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when you’re in town again | leon kennedy x reader

pairing: re9 leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: A pillow talk turns sour when Leon tells you this might be his last time seeing you, and instead of bidding him a mournful goodbye, you have a hard time accepting this cruel joke called fate.

tags: 18+, explicit content, ab riding, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), spitting, unprotected p in v, angst with a happy ending, the girls are fighting (no literally, they have a catfight in the middle of sex but it’s kinda hot), leon and reader are OLD, fuckbuddy dynamic, suicidal ideation in the subtext if you squint, alternating povs, no use of y/n

word count: 6.4k

notes: this was initially just angst but the horny demons got me and then i decided to go the “release elpis” route and make this a one-shot. this isn't fully canon compliant because leon doesn't know that he's infected yet at the beginning. and he also knows that he's going to raccoon city before that = leon thinks he won't make it out of raccon city way before he knows he's sick. so, it's a bit sad innit. is he suicidal? maybe! please read this "maybe!" in a very elijah wood in that "will you wear wigs" interview way, thanks. if you think this detail will break the immersion for you, scroll down/click out now. if you decided to stay, enjoy!

➵ read on ao3.

“I’m going again,” he murmurs, tucking your hair back in your ear. He gets like this after sex, even though he’s the one who insists on leaving. It’s a just a habit from all those years ago, an empty flux of words just for a chance to talk. He knows you’ll ask him to stay, no, more like order him to stay with a roll of your eyes.

(And he will stay, for most of the time.)

“Stayyy,” you fake whine. He hates when you do that, says you sound like a Valley girl that brings trouble where she goes. But you swear he likes it when you get under his skin. Smushing your cheek against his bicep, you look up at him through heavy eyelids. “I know you need a good rest after all that, old man.”

His large palm cups your jaw, thumb mapping your cheek. “Not now.”

“Duty calls?” You grip his wrist to place a kiss inside, right on top of the veins that reach toward his palm. Leon has always been taking care of his physique, pressed to your lips, his forearm feels heavy, veins protruding across tough skin covered with old scars. “You can stay until then.”

There’s a question in the slight raise of his brows, ice blue stare piercing through you.

“I’m not seeing anyone at the moment, Leon.”

“What about the coffee shop guy?”

You let out a sigh, “We just flirted a bit while waiting for our coffee.”

“Hmm.” His hand falls naturally down to your neck, fingers curling to give your nape a light squeeze. “Has your number and everything.”

“I didn’t know you had a habit of snooping.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you feel the faint weight of his thumb on your windpipe. “Or being jealous.”

“I didn’t check your phone. You stopped kissing me to check the message, remember?”

“Ah, happened to see it, did you?”

“Yeah. How old is he? Forty something?”

“Younger than me, for sure.” Next thing, you’re swatting away his hand from your neck and pushing him flat against the bed, throwing your leg over his hips to sit on his stomach. “Divorced, most probably. With kids.”

He grunts and grabs your thigh, squeezing his eyes on the impact. You laugh, remembering the times he used to plop you down on top of him without a noise of complaint. He was two decades younger then.

“But don’t you worry your pretty little head. I like ‘em old.”

His eyes follow the slick space between your thighs, pressed to his abs, up your naked stomach and breasts. He looks at you the same way. Still hungry after all those years.

“Oh, I’m aware.”

You scratch down his firm chest like you would scratch a cat’s fur, nails grazing his ribcage. He lets out a content hum, eyes closed for a brief pause, and his hand on your thigh doesn’t remain idle, his nails dig into your skin. It’s not supple anymore, as with age it’s lost its elasticity.

You see his Adam’s apple move when you scoot down to his pelvis, his free hand on the mattress anchors your palms right above his belly button. He sniffs shortly, eyes glued to your face. “I can’t go again this soon.”

Age has gotten him too. His refractory period longer each time.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You swear his eyes are redder than usual, it’s easy to attribute it to his lack of sleep, and the glossiness to the post-orgasm clarity. “I’m just teasing you.”

