab. He has to veto a turn into a side hall when more shambling figures lunge forward; he grabs your arm to tug you away with him, but it’s an unnecessary precaution. You’ve already matched his footwork.
He glances behind as you run.
“Where the fuck are they coming from?”
You’d like to fucking know.
“And why are they all runners?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.
These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.
You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.
“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.
“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.
This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.
You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.
EXIT
It’s a final sprint.
You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.
‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.
“Fuck! Force it!”
You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.
With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.
“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.
There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.
“There’s no power!”
“You’re armed!”
Oh, right.
BANG T-SHUNK
Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.
Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.
“Say something?”
“Something.”
“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”
"You only look like it.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He’s flipping you off.
You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.
He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.
“Wait.”
You’re in a greenhouse.
Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.
No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.
The plants are rustling lightly.
Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.
“What’s the sitrep on the door?”
It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.
“Fucked.”
“Other doors?”
It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.
“Negative.”
“How long can you hold your breath?”
“I don’t think that’s the concern.”
You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.
Bite-proof.
“Fuck.”
“So you tried to bypass it underground.”
“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”
The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.
The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.
“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”
“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”
The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.
He shines his flashlight forward.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”
His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.
“Ugh,” you agree.
Roots.
Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.
Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.
“Hey. Look.”
He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.
You come closer with the flashlight.
The dark color is red.
“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.
The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.
Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.
“God. Which way do you think they run?”
He glances at you. “Three guesses.”
“Plants don’t bleed red.”
“Not typically.”
You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.
You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.
You check your pistol's chamber and follow.
“A line of tanks.”
“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”
“Which way were the tubes running?”
“Both ways.”
“So…”
“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”
“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”
There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.
Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.
Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.
“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.
“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”
“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”
“Yeah.”
Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.
The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.
He steps back, jaw tight.
“Dare I even ask?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”
You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.
“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.
“Twist my arm.”
“You didn't see it?”
“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”
“You didn't hear it?”
“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.
Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.
Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.
It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.
This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.
Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—
That’s when the other thing strikes.
Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.
“Leon!”
It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.
The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.
A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.
The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.
Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.
“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.
“Let me see. Leon.”
You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.
His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.
“What the fuck.”
The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.
At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.
Pink with blood.
“Shit. Hey.”
Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.
It takes him a moment to focus on you.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.
You’re trying not to panic.
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.
“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.
You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.
“What did the labs say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What did Medical say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”
“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.
“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”
“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”
“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”
You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.
“I wanna see him.”
“He’s in precautionary isolation.”
“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”
“You weren't bitten.”
“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”
Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.
“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.
Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. You are free to go.”
Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.
“We were told you might try that.”
Fucking debrief.
So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.
Assholes.
You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.
You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.
You call the labs.
Some poor idiot actually picks up.
“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.
“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”
“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.
You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call
Leonnedy
You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.
“Leon! Are you okay?”
Immediately you can tell he’s not.
“I need help,” he says. Croaks.
Cold sweat breaks on your skin.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.
You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.
“Leon, where are you.”
“Home.”
“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”
“They said I could take care of it.”
“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“
He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.
“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.
“Leon.”
“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.
“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”
“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”
“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”
“What?”
“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”
You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.
“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.
That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.
“Why’d you call me?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.
Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.
"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”
You’re partners.
No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–
“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.
You wrench the door open.
Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.
You’re still not prepared.
As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.
This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.
Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.
Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.
His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.
His chest is heaving, his hips restless.
His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.
“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.
He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.
“I’m here. What do you–“
“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”
And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.
The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.
You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.
You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.
He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.
It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.
Six goddamn hours.
You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.
His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.
He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.
Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.
You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.
And why couldn’t he get there himself?
What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?
What a fucking epitaph that would be.
No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.
You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.
“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”
His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.
His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.
He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.
You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.
“A little pent up?”
He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.
His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.
There’s a very noticeable issue.
He’s still incredibly hard.
When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.
“Do you feel any different?”
“Fuck. Barely.”
"What if you're stuck like this?"
“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.
"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"
He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.
You grab his hips and force them down.
“Leon.”
He bucks hard against you, bratty.
"You think I know?”
“Don’t give me an attitude.”
“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.
You move fast.
A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.
His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.
“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”
He’s not moving, trapped under you.
You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.
“What do you say?”
“Fuck.”
“Leon.”
“I love you.”
It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.
It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.
“That’s not fair,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.
He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.
He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.
“Shit.”
“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.
It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.
He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.
God, you’re aching.
“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.
“That wasn’t on the invitation.”
“Aren’t you a saint.”
“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”
“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”
Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.
Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.
He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.
He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.
"Oh my god, Leon."
He comes.
Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.
He’s still looking directly at you.
You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.
“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”
“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.
“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.
“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.
You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.
His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.
The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.
You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.
He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.
“Leon.”
“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”
You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.
“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”
“God, Leon.”
Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.
It almost does you in.
Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.
His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.
He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.
A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.
He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.
He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.
You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.
He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.
“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”
“I’m not the medical concern.”
He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.
He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.
“There you are.”
Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.
“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.
“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”
You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.
“Come on, cowboy– ah!”
He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.
“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”
“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.
“I told you–“
His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.
You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.
The third time, it seems, is the charm.
When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.
“Leon.”
“Mm.”
“Your phone.”
“Mmph.”
You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.
You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.
The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.
Five seconds later, it starts up again.
“Fuck.”
You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.
“Huh. Medical,” he says.
“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.
He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.
“Kennedy.”
He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.
“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”
You start giggling.
“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”
It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.
“What?”
“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”
He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.
It was an emergency.
“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.
“There’d be a demand.”
His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.
“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”
“How selfish.”
He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"
"What I said?"
"Don't be obtuse.”
He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.
"I've never lied to you," he says.
"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."
He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.
"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."
You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.
"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you. "Yeah. I love you."
You stroke his cheek, his stubble rasping against your fingertips. His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.
You don't take forever to say it. The forever you want to take is the one that opens up on the other side of it: four words, a door.
“I love you, too.”
On AO3
Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🩷
Content: smut, oral, heavy petting, some spitting, creamiest of pies, “just the tip”, panties stay on!
Masterlist ❤︎
-
Leon is a creature of habit, if not a slave to his compulsions. Which sounds practical considering the absurdity of his job.
Spending decades wading through nightmares is why operating in violent extremes has become a language he intuitively understands. His obsessive streak seems reasonable if he views it as the price of survival, one that steadily rises in proportion to his scars and the amount of bullshit the government loves to toss him into.
Blowing out money is also a habit he enjoys indulging. If hell is where he’s destined to spend most of his days, he might as well do it in style. If he sinks an obscene fortune into the cars and bikes sitting in his garage, it’s only because he’s cheated death from a creature the size of a goddamn tank—crawling massive thing with repulsive hairy legs. A fucking giant spider.
Also happened with liquor, and an excessive streak of the punishing hours at the gym—build as much solid mass on his arms, he persisted.
So yeah, sensible, given the circumstances.
Rational, even, when his capacity for obsession started to redirect itself the moment a new target is acquired. Barreling straight towards you.
Or your panties, specifically.
Although the entirety of you is a perfectly justifiable thing to lose his mind over. It just so happens that your own little habit for pretty underwear has easily rubbed off on him. From silk to lace to whatever impractical mesh he happily bleeds his bank accounts for. Numbers he quickly discovered ran obscenely high for a few measly inches of thread.
Not that he minds. You like to call him your sugar daddy whenever he catches you hesitating over a ridiculously expensive set, and he’d simply shrug and slide you his card in return. Maybe he is. Kind of. He’s your boyfriend above all else, but if his urge to keep you spoiled rotten qualifies him for the role, then maybe the title isn’t so wrong.
Also doesn’t hurt that every dime spent ultimately works in his favor. Every purchase is perfectly rational when he gets to peel his money's worth right off your skin. Gets to appreciate how a splash of color and fabric can accentuate every curve of your body.
He views red as undeniably sexy. Blue as soft and sweet, and thinks black is a staple that never fails. You always look gorgeous in every color of the rainbow. Divine charm, very easy on the eyes.
But this purple. This damn bruised shade of plum hugging your hips has him crossing the room to haul you onto his desk before he’s even made a conscious decision to move. The stack of reports he’s already been neglecting for a week goes completely shoved aside. Now he’s got you sprawled on your back, looking entirely too satisfied with yourself for finally breaking his focus.
Smart girl, weaponizing his own money to sabotage his productivity.
It doesn’t take much prompting for him to map the familiar lines of your body, dragging his fingers over the delicate lace until his thumb pushes over your sheer-clad breast, pinching a tight nipple.
“This new?”
He smiles when you squirm, watching the way your eyes slant over him. “Mhm. D’you like it?”
His mouth quirks higher. What a redundant question to even entertain, as if being asked whether he prefers a clear line of sight, or if he's happy to find a fully loaded rifle when he’s backed into a corner. It’s basically a fundamental law of nature for him at this point. Lacking appreciation for the way the thin stretch of fabric barely covers your crotch isn't even a possibility.
And that little triangle is downright taunting him, doing absolutely nothing but draw his attention. He finds himself taking a sufficient moment to fully appraise what’s in front of him, letting out a rough breath through his nostrils as he grips the edge of the lace. Pulls it up snugly between your folds.
Fuck if it doesn’t make his cock stir.
You’re awfully wet and swollen and he finds guilt gnawing at him for not tending to you much sooner. An idiot, really, can be too blind when he gets caught up in his own head. Quite the irony when he’s typically so attuned to your moods.
When you’re hungry for affection, you’re quick to cling your arms around his neck while settling on his lap. Yearning for comfort, you bury yourself against his chest to chase the solid thud of his heartbeat.
Desperation runs in your blood when you’re fully aroused.
Like what you’re doing now, he acknowledges. With that impatient heat in your eyes and thighs spread wide apart, openly offering yourself on a silver platter like a five-star meal.
He slacks comfortably back in his chair. Ask and you shall receive, because Leon is inherently a selfless person, hardwired to assist any person in distress with a reflex so deeply ingrained in his bones. You’re writhing so restlessly towards his open mouth that his only instinct is to give in.
The first kiss has you shuddering. The second draws a weak gasp from your throat. For the third, your fingers tangle into his hair.
There’s no gentle fourth kiss that follows because he starts making out with your pussy. Drinks you in to quench his parched taste buds. Devours the taste of intoxicating musk and damp skin, of warm arousal and delicate salt, rich flavors that continuously drool into his mouth as he grinds his tongue flat against your panties.
Can’t even be bothered to peel the thing away. Sure, the fabric scratches right along his jaw, but it does absolutely nothing to stop him from finding your clit. Sweet little thing growing desperately hard with the greedy pull of his lips.
Your nails bite sharply into his scalp. “Fuck, b-baby, I’m gonna—”
He quickly draws back, and your hands immediately clench tight against his roots.
“Babe.”
His amused laughter lingers on your skin as he gently unwinds your grip. Brings your hand down to his lips to press a kiss into your palm. “I know, honey. Promise I'll give it to you.”
You let out a keening whine. “This is not the right time to edge me.”
Leon huffs out another chuckle.
He begs to differ, actually. Not because he genuinely enjoys being a sadist. No, of course not. Ignoring you for the better part of the day already has him feeling awful enough. By way of making amends, the least he can do is be generous—selfless, as he likes to consider himself. Put you out of your goddamn misery.
But a little dragging out couldn’t possibly hurt. He couldn’t touch you all day, couldn’t even look at you properly, so why not take his time now?
Just an extra minute to be greedy, he insists. A few more seconds to admire the state he’s left you in. From the perky jut of your tits behind the see-through mesh to the dark, soaked fabric caught between your dripping pussy. Gooey honey he can still taste on the back of his tongue.
He presses his mouth to your belly, under your heart, over it. Then stands to his full height, tugs the waistband of his sweats down an inch and lets his heavy length spring free.
“Baby, come on.” You track the thick line of him, then mewl when he gives himself a stroke. “Just fuck me already.”
He pushes into you over the flimsy lace. “Like this?”
“Fuck—fuck.” Your hips grind back, partially trying to swallow him right through the damp material. “Take it off.”
“I will."
He does, by pulling the material aside, smoothly sliding back the rich purple that compliments your bare skin. It brings out the natural glow of your damp thighs, highlights the slickness coating your exposed pussy. Swollen folds so thoroughly glazed he adds his own spit, driven by another stubborn compulsion of his to see you absolutely drenched.
You can do it, right? Wet his cock to the point he barely has to put in any effort to slide in?
He starts by giving your sensitive opening a rhythmic taptaptap with his tip. Settles with rubbing the blunt length of it through the wetness he spent so much time admiring. He admires the way you submit to him, too, letting him manhandle your thighs a fraction wider. Takes whatever scraps of friction he decides to give with a soft grace.
A lot of patience, he decides. And the kissing cousin to patience is tenacity.
Your hips give a tiny roll. He smiles—grins, even. It’s hard not to when you’re strung out and teetering so precariously on the edge of the desk, fighting gravity itself to grind against him. He rewards your effort with a slow thrust, finally letting the thick crown sink into your hole.
