One Way To Go @christylove94 - Tumblr Blog

Jul 6

A soft place to fall apart [Leon x Grace]

As a total newbie in the fandom, I hardly know anything about the lore, but fell in love with these two. As I have seen this is a controversial ship, so please only read if you like this pairing. I also love to see Leon with any other characters, no ship shaming around my page.

Part 1, Part 2; Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Description: After the events in Rhodes Hill, both Grace and Leon try to move on with their respective lives. Not like they could forget about each other. Longing thoughts, intrusive ones, inappropiate ones. Must be one-sided, they think. He doesn't want to be weird, she doesn't want to be stupid. So Leon does the only thing he can justify. He brings flowers for International Women’s Day.

Tags: Soulmates, Comfort No Hurt, Survivor Guilt, Semi-slow burn, Falling in love, Explicit sexual content, Grace is a grown and competent woman, Younger Woman/Older Man, Domestic Fluff, They are sweethearts, Eventual smut, Body Worship, Oral sex, Vaginal sex, Blowjobs, Awkward flirting, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating

Part 7: Lemongrass

Grace's heart was like an fizzy tablet dropped into water.

“I love you,” Leon's deep, husky, impossibly sensual voice echoed in her ears. “I really do.”

She could have skipped down the street like a teenage girl whose school crush had just gave her a chocolate heart. Leaning against school lockers, sneaking kisses in the supply closet, giving a sloppy blowjob in a car.

Things she'd never actually done as a hunched-shouldered teenager in oversized jumpers who had to move from time to time.

It was all a little absurd, considering her boyfriend—Jesus, that still sounded ridiculous—was a fifty-year-old man with eyes of steel and a heart of gold. A man who could probably wipe out an entire terrorist cell with nothing more than an ice cream scoop.

And who had melted in her mouth the other day like butter left out in the sun.

The memory alone made warmth crawl up Grace's neck, despite the fact that there was absolutely nothing sexy about the dairy aisle in front of her. The whole hormone-addled, lovestruck-teenager feeling wasn't helped by the fact that nearly everything she passed in the supermarket somehow reminded her of sex.

Popsicles. Bananas. A halved papaya.

Jesus, you're an idiot.

As she glanced at the zucchini bouncing around in her shopping basket, she had to choke a giggle. Leon's is bigger.

Yeah, she was a lost cause.

Not that it was a lie. Leon was perfect everywhere, although Grace had never exactly had a concept of what a perfect dick looked like before. His, however, unquestionably was. A flawless specimen of a man with a ridiculous amount of hair and arms that looked capable of squeezing juice from solid stone.

And for some incomprehensible reason, Leon wanted her. He'd told her he loved her. It was beneath her touch that he'd come undone.

Keeping her head down, she hurried past the cans of whipped cream.

Back home, she drew the blackout curtains and dropped into her chair in front of her computer. She still had work to finish, and she'd promised herself that, aside from grocery shopping, she wouldn't let anything distract her today.

Emily was in her room doing homework. They were both being unusually responsible that afternoon. Every now and then Grace heard her wander into the kitchen for a glass of smoothie or another bite of brioche. Ever since she'd made that recipe with Ummi, Emily had insisted there always be some in the house.

Grace cracked her knuckles and opened the FBI's internal case management system. Her screen filled with the familiar stream of updates: priority assignments, questionnaires, her own pending deadlines. She entered her login credentials almost mechanically, and her eyes drifted toward the list of cases she had accessed most recently.

RHODES HILL BIOHAZARD INCIDENT

She couldn't resist dragging her cursor over it.

New evidence surfaced almost daily as the cyber division painstakingly recovered whatever could still be salvaged from Gideon's hard drives. Grace had seen the latest photographs—herself curled up asleep, hugging a Pikachu body pillow; absentmindedly chewing on the end of her pen in the university café; grating cheese over an omelet in her old apartment.

That bastard, Dr. Gideon, is dead alongside Zeno.