Normally, you’d double down and continue to make fun of him —“What, can’t get it up again, old man?”— and he’d be very smug about it, knowing he’d get you off in a few minutes with his fingers, mouth, or thigh. Then he’d be able to go again, leaving you more than satisfied. But it felt different this time. He held you closer, firmer, and he was quieter to hear you more clearly if you had to guess. So you felt as if you owed him a softer time.

“You should message him back.”

Your hands escape under his hold to mess up his hair, smoothing it back to see his wrinkled face clearly. Pulling on the long locks, you fully lay down on him, breasts pressed to his chest, and mumble against his closed lips. “Hey, you know your limp dick after sex is not a big deal to me. I like you just as you are.”

After a particularly firm pull on his hair, he lets out a soft moan. “No, I’m serious.”

“I’m serious, too.” You start kissing him, voice muffled by skin. From his temple to the deep crow’s feet next to his eye, to his cheekbone and prickly stubble and down to the corner of his lips, you get him to open up his mouth after a few licks. The wet sounds of kissing fill the dimly lit room, urging you to grind yourself on Leon’s happy trail.

“Fuuuck,” he sighs. “Get closer.”

“Any closer and I’ll be in your skin,” you chuckle, trying to shimmy down to his cock. You’re positive he’ll get hard after a few minutes of grinding, you’re still dripping slick from your previous escapades.

“Not down,” he asserts. “Come up.”

Thinking he wants you over his face, you make a move, but his fingers dip into the flesh of your hips to plant you right on his abs.

“Sit here. Do your thing.”

“What?”

Instead of telling you, he shows you. You see his chest muscles tighten, hear him grunt and press you even harder to himself. That’s when you also feel his midriff tighten against your bare sex.

You try it out, grind your core against his hardened abs. It feels better than humping a pillow, even though the last time you humped one was many years ago. A pillow doesn’t have muscular arms to move you how he likes, doesn’t have the warmth of a textured skin. A pillow doesn’t catch on to all the right places, it leaves you frustrated and wanting more.

But this feels right.

The slide of your wet cunt against his abdomen makes the heat between your legs travel up your chest, your pulse thrumming at your throat. Your knees might give out any second with the way they’re burning, but you don’t dare stop rolling your hips because Leon is not quiet this time. You think you can get off just from listening to his low moans.

He’s not like any other man. He prioritizes your pleasure above all else, gets off on the idea of you using him, his focus is always on your contorted expressions and strained noises. It’s the same for you too. With him, you’ve found the perfect equilibrium of give and take with lots and lots of practice.

In truth, you’re both using each other.

He goes away, you see other people, and he does too, and comes back, calling you at indecent hours, and next thing he's ringing at your door, pushing you inside, bending you in all sorts of positions, kissing you like there's no such thing called tomorrow. You get to play this fucked up cat and mouse game over and over again, until one of you gets bored, you suppose.

(It’s easier this way.)

“Le-Leon, breathe—“

He’s so tense and red under you, keeping his muscles tight and firm, blunt nails digging crescent moon marks on your hips. “Shit, no, don’t—don’t stop. Keep going.”

You disrupt the rhythm, pause your hips when he tries to drag you back and forth on his abs again, which makes his eyes open. “Mmnh—please.”

“Stop, Leon.”

For a couple of seconds, there’s a quick battle of movement between you two. You shove his arms away from your body all the while he brings them back on, you push when he pulls. A couple of slaps land on his forearms. “Calm down—ughh— you were going to tear an artery!”

You try to get up and off him but he clasps your wrists together on your chest, pushing you down to let you feel how hard he’s gotten just from making you pleasure yourself on him.

“You didn’t finish,” he says, tone so calm it pisses you off. Like he wasn’t just about to strain himself into oxygen deprivation.