Slowly, steadily. Watches the way he’s splitting you open, barely, before letting himself savor the sensation of you clenching around the little inch of him buried inside. Incredibly warm, so fucking tight.
His eyes travel along your body, comes to a stop to watch the distortion of your pretty face. Eyes heavy and drooping as if you’re barely conscious, your lips parted in a breathless sigh.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls in a gravelly purr. “You’re trying to swallow me.”
An incoherent noise of pure desperation spills past your lips.
“You want all of it?” Your head jerks in a nod, he does the same. “Okay, okay. You'll get it, honey, don’t worry.”
Later, he adds to himself. Later, when you’re drenching his thighs in so much slick. He settles with rutting against your tightest ring of muscle, instead, relishing the sloppy sound that blends with your high-pitched whines and the destructive crinkle of whatever document you’re currently crushing in your fist.
“I—shit," you whimper. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, tosses a damp piece of hair across his brow. “Ruin everything for all I care.”
You huff out a small, thin laugh. “But you’ve worked so hard on it.”
“I can work hard on it again.”
Your smile is sweet and soft as your hands blindly paw into the empty air, searching for some leverage that doesn’t end in shredding the rest of his papers. He groans when they find purchase on your chest. Moans even louder when you unceremoniously yank the cups down, holding greedy handfuls in your palms.
“That’s it, play with ‘em,” he rasps. “Show me.”
You do, and it takes a huge amount of effort for him not to blow his load right there and then. He could. He would. Yeah, he definitely would. It’s become an ingrained habit for him to empty himself while being buried deep inside you. Stopped buying condoms the first time you guided him bare.
He’s never looked back since then. Might be a kink of his, come to think of it. The sensation of becoming entirely one with you, of leaving a warm part of his very soul that it feels like the ultimate culmination of a hundred different overlapping obsessions. Your immaculate taste in underwear, the very intoxicating taste of you.
Your voice. The deliberate way you pronounce his name. Your restless, wandering hands now gripping your chest, hard nipples peaking between keen fingers.
The sound your body is making. Squelching and sloshing and spilling and dripping as you openly drown in your own pleasure.
You’re wet enough, he decides. Although it doesn’t stop him from gathering a thick pool of saliva behind his teeth again. Lets the string of drool land directly onto your clit before his thumb lands right on top of it. Swirls the little nub with eager eyes as he visibly drinks in another spill of arousal leaking right through the desperate clench of your cunt.
Clench, unclench. Suck, squeeze, hold. You’re practically making a mess on his desk, squirming erratically against the wood in your own puddle the second he quickens the pressure of his thumb.
He wonders if you can cum with just the tip of his cock and the focused burn on your clit.
You show him that you can. Easily. With a tremor that forcefully smears your slickness further across the polished mahogany while your back bows sharply and your eyes roll back in absolute delirium. Watching you swim in a mindless haze is enough to shatter whatever control he had left.
He cums easily, too. Does so by dropping his head with a wildly heaving chest as he quickly strokes the remaining inches of his cock. Pleasure melts right into his bones, as does his cum, spilling hot and thick inside you before letting it overflow across your stretched folds, along the quivering juncture of your legs.
He makes sure it seeps into the edge of your panties. White on purple. Like a painter aggressively smearing his living canvas by swirling your arousal and his cum and his trail of hot saliva into one glob of a creamy mess.
He spits again. Because he can't help himself.
And you laugh. Weak and fond and amused while you lean back on your elbows to watch him obsess over his art.
“You’re such a perv, you know that?”
He does, there’s no point in denying it. But admittedly, he's your perv. And you are his, considering you’re already trying to swallow him whole the moment he tries to nudge back in. Sure, his obsessive streak can be a little overwhelming for polite society, a definite negative for most people to handle. But it’s a good thing two distinct negatives have always made a positive.
Reasonable, then, when it's both of you in the equation.
So he throws you a smirk in return, drags you flush against his hips, and finally fucks you deep.
⤷ 𝓼𝓯𝔀. leon is a stray dog of a man. first kisses. 𝟸.𝟿𝓀
leon is overly tired and very grumpy. it’s no surprise really when he rolled home in the early hours of the morning, bruised and so battered from his recent assignment—spain, if you remember it correctly—but since then, he clearly hasn’t slept and his mood is suffering for it. so, you take it upon yourself to fix it for him
“hey, leon?” you call out softly from your spot on the couch and then wince when you hear a cupboard door slamming shut in the kitchen. he’s been banging around in there for a while and truthfully, you have no idea what he’s trying to accomplish and you find it best not to ask, “c’mere for a second, please,”
it takes a moment but eventually, he leans around the kitchen doorframe with a frown pulling at his brows. he looks exhausted, his eyes are sunken in and the dark circles that are discoloring the tops of his cheeks can’t even hide behind the blonde hairs that hang in front of his face, “what’s up?” he asks, grumbling
his voice is rough, scratchy and faintly worn out, causing it to sound far deeper than it usually does. butterflies swarm low in your stomach over it—like they always do—but you try to ignore it this time whilst you smile and stretch your arms out towards him, “come and lay with me for a while, please,” you plead
the frown that’s painted across leon’s face deepens, his eyes get distant on the surface but you can see behind it—you can see right through him. something soft and melting hides behind the ice of his eyes, something that he doesn’t allow himself to feel often, much less indulge in it when you’re offering, “why?”
answering that with honesty is complicated. telling leon that you’re trying to lure him in, make him relax, force him to be pliant so that he can be tempted with sleep won’t ever work, you learnt that early on and because of it, you’ve had to get creative with telling little white lies that’ll benefit him in the long run
“because, i want you to,” you answer simply, keeping your tone light and airy, treating him as if he’s a shelter animal that’s at risk of backing into the corner, that’s furthest away from wherever you are, with his teeth bared. it’s not really a lie either, you would like him to lay with you but your motives behind it don’t need to be discussed
“but, why?” he asks again, this time sounding desperate and slightly pathetic. he knows that you’re lying in one way or another and he’s letting you. he’d never admit it but you’re the only person that can get away with it. if it were anyone else, he would’ve turned tail and left without even entertaining it
your head tips to the side, eyes raking over his face—the scars, the bruises, the cuts—whilst you make the decision to be somewhat candid with him, if only for his sake, “i just don’t like it when you shut yourself in your room after an assignment, that’s all,” you explain, carefully, still watching him
leon nods, his tongue darting between his lips, “do roommates lay together often?” he snarks, though there’s not a whole lot of heat behind it. he’s trying to deflect your offer, make himself out to be someone that you wouldn’t want near you at all but much to his dismay, it won’t work. it never does and it never will
“i don’t think roommates is the right word anymore, leon,” you point out with a knowing look—one that reminds him of the times you’ve patched him up, scrubbed dried blood from his body and washed gunpowder and god only knows what else from his hair, all without a complaint. “stop being difficult and come over here,”
the change in his eyes is the first thing that you notice, the first sign of submission. the distant look gets overpowered by the softness in an instant when he realises that he’s too exhausted to argue and what good would it do, he’ll only give into you in the end anyway, “yeah—yeah, okay,” he murmurs
finally, he steps out from where he was hiding against the kitchen doorframe. whatever he was doing—or rather, trying to do—in there seemingly becomes irrelevant as he shuffles towards you slowly with the telltale evidence of an ache that spreads throughout every single one of his limbs without his say so
still though, your eyes wander selfishly. his t-shirt is a size too small and clings to his biceps in all of the right places, his grey sweatpants hang low on his hips and one of the legs is caught up around his shin, exposing a ring of tanned skin between his clothing and his socks. he looks comfortable, for once
when he gets close enough, his teeth graze over his bottom lip and his gaze flickers between you and the couch and then over to the television that has been muted ever since you spotted him slinking out of his bedroom. he’s stalling but it only takes a soft flutter of your lashes to get him to cave and fall into you
it’s rather unceremonious and kind of clumsy. his limbs knock against your own and the couch creaks rudely with his added weight but eventually, he just gives up and sort of flops down on top of you, leaving his cheek smushing into your stomach and your legs spreading to accommodate his body
leon sighs. it rattles out of him while his arms snake around your waist, holding you pretty close for a guy who made out like he didn’t want this. it makes you smile, not that he can see it and for the first time ever, you hope that he can’t detect that butterflies that are still whirlwind-ing in your stomach, right under his head
instinctively, your fingers start to card through his hair. it feels like silk against your skin and it’s hard for you to imagine that not all that long ago it was thick with dirt and someone else’s blood—you try not to think about it as leon gives a small grunt of contentment, barely there and muffled but, it’s something
minutes pass by languidly, like time doesn’t really exist when leon is cosplaying as the most handsome weighted blanket. he stays quiet, enjoying the drag of your nails against his scalp and slowly, his breathing starts to even out as sleep starts to entice him but then he goes all at once and he jerks—hard
muscles pull taut all over his body while he goes from being on the edge of slumber to almost wide awake in the blink of an eye, “shouldn’t be—be doing this, i have work to do, reports and stuff” he rambles under his breath, trying to push himself up and away from you and this time you sigh deeply
guilt holds him in its grasp. survivors guilt—maybe. the constant feeling that he’s not allowed to relax, he’s not allowed to indulge in the simplest of things. the feeling that he has to keep going, an act of penance that’ll never be satisfied, no matter the amount of people saved or the heavy toll that it’s taking on his body
“leon—no, lay down,” you urge, though you sound more sympathetic than you’d like to. leon doesn’t like sympathy, he doesn’t like pity either but as your fingers slide underneath the neckline of his shirt and splay across tense muscles, he pauses, forces out a shuddered breath and then reluctantly relaxes again
“why do you even care about this?”
you flinch when leon can’t even ask why you care about him. he swaps the word with ease, leaves it unsaid but implied—even if he doesn’t mean to, “because i just do and if i didn’t, then who would?” you ask. it’s rhetorical, open ended if he wants to respond but there’s no pressure for him to try
strong arms loop around your waist again and large hands flatten against your spine, touching and committing the most ordinary parts of your body to memory, like it was made just for him, “you shouldn’t,” he whispers and the worst part is, he truly means it. he really doesn’t believe that anyone would care about him
“mhmm—sounded like a rough one this time so i’m trying to extra care of…this,” you breathe, repeating the same phrase that he used whilst shifting the subject ever so slightly. leon grunts in agreement—it was a rough job—and it gives you the chance to ask your favorite question, “do you want to talk about it?”
“no,”
just as you expected, the normal response. you have to ask him though and you won’t press the issue further, you won’t try to force him to open up about what he went through. instead, you leave it be and let an easy silence fill the space between you and him. you’re there if he changes his mind and that’s enough
in the meantime though, you drift your fingertips up and down the back of leon’s neck, tickling and just barely scratching your nails up through his hair and right back down to the top of his spine whilst leon seems to lose himself in a deep thought, one that allows you to see the proverbial cogs turning in his mind
a moment later, something shifts. you can’t pinpoint it and it’s odd because you feel it before anything really happens, almost like something prepares you for the shaky lungful of air that leon sucks into his body but then it leaves you high and dry, caught wholly off guard, for the gentle press of lips against your hipbone
it’s not a kiss—it can’t be. leon must’ve done it accidentally. too engrossed in his thoughts to realise that he did it but it felt like a kiss. fizzling beneath your skin, blossoming throughout your veins, a thing that you’ve wanted for too long. fleeting and sweet, causing you to overthink it, spoiling yourself with it. and then,
“i nearly died this time,”
your heart sinks. swooping low, stealing the air from your lungs. it hurts to hear, especially from a guy who has the most awful habit of consistently downplaying every single thing that happens to him, “w-what—oh my god—wait, come up here, please,” you gasp, screwing your hands into his shirt to haul him upwards
leon moves promptly, clambering and collapsing into the sliver of space between your body and the back of the couch. he slots in with ease and rolls you to face him, pressing his broad chest into yours as he settles his head against the armrest. he’s so close, more so than he’s ever been before but it's not enough
before you can think better of it, you’re draping your thigh up and over leon’s hip and tentatively resting your hand on his ribs but it doesn’t quite have the desired effect when leon flinches. a bruise from his assignment makes his body jerk and immediately, you feel awful and try to snatch your hand back
“no—don’t,” leon mumbles, vulnerable and out of his depth, while he catches your wrist and pulls your hand back to put it in it’s place. his own hand hovers over yours, displaying a size difference that makes you feel a little bit dizzy before his hand flits to your thigh and smooths tenderly up the outside of your leg
seconds bleed into minutes as you take the time to just exist with leon being so close. his breath fans over your cheek with every exhale and his hand squeezes lightly at your thigh but ultimately, you build up the courage to ask, “how did you—how did you almost…” you trail off, unable to say the words out loud
“that part doesn’t—it doesn’t matter,” leon answers you, too fast and frowning. his walls go back up—albeit, they’re only half the size that they normally are and ready to crumble at moments notice—while he attempts to draw your attention away from his confession. though, all it does is leave you feeling confused
an incredulous laugh bubbles in your throat, “leon—that’s insane, it does matter—you matter,” you rant frantically, hung up on the fact that you really almost lost him this time. sure—it’s a constant risk with his job but hearing him admit it makes it all too much for you to handle, “i mean—how can you even say that it—”
“i thought about you,”
oh. your previously sunken heart swells when leon cuts you off. your eyes widen as your breath hitches in your throat but your mind muddles with every single plausible implication of his words. maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part but it all leads back to one singular thing. still though, you blurt, “why?”