They can't reach you anymore.

Or Leon.

Her hand balled into a fist above the touchpad.

The shame she'd seen in Leon's eyes when he'd spoken about his interrogation had never belonged to him. The humiliation Grace herself felt while looking at the documentation of her own vulnerability didn't belong to her either.

It belonged to the people who had tied them up, tasted their blood, and violated them however their twisted whims dictated.

They were gone.

ACCESS DENIED Your security clearance is insufficient for this resource. Access restrictions updated by system administrator. Contact your supervising officer for additional information.

Grace frowned at the message.

She tried again. Nothing.

She logged out, logged back in. Still nothing.

There had always been parts of the investigation she couldn't access, despite having lived through every horrifying second of it. But being locked out completely... That made no sense.

Had the DSO ordered this? Because she'd snooped through Leon's decades-old personnel files? Had they really taken offense over something so harmless?

"...Sorry," she murmured to her nonexistent audience.

Leon himself didn't mind.

...Well, not entirely.

When Grace had admitted she'd secretly saved a few pictures of him from his late twenties onto her phone, he'd grumbled and sulked like a moody bear for the better part of five minutes. "Grace, please. I used to look like a wet wipe trying too hard."

Maybe the files had simply been archived.

An active investigation...

Grace backed out and opened the burned laboratory case she'd worked on recently. Her access was perfectly intact. The same went for her current case: crime scene photographs, witness statements, forensic reports, every document exactly where it should have been.

Leaning back in her chair, she removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

She reported the Rhodes Hill issue as an IT error anyway. Something in the pit of her stomach whispered that the ticket would quietly be closed without an answer.

With a weary sigh, she opened the Bureau's internal mail.

The newest message immediately caught her attention.

The body of the email unfolded into a meticulously designed invitation; utter professionalism and understated elegance.

INTERNAL MEMORANDUM From: Office of the Director Subject: Annual FBI Recognition Gala The Federal Bureau of Investigation cordially invites all personnel and approved guests to attend the Annual Recognition Gala on Saturday, May 8th, at the Palmer House Ballroom, Chicago. Black Tie / Formal Attire The evening will include: Presentation of Distinguished Service Awards Commendations for Outstanding Field Operations Recognition of Scientific and Technical Excellence Memorial tribute to personnel lost in the line of duty Charity auction benefiting families of fallen agents Confirmed attendees include representatives from Homeland Security, the Department of Justice, selected DSO officials, and several international partner agencies. Among those scheduled to receive commendations are: Special Agent Arlene Hanratty — Counterterrorism Division Forensic Analyst Eric Cho — Cyber Crimes Unit SSA Walter Blake — Violent Crimes Task Force

Additional honorees will be announced.

Guests are requested to RSVP before April 25th.

Grace read the invitation twice.

It wasn't unfamiliar—she remembered receiving the same email the previous year—but she'd never once imagined she'd actually consider responding this time.

Events like this simply weren't her world.

A vast ballroom full with well-dressed people who all seem effortlessly good at small talk. Standing awkwardly with her hands clasped together, watching her superiors knock back one drink after another, applauding the retirement of people whose names she barely even knew. Waiting for her turn in the bathroom, trying not to stain her dress and eat too many mini pistachio Pavlovas amidst the bouts of anxiety.

Her sofa, a glass of wine, and a spicy novel had always sounded like a much better evening.

But what if she invited Leon?

She moved the cursor over the RSVP form and typed his name. Leon S. Kennedy.

She would have to ask him first, of course. Leon probably didn't want anything to do with the FBI, much less spend an evening shaking hands with carefully selected DSO personnel. He held some understandable grudge against state officials, and he probably hated pistachio Pavlovas too.

She shouldn't annoy him with ideas like this.

Unlocking her phone immediately dropped her into their message thread. It was her turn to reply.