Taking deep breaths through your nose, you rattle your handcuffs— Leon’s tight grip on your wrists. “This isn’t what I want.”

And that’s all it takes for Leon to loosen his grip, thumbs caressing your wrists in apology before wiping his palms on his face.

It’s your chance to throw yourself on your side, facing him. So you do just that, gather your legs and cross your ankles.

One of his hands drops unceremoniously to the mattress, the other stroking his scruff. A drop of wetness clings to his crow’s feet that you are left facing.

“I’m so sorry. About everything.”

“No.” Your voice cracks. “No, it was good. Really good—before, I mean.”

“Yeah, we used to be really good.”

You spring up immediately, trying to get a good look at his face. “What was that? Are we not good anymore? I meant the sex, before you tried to give yourself an aneurysm.”

Instead of answering your question, he deflects it. “Call the coffee shop guy tomorrow.”

He’s not the type of man to sulk, so he doesn’t turn his back to you, just turns his head.

Tired of his bullshit, you reach and cup his jaw, making him meet your eyes. No more tears, just exhaustion. “What the fuck is your problem?”

A beat of silence passes, he reaches up very calmly to smooth out the stubborn wrinkle between your eyebrows. “I need to believe you’ll be alright.”

You take your hand away like you’ve just touched something very hot. “Are you saying you want to end this?”

“We need to.”

“Why?…”The word comes out involuntarily, your brain feels fuzzy, taken aback by the sudden resolve. “Is it something that I did?”

“You know it’s not.” He’s stroking your arms for comfort. You’re not sure who it’s meant to be for. “There’s no guarantee that I will be back.”

Your mouth opens and closes, unsure of what to even say. “What do you mean? Are they relocating you?”

He doesn’t need to say no to that, you only ask these questions to make yourself believe in something other than what he’s insinuating, you can read his expression well enough.

“Where are they sending you? You know I won’t tell anybody.” You shake him by the elbows like that would get him to spill everything.

“I would tell you if I could.”

“When? Or am I also not allowed to know that?”

“In a few weeks.”

“A few weeks,” you repeat absentmindedly. “We still have time.”

“Look at me.” Seizing you by the arms, he grounds you back into reality. “This is might be my last goodbye to you—“

“No—!” You push his arms away. You’re surprised he lets you.

“Listen to me carefully. I need to be back at work tomorrow—no, listen—I won’t be able to see you. There will be preparations. Busy couple of weeks, then I’ll be gone. I need you to know that I regret ruining your chance at a normal life.”

A second at most, that’s how long Leon waits for you to respond. You’re shellshocked as he dangles his legs off the bed.

Thud.

His feet hit the floor. He bends down, searching for his boxers.

Your gaze lingers on the moving muscles of his back. He pulls the band over his hips, a soft grunt escapes him. There, your nails have left several reminders across his back.

He fishes for his socks with his toes, pulling them closer to the bed where he can pick them up easier.

Your head feels heavy against the soft pillow, time feels slower as he stands up and dresses himself.

Your ears stop ringing while he’s fumbling with his belt, and you finally find enough strength to fling yourself off the bed. Clutching onto him for dear life, wet cheek pressed to the back of his shirt, you keep inhaling his musky scent without an ounce of shame, already afraid of forgetting it.

And he lets you cry it out, no words exchanged.

You’re not twenty anymore, so you don’t care how this looks. You, sobbing and clinging to him naked while he, fully clothed, stands and waits for you to finish mourning.

He doesn’t turn around to look at your face as you let go of him to wipe your tears, just reaches to the nightstand for his car keys and wallet. Throwing on a robe, you follow him to your door out of habit.

Look at me, you plead in your head, holding the door open. And in a very familiar manner, he does.

Normally, you’d wrap your arms around his neck for a quick peck on the lips and he’d caress your back as an apology for leaving you so sore. “Don’t wait for me,” he’d say. You don’t expect it this time. Just like how you don’t expect him to cup your face and thumb away at the corners of your eyes now. Maybe it’s his apology for leaving you crying.