“i don’t know—i just—” leon stops himself and then presses his lips into a thin line. his eyes harden, only slightly, and his walls build themselves up to their full height. he’s struggling and you don’t blame him but you need to know and your fingers screwing into his shirt urges him on, “all i could think about was you and—”
you can’t take it anymore. you crowd into the small amount of personal space that he has left and press your lips into his and his walls collapse. he doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t waste another second before he’s kissing you back. soft, slow, sweet, all of the things that you weren’t entirely sure that he was capable of
his hand finds your waist, squeezing and tugging you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. your hand slides over his jaw and he doesn’t wince when you brush against the bruise that’s blooming underneath your palm. if it hurts him, he doesn’t show it because he’s too busy. he’s right where he wants to be
it’s all consuming, swallowing both of you whole where you lay on the couch until the air in your lungs begins to thin, causing you and leon to part your lips in an effort to breathe. he’s smiling though, you can feel it against your mouth whilst your chest rises and falls with every gasping breath
“shit—if i’d known—would’a told you ages ago,” leon mumbles in between kisses that have turned needy. it’s like he’s been teased with the taste of you and he’s worried that if he pulls away now, he’ll never get it again. somehow, the thought of that is far more harrowing than anything he’s ever encountered on a job
“what do you mean—ages ago?” you whisper, also refusing to interrupt the lazy flow of kisses that are being shared between you and him, as your fingers ghost up his jaw and into his hair once more. not pulling or tugging, just playing deftly in a way that makes him grunt low in his chest and grip your waist harder
he hesitates now. stuck somewhere between wanting to wear his heart on his sleeve and wanting to keep all of his secrets under lock and key. there’s a lull in his kisses, a moment where he’s too stuck to remember that he’s supposed to be kissing you back but when you threaten to pull away, he makes his decision quickly
“i think about you every time—all the time,” leon concedes with his bloodshot eyes wildly searching yours. he sounds sure of himself, no mumbling or muttering under his breath, he’s admitting it and you can practically see the weight of it lifting off of his shoulders, “it’s always just—you,” he breathes
inside of your chest, your heart is preparing to burst. it aches with happiness and an overwhelming sense of fulfilment and you can’t stop yourself from surging forwards to kiss him again. leon gasps as his bottom lip slots between yours—a sound that you haven’t ever heard from him—and then when you pull back, he grunts
“think about you too,” you giggle, sharing his sentiment, before you wriggle in close and tuck yourself against leon’s body. you fit together like puzzle pieces, your head slotting under his chin while his muscular arms wrap you up. you’ve found your place and you never plan on leaving, “miss you when you’re gone,”
“yeah?” leon chuckles, deep and throaty, muffled by his lips pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head as you yawn and nod in response, “thought you were trying to trick me into sleeping,” he teases, revealing that he knew what you were trying to do this entire time—you’re not mad about it though
still though, you playfully huff, “yeah—well—i am,” you mumble and press your ear against his chest to listen to the thrum of his heart beating. it’s an even thump, not panicked or rushed, just satisfied, “you’re gonna nap with me,” you garble around another yawn as leon’s exhaustion becomes infectious
“am i?” leon asks, though he’s already rearranging himself to get comfortable and tightening his arms around you, holding you close and trapping you against him. you nod again, not giving him a choice, but he doesn’t seem to care when he’s kissing your temple and whispering a peaceful, “yeah—i am,”
thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!
tags: smut, cisfem!reader, wlw, p in v, simultaneous orgasms, fingering, face sitting, oral, uhh lots of fluids comingling, reader gets to be their pillow princess, fluffy pillow talk
a/n: you & leon are friends with benefits but I didn’t feel like writing a whole setup for it. but keep that in mind so the intro dialogue is less cringe haha. you could infer the beginnings of a throuple at the end (or not, up to you) but he’s down bad for you both
You never came out to Leon, per se. He put the pieces together after a comment you made in a casual conversation.
“Wait, you like women too?”
You shrugged like it was common knowledge. “Yeah, I do.”
“Huh…”
You watched him through narrowed eyes as he pondered it, nodding his head and looking up at nothing like he’d found the last piece of a puzzle and could now see the full picture of you clearly.
You scoffed light-heartedly. “What?”
“Nothing, just uh… if you don’t mind me asking, um…”
You and Leon were well past anything being TMI between you, and knowing him, whatever he said next was sure to be so dumb it’d be entertaining. Your voice was coated in amusement as you urged him on.
“Go ahead.”
He cleared his throat before continuing.
“Have you ever been with a guy and girl like… at the same time?”
You rolled your eyes to the back of your head. “Oh my god, you are such a guy.”
“No, no, I mean— well yeah, but just— I might know someone, if you wanted to.”
You paused and looked at him for a beat. He scratched the back of his neck nervously. Something in you sparked like flint catching against steel.
“Is she hot?”
That was the conversation that signed your death warrant, in retrospect. Because right now, you were sure you were in heaven.
“That’s it, baby, suck my cock.”
“She’s so sensitive, look at how she twitches.”
“Told you.”
“She’s taking us like such a good girl.”
Your sweat clung to the bedsheets below you from the sheer effort it took not to cum as they talked as if you weren’t there. But between Leon’s cock stuffing your mouth full and Ada’s lips fixed to your clit, you’d been reduced to muffled moans.
And Leon, ever the selfless lover, knew he wasn’t the star of the show here. He certainly didn’t mind watching you and her make out naked, wetting your fingers between the other’s legs while he sat back all but forgotten. And every position he suggested kept you and her in mind.
“Let her sit on your face while I fuck you, yeah? I know you’re dying to taste her.”
You gripped the soft flesh of Ada’s thighs to hold on as Leon rearranged your guts into the shape of him, pulling her further and firmly down to delve your tongue as deep as it’d go. She tasted like paradise found, the whole room was heady with pheromones, your senses tingled from the inside out as they each toyed with one of your breasts. Your face was covered in a coat of her sweet gloss as you lapped and needily suckled every square inch of the prettiest pussy you’d ever seen, your legs quivering around Leon’s waist as he held them open by the backs of your knees.
You thought you heard them kiss, but when Ada raised herself off of you momentarily, you could see her fingers in his wanton mouth. You whined as you sucked in a lungful of air, and then she sat back down again.
“Good boy, get them nice and wet. Does she feel good?”
“Mmhmm,” Leon moaned around her digits. You heard a wet pop and he shuddered before slurring. “God, s’alway so damn tight.”
Ada leaned forward and fixed her spit-slick fingers to your clit. You seized and cried helplessly into her cunt, pulling her hips to encourage her to grind on the flat of your tongue as Leon picked up speed.
Every moan you earned from Ada felt like you’d grabbed ahold of starlight itself, and every groan from Leon felt like being bathed in the warmth of the sun. Your pleasure was as constant as the plap plap of skin on skin, as continuous as Ada’s fingertips circling your wet clit dexterously.
And fuck, the way they kept talking, how Ada’s voice dripped like honey and Leon’s rumbled like broken thunder—
“That’s it, sweetheart, suck my clit— ahh— there, right there.”
“Come on, make her cum all over your pretty face. Then we’ll make you next, yeah?”
“Mm, keep— keep going, baby, earn it.”
“Shit, fuck— she must be close, gripping me like a goddamn vice.”
“Oh, oh, yes—!”
Her fingers faltered against your clit and her thighs clamped down against your face as she tumbled off the ledge, cumming with a string of breathless moans of your name. You lapped it up desperately as her slippery, sweet juices gushed into your thirsty mouth, the taste alone making your eyes roll back and your toes curl.
She hissed and hovered over you as your needy tongue became too much, and you lifted your head to follow her with a pointed lick, not wanting to leave behind a single drop that could be taken by you instead. She laughed drunkenly at you as she teased herself up and down, allowing you just one more lap up her center each time, just enough to make you dizzy.
Her fingers left your clit, but you didn’t have time to protest before more calloused ones replaced them. A shattered moan escaped you and Ada dismounted while you were preoccupied with the feeling to lay next to you on her side. You wrapped an arm around her to thread your fingers in her hair, careful not to pull as your pleasure began to mount.
She ran her fingers soothingly up and down your stomach, humming as she watched you get fucked: the way your brows curled up acutely, your jaw dropping in a silent scream, the rise and fall of your chest as you fought for heavy breaths. She couldn’t help but to take your ebbing breast by a squeeze of your hardened nipple.
It felt like you’d been launched from the bed and into heaven faster than light speed.
You cried out as you came undone with brutal force, clenching around Leon’s cock with every wave of tremors that rushed through you, his fingers on your clit becoming sharp and blindingly bright. They let out oh’s and expletives in revelrous awe, like they were mere witnesses to something holy and not the direct cause.
And just as they’d talked you up to it, they talked you back down too—
“There you are, give it to him.”
“Atta girl, cum on my cock.”
“So pretty when you let go for us.”
You floated back down to earth like a feather with each syllable, and Leon decelerated to a slow grind to let you get a grip. Then to each of your surprises, he shuddered and pulled out.
Ada cocked an eyebrow at him. "You could’ve cum.”
“I know,” he panted, “but I’m not done. C’mon, get on her.”
Ada swung a leg over and she was suddenly straddled above you, settling down until her breasts were flush with yours, biting her smiling lips as she nestled your pelvic bones flush together.
“We’ve had our fun, let’s let him have some now, yeah?”
She hooked her feet under your thighs to keep them parted, and you felt the bed dip as Leon knelt between them. You gasped as his fingers slowly dragged up and down both of your slits, commingling your silky fluids.
“Fuck, you two are so hot.”
And the way Ada’s face contorted as he pushed himself inside her? That was the most heavenly sight by far. You even refrained from kissing her so you wouldn’t interrupt it.
As Leon settled into her, you rested one hand on the dip of her lower back and the other on her ass. Once he started thrusting, she kissed you herself.
Leon covered your hand on her ass with his to spread her open, grunting in marvel at the sigh. Behind your eyelids, you imagined the image of what was happening and that alone was enough to make you moan into her kiss. It deepened as you did, your soft tongues melting together in a sultry sort of dance as you rocked together with the smooth force of Leon’s thrusts.
You’d be more than happy if that’s all that continued to happen, but Leon had other plans in mind. Your eyes parted open as the bed went still and you felt his tip notch into your opening.
Ada cooed praises into your ear as your mind became blown with how dirty it was. He slipped inside so easily, his cock undoubtedly dripping with her cum, sinking his full length into your own sopping center with ease.
He rocked in and out of you slowly, deliberately, letting you feel each thrust and the friction of your own velvet walls as they sucked him in. With Ada flush on top of you, you were sure she must feel him bulging against your stomach each time he bottomed out.
He pulled out again. You wondered where he went. A melodic moan from Ada’s throat was all you needed to know he’d entered her again.
You gasped as he pushed back into you.
Then her.
Then you.
Then her.
Then you again.
It was downright pornographic, the way he alternated between you, his voice going up in pitch each time. He too was in heaven.
It felt like such a perfect tease each time you were filled only to be left empty, then stuffed full all over again, over and over and over. Ada clung to you like a dirty angel, her skin dampening with sweat as she nestled her face into your neck, panting against your pulse point. You trembled more and more each time Leon entered, and you bit your lip as a white hot coil twisted in your stomach.
You could hardly articulate the feeling:
“Leon, Leon, please, oh fuck—“
He knew the answer anyways:
“I know, I know, I’m close too, just—“
The next time he plunged into your pulsing walls, he hammered in with a lot more purpose.
Ada reached back, fanning her hand at him mindlessly. She couldn’t put a sentence together either, but Leon knew what she meant.
He fixed two fingers inside of her and curled them up and down. He braced his other hand on your upper thigh and strummed his thumb against your clit.
You all devolved into strings of words with no discernible meaning.
“Oh, there, ahh—ahh—“
“Fuck, I’m—oh my god—“
“Jesus fucking— oh, please—“
Then you all shattered as one being.
Leon pulled out with a sharp withdrawal, hands unwilling to leave you and Ada as he kept coaxing you both through it.
Leon kept his hands fixed to you and Ada both, continuing to coax you through it as he pulled out with urgency. He groaned with each convulsion, his cock jumping with each rope of cum; and whether he intended it or not, with the angle of his hips—
You felt the warmth of each rope as it landed on you and as it dripped from Ada’s cunt to yours.
You all came down the earth with lightheaded heaves. Leon urged his vision to stop swimming as he burned the sight into memory with each heavy blink: the two loves of his life tangled up in each other, each one’s pussy painted with his cum.