Grace opened her gallery and pulled up those old photographs she'd rescued from the database. Smiling to herself, she zoomed in on one and gently traced her thumb across Leon's face. He was shown in profile, adjusting his gun belt while walking toward a secured convoy. He couldn't have been thirty yet. His jawline was yet soft, clean-shaven, his blonde hair asymmetrically cut and unruly, the strength of a lion carried in the way he held himself. She would have fallen hopelessly in love with his younger self just as surely as she had now.

So much for getting work done and refusing to let herself be distracted.

She carried her phone into the living room, but by then her imagination had already wandered to the image of Leon wearing a tuxedo.

He would hate it. She was absolutely certain of that. He'd grumble under his breath the entire evening, only to apologize for complaining five minutes later. He'd probably spend more time out on the balcony than mingling with the guests, keeping one drink company. Or maybe two.

A very real and very adult date, not trying to pretend that they are just friends. She was what she was, the controversially young lover of a man who’d held her face in his rough, gloved hands, rubbing the life back to her in a place that would’ve made nightmares jealous.

Emily soon joined her on the sofa, snuggling against her side. She was reading one of her Braille books, simply enjoying Grace's presence. Sugar crystals from the brioche sparkled at the corner of her mouth.

"What are you thinking about?"

Of course she'd noticed. Emily's finely tuned senses never failed to amaze her.

Grace gently ruffled her hair, earning the faintest little smile. "Whether I should invite Leon to a gala."

"You and Leon at a gala? Grace, that's obvious. You have to go with him!"

Emily declared it without pausing her reading for even a second, her pale little fingers busily gliding across the raised dots. In the corner of the sturdy page, a fox was talking to a raven holding a piece of greasy cheese in its beak.

"Yes, Chikadee."

Her support ticket remained untouched when she sat back down at her laptop.

Leon forwarded everything to his contacts inside the FBI.

He considered the entire Bureau a swamp—and, for that matter, just about anything tied to the government—but Sherry had been right. He couldn't settle this the barbaric way.

Unfortunately.

Dusk had settled beyond the bare panes of Leon's windows, though little remained visible of the sky's deepening violet beneath the thick blanket of clouds. It hung over Chicago like a heavy wool quilt, and his herbs were clearly unimpressed. The basil drooped mournfully, while the rosemary had begun yellowing again.

Leon chose to interpret that as a sign that he ought to invite Grace over again.

Grumbling under his breath, he watered the herbs and poked a limp parsley leaf with his index finger.

"I know you're just messing with me. One of these days I'm gonna catch you."

He brewed himself a coffee, phone in hand, and sat down on the edge of his bed. He'd changed the sheets after noticing the tiny twitch in Grace's face the last time she'd been here—she'd clearly decided they were no longer the pinnacle of hygiene. These were an older set: black, with a Nine Inch Nails logo across them. He found himself wondering whether Grace even knew the band. She hadn't exactly perked up when Alice in Chains had been playing during their picnic.

He caught himself wanting to show her his record collection and prove, once and for all, that '90s rock had been the absolute peak.

Like a complete loser.

He took a long drink of coffee, holding it in his mouth for a moment, balancing its bitterness on his tongue. He could still see Grace's smile—the one on her lips, and the one that had gleamed in her eyes when he'd admitted he loved her.

She had looked at him as though he were worthy of loving back.

Grace. Bright, honey-sweet Grace.

Who had gone down on him like she'd been born knowing exactly how. Ever since, the memory alone was enough to leave him so painfully hard that he'd had to finish himself off in the shower afterward, drifting between fantasies of her taste and the way she'd shyly asked him to take it out for her.

Fuck.

Grace could have asked him for anything, possible or impossible. She could've told him to carry a mountain on his back, to bring her the head of a dragon... or, failing that, a Nemesis.

Instead, she'd asked for that.

Leon had always known luck had favored him through most of his life. Otherwise he'd be just another corpse alongside the countless people who, in his opinion, had deserved to live far more than he had. But this kind of luck felt impossible.