He wears an expression you haven’t seen before, as though he’s made peace with it despite everything. You’ve never seen a man accept his death so easily.

“Be well,” he whispers, lips pressed to your forehead.

He isn’t hurried as he walks towards his car in the dark, as if he’s waiting for you to call out “See you when you’re in town again!” from your patio like you always do.

But your familiar cheerful shout never reaches his ears this time. Instead, he pauses at his open car door, watching you, your arms crossed tightly as you shift from one bare foot to another under the pale glow of the patio light.

You raise your hand and wave into darkness as if you’ve just felt his eyes land on you. For a moment, he thinks you do.

He raises his hand in return, but you don’t see him as you press your hand over your mouth to muffle your sobs and go back inside.

He gets a series of texts from you at five a.m., blaming himself for making you lose sleep.

It reads:

You didn’t ruin anything, Leon. I chose this. I chose to wait for you every time. I was happy. And I don’t regret anything.

I don’t quite understand what you mean by ruining my chance at a normal life. I’ve racked my brain over thinking about this.

All I’ve been able to come up with is that you mean I’d have a partner or kids by now if I had never met you.

Or if we’d stopped seeing each other a long time ago.

I want you to know that neither option would have made me happy. I’m glad I met you. I’m glad I know you.

It was so good while it lasted.

He stares at the screen until his work alarm makes him sit up in his bed, head bowed between his shoulders, elbows on his knees. You don’t deserve it but he really shouldn’t reply to you.

Another text:

Did I wake you up? Sorry.

Going to his message settings, he disables his read receipts, so you won’t be able to know he’s seeing your texts the minute you send them. And maybe stop expecting him to answer.

If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to keep in touch until you know when.

I didn’t get to kiss you goodbye, I think I deserve this at least. Don’t you think so, Leon?

And then you’re typing for a very long time. Leon doesn’t even blink, thumb pressing on your last message, making it the only visible text on his phone screen. He lets it go when a new one appears.

Don’t you think I deserve to know where you’ll be buried?

Hours later, his personal phone pings again when he’s having his blood drawn for a general health check up before he’s sent to Raccoon City.

Leon I’m so sorry. I hope you didn’t see my last message. It was out of line.

I can’t tell if you’re seeing this either.

But if you are reading these, let me clear myself up.

I have no idea what kind of work you’ll be doing this time, like always.

Your goodbye was intense. I guess I wanted to let you know how hurt I am. You left me with a panic attack.

I don’t know how you can be so sure of your own death. I’ve always believed you excelled at your job. No matter how dangerous it got.

Because you were always back in my arms in one piece.

I have a strong feeling it’ll be the same again. I’m not ready to lose you. Not yet.

The keys are under the potted plant as always. You’re welcome in my house at any time, you know that.

Please, let’s talk about this.

DSO provides agents with rings that track their health, meant for significant others to be notified if something bad happens suddenly.

Leon takes it.

He fishes out his phone from his pocket and keeps his messages to you very short:

Hey

The link I’m sending you is an app that tracks my health ring. Download it and track my code. I’ll send that as well.

It’s for you to know when it happens. My team will be able to contact you and answer any question you might have.

Your reply is instant:

Thank you.

Can I call you?

His bloodwork results cause havoc among the medical team. He’s showing symptoms of the t-virus. Sherry’s results don’t look too good either.

With further testing, Leon learns that his chronic fatigue and physical strain isn’t all due to his age.

After a four-hour-long executive meeting, the medical team decides to test all Raccoon City survivors. Sherry doesn’t waste a second to call Claire. Leon, on the other hand, has no way of contacting Ada. Thankfully, he can call Jill and tell her to come get tested as soon as possible.

They ask Leon if he’s been in close contact with anyone recently. He doesn’t hesitate to provide them with all your information.