He stared at it every second until Ada eventually rolled off of you, and he stared a little longer at you lying together. Two angels blessing his bedsheets and glowing with sweat and sex, your mussed-up hair falling like halos against his pillows. Dirty in a way that made him aware of the beats his heart skipped, beautiful in a way that made it impossible to stare longer instead of joining.
He crawled up right beside you and splayed an arm over your torso, his fingers idly rubbing Ada’s side where they met. You curled an arm under him to weave your hand into the soft hair on the nape of his neck.
“We need a towel,” Ada cooed.
Leon chuckled once. “Guess you don’t know where they are, huh?”
He flicked her side playfully, and she giggled and batted it away before letting him go back to the mindless circles he drew on her ribcage. You gave them each a curious look at whatever hid in the subtext. You knew it’d been a long while since they slept together, but it sounded like they missed it.
Fuck, you hope they did. Then maybe this could happen again.
“I’ll just change the sheets,” Leon thought out loud, and then he asked her, “are you staying?”
She hummed as she pretended to think. You felt her turn to look at you, and you met her gaze with hopeful eyes.
“Sure...”
You smiled. She kissed your cheek.
“...If you make us breakfast in the morning.”
Both of you looked at Leon expectantly. His eyes flicked between you and her before he nuzzled back into you, resigned.
“Alright, fine.”
You and Ada giggled and made his grocery list for him.
“Are you a savory or sweet breakfast person?” “Depends on the day.” “Why not get stuff for both?” “Okay, like toast? That’s versatile." “Ooh what about french toast?” “Leon, do you know how to make french toast?”
He nuzzled further into you to hide the smile on his face as he grumbled into your skin.
“Women…”
a/n: I simply couldn’t resist the last line I’m not sorry
leon kennedy [post-re2r] x ex-gf!reader (no y/n used) — 3k words
leon broke up with you right before raccoon city. but that's not the end of the two of you, not by a longshot.
SMUT 18+ MDNI; p in v unprotected sex, creampie, oral (m receiving), cowgirl, leon caught masturbating lol. confessions during sex. post-raccoon city leon hurt/comfort/angst. let me know if i missed anything
♪ feel the pain by dinosaur jr. [spotify] [youtube]
The first thing Leon hears when he wakes is the soft patter of the shower running in the other room, and your sweet humming floating above it.
His eyes blink open slowly, and he rubs some of the sleep out of them. It’s a mere 9:12 in the morning. He hugs the pillow underneath his chest and buries his face back in it. It smells like you.
You had answered half a second after the first ring when he called you back finally. You rambled about seeing what happened in Raccoon City on the news, how you were so worried about him, nearly half crying from relief that he was alive. Leon was honestly shocked that you had reached out, so soon after he had broken up with you.
“I think… I think it’s best if we end things. Here.” The words escape his throat as if he’s choking on a pill. Your face falls into something he hasn’t seen before; true shock, followed by confusion.
“Are you fucking with me, Leon?” It’s a harsh question, words edged sharp as a knife. You can tell he’s not joking, but you are in such disbelief at what he’d said that you have to know it’s for real. Have to make him say it. That after months of finally feeling seen and held by someone who truly cares, he’s throwing it all away because of what ifs.
“No,” he swallows and stares down at his hands, fidgeting on the table of the coffee shop. An impersonal place; one you’ve never been to together. No attachment, something he thought would make this all easier. To part and become strangers again. It only creates a thicker tension. “Look, I’m-I’m moving all the way to Raccoon City, and I’m going to be working weird hours. There’s risks involved— you deserve something more stable—”
“I don’t want stable,” you reach for his hand, but he yanks it away before your fingers touch. He can’t bear to do this with your warmth on him. He won’t be able to. “I want you, Leon. Isn’t it obvious? Why can you take risks on your job but I can’t with you?”
“I don’t—” There’s no good answer from him. You’re right; you nearly always are. But he’s dug his heels in. Maybe it’s the fear of attachment, or the fear of abandonment. Maybe it’s being used to being alone. Maybe it’s wanting to be the hero, to save people of something like his youth. “Listen. Just go home. You’re better off without me. I’m sorry.” And that’s how he left it. Left you, sniffling at that café, while he found himself at a bar to drink away the pain.
You could tell he was still reeling from the events of his first day at… work. There was something shaky in his voice, something quieter about him. Even over the phone it was obvious. It pulled at your heart. There was no way in hell you wouldn’t be there for him when he’s going through this. Fuck the break up. And you’d told him as much.
Leon feels stupid for thinking that letting you go was a smart decision. But he also feels a pool of guilt, of selfishness in his stomach for asking you to come over. For pulling you back into his bullshit. Yet here you were, showering in his newly acquired, much nicer hotel room paid by the government as part of an uncomfortable exchange for his recruitment to STRATCOM. They’d promised him an apartment soon enough, but he imagines it will feel just as hollow.
At least with you here, it felt a little more like a home.
The second he opens the door, he’s struck dead in his tracks. You’re in front of him again, by some miracle. Really there. Hair a mess from the wind, your jacket falling off your shoulder, and a container of food gripped in your hands. Even through the long pause of you looking at each other, the pull is obvious. You have tears in your eyes again, like the last time he saw you. But they’re different this time; something along the lines of relief rather than frustration.
Your arms reach for him and he can’t stop himself from falling into the hug. Your fingers are warm. They’re steady. Your wrist thrumming with a pulse against his back. The last touches he’d had were ones of the undead; cold and hungry grabs that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Even Ada’s stray brushes hadn’t been something to fawn over; although she’d had a semblance of care for him, they were marred in his memory by her betrayal.
Even just a week out from his last day with you, it felt like a lifetime ago since he’d last felt genuine touch. So much has happened since then. Holding you in his arms is, at the very least, surreal, and at the most, a heaven he’s not sure he even deserves. Not when so many lie dead, slipped from his grasp.
“I thought I wasn’t going to see you again for a second, there.” The weight of your voice nearly sends him to the floor. Real and close, buried in his chest like before he’d turned everything into a mess. He squeezes you tighter, a little afraid you’d turn tail and run when you discover he isn’t quite the same man as he had been before. Something had shifted, something darker and quieter at the forefront now. But when you pull away just enough to look at him, it’s like nothing has changed for you. There’s worry, a little frustration, pulling at your expression. But the fire in your eyes is a warm one; a fight he’d come to be too familiar with. He can’t bring himself to make a bad joke. He can’t think of much of anything except your hands on him. You fill the space for him. “Can’t get rid of you that easy, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry,” is what eventually falls out of his mouth, like a bowling ball through a weak laminate floor. Your eyebrows raise and a sigh blows from your lips. A small smile curves your mouth upwards, and it’s tinged with affection in a way that makes Leon’s knees weak. He lets himself go now, crumbling to the floor and gripping your legs like they’re the only thing holding him upright. And they may as well be. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, Leon,” his name said so sweetly, like its own kind of hug, breaking a dam in him. A choked sob leaves him and you kneel with him, taking his head into your chest. You don’t tell him it’s going to be okay, you don’t shush him. Nothing is okay for him right now, and it’s just a fact you’ve accepted. But regardless, you’re here. You’re here to help him get there. And he’s never been so grateful for something in his entire life.
It’s laughable, really. That he’d thought he could get away with ending things.
You’re more stubborn than he is, especially when given enough reason to know better. And you can read him like a picture book.
From the bathroom now, your humming turns to singing as another song pops in your head. It drags him from his deep well of thought, pulling him up with a kind, open hand to your dazzling smile etched in his memory.
He rolls onto his back and sighs again, then feels his ears reddening when his thoughts trail back to last night. Your body on top of his, the both of you desperately kissing, and near tears with the need to be close. Your hands trailing down his back, crying his name like he hadn’t broken your heart not even a week ago.
He’d kissed you hard like he regrets ever pushing you away. And he does.
You’d kissed him like he’s your whole world, like forgiveness is as easy as taking a breath. Because it is.
You know why he pulled away. And you managed to reel him back in. Because you know Leon. You know he goes cold when he’s scared. But you don’t take your pull for him lightly. You’re in it for the long haul. And even if you hadn’t said as much yet, you love him.
The risks don’t matter. You just want him.
The night prior had been an illustration of that much. All intimacy and yearning. And your suspicions were confirmed; he feels the same. He was just as frenzied, hands all over you and pressing you closer and closer until you were sure you’d meld together.
Leon feels morning wood straining at his boxer briefs, absentmindedly brushing his hand over his erection as he thinks of you. All teasing smiles, with something deeper underneath. Your eyes sparkling and your scent slipping around him like a trance. Soft fingertips slipping underneath his shirt, and a velvet smooth voice asking if what you were doing was okay. Because you know he’s not. But he’d wanted— needed the closeness regardless. Not just because you were a warm body, no. He wanted you.
The shower’s still running.
He pushes his hand underneath and tips his head back in a low groan.
Flashes of you play in his mind like a dirty movie and he spits in his hand to go in for a stroke. His eyelids slip shut and he jerks his cock slowly, trying to recreate the hot, intimate pace you’d set last night. Sweaty skin sticking to each other, warm breath all over his neck, moaning sweetly in his ear. Kisses on his jaw.
Fuck, he’s in love with you.
The drag of his palm against his length is nothing compared to your heat. And it’s a shallow version of the pleasure of you, his skin feeling egregiously bare without your hands on it, tracing all over until you’re grabbing him. Holding him like he’s your anchor, like he’s something stable.
A deep groan comes from his chest at the vision of you holding him. Your hands clawing at his back as you nudge him further inside of you, to be as close as possible. A confirmation that you’d missed him just as much as he’d missed you, that the separation was indeed, too, a devastating misery for you. And yet you’d met his eyes with nothing short of confidence. There’s a spark there, a sense of trust that he feels he must have damaged when he left. But you’re so forgiving with your touch, so easily understanding and patient with him. The tears that prick his eyes when you’d shown up, when you were underneath him, when you woke at 2 in the morning from his restless tossing. None of it fazed you, and, in fact, you welcomed him into your arms easily. Like he’s meant to be there.
The desperation and need to be close that you display sends a heat wave through his already knotted lower stomach. Begging him for more, giving him praise, like he was anything but a failure. You still want him. With an enthusiasm that matches his own. Your babbled, pleased sighs play on loop in his mind, and he picks up the pace beneath the fabric of his briefs with a whimper.
He doesn’t hear the bathroom door open once you’ve finished showering, and he’s still got a hand moving beneath his boxers as you stand and watch. You almost think you’re making it up when you see him like that; eyebrows pulled upwards and heavy sighs escaping his lips. You shift your feet, clutching your towel tighter around you. You clench your legs together when Leon lets out a breathy, quiet moan of your name. It takes you a few seconds, but the horniness instills some kind of bravery in you.
“Need some help, handsome?”
Leon feels embarrassment run up his spine in a hot flash, and his eyes fly open, his hand freezing in his underwear. Still glazed over with desire, but wide with surprise. He feels like he can’t speak as you drop your towel and your nude form is climbing into bed, slinking between his legs. Your hand covers his, a layer of fabric between. You kiss him slow, pulling down his underwear as you lick open his mouth. His length peeks out from beyond his fist, weeping arousal. You pry open his fingers and slip your own through his, your other hand coming to stroke up his length once, twice, using your thumb to swipe his precum with it. He shivers at the slick coating his cock and inhales sharply at your touch.
“I-” He begins, breathing heavily on your lips. You shut him up with another kiss.
“It’s okay,” you silence any of his apologies that were on the edge of his tongue. “‘s hot.” Leon’s hand tightens where it’s been at the back of your neck as you kiss down his chest, all the way to his leaking tip. You take him in your mouth and he lets out a high-pitched whimper.
You bob your head up and down at a deliciously steady pace, stroking the remaining of his length as you go. He watches you with sex-dazed ocean eyes, holding your hair back to keep it out of your face. He wants a clear view of you, your misty lashes from the depth you’re taking him, the way your back is arched, your hand on his thigh. He thinks he must have died because surely there’s nothing he’s done to deserve this in the waking world.
“Fffuu- fuck, baby,” he sighs, he’s rambling now. Mouth running with sweet things like so perfect and you feel so good and then, suddenly it manifests aloud this time:
“God, I’m in love with you.”
You come off him with a grin on your face. You’re still stroking his cock when you kiss him, tongue pushing past his lips greedily. There’s something soft in your eyes despite the position you’re in when you pull back to look at him.
“You mean that? Or is it just ‘cause I’m giving you head?”
“Both,” he sighs. Then he shakes himself from the haze, realizing the can of worms he’s just opened. “I mean- um, yeah. Yes. Yes.”
“You break up with all the girls you’re in love with?” Your tone is light, teasing, but Leon can’t rid himself of the guilt sitting heavy on his shoulders.
“I thought it was for the best, I-” he looks down and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I just thought it’d keep you safe.” You’ve let go of him now, in favor of straddling his lap. You take his face in your hands.
“I know,” you say, like it’s so simple. A pause hangs in the air as you kiss his cheek. “I’m here for you, Leon. I don’t care if there are risks, or if it’s going to be hard. I want you. All of you.”