His phone vibrated in his hand, the screen lighting up with a wallpaper that was no longer the factory-default cobalt blue. He'd taken the picture while Grace wasn't looking, though afterward he'd shown it to her so he wouldn't come across as a complete creep.

She was sitting on her couch, absorbed in their game, her glasses slipped to the tip of her nose, her lovely face drawn into fierce concentration. One of his hands rested around her waist in the photo, and every time he looked at it, he could almost feel the corduroy of her dress beneath his palm again.

Grace: Working too hard again? ❤️

Leon: Heading out soon. Just waiting on one more update.

Grace would naturally assume he meant the Ukraine assignment he'd been consulting on, and that was for the best. For once, the fact that conversations like these couldn't happen over text worked in his favor.

Grace: We're waiting for you. Love you.

Leon set the rest of his coffee aside and scratched the back of his neck, staring at the two tiny words.

He only reacted to the message, didn't type anything back.

Coward.

Not that there was any doubt in his mind. He knew exactly what being in love felt like. But being loved like this...

That was unfamiliar territory.

Grace was as gentle and warm as sunlight, yet as dependable as the sun itself. There was no reason to fear waking one morning to find she'd vanished, disappearing for years without a word, leaving him gutted and weeping like a kicked dog. She had looked him straight in the eye when he was at his most vulnerable, drowning in shame, and she'd called him her hero.

Someone worthy.

But what if she was wrong? They were alike in many ways. One of them was the tendency—at least the version of Leon he used to be—to see people as better than they truly were.

To mistake an aging alcoholic for something greater than an actual aging alcoholic who wished the bottom of his coffee mug held two fingers of bourbon instead.

The next message arrived over an encrypted line from one of his FBI contacts.

Recovered financial metadata attached. One more thing. We confirmed Dempsey logged into the Rhodes Hill archive twenty-three minutes before Ashcroft's access permissions changed. Now she's locked out.

The muscle in his neck tightened harder than it should have. He leaned back against the couch, his phone resting on his stomach, and in his mind he slammed a door into Dempsey's worm-faced skull over and over until there was nothing left of either the door or the head.

For a few bundles of cash, the bastard had been willing to send a young subordinate straight into mortal danger, back to the very place where Alyssa Ashcroft had been murdered. Leon couldn't care less that Dempsey probably hadn't known every detail, that Grace was going to be used as a key to bioterrorism, or that she'd come within inches of being torn apart by an industrial human meat grinder. The son of a bitch had known perfectly well he wasn't sending her off on some wellness retreat.

The bourbon in the cabinet became even more tempting. Just a couple of swigs, he thought. But that was always how it started. A couple of swallows became a couple of bottles, and before long he'd find himself staggering through bathrooms that reeked of lemon air freshener and stale piss. This time, though, it would've had its place. It would've kept a lid on the fury boiling inside him, so his girlies wouldn't have to share dinner with a wild animal whose eyes flashed with rage. It would've dulled the edge of everything drilling into his mind like needles.

Twenty years ago, back when dyeing his hair and beard black had somehow seemed like a brilliant idea, he never would've argued with himself over a drink.

He poured himself exactly as much whiskey as he had coffee left.

Emily set the table with absolute concentration. Everyone got a fork, a knife, a spoon, and a napkin. She'd even folded the napkins into little lopsided figures that she insisted were swans. Grace enthusiastically backed her up.

She'd made homemade tacos again because, after the last time, her daughter had declared them the most delicious thing in the entire world. Grace was curious to hear Leon's verdict, too.

The apartment was filled with the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and Monterey Jack cheese, while the counter was still buried beneath dirty dishes that Grace was frantically stuffing into the dishwasher. If they were out of sight, they didn't exist—right?

She arranged the tacos, loaded with two different kinds of filling, onto the table before quickly fixing herself up. Her pink apron landed in the laundry basket, she combed her fingers through her hair, and pulled on a thick, cream-colored knee sock because her feet were getting a little cold.