They ask Leon to pull out of this mission and wait for the researchers to come up with an antidote. He insists and tells them he feels just fine, and that it'd be a short mission anyway. There really isn't much left of Raccoon City, except for another underground lab, apparently.

Five days later, there’s a nationwide public service announcement on the news about “taking the appropriate measures against this flu season” and about how “viral infections are preventable if citizens act responsible and get tested”, and it’s a deception tactic to screen for the t-virus. A cover for the medics going to former Raccoon City residents’ doors, and yours, for being in close contact with one of their infected agents.

Leon thinks it’s probably a good idea to prepare you before some health professionals show up at your door unannounced. Again, without answering your previous texts, he sends his.

An ambulance will be at your door tomorrow. You need to get yourself checked. Please do it.

And don’t wait for me.

He doesn't have a plan for the worst possible outcome. There's no cure. If you're infected as well, there will be a special place in hell for him, Leon thinks. He shouldn't have visited you. He shouldn't have let you get close to him in the first place all those years ago. He shouldn't have indulged.

He doesn't know what to do. He just doesn't want anyone dying because of him anymore.

You’ve seen his last messages. Your results are clean. He’s requested them and the people at the lab were kind enough to ease his mind by sharing them with him.

While the fact of you being unaffected soothes him greatly, there's still one more concern: How is he going to navigate being infected while he knows you'll be in that damn app every day, tracking his vitals?

So he takes the ring off one morning when he sees the decaying skin around his arms and neck in the mirror.

There really isn't much time left for him.

Leon, are you alright?

Your text confirms that you've been looking at that tracking app religiously. Because you text him exactly fifteen minutes after he takes the ring off. He wonders how it must look on your end.

A part of him wants to be selfish and accept your generousness, to find you in your house clueless, wants you to wrap your arms around his neck upon seeing him. He wants so badly to drown in your tenderness that he entertains the idea of abandoning the mission altogether. You'd stroke his graying hair and tell him it would be alright. You'd welcome his dying body with open arms, and you'd be warm, so warm in contrast to his cold and deteriorating skin. Only you would understand.

But he fucked that up, didn't he?

The next time Leon considers buying a lottery ticket, he'll call you and ask for the numbers because you must have some prophetic visions. You must, because he remembers the text well.

I'm not ready to lose you. Not yet.

One of Chris' men is telling him about getting them out of here. Several of his team members drop in on them from an opening in the structure above. Something something about an evacuation, a way out.

Leon and Grace are out of there in no time. He's telling the medics to check on her first, that she's injured. He's being coddled as well, someone throws a blanket around him, asking him how he's feeling. Multiple walkie-talkies are scratching at his ears, blue and red lights of cop cars blinking and blinding his vision.

He's safe. And alive.

Grace healed him. She made the right choice.

After checking up on Grace and reassuring her about little Emily, Leon walks back to the van that's going to drop him off at the DSO headquarters, pulling his ring out of his back pocket to put it back on his finger.

The soles of your feet ache, making your lower back strain. Hot water helps ease the pain a little but it’s only for a short burst, then it comes back again.

You’ve rinsed the soap off twenty minutes ago, right before a terrible head throb blackened your vision. Now you stand under the scalding hot cascade with your arms coiled around your shoulders, cheek pressed to your own skin.

There’s no guarantee that he will be back. He’s said so.

You’ve given yourself a headache thinking about it.

Burying your hand in your sore scalp, you pull at the wet strands, all the dead hair coils around your fingers. Stress isn't kind. There won't be much hair left on your head at this rate.

Unable to track #1z9-8Upi. Contact support for more details.

The letters are engraved behind your eyelids, burning your vision each time you close your eyes. Thanks to that, you don't need to look at your damn phone screen anymore. The pop-up message will still be the same no matter how hopeful you reach for your phone. You want to bring Leon back from the dead and tell him he's a liar to his face. He said they'd contact you when he'd pass away. They didn't.