Leon’s heart cracks open. He clings to you like sticky caramel, pressing his face into your neck. You hold the back of his head against you to encourage his touch. He takes in a shaky breath, and the exhale has words alongside it.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You deserve to be loved,” you run your fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck. He sighs, squeezes you tighter. “And I love you, too, by the way.” He looks at you now, blue eyes all soft and teetering on something like a puppy who’s just got his ears scratched for the first time. Just like that, you’re kissing again, deeper with something more passionate awakened. You grind on his lap, and your moans layer on top of each other at the feeling.
“I need you,” Leon breathes. You pull his hand between your thighs, right where it’s burning hot with need.
“You've got me,” you lean into his ear, riding his hand as he rubs you. Your slick is everywhere, on your thighs and his, and now, as he presses his cock against you, slipping down his length.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he whines. “Can I-”
“Please, Leon,” you don’t let him finish his question. You can feel your pussy clenching around nothing just at the feeling of him so close to you. He goes back in for a kiss, all tongue and teeth as if he wants to swallow you whole. It’s not pretty. It’s frantic, begging. And it’s unbelievably sexy to know he wants you just as bad as you want him.
You grind on his length as he presses it against your vulva, letting your slick lube him up. Everything is hot and wet; his kisses, your most intimate areas. The beads of your shower clinging to your shoulders. And it’s punctuated by the wet, squelching sound of him sliding home inside of you. The stretch is unbelievably good; like coming home after a long day. Your moans against each other’s skin completes the chorus of filth.
Leon’s hands grip desperately at your ass as you begin to ride him. You move your hips in slow, deep circles that have your noises turning breathy. He watches you like a painting; taking in each detail, every freckle and texture of your skin, the pattern you move in. Eyes half-closed in pleasure, meanwhile your mouth is slack from how good it feels to be loved like this.
“You are so beautiful,” he sighs. Your hands slide up his pecs, over his shoulders. His muscles are strong, secure from his training. He’s built, but only the beginning of what he’s talked about having as a goal. There’s still a bit of baby fat that clings to his cheeks, his tummy. And you secretly hope it’ll stay. It’s a remnant of the boyishness you’d fallen in love with. Maybe, just maybe, something this quieter, troubled Leon can hang on to. For his own sake.
“You’re gorgeous,” you gasp into another kiss, then trail down to his jaw, the length of his neck. He tips his head back eagerly for you to take what you want. Suck a bruise onto his neck. He nearly whimpers at being marked, thrusting upwards into your downward moves and loosening your lips in a groan. “Fuck, Leon, right there.”
“Yeah?” His voice is airy and swims with lust. He grips your hips tight and nearly growls as he continues to meet your movements. “Shit, you’re squeezing me.”
“‘M getting close,” you whimper. He throws head back to the wall when you begin to bounce faster. Your hands find purchase on his chest, and he brings his own palms over them. His fingers slide into the gaps of yours easily, and you squeeze tightly as you ride closer and closer to the peak. “Look at me, baby.” All Leon can do is obey, and he nearly melts at the way your sweet eyes are already boring into him. One of your hands leaves his to cup his cheek, slipping fast into his hair when he thrusts upward into you again. The noise of pleasure that escapes your mouth encourages him, and he does it again. Again. Again. Again. Until a drawn out whine is leaving you and a jumble of words afterward as you frantically chase your high. “Fuckfuckfuck, Leon, ohmygod, I’m gonna—”
“Please, please, please,” is all he can manage to get out. Your walls squeeze like a vice and trap his throbbing cock. All he can do is rut upwards as your release wets his shaft and runs down to his balls.
"Let go for me, baby, I'm right here," your voice in his ear breaks something in him, and his eyes go misty.
Relief, pleasure, love flood him all at once and he lets out a strangled noise that he's not sure he could recreate. The warmth, the wetness, the sharp tingle of your nails into his pec have him orgasming before he can even think to warn you, and you let out a high-pitched noise of pleasure at the feeling. His cum spurts hot and never-ending into you as you grind down. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at the overstimulation. His hips twitch upward as he devours you in a messy kiss.
“I love you, shit, I love you.”
“I love you, Leon,” you reply easily, a breathy laugh on the edge of your words at his eagerness.
The two of you slump over once he’s finally spent, and you match your breathing to his heaving chest as you both try to catch your breath. His heart thrums against his ribs like a kick drum. The rhythm is rife with solace.
It’s quiet for a moment, the hum of the ceiling fan smooth against your hurried breath. Leon’s fingertips skim upwards across your back. They’re rough now; callouses forming where there once was soft skin. A mark of the long hours spent clutching a gun in Raccoon City. Even the academy hadn’t given him such visible signs of his training.
“Do you… want to talk about what happened? That night?” You didn’t have to specify. It looms over the two of you regardless, even through the comfort of each other. His muscles tense at your question. His arms circle around you tighter, like a child and his well-loved teddy bear.
“Another time,” he manages to say after a long pause. The words are thick with unspoken fear; something he’s attempting to bury deep in his chest. You decide to give him a little more time; to not press further when he’s already got a million things going on as his world spins faster than before. He's safe, here in your arms, and that's enough for now.
“Okay,” you murmur. Your fingers curl against his chest and you bury your nose into his neck. “I’ll be here when that time comes.” Leon swallows another round of tears at that. They’re almost drops of relief this time. He grounds himself with your scent, breathing deep in your hair. The cheap hotel shampoo smells of fake lavender, but there’s hints of you coming through now. Of your love and devotion. Sweat, and a bit of sex. It’s warm. Heady. And still so comforting.
genre : comedic banter, funny banter, flirt, romance? idk, fluff?, language, suggestive language, but nothing way too explicit
wc: 1.4k
Summary — You were peacefully cooking dinner until your husband, Leon S. Kennedy, came home from grocery shopping suddenly way too needy for your attention. But unfortunate for him your daughter, luna, had other plans for the evening.
As you stood in the kitchen, your apron tied neatly over your floral dress, you quietly inhaled the warm air around you; rich with the scent of fresh pasta sauce and garlic sizzling softly in the pan and slowly; absentmindedly you stirred them together.
And for once, everything felt peaceful.
Honestly, if you thought back on it, you never truly believed he would ever be yours. But now, here you are, cooking dinner for your small family, as you think about it; a small smile slowly appears on your face.
Your thoughts were pulled away the moment the front door opened, and your five-year-old daughter yelled dramatically from the living room, “Mommyyyyy! Dadddyyyy’s home!”
You chuckled softly and craned your neck to glance outside the kitchen, though obviously it was useless, so you simply shook your head instead and called back, “Yes, sweetie.”
As Leon entered the house, you heard the door click shut behind him, followed by quiet whispers and tiny giggles shared between him and your daughter. The sound alone warmed your heart so tenderly that you found yourself zoning out again while stirring the pan.
A second later, his footsteps echoed in the kitchen as Leon finally walked inside; carrying grocery bags in both hands. You paused for a moment and turned to look at him, only to realize he looked far too ridiculously attractive for a man who had just gone grocery shopping. His sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly messy, exhaustion lingering on his face in the prettiest way possible. His eyes are solely on you and you feel yourself getting a little shy.
God even after eight years of marriage he still made you feel like that. “Bought everything?” you asked instead of focusing on his stupidly attractive frame, and trying to sound composed, but you knew your voice might have betrayed you anyway so, you turned your attention back toward the pan.
“Mhm,” Leon hummed lazily.
You barely had time to blink before he set the grocery bags down on the floor with a soft thud and walked straight behind you, his large hands immediately sliding around your waist. “Leon—” you breathed.
But he only hummed quietly against your shoulder, pulling you back flush against his chest as if he hadn’t seen you in weeks instead of a few minutes.
His warmth instantly surrounded you. “You smell so good,” he muttered, voice rough from exhaustion, his nose brushing against the side of your neck before he pressed a lazy kiss there.
You tried focusing on the pasta again, though your hand slowed on the spoon almost immediately, and you felt your knees weaken at the kiss, “I’m cooking.” you say quietly.
“I can see that.” Leon whispered and pressed another kiss behind your ear, making you tingle all over “Leon,” you laughed softly, already feeling your face warm, “the sauce is gonna burn.”
“Then turn the heat down.” Leon breathed against your skin, the audacity in his voice made you shake your head, but your lips betrayed you with a smile anyway.
Behind you, Leon sighed dramatically, tightening his arms around your waist like he physically couldn’t stand being more than an inch away from you. His chin rested on your shoulder while his fingers lazily rubbed circles against your stomach beneath the apron. “Missed you,” he murmured.
You blinked slightly, and felt your shiver at his touch at how soft he sounded. He still did this sometimes, said things so simply, so honestly, that it caught you completely off guard. As if loving you came as naturally to him as breathing. “You were gone for like… twenty minutes” you teased quietly.
“And it was terrible,” Leon complained in a tired voice.
His comment made you chuckle instantly. “That bad?”
“Everything without you is,” Leon replied innocently as he buried his face deeper against your neck, breathing in your scent in a way that made your eyes flutter shut for a second, warmth stirring deep in your chest.
You tried elbowing him lightly, but Leon only sighed dramatically and held you even closer.
“Leon!” you shrieked quietly. “Luna will see us!”
“See what?” he asked against your skin, sounding far too innocent. “That her dad loves her mom?”
Heat immediately rushed to your face at his comment. “Oh my God, you are stupid,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you elbowed his chest playfully again.
This time Leon acted personally wounded by it. “So violent,” he complained under his breath, but still instead of pulling away he tightened his arms around your waist while his other hand wandered teasingly across your torso, he stopped when he finally found the swell of your breasts and grazed it slowly with his thumb, making your breath hitch embarrassingly fast.
“Fuck, Leo—” you breathed out, instinctively pressing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to ease the warmth spreading through your body.
Leon chuckled deeply; as he knew what he was doing, slowly he leaned closer to your ear and spoke in that rough voice that always made your entire brain stop functioning. “I wanna take you right here,” he murmured; “bend you over this counter until all you can think about is me.”
Your entire body short-circuited at his comment, a faint flush spreading all over your body, “Leon Scott Kennedy—”
Just then, you heard tiny footsteps marching toward the kitchen. Leon groaned instantly, slumping his chin onto your shoulder as he gave your breast one last teasing squeeze before you swatted his hands away like he was a pesky fly.
Leon chuckled softly against your ear as he settled for holding your waist instead. A second later, Luna appeared dramatically at the kitchen entrance holding one of her stuffed animals upside down.
You knew she was coming here but still physically jumped away from Leon in horror, like you’d just been caught doing something illegal by your parents.
Leon, completely unhelpful as always, looked far too amused by your panic.
But thank God Luna didn’t seem to notice anything.
You shot Leon a glare sharp enough to kill, already deciding you were absolutely going to murder him later, lovingly, of course.
“Daddy,” she said again, still staring at Leon suspiciously, “Mr. Buttons threw up again.”
Silence, the silence afterward her comment made you bite down hard on your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Leon stared at her for a long moment before dragging a tired hand down his face. “Sweetie… that’s a stuff toy.”
“No,” Luna argued confidently, clutching the poor teddy bear tighter as she stepped towards Leon with hushed tears in her eyes, “he threw up. Can you fix him?”
Leon sighed and it was the sigh of a man who had survived literal bioweapons only to lose against a five-year-old’s imagination. “Alright,” he muttered dramatically, crouching down in front of her. “Let me examine the patient.”
Luna gasped. “Is he dying?”
“Not really. But he has a severe cotton explosion,” Leon replied seriously, turning the toy around like an actual medic while you nearly choked trying to hold back your laughter.
Luna looked horrified. “Save him, Daddy!”
“I’ll do my best,” Leon said solemnly, giving Luna a dramatic fake salute, which makes you chuckle instantly, leon glancing at you narrowing his eyes; so instead you cover it with a loud cough.
Leon smiled afterwards at you his gaze softening as he turned his attention towards her again and before he could even stand properly again, Luna grabbed his hand and began pulling him toward the living room with all her tiny strength while he allowed himself to be dragged away unwillingly. “C’mon! Hurry!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he groaned dramatically as he gave you one last look over his shoulder, giving you a “Save me” smile but you just stuck your tongue out at Leon, which made him grin stupidly big.
“Later,” Leon muttered under his breath and turned away; as your daughter finally managed to pull him towards the living room, leaving you all alone; and just like that, the kitchen fell quiet again.
Now standing there alone, your cheeks felt warm and red from laughing, the aroma of dinner still swirling softly through the kitchen. Hearing Leon, your goofball husband, playing with your daughter in the other room made you realize maybe… this is what heaven felt like.