She hurriedly picked the tangled strands of hair out of her brush and scrubbed the smears of Emily's strawberry toothpaste off the bathroom sink. Lately she'd been falling behind with cleaning a little. It wasn't as if Leon would ever throw that in her face. Still, if she was really planning to invite him to an FBI gala - where everything would become painfully, unmistakably obvious to everyone - then she had to grow into that role.

She had to become the kind of woman who fit beside Leon S. Kennedy.

Her stomach collapsed in on itself like overbeaten meringue.

"There you are," her face lit up as Emily yanked the front door open to let Leon in.

He had two bottles of red wine tucked under one arm and returned Grace's smile. He looked a little exhausted, and while he hung his jacket in the hallway, Grace briefly asked him about Ukraine. They exchanged a modest kiss, one Grace kept tasting on her lips long afterward. She rummaged through the kitchen drawers in search of a corkscrew while listening to Emily eagerly explain her napkin swans to Leon.

"Swans? You sure?"

"Yep."

"They don't look more like chubby chickens?"

Emily stuck her tongue out at him, but climbed onto the chair beside him anyway. She pulled the hood of her baby blue-and-white tie-dye sweatshirt over her head. Leon registered it with a sidelong glance before pinching the tip of the hood between two fingers and softly pulling it back down.

"Hoods off at the dinner table, Em." He rolled up the sleeves of his green knit sweater, revealing his forearms and the black Hamilton watch around his wrist. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I know they're swans. I'm just messing with you."

With an exaggerated sigh, Emily tucked one leg beneath herself. Grace joined them, poured herself and Leon generous glasses of the full-bodied, strong wine, and the three of them clinked glasses over the platters of tacos. She usually didn't let Emily drink overly sugary sodas, but today she'd approved a small glass of Fanta.

"S-so, Leon..." Grace said, a beef taco in hand. "Y-you're really not very good at this r-retirement thing."

Leon grinned over the rim of his wineglass. "It has its perks. You clearly have a thing for old goats, though."

Blushing, Grace stuffed an enormous bite into her mouth. Damn it, why had she made tacos? There was no pretty way to eat them, and she lived in constant fear of dripping something onto her blouse. A grease stain right above your nipple wasn't exactly attractive.

"The thing is, Leon," Grace said, a chicken taco in her hand, "y-you're not v-very good at this whole retirement thing."

Leon smirked over the rim of his wineglass. "There are perks to it. Though you clearly have a thing for old goats."

Blushing, Grace stuffed a generous bite into her mouth. Damn it, why had she made tacos? There was no graceful way to eat them, and she was terrified of staining her shirt. A grease spot right over your nipple wasn't exactly attractive.

Something was prickling at her instincts—and no, it definitely wasn't simply that she needed to work up the courage to ask whether he'd go to that stupid gala with her. That wasn't the only thing left unsaid between them.

The wine was disappearing at a respectable pace, and Grace, trying to disguise her nervousness, began reading the label instead. The posture of the grapes. Earthy notes. Italy. Dolce vita.

"Grace is reading the wine bottle."

"Because she's a smart girl. She pays attention to everything."

"That's true," Emily nodded, her mood eased after the earlier teasing and scolding. "But not always. The other day she forgot to flush the toi—"

"Chikadee!" Grace yelped in horror. "T-that's not... I mean... n-never mind." She set the bottle down on the table with a heavy thud and began gathering the empty plates. When she reached Leon, she met the look in his eyes, gentle, yet quietly searching, and couldn't resist letting him run his hand up her leg before resting his broad palm against her waist and drawing her closer. "Leon."

Leon rested his forehead against her hip as he murmured, "Hm?"

"Y-you never answered m-my question."

"You know I can't say much about Ukraine. Regulations."

"B-but is that the only problem?" Reaching over his head, she collected his used cutlery before handing the stack to Emily, who immediately jumped to her feet to help. They both watched carefully to make sure she was approaching the counter with enough confidence, but just as the doctors had predicted, Emily moved slowly, yet steadily.