You have no way of reaching out to anyone, either. The app doesn't actually have a “support”.

Sure, the link seemed dodgy when Leon first sent it to you, because the app didn't seem to be found through a regular search, or when he sent you his code made up of jumbled letters and numbers, though you trusted him and downloaded it anyway.

Facing away from the stream of water, you sit on the floor of your tub when your back screams bloody murder, knees sighing relief as you pull them to your chest. You realize too late that you've been standing while locking your knees straight. Your body is beyond tired at this point, sleep hasn't been in the picture for a couple of weeks.

Because how could you sleep or move on with your life when your Leon was six feet under the ground somewhere?

You should have taken pictures of him. Then you'd have something to remember him by during moments like these. You know he wouldn't have let you as if you've signed an NDA before doing anything with him. You didn't. Not when you met him at a bar years ago, not when he first showed up at your doorstep, not even when he kept coming back every time he was in town.

Now you regret not taking a single picture. Even an image of his faint silhouette on your bedroom wall, back when he used to get up first and dress before going into your kitchen, would have been enough.

“Hey.”

Great, now you're hallucinating his voice, too.

“I thought you didn't hear me come in.”

A sound of metal screeching on metal, like a shower curtain being moved. Then, you lose the feeling of water hitting your back. Someone turns it off.

Oh.

He's actually here. In the flesh.

Your head whips up in a flash before a half-yelp, half-sob escapes your lips, and you quickly turn your face to the wall. Hiding your hiccups with a palm, your eyes nearly cave in with how you're squeezing them shut.

“Hey, hey, hey—”

Next thing you know, your arms are being moved by your wrists. He opens you up like a gift, fingers under your chin tilting your face to the light, eyes examining your tear-streaked face with so much worry. He's sitting at the edge of the tub, waist twisted just to look at you, holding your hands just above your face. Just like how he had you over him last time, except you don't have much strength in you now, and you're not fighting him.

You don't know who moves first, you jump at his neck just as he bends down to you, holding the sides of the tub, he corners you while holding himself up in a very uncomfortable position. You squeeze him so hard that he loses all balance and almost falls sideways into your lap. You want him to.

You want him to crush you with his undeniable being. Right here in your tiny bathtub.

Everything that comes after is a blur. Him hoisting you up on your feet by your armpits, you clinging to him like a baby with separation anxiety, soaking his clean clothes with your drenched skin. He doesn't mind as he cups the back of your neck and wraps his arm across your back. Pulling him down to your chest, you watch his form become somehow smaller trying to nuzzle the space between your shoulder and neck, taking in not so subtle sniffs. Nothing seems to be enough as you try to get him in the tub by hugging him tighter.

The only noises in the bathroom come from two people clawing at each other relentlessly. You pull him at every chance while he tries to protect you from a crash, tries to maintain balance by slamming his palm on the shower curtain gathered on the side. You pull at that arm, tripping him on the edge of the bathtub, his leg bent at the knee to catch himself at the very last second. If he wasn't so big and heavy, this would've been your window to haul him in. His knee must be hurting now, still, he keeps on talking.

“Okay, okay. I'm here, yes, okay, let's just—”

And he's grunting, kissing you in between, on any patch of skin he can reach. Your lips, the spot behind your ear, the edge of your jaw, down your neck and clavicle, your shoulder as you press your cheek against his ear. A pathetic kind of noise, coming deep from your throat, cleaves the humid air when you grab his wandering hand and press it to your breast just to get a taste of a familiar feel. You need his rough and calloused skin on yours, and you're not afraid of demanding it, not now.

You take the charge, he takes it away from you. You whine, sniffle, he pants into your mouth. He pushes just to feel you pull. You're skimming your hands down his chest and stomach, slipping them up his navy blue shirt, he's groping your bottom to pull you into himself. You scratch up and down his abdomen, pulling at the hairs at his chest, and he's gripping you nice and tight.