⤷ 𝓷𝓼𝓯𝔀. 𝟏𝟖+. clit play. p in v. multiple orgasms. 𝟸.𝟷𝓀
“mhm, i don't think s’gonna fit, baby,”
teasing. leon’s teasing. he has to be after he’s spent hours slowly working you open. making you come on his tongue and fingertips, making you drip until your cunt is soaked and puffy, all so you can take him like you want to but he just keeps teasing you and it’s torture
soft sheets stick to your sweaty back where you're laid out in the middle of your bed with your thighs spread and held down by leon’s large hands pressing into the backs of them. he looks huge towering over you, broad shoulders, rippling muscles and his big cock nestled against your aching and very empty pussy
“it will—you said so—please,” you babble mindlessly while you clench around nothing as if that will somehow prove that you’re ready for him. if you aren’t prepared by now then you simply never will be and the latter doesn’t bare thinking about when you need him to fuck you so desperately
leon’s big everywhere, it’s no secret to anyone really, but his cock had to have been crafted by some kind of god. even as he’s grinding along your core, there’s more of him not touching you at any given moment because of his size. he’s long and thick, a double whammy and more than you could have ever dreamt of
“i don’t know,” leon hums, long and drawn out whilst he tips his chin to his chest to look at the spot where your bodies meet. his fingers brush over the backs of your thighs, soothing trembling muscles in a way that only he could manage to do while he’s being so cruel, “don’t want to split you in half, sweetheart,”
you moan wantonly at the idea of it. being fucked full and broken in two on his cock. you want it—no, you need it. writhing against the sheets and begging is getting you nowhere, so you try a slightly different approach instead, “just the tip then, please,” you whimper and tickle your nails against his wrists
for the first time since he spread you wide, leon falters. a groan rumbles through his chest like thunder and his hips buck involuntarily, making his balls slap against your soft skin, “fuck—yeah, okay,” he mumbles under his breath, like you’re not supposed to hear it, and finally starts to pull his hips back
his cock slips down the center of your cunt, aided by the sheer amount of slick that’s coating your skin, and as the fat head of him slots against your hole, you suck in a harsh breath through your teeth. though, when leon still doesn’t give you what you want, you release it in a whiny, “please, please, plea—oh god,”
begs turn into sobs the second leon suddenly presses into you and stretches you around the tip of his cock. it aches in the best way possible and has your back arching away from the mattress as you fight against leon’s hands to squirm and force yourself further down his length
“not god but close enough,” leon grunts as you tighten like a vice, stuck somewhere between trying to pull him closer and push him out at the same time. he’s struggling too and you know it, the urge to sink into you is written in the furrowing of his eyebrows and his cock is twitching with anticipation
it’s not nearly enough to satisfy either of your needs though, just the tip of him was never going to be enough, but as your lips part and a beg for more sits right on the tip of your tongue, you look up at leon and see the smirk spreading across his face and you know exactly what it means straight away, “i can’t,” you pout
leon shrugs, “you can and you will, angel,” he rasps before he leans forwards slightly and spits directly onto your clit. you whine as one of his hands leaves your thigh and then moan when the calloused pad of his thumb spreads his saliva over where you’re very sensitive, “come like this, then i’ll fuck you, promise,”
electricity fizzles up your spine and shudders through your shoulders while you realise that he’s going to drag this out even longer. he’s going to make you come again and there’s nothing that you can do about it—not that you even want to try when you know that he’ll make it feel so good
your eyes pinch shut and your stomach tenses as his rough swipes turn into soft circles, going around and around your bundle of nerves, which causes your cunt to flutter around him. heat erupts in your stomach, a fire that’ll build quickly because it always does when leon’s the firestarter
“you’re just too small sweetheart, need to make sure you can definitely take me,” leon sighs condescendingly and you can feel his eyes on you, studying you, even though yours are still shut and you can’t actually prove that he's looking at you but somehow, you just know
he's good with his hands, he knows what he's doing, so the slide of his thumb over your clit is easy. all you have to do is lay there and take it, focus on the feeling that’s already beginning to coil tight and you’ll come in no time, especially if leon keeps talking filthy whilst burning holes into you
“fuck—wish you could see how tight you are, pretty little hole strugglin’ to take just the head of my cock,” leon murmurs as he ghosts his thumb down the center of your cunt. you huff over the loss of his touch but it’s back within a second and it’s devastating
his fingertip still goes in a circle but this time he’s tracing around the spot where your pussy is squeezing his cock. your delicate skin against his velvety skin, both wet and sticky with your slick and his precome as it leaks out of you. it’s filthy and it makes your head spin
you can’t help but sniffle and rake vicious lines over his wrist, the one that you can still reach and dig your nails into while he teases, and he returns the touch with a bruising hold on your thigh which makes your eyes flutter open, “ruin me, break me—please—just do anything,” you beg up at him
leon’s cock kicks and his jaw clenches, “yeah?” he grunts afterwards and then his thumb is back on your clit and rubbing harsher, uneven, circles, “fuck you full, make you bulge with my cock, mold your cunt to only take me, ruin you for everyone else?” he rambles through deep growls
“yes—fuck yes—you already have!” you wail while your thighs tremble and your clit throbs under his assault. there’s nothing nice in his movements anymore, it’s devolved into a driven need that’s dirty and abrasive and you love it even as it starts to become too much, too fast
everything in your body is screaming no as you hurtle towards another orgasm, the number of which is unknown because you lost the ability to keep count of them hours ago, but you can’t stop and you won’t stop while the ache in your stomach multiplies and your legs try to pull together, though leon won’t let them
“close, angel?” leon asks lowly and you could hear the smirk in his tone even if you couldn’t see it. you nod frantically in response, unable to use any of your words because of him, “yeah? you’re doing so good—fuck, you’re so good, letting me use you like this,” he groans, each word getting you closer
your chest begins to heave, panting in short, desperate breaths as leon’s thumb starts to swipe back and forth quickly over the tip of your twitching clit. you’re right there, teetering on the edge, ready to let bliss take ahold as your brain turns to mush. you just need one final little push and then—
“come baby, come for me,”
it’s such a simple order and yet, your body listens to it before you even have the chance to process it. the coil snaps and you choke on a sob while your entire body tenses and then shudders. your nerve endings burn in every part of your body, a white hot heat that spreads like a wildfire
somewhere distant is leon’s voice is ringing in your ears with a trickle of soft praises, “there you go, that feels better, huh?” he coos and strokes featherlight hearts—you think—into the outside of your thigh. when he let them snap shut, you don’t know, “uh huh—fuck look at you,”
around his cock your cunt has clamped down and pushed him out, leaving your hole empty again but you can’t find it in yourself to care when leon is wringing your orgasm for all that it’s worth by still brushing sporadic circles over your clit until you knock his hand away with a heavy feeling hand
“oh my god,” you whimper and then shiver through the last of the little aftershocks before you wriggle, “you promised,” you whisper, your tone laced with exhaustion while you remind him of the deal that he made and make it known that you do still want him to fuck you properly
leon chuckles as he leans over you and kisses your bottom lip just once before he pulls away. it’s sloppy and probably a little gross but it makes your cheeks flush anyway, “ready, sweet girl?” he asks and nudges his cock against your wet little hole, barely letting himself slip inside before he pulls back
“yes—please!” you blurt, much louder than you meant to but leon is far too focused on pressing into you to realise it. a silent gasp scratches your throat as he gives you back what you already had, the stretch is no longer there but your back still lazily curves away from your sheets over it
he goes slowly, excruciatingly slowly. each centimetre of his length has your jaw dropping further, while you stare up at him with big, wet eyes. every vein that’s strung around his cock drags against your fluttering walls and nothing else could ever compare to that feeling—a feeling that only leon can give you
once he’s half way in, you quickly feel full. it’s like your body simply has nowhere else for him to go because he’s already occupying every space, filling every spot and grinding against it no matter how sensitive it is. that, however, doesn’t stop your pussy from trying to pull him in
“sweeth—fuck—s’like you’re sucking me in,” leon hisses through clenched molars. his muscles are starting to tense and any composure that he had is slipping away rapidly but he’s held on for so long that you can’t blame him, even if it is his own fault, “shit—oh my god, fuck,” he groans
the last inches of his cock seem to sink into you quicker than the first ones did. whether it’s because you really are sucking him in or because he just doesn’t have the capacity to go slowly anymore, you really don’t care whilst your room gets filled with soft whimpers and deep grunts that sound like a song
that is, until leon bottoms out and nails your cervix
everything goes fuzzy. your vision, your nerves, your veins. you’re blindsided and blacking out whilst your pulse pounds against your eardrums and every colour of the rainbow bursts behind your eyes. you’re frozen, stuck in your mind while an orgasm rips through your system like a hurricane
it feels like lightning in every one of your limbs, seizing sore muscles and forcing a wrecked yelp from your lips. you've never felt anything like it and you're not sure you'll ever get close to it ever again. it's like a high that you don't want to chase
“oh—oh, are you coming, again?” leon’s asking but you can’t reply more than a stiff nod and a shove at his hip because he was right, it’s too much and you can’t take him all at once. he goes easily though, pulling out of you carefully whilst he hums a sympathetic, “good girl,”
losing all of his touch at once is horrid but you're too overstimulated for him to risk giving you anything whilst you writhe underneath him and even though you hate feeling empty in the moment, you'll thank him for it later
“too much,” you slur your words after sometime. your heart is still thumping in your chest and your eyelids are too heavy to open but it’s all made better by leon hovering over you and peppering soothing kisses to your burning cheeks, “too much,” you repeat, causing leon to hum and smile against your skin
“i know baby, i’m just far too big for you,”
thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!
a/n i proofread this badly because i’m so exhausted so if there’s any mistakes, please ignore them, thank yew, i love you !!!! 𑣲
summary: Leon has strict orders from you not to call when he's out in the field, even if it's safe to.
But something feels different this time.
warnings: post-RE9, contains spoilers, hurt/comfort, ptsd, anxiety, wound care, returning home, established relationship/wife reader, aftermath of violence, mentions of death, near death experience, brief fade-to-black sex
a/n: first time writing for leon kennedy kinda nervous. I've only played a couple of the re games so I'm not totally brushed up on lore, so apologies if anything is inaccurate. thanks for stopping by! if you like it, please consider letting me know what you think, or dropping a like.
“Does it hurt?” You ask before he leaves, beneath him on your bed, a soft gray light smeared across the sheets. It’s raining again, a patter that will swirl into a deluge by the end of the afternoon.
“Feels great.”
“Leon,” you chide.
The corner of his mouth curls. “A little.”
A little probably translates to it hurts like hell.
You rub your hand over the black spiderwebbing over the side of his throat, then the patch of it on the palm of his hand. He doesn’t wince, doesn’t even twitch, but you know he’s in pain. You know him too well, have known him for too long, to think otherwise. It’s evident in the persistent slope of his shoulders, the barely perceptible twitch of his fingers when you prod the pseudo bruising, the spaces around his joints. How ashen his skin looks, gray rather than merely pale.
“A little,” you echo and absentmindedly push a lock of gray streaked tarnished gold hair back from his eyes, then smooth your thumb down the crease around his still smirking mouth. “You’ve never been a good liar, don’t start now.”
You trace the dark webbing, like spun silk lines, ink dyed veins. There’s a pit in your stomach as you scratch a nail against one raised line, squeezing his wrist. It’ll be fine, you think, it’s always been fine. There, by some miracle, or maybe just sheer luck and effort, has always been a way things turn out fine.
“Hey.”
You hate when he does that, when he doesn’t say something snappy, and instead his voice is soft and commanding, gentle almost.
Leon cups your cheek with his other hand, but you refuse to let him tilt your gaze up.
You flip his hand over and trace the discoloration across the back of his hand, the tendrils that wrap up his pinky and ring finger.
You twist the silver metal band on his ring finger, push your hand flat against his, measuring your hand against his, and finally glance up.
“I guess I don’t have a choice, huh?” You smile. “I can’t keep you here safe.” You would never really try. You knew that when you met him, when you married him, but the sentiment stands. You tug at his collar, look at the veiny, stringy black climbing up the column of his throat. Soon it will snake behind his ear, crosshatch his jaw.
You’d been the one to notice it, spindly beneath your mouth when you kissed him there. A bruise, you’d thought, applied ointment to. You’d caught it on him after the third survivor of the Raccoon City incident was found dead. Then, a bruise that wouldn’t fade on the side of his ring finger that looked eerily similar to crime scene photos you’d snooped on over his shoulder one evening.
A bruise that grew, refused to fade. You started to suspect what it might be when it appeared on Sherry, too. And this is different, if it’s what you think it is.
Maybe that is why this time feels so different. There is always danger in his field of work, that you have accepted and made peace with, but this might be something he couldn’t fight.
He gathers your wrists in his hands, stops the anxious sweep of them. He pushes you back, pins you against the bed with his hips, body looming over and around yours.
“What? Worried about me?”
The intervening years have only made him bigger. Wide shoulders, huge biceps, thick thighs. The weight of him is nice, and you know that’s the point. He’s unnaturally warm, a living furnace, the fire of him seeps beneath your clothes. You can’t help thinking the heat of him is a little less potent lately.
Either you’re overthinking or you’re right, and both possibilities are equally awful. You don’t panic, but this has you on edge because if you’re right—
There’s a looming sense that he’s running out of time, an invisible clock ticking down minutes.
“Look,” you wriggle one hand out of his grip and push a finger into his chest, “I just don’t want to have to start over with someone else, okay? It would be really annoying if you died. Or whatever—” You stroke your thumb under his ear, “—the hell is happening here.”