"I had a drink before I came over."

"Oh."

"That's what you're smelling," Leon continued, his thumb tracing lazy circles over Grace's leggings-clad thigh. "It's nothing."

After dinner they played a few rounds of Uno, all of which ended in painfully decisive defeats for Grace. Both Emily and Leon pelted her with the most infuriating cards imaginable, yet somehow she couldn't summon the inferno of competitiveness she usually carried into games with either of them. Instead, she flopped dramatically onto the couch and declared that nobody could be trusted anymore.

Emily disappeared to take her bath. Leon quietly gathered the scattered cards, sliding one neat stack after another together before tapping the full deck against the edge of the coffee table several times to square it. Grace stretched both arms toward him.

"Come here."

It was almost like that evening when Leon had finally returned to her after his long silence, only reversed. A soft smile curved his lips as he let himself fall sideways onto the couch like a great felled tree, resting his head in Grace's lap. She was kind of tipsy herself by now after the two of them had polished off the entire bottle of wine. The standing lamp and flickering candles cast a shimmering haze across the room, and even her tongue seemed to move a little slower. "Y-you'd tell me... if s-something was wrong a-again, wouldn't you?"

"Believe it or not, Sunshine, back in Raccoon City, booze actually saved my life."

"H-how is that even possible?" Grace asked, lifting a single eyebrow. From the bathroom came the sound of Emily humming to herself and splashing happily in the tub.

One of Grace's hands disappeared into Leon's sandy-blond hair. It was as soft as spider silk, and the familiar scent of cedar immediately sent butterflies fluttering through Grace's chest.

"Not long before that, my high school girlfriend broke up with me," Leon said. "I freaked out, drank so much that I couldn't pull myself together in time, and ended up late for my first day." He let out a deep sigh as Grace’s hand settled against the soft spot under his jaw. "This is really nice."

"I think so too," she agreed. "But… w-why did you drink this time?" Maybe she shouldn't have asked it like that. She wasn't his mother. She knew men didn't like nagging women, and Leon already had plenty of reasons to get fed up with her. He would’ve been justified snapping at her: there you go again, poking and prodding, Grace. Can’t you just calm down a little?

"I-it doesn’t matter, hunny."

"I think it does."

"Since when did you become so stubborn?"

"I am, when it comes to you," she replied, relieved that Leon didn't take it badly. She kept stroking his hair, gently massaging his scalp, and felt the last remaining tension slowly evaporate from his muscles, inch by inch, as if this masterfully carved Greek statue was relaxing in her lap. "B-because I l-love you."

Alcohol rarely—very rarely—was actually useful; this was one of those moments, making it easier to say. This time it didn’t drag along the ankle weights of fear.

Her hand found a spot at the back of Leon’s neck that made his breath catch slightly, his eyelids fluttering closed. "Here?"

"Yeah."

Outside, the rain began to fall, as if the cloud-curtain covering the sky had torn open, the storm pressing almost horizontally against the building’s windows. The warm yellow light of the floor lamp flickered for a moment. Emily called out from the bathroom asking if they were there, and they both answered at the same time that everything was fine. She came over to them in her giraffe onesie and asked both of them for a kiss, without words. Her silent, expectant stare was communication enough.

After that she went to her safari-themed room, but left the door open because she was a little afraid of the storm.

"Y-you don’t have to k-keep everything inside anymore," Grace continued, brushing Leon’s bangs aside. It hit exactly right, because his blue eyes snapped open. "I-I sometimes imagine our brains are a bit l-like Emily’s drawing papers. N-now and then, uglier s-scribbles end up on them, but they can be e-erased to some extent, and…" Her fingers traced along his skin, caressing it with the back of her hand, feeling out the shallow lines of his wrinkles. "P-painted over i-into something n-nicer."