“Alright, time to get out,” he says huskily, lips half stuck to yours, ending the chaos. Wrapping his arms under yours, he pulls you out. You lift your feet up, making his job easier.

Now much calmer, you have a clearer vision of him. “You look younger.” Your voice cracks. After all that, it's the first thing you say to him. It's ridiculous.

He's reaching for towels, wrapping you up and wiping your face, tucking your soaked hair away and petting at the corner of your eyes. He's here and he's real, you feel the weight of his hand, rough skin against the dampness. You rest your cheek against the wide breadth of his clothed chest, cartilage of your ear crushed under his steady thrumming heartbeat while he squeezes the water out of your hair with a towel. Your arms are coiled around his waist as he cups the back of your skull to kiss you square on the mouth. He starts off slow with a soft brush of his lips, then takes your bottom lip, pulling gently, dull nails raking down your spine. There's no rush in this kiss, you're both taking your sweet time loving on each other.

“I thought you died,” you utter quietly.

“I'm here.”

“I was so scared.”

He continues to soothe you with sweet whispers even when carrying you to your bedroom. You continue to ramble. “You shaved?” you ask at one point.

He huffs out a low chuckle, settling you on your feet near your bed. “Felt dirty.”

It's not the end of the world, you know it'll grow back to how you like it in two days.

He starts patting you dry by your shoulders with he towel he just unwrapped from your body, bending down to press a kiss to the jutting bone of your hip as he pats down the small of your back. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders when he kneels down to dry the backs of your legs. Reaching back, he picks up a comfortable pair of panties from the nightstand's second drawer. He waits for you to step into them, rolling them up your legs so the band snaps into place.

For some reason, you can't help but find the situation all too comical. He manages to return from the brink of death, yet still kneels at your feet, handling you with such care, as if you're a delicate little thing. It's always give and take with him. Always.

A quiet, breathless laugh slips past your lips.

The muscle in his jaw ticks, he looks up. “I half expected you to be angry.”

“I don't care about anything right now, Leon. You came back to me.”

His eyes fall shut upon relief, a low rumble in his throat, as your fingers run through his hair, sliding down to fist at the back of his shirt. The fabric is damp from your struggle in the bathroom, so you tug it up and over his shoulders, and he lifts his arms to help you. Then he sits you on the bed, traps your feet between his thighs on the ground, and lays his head on your lap, bare chest pressed to your knees.

Arms hugging your dangling legs between his, he wordlessly asks for it, and you scratch his back like it’s second nature.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's alright,” you mutter. “It's not your fault.” Whatever it is.

You don't know what causes it but there's a sudden, very primal, predatory look on his face right now. Is he angry?

“Leon?”

Unwinding his arms from your legs, he drops a kiss on your knee, eyes never leaving yours, hands sliding down your calves to give your ankles firm reassuring squeezes. He stands up, slow and deliberate, and taps his finger under your chin. The power easily and smoothly changes hands when you're with him. Because now, he's the one looking down at you from above. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he undoes his belt, letting the buckle thud on the floor. “You make me want to be selfish.”

Your breath hitches. “Be selfish, Leon. It's okay.”

He's lunging at you, mouth open and fierce against yours, groaning, ripping your legs open while pushing your back flat on the bed. Fist in your hair, jaw slack, he starts sliding down, down, and down, biting on your breast, teeth gnawing at your nipple. He has to let go of your hair when nuzzling his nose into your navel, just above the band of your underwear he helped you put on. With a soft bite to your clothed mound, you're trembling under his hold. You grip his hair, yelping, his hair an anchor for your squirming.

He spits on your sex, rubs his saliva with his lips, and slacks his jaw for a long lick, the damp fabric of your panties creating a gratifying abrasion against your flesh. He eats at your cunt, panting as he hooks a finger under the gusset to pull it aside. His tongue is on you again, this time without any barriers, swiping up from hole to clit.