He laughs and you hook your arms around him, pull him fully down against his like you could be absorbed beneath his skin.
Leon’s arms push beneath your back, crush a tight circle around your body. The pressure eases some of the tension threaded between your ribs. His hair brushes your forehead, a light tickle that touches a nerve in your temple that arcs down your spine.
“Just—come back.” It’s unlike you to ask, not like you to mention it at all. You got used to this a long time ago. You are unflappable, even before Leon and his career, nothing could ruffle you. It’s what makes you good at your job. “I’ll be waiting.”
He rests his head in the space between your neck and shoulder. He nods, kisses you there, against your pulse. “I promise to try,” he says against your skin.
“All I ask.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be a walk in the park.”
You roll your eyes, duck your head to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Love you.”
“Love you,” he answers, and then he’s pulling away, taking his warmth and presence with him. You watch him walk to the door and disappear through it, feeling very small and alone. It’s a big, old, elegant house, with sconces and creaky floors and a chandelier and a brick driveway.
The house seems to sigh in despair as the front door opens and closes.
.
.
.
The next night finds you in the staff breakroom, fiddling with the coffee pot with tired, twitchy fingers, trying not to let your thoughts wander or coalesce on one thing.
Leon always comes home, but something feels different this time. Your worry is a physical thing, perched on your shoulder, lounging in the periphery of your vision.
You weren’t supposed to be at work, but being in motion and occupied makes you feel better, useful, and distracts you at once. Sitting alone in your home, listening to the floorboards creak in time with your overwrought thoughts, would only make your unusual anxiety worsen, a spike and spiral that is impossible to come down from. It’s ridiculous. Only a little over 24 hours have passed.
The fluorescent lights flicker, and your overworked eyes ache in the glare, like they’re puffy and too large in your head. You hadn’t been sleeping before he left, and you certainly hadn’t last night. The bed far too empty and big.
You have a standing policy not to call each other when Leon is out in the field. You don’t call him; he has strict orders from you not to call even if it was safe to. You know what you would think each time, this is it, he's calling to say goodbye.
Imagining the worst is one thing, knowing is something else altogether.
This time is different. The worry runnels beneath your skin, like an itch you can’t quite scratch. You had thumbed at the screen of your phone restlessly all evening and the next morning, on and off, light, dark. No messages, not that there would be. No calls.
You didn’t sleep, hand over his side of the bed, wide awake in the dark. Remembering the kiss to your forehead, that awful black spiderwebbing on the side of his throat threading beneath the cup of your palm.
Your phone is heavy in the front apron pocket of your scrubs, the urge to reach for it and check it again is overwhelming. The ringer is off, you think, he could have called. As irrational as it is, you feel like he's trying to call, and you're missing it. You pull your phone out and lie it on the counter as the coffee percolates, popping and hissing, and look long at the blank, black screen, twisting your wedding ring around your finger, imagining the same black crawling up your own hand.
More violently than necessary, you fling out one hand and tap the glass. It flickers to life.
Nothing.
A sigh that sounds more like a growl crawls from your throat. You shove your phone back into your pocket, listen to the soft, custodial hum of the building around you. It’s late, the clinic is mostly empty, and peaceful in its silence.
It’s lonely.
When you get home, the driveway is empty and the house is dark, the front paving stones rain wet and slick beneath your sneakers.
The front entryway is dark, the floorboards creak beneath your shoes as you kick them off, the clatter echoing in the foyer and up the stairs, curving like a knife into the dark landing of the second floor.
When you flip on the living room lights, you half expect to find Leon there, sprawled in a bloody, dirty heap on the couch in the pooling yellow light.
It wouldn’t be the first time, though it would be the first time you found him there without a phone call telling you all was well, that he would be home soon.
But the couch is as you left it, a wool blanket draped across the back, plush velvet pillows askew, one sagging off the armrest and onto the dark wood parapet floor below.
You imagine him coming home, still crawling with bruises, death like a phantom over his shoulder. You think of holding his hand, letting him die easily. He deserved that, but you know it’s a pipe dream, a fantasy. If he was going to die, if it had anything to do with Raccoon City, he’d die out there.
Leon can only promise you so much.
You drop your bag and flit through the room to the kitchen, hungry but also itching to change out of your scrubs and not knowing what to do first in your anxious haze.
You feel as though you have been perpetually stuck in fight or flight mode, oozing stress and tension like a shelter dog.
You won’t settle until he’s back, until you can see for yourself that terrible rot beneath his skin is gone. Rainwater washes down the window panes in the kitchen as you make tea and toast, hands like a pair of nervous sparrows, hopping from one thing to the next, despite the ache in your wrists and fingers.
The rain is a constant tattoo, a persistent patter that you wish you could think is soothing. But it grates on you like an old wound, reminds you of time passing like the ticking of a clock. While the water boils, you go upstairs to change and wash your face, wrapping yourself in an old jacket of Leon’s over sleep shorts and a t-shirt.
The house always feels too big and empty without him. It seems to sigh and shift under the weight of the rain and your body moving through its guts.
You choke down the toast and park yourself on the couch with your tea. It’s already cooling between your hands, but the warmth of it is comforting in the blue light on the tv when you flip it on and sink into the cushions.
You don’t feel tired, but from one slow blink to the next, the cup is being pulled from between your hands and set aside. The TV is flicked off and then the brass lamp on the side table. Fingers brush over your forehead and down the curve of your cheek before disappearing in favor of lifting you. One thick arm slides beneath your knees, the other behind your shoulders. For a moment, you’re lost in the bliss of a normal Friday night. You fell asleep on the couch watching a cheesy action flick, and Leon is carrying you to bed.
The wool blanket slides off of you and back onto the couch, a soft puddle of gray and green.
For a moment, you think it’s a dream. You close your eyes again, listen to the beat of his heart beneath your ear, happy to pretend it’s a normal night, that you fell asleep on the couch watching movies.
And then he grunts.
The sound is so unusual, unlike him, it rouses you from the drowsy way you're sinking into his arms, reminds you of the last few days. You must have slept through the night because a haze of soft pink morning light undulates across the floor through a gap in the curtains.
“Leon,” you mumble sleepily, struggling awake in his arms as he starts up the stairs. “Hey, Leon, put me down.” You wriggle to no avail. “Let me look at you.”
He doesn’t and you fumble blindly at his collar instead, searching for the raised skin. Instead you’re met with smooth if grimy skin, littered with the usual scars you could recount in your sleep. “Leon—”
He shoulders open the bedroom door with another grunt, cream carpet and dark green walls. The room is dim, morning light peeking through the slats of the blinds, highlighting your gold jewelry spilled across the top of the dresser, the stack of books by a bedside table, never re-shelved in the living room, tangled bed sheets.
He deposits you lightly on the bed. You don’t have a chance to curl your arms around his shoulders and drag him down onto the sheets with you. Leon is already falling against you, lands heavily on top of you with no resistance, arm curling around your body.
“Hold on,” he says.
Your legs are scrunched awkwardly beneath him, the bulk of his body heavy and immovable as a fallen tree. “Just give me a minute.”
His arms are tight around you, tighter than he usually would hold you. “Okay,” you murmur. “Okay.” You slide one hand into his hair, filthy with what you can only guess. He seems very young at that moment, like something has been shaken loose inside him.
You count the seconds to a minute, and then a minute and a half.
“Leon?” You ask after you’ve counted your way to three minutes. “Are you okay?”
“Still breathing,” he answers dryly.
You push at his shoulder and he lifts himself off you enough for you to see his face, enough to see that his throat is free of the pseudo bruising, that he’s probably, really, okay. You sit up and he rolls to the side and onto his back with a grunt. He takes your hand, keeps it trapped under his against his chest, the warm metal of his wedding band cutting into your index finger, eyes fluttering shut.
There are purple shadows beneath his eyes, normal bruises along his forearms and along his sides when you lift his shirt. It looks awful, extending to his back in purples so deep they appear as black little rain clouds. You trace a jagged scar just beneath his ribs with the tip of your finger. He looks tired, but that’s all, and you could cry for it.
“Roll over, shirt off,” you command, more harshly than you mean to. “Let me see your back. It looks bruised.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says, already moving to follow your demand.
“Is Sherry alright?” You ask, watching him peel his shirt off, fabric clinging through a film of sweat and blood. His hair stands like duck fluff when he pulls it over his head.
A bruise extends over his chest, down to the flat plane of his stomach. There’s gauze tapped over a cut on his side and on his bicep, and when you reach forward and pull back the tape gently, you are momentarily overcome with blistering jealousy that someone had tended to him first. The jealousy almost instantly gives way to a feeling of uselessness.
The cut looks clean, the bandage is fresh, someone had taken good care of him and for that you should be grateful.
But your hands stall.
“Good as new.”
You blink, meet his eyes, re-center yourself. He’s not just reassuring you about Sherry. “Good.”
You carefully push the bandage back into place, then shift onto your knees, watching the twist of muscle beneath his skin as he settles onto his stomach, forearms bunching and straining as he lowers himself to the duvet you’ll have to wash sooner than anticipated. He smells awful, there’s a fine layer of grit and dried sweat over his skin where there are no wounds that had needed cleaned.
Bruises and a couple more lacerations stripe his back, no signs of the infection that had been crawling down his spine the previous evening. You release a shaky breath.
“I was worried,” you admit, now that you don’t have to look at his face as you say it, carefully peeling the bandages away, then resticking them when you’re satisfied by what you see. But you can feel his quick, perceptive gaze on you, watching you, your unsteady hands and gritted teeth.
“Not like you.”
“This was different.”
There’s a long beat of silence. “Yeah,” he agrees, after a moment. “It was.”
“Will you tell me about it?” You glance at him.
Leon frowns, something unreadable caught in his eyes.
He closes his eyes, but his brow is still wrinkled. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t call.”
He chuckles. “Trust me, I tired. You were probably already asleep. Sherry tried too.”
Which meant he probably worried about you in turn. You can hear it in his voice. He was used to doing all he could and still losing, just a little. “Oh, shit, I think I forgot to turn the ringer up after work.” You prod a bruise and he grunts. “I’m sorry.” For not answering his call, for poking him a little too hard.
“I already got checked out,” he says gently, as though it isn’t obvious. “You don’t have to play nurse.”
“I’m playing doctor. And I have a medical degree to prove it.”
He smiles a little, and let’s you have your way. “Whatever you want, doc.”
You scoot closer, tuck one leg beneath you and rest your chin on the opposite bent knee, and stroke a lock of hair behind his ear. Black webbing once again just delicate blue veins. “How do you feel? Really? Don’t bullshit me.”
“Like I’m twenty again.”
“Leon,” you sigh. “Please—”
His mouth twitches. “I’m serious,” he grumbles. “That shit hurt. So it’s probably just comparatively.”
Your shoulders loosen, and you smooth a hand down his back, careful to avoid his injuries, and rub the base of his spine. “Well, that just means you’ll feel decrepit in a couple days.”
He huffs.
You smile, touch the lines under his eyes, the crinkled, unblemished skin of his throat. “Are you sure nothing’s bothering you? I’m dying to baby you.”
“My shoulder, a little.”
“Okay. Do you think you’ll sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
You make an unsatisfied noise, trace a ridge of muscle along his spine. “We’ll see about that.”
“I sleep better with you.”
And he’s said that since the beginning, since the first time, so you’ve come to believe it over the years.
You lean down close to kiss him, bending at the waist even though the angle is awkward. He tastes like salt and iron, like there’s blood caught between his teeth. The bed shifts beneath you as he moves to palm the back of your neck, pull you closer to him. Kissing him feels like getting one more chance to breathe. “I have something that will help with the swelling,” you say against his lips, pink when you pull back. “Take a shower and I’ll get you some pain killers.”
“Hey,” he says, taking your hand again before you can move off the bed. His thumb runs over your wrist. You go into his arms easily, unfold yourself and stretch out next to him, rooting your body into his, half under him again. He releases your hand to run his thumb beneath one of your eyes, balancing on one elbow. You feel safe, boxed in beneath him.
“There was—for a second I thought about—” He pauses for a moment, pale eyes sliding over your face, then meeting yours again. “I thought about calling you.”
That, really, tells you how close of a call it had been, and your breath catches in your chest. “Oh,” you murmur softly, “Why didn’t you?”
“It was selfish. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Your mouth trembles. “I wouldn’t have minded.” But you have no context for the situation, the moment he thought of it, what it would have sounded like, his voice and whatever else was happening around him. Metal creaking, fire raging, screams and pleas. Or, silence. Trapped, waiting, quiet.
But you would have wanted him to hear your voice, if that was what he wanted at that moment. If it would have comforted him. “You should have.”
“I promised you that I never would a long time ago, though. And I didn’t want that to be your last. . .memory of me.” He laughs a little. “Which I guess is selfish too.”
You purse your lips and shake your head, “I really can’t think of a word that describes you less.”
Leon looks like he wants to argue, but shakes his head and rests his forehead against your collarbone instead. “If you say so.”
You wrap your arms around his head and stare at the dark paneled ceiling, the elegant lamp with gold folded arms dripping crystal like tiny stars, gleaming even unlit. When he’s gone, and sometimes when he isn’t, you count the white sparkle it throws against the walls to help you sleep.
You stay there until the sun is fully risen, counting the rise and fall of Leon’s chest instead, imagining what it would have been like if he called.
In some other reality, he did. He called, and the next morning you answered the door to a suited, anonymous government agent bringing their deepest condolences. For a moment, you feel certain you’re hallucinating him, a ghost in place of a memory.
You rub the column of his neck, and feel him relax against you, all tension bleeding from his body, and wait for his breathing to slow.
It doesn’t, his thumbs smoothing circles against your ribs where his hands have anchored.
“Shower,” you say eventually, when a yellow slash of morning sun falls over your eyes and blinds you. You nudge your knees against Leon’s hips and urge him off you.
He goes, graceless for once, as he stumbles toward the bathroom, tactical pants unbuttoned somehow and slung low on his hips.
The first floor is flooded with golden light when you descend the stairs; the clock on the oven reads 8:04 AM. Your hands shake a little.
You grab a bottle of extra strength ibuprofen, fill a glass with water. You think about taking melatonin to him too, but decide against it. It always gives you nightmares when you take it and you can’t remember if you’ve ever asked him about it, and the prescription bottle of rozerem is empty though you can’t remember the last time either of you had taken it or refilled it.
It’s been a long time since either of you needed it to fall asleep.
The backyard is full of yellow light, the air misted and humid from the dissipating rain. Puddles of water stand amid the fall foliage and overgrown flowerbeds that are always weed choked because you never seem to have enough time to tend them.
You need to make more time for everything, sink your roots into everything more deeply.
When you and Leon first moved in together—before the house, before you were married—you’d had a minor fit a couple months in about how everything he owned was perpetually shoved into a bag by the front door. It made you feel alone, wrecked in a way you couldn’t explain, how you hated that his toothbrush was missing from the bathroom counter in the apartment he paid half the rent for.
He’d soothed you about it, and, when you were calmer, teased you about it too, bought doubles of everything, and you never had to see him rooting around for shaving cream in a duffel bag in his own home again.
It’s like that, you think, the flowers that never got enough attention. The yard that needs raked of decomposing fallen leaves.
You allow yourself a shuddering breath, come to terms quickly with the fact that he’d almost died. From the virus he’d clearly been infected with or something else. Leon isn’t prone to exaggeration when it comes to his own wellbeing, usually the opposite, so knowing he’d wanted to call, lodges a lump in your throat you can’t quite swallow away.
The pipes creak and shudder, the water goes on.
The house is elegant but old, and you’d fallen in love with it immediately.
You take the pills and water upstairs, push open the bathroom door and leave them on the counter with a towel. The air is heavy, thick with the smell of his soap.
“Leon?”
“Yeah?” He pulls back the curtain a little to look at you.
You point to what you left on the counter. “Does melatonin give you nightmares?”
“I don’t know.” He tilts his head, water darkened hair falling across his forehead. “I know you don’t like it.”
“We’re out of the roz—the sleeping pills. But I don’t want you to—I don’t know. I’m being—” Frustration with yourself boils over. Why are you bothering him with this? You just want him to rest. You worry he won’t, too wired by whatever happened.
Maybe, you think distantly, you’re projecting and you’re the one wired and antsy. He looks like he might fall asleep standing there as you shift from foot to foot. “I just can’t believe I don’t know if they give you nightmares.”
“Hard for you to know if I don’t,” he says. “You okay?”
“I think I’m freaking out a little bit.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “When’s the last time you got some sleep? I don’t think you were before I left.”
“I don’t know.”
He nods, like some puzzle has finally been solved. “We’ll figure it out.”
You aren’t sure what he means by that, or what it you’ll be figuring out, but you nod and duck out of the bathroom before you can have another emotional outburst about medication he doesn’t even need.
In the bedroom you change the sheets and throw the dirt streaked ones into the washer. You change too, pressing your nose into the fabric of the shirt that now smells like Leon. Battle soaked and mostly gross. But it’s the scent of him returning home, so you covet the musk of it, breathe it in again and again, until your heart rate slows, before tossing it in the wash too. It’s not until it returns to resting, that you realize how your pulse had been racing.
You yank the blinds closed in the bedroom, thick, blackout shades that obscure the beautiful morning dawning outside, pitch the room into a velvet darkness so thick you can’t see your hands in front of your face.
When you turn, he’s there catching you against him, tilting your face up to his, kissing you softly and then harder. You go down together in a tangle when the back of your knees hit the bed.
In the black dark of the room, he’s only a suggestion of movement. The placement of your limbs instinctual after so many years together.
You wrench your t-shirt over your head, feel the still damp plains of his body over yours. He smells clean, like soap and sandalwood. His mouth, when you slide your tongue into it, no longer tastes like blood, just mint toothpaste and tap water.
When he pushes into you with a groan, your hands careful of the wounds on his back, you kiss the junction of his neck and shoulder, feel the judder of his pulse against your mouth. “Leon,” you coo, just to say his name, know he’s there with you. “I trust your judgement, you know.” You slide one hand into his hair, hook your knees against his hips. “Call, if you think you should. I’d want to hear your voice one more time, too.”
The next thrust of his hips is unforgivingly, accidentally hard, pushing you up the bed a little; a gasp is torn from your mouth.
His hands are warm and large, cradling your hips and waist, the outside of your breasts. Reverent, as his mouth finds yours again with a tight groan, hand cupping the back of your head.
He cradles you to him, pulses into you slow and hard, and for a moment you let him, before pushing at his shoulder. He goes easily onto his back, taking you with him. He sinks that much deeper inside you, a stretch you feel everywhere, rolling your hips against his.
“Baby,” he groans.
You tilt over him, hold his wrists against the mattress, and kiss him again.
.
.
.
When you next wake, it’s late afternoon and the bed is empty again.
But you can smell something cooking, hear the hiss and pop of something greasy frying in a pan downstairs. You climb out of bed with an ache between your hips, shuffling to the bathroom to clean up before searching for something to throw on.
You check your phone on the way to the kitchen, find it stuck between the couch cushions where it had fallen the night before, and scroll through the endless string of missed calls. Leon and Sherry. One, inexplicably, from Chris. Guilt pools in your stomach, wondering what he’d thought as he traveled home, pushed open the front door to a silent house. Just a sleeping house, though he couldn’t have known that.
The kitchen is washed in reddish evening light. Leon is cooking breakfast, despite the hour. Bacon and eggs over easy. He’s better at breakfast than you are, you’ve learned. You have a habit of burning the bacon and popping the yolks on the eggs when you flip them.
The toast, however, is smoking in the toaster. You pop it up as you pass, pleased to see it’s only dark, crisp brown and not charred.
Leon is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. The sweatpants are a little snug around his thighs but the shirt is loose, too big. When he can, Leon wears oversized shirts, though he doesn’t prefer them even at home, just so you can have them. He knows you like how they smell like him.
The window over the sink is open; his feet are bare. His back is to you and the fading light gives his hair a pinkish hue.
You wrap your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his shoulder, ball your fist in the loose fabric against his stomach. When you squeeze your arms around him, his body is hard and unforgiving. It’s odd, feeling so soft by contrast.
“The toast was burning.”
“Thanks for saving it.”
“Thanks for coming home.”
You feel his breath hitch a little. “Well, I couldn’t leave you here all alone.”
You squeeze him again. “No,” you agree. “I’m lost without you.” Then, because you hate being sappy, “We should get a cat.”
An unexpected laugh wheezes out of him. “Yeah? Who's going to take care of it?”
“Between the two of us, and, like, an automatic feeder, it’ll probably be fine.”
“You have to go in tomorrow?” He asks and moves the pan off the burner, flicks off the stove and turns in your grasp. You keep your arms around him, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. The exhaustion hasn’t been totally wrung from him, but he looks more alert, less like he might pass out at any second.
“No,” you say, “Not on call either. You?”
You can see the instinct to immediately say yes, but then he shakes his head. “Why do you want a cat?”
The same reason you’d begged him to stop keeping everything he owned in a go-bag years ago, especially after you bought the house, too large, really, for just the two of you. It makes everything feel more permanent, like he isn’t some ghost you hallucinated. One more thing, in your arsenal, the spell you are trying to cast, to always bring him back.
You know there’s no quitting, no retiring, so you have to hang onto this. You have to plant the flowers, get a cat, and make a permanent place for him to land.
“It doesn’t have to be a cat.”
He tilts his head at you; you reach up to rub a thumb over the lines by the corner of his eye. “Let’s get a cat.”
You grin and lean in to kiss him, liking the way his eyes close and he sighs, cheeks scratchy against yours. “Okay.” You release him to pull down plates and butter the toast while he allocates eggs and bacon onto each.
Only when you’re on the couch, so close your legs overlap, shoulders blurred together into one, plates on pillowed laps, that you ask him to tell you. “What was it?” You gesture to your own neck, where the bruising on his was. He frowns, eyes hardening, like the image it conjures is abhorrent. “Start from the beginning. I want to know everything.”
He won’t tell you everything, there are details you will always be spared, things he doesn’t want in your imagination. There’s a desire too, you know, for those things not to touch you in his mind.
You lean your head against his shoulder, the vibration of his voice throaty and deep against your ear as you eat lazily.
different Leon eras telling you for the first time he's yours.
Crawling back to you. | @/residentevilweirdo
Leon always crawls back to you, like a drowning man needy for air.
Paper rings. | @/residentevilweirdo
When Rookie Leon offered to make you company after-hours you were not expecting to end up with a ring on your finger.
loving Leon through the years | @bettysgay
through every phase of his life, you’ve loved him. You’ve watched him change and grow, falling in love with each new version of himself he becomes.
call and return | @mirrormauve
Leon has strict orders from you not to call when he's out in the field, even if it's safe to.
𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐄 | @sirensfall
When you know, you know. But there was so much you didn't know. A whirlwind romance and hasty marriage was bound to end in divorce. What you didn't expect was how impossible it was to find "Leon Kent" when you discovered the pregnancy a short time after he left. Still, you managed well enough on your own for almost seven years. Her name is Stella, and she's remarkable and gifted. Lucky you. Perhaps that's why someone's taken her. When all hope feels lost, you receive an unexpected call from a father that didn't even know she existed, promising to help you find her. All you can do is take this one last saving grace and set aside the unresolved feelings and sense of betrayal. Saving Stella depends on it. And who the hell is Leon Kennedy?!
Coming Home to You | @jplushthewriter
Leon returns home after a long mission, finding comfort in quiet moments, soft kisses, and the one person who makes it all worth it.
Tired | @starberrymatcha
even in your sleep, you always manage to stick close or touch leon.
his arms | @aspinny
mrs dot kennedy | @shikiyomizu
after finishing his most recent mission, leon can finally focus on making amends with you years after the divorce.
Love Me If I Turned Into A Worm. | @atoriid
It’s midnight, sleep refuses to knock on your doors…so you bother your lovely boyfriend with a very important question: Would he still love you if you were a worm?
WHITE NOISE | @tothelions
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | @belovedcloud
reporting back | @solisstars
borrowed time and stolen kisses | @/solisstars
making out in the car with re2!leon vs re9!leon.
Parallel Parking | @saturncollides
making out with your (rookie!leon) boyfriend in his jeep. | @/saturncollides
Just One Step Behind | @frazzled-soul
You drag Leon out shopping, bribing him with the promise of homemade muffins and a quick trip – just a quiet evening, or so you thought. Until a stranger crosses the line, and Leon shows a side of himself you don’t get to see often. Back home, it’s up to you to pull him out of it, piece by piece.
show a little loving | @clemenchives
after a long day at work, leon comes home to you and you share a sweet moment that reminds you just how lucky you are to have him. though frankly, he believes he’s luckier to have you.
no matter how it ends | @familyvideostevie
a mission goes awry when you’re infected with a fever virus…and there’s only one way to cure you.
privileges of marriage | @slowerghost
two rings | @/slowerghost
crystal clear | @/slowerghost
Blurb | @topsytervy
reminding leon kennedy that you love all of him | @digitalhoe
Before sunrise she’s your daughter | @mbrickswrites
You're pregnant with yours and Leon's second baby and are having a hard time getting comfortable.
Pretty Tease | @dramaticsk
you're helping leon on a mission, more so watching him do all the heavy lifting. but that changes real quick when things go awry
love you all over again | @fallenprophets
you and Leon's relationship ended a long time ago, and you still blame yourself for it- for hurting him, for walking out, for never calling back. But in Raccoon City, nothing ever stays dead, does it?
Oh, Fuck! | @theweepingangelofcas
Leon is dying. The virus is spreading. When he collapses, he's sure he's done for. Luckily enough for him, you won't let that happen.
5+1 | @/theweepingangelofcas
The five times that Leon Kennedy almost heard his partners', Y/N's, voice, and the results after the one time he did. Just as it says on the tin.
comes home after a difficult mission | @jelly--doughnut