She found the scar on his neck that she had already noticed that day in the ARK, beneath the dried blood and grime. The infection no longer discolored Leon’s skin; only this remained with him, Gideon’s final middle finger.

She didn’t try to convince Leon that what had happened didn’t matter. That just because she had ambushed him in that parking lot a few days ago, all the bad memories would simply fade away. Leon had never fed her such lies either—the guilt of survivors was a rotten thing, after all—and he didn’t need to. Just like once in total darkness, they warmed each other.

A little later, Grace took his hand and led him into the bathroom. Emily had been good—she hadn’t left behind a full flood disaster. She turned on the tap above the black bathtub, hearing Leon close the door behind them. Standing on her tiptoes, she took down a small handmade glass bottle filled with greenish bath oil from the top floating shelf, something a former therapist had once recommended to her. It was lemongrass oil, its scent fresh and bright, like morning dew brushing against bare feet.

She dripped it into the water and smoothed the foam with her fingers. Steam settled in her hair, flattening it slightly, and she shivered pleasantly as Leon wrapped his arms around her from behind. Through her top she could feel he was already shirtless, and she needed to see him, so she turned around. Every muscle was taut and defined, showing he was still committed to his training routine.

Grace took him in without her thoughts drifting; this wasn’t about sex. Not for Leon either. Maybe if they hadn’t drunk, and if Emily hadn’t been there, he still wouldn’t have been in the mood. She didn’t need them to be. Alcohol usually muffled Grace’s senses anyway, making it harder for her to reach the peak than usual.

She simply soaked in Leon’s protective gaze as she shimmied out of her shirt, then hurriedly removed her black leggings. Leon’s cargo pants also fell to the floor, and in boxers and socks he leaned over the tub to turn off the water.

The universe shrank to the tiny, white-tiled bathroom and the two of them wrapped in fragrant lemon steam. Grace slipped the straps of her bra from her narrow shoulders, unclasped it, and, in her first instinctive burst of shyness, covered her breasts with her arms.

Leon turned to face her then, and Grace dropped her gaze to the floor.

"You're beautiful, Grace. A real babe, as we used to say."

"I think people still say that," she whispered, and, still staring at the tiles, slowly let her hands fall to her sides.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Leon's boxers join the rest of their clothes on the floor.

He wasn't shy, and he had any reason to be. Even without a trace of sexual intention, his cock flaccid and eyes worn, every inch of him radiated quiet masculinity. He kissed her, soothing her restless nerves. His lips tasted faintly of alcohol, yet somehow sweet all the same. She couldn't remember ever being in a man's arms without him trying to find his way between her legs.

She slid the thin white strings of her panties down over her hips, then quickly climbed into the bathtub after him. Leaning back against his solid chest, she nestled herself completely into his embrace, like a songbird settling between the thick branches of an old oak. The bathwater lapped gently against the rim of the tub, just as the rain brushed against the bathroom's lone window outside, as though it, too, wanted to peek inside.

Leon buried his nose in her hair, nudging it playfully like an affectionate dog. Beneath the water, the outlines of their bodies dissolved into one another.

"Sorry... the tub isn't exactly huge."

"I've bathed in a wooden barrel before. Pretty sure somebody had been pickling frogs in it first... or something like that. This is perfect."

"Um, Leon... c-could you maybe..."

"Move over?"

Grace made a point of scooting even closer, if such a thing was physically possible.

"No. I wanted to ask... w-would you maybe come with me to the annual FBI gala? R-retirements, awards... that sort of thing. I d-didn't go last year."

Leon's right hand drifted higher until it rested across her stomach, just beneath the small, pointed curves of her breasts.

"A gala. An FBI gala." He reached for Grace's bath sponge from the edge of the tub and dipped it into the lemongrass-scented water. "You'd want me as your date? Officially?"

"W-what does officially mean to you?" Grace squeaked.

"Paperwork."

Grace would have shot him an irritated look if he hadn't begun gently scrubbing her back with the lathered sponge. The