His movements are not gentle, or slow. They're hasty, like in the bathroom a while ago. He's taking off your panties in a hurry, sliding them down your legs and not even bothering to take them off fully, it dangles from your left ankle when he fumbles with his zipper. Hooking your knees over his elbows, he spits again, and you feel it, him pressing in, thrusting in one go. He leaves you no time to adjust, starts to pull your bottom off the bed, shoving his cock deep. You're not ready enough, it hurts, and you don't care. The breathless laugh he lets out when he sinks in makes you dig your nails to his meaty shoulders, it's like he can't believe his eyes that you actually like this side of him, rough and callous, having you at his mercy. You're pulling him in, trying to cross your ankles around his large form, to lock him down on you, you want it harder, faster, and it needs to hurt more, so you can be sure of the existence of the body that's on top of you.

There's a feral shadow over his eyes, telling you this is exactly what you need. You arch your hips to take him in deeper, the flesh of your bottom overflowing his firm grip, the moan you give into his mouth pleading and obscene. He's fucking hard and fast into your tight heat.

“Fuck, this is not gonna be long. Sor—”

As he's about to say sorry, you take his mouth, not letting him finish apologizing, sucking and licking his lips, teeth clashing, nipping at the corners of his mouth. He snakes a hand down to give the most sensitive part of your body a swirl, thumb feather-light on your clit. Pulling the hood slightly, he watches how his cock splits you open, and he can tell that it's too much, but there's no fear or loss or hurt in your eyes. Your warm insides swallow him like it's all going to be alright. “You're okay, yeah, you're okay,” he chants.

You think you saw him break before, when he was telling you goodbye, but this is it, this is Leon breaking.

Changing up the position, he gathers your legs on one shoulder and hugs them tight to his chest, cheek pressed to the patch of skin just above your ankles, and keeps fucking you with an unforgiving, ceaseless pace. You're close, you can feel he is too, you give him a soft wail, fingers reaching down to run along the hairs on his thighs, his heavy balls repeatedly slamming down on your ass.

Darkened eyes never leaving yours, he rips your legs open again to watch how his cock disappears in your cunt. He can tell you're coming with the way you're squirming and spasming, squeezing his cock and slamming your hands down on the mattress. He's right behind too, not leaving you alone. His balls tighten, and he's buried to the hilt so it's impossible to tell where you end and he begins, he lets out a strained moan as he comes down from his high.

“Is this the ring?”

His head is burrowed in your chest, he's sprawled over you. It's his favorite thing to do after sex.

He grabs your hand with the one that carries the ring and guides it to his lips, brushing the back of your palm with so much tenderness. “Yeah.”

“It doesn't work. Did you know that?”

“It does work.” He's playing with your fingers, squeezing them one by one. “I stopped wearing it for a while.” As if he can hear your frown, he continues. “I know you're mad, you have every reason to resent me and they're all valid. I just didn't want to worry you more than you already were. I was sick and wasn't getting any better, I couldn't find any excuse. I didn't want you seeing me like that. Thought I infected you with the same thing, hence the ambulance at your door. Turns out I didn't. You're as tough as leather.”

“I thought you died, Leon. I couldn't ask anyone anything. You weren't calling me or texting me.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“You know you're forgiven. Just… never make me experience this again. Or I'll bring you back from the dead and kill you myself.”

“It's not gonna happen again.”

He's kissing the inside of your wrist and you think everything's going to be alright again. He's back and he's in your arms, looking younger than you remember somehow. In the morning, he'll still be here, you'll count his grays and wrinkles, find some new scars, smother him in kisses when he opens his eyes. In the morning, everything will be alright.

“So did you call the coffee guy when I was—”

“Fuck you, Leon.”

a/n: heyyy so i know i posted the teaser very early but on my account i didn't expect to get my period and be sick as fuck at the same time this week. thanks for waiting and let me know what you think!

p.s: let's play find the hozier reference because i am simply incapable of writing a fic without involving hozier lyrics.

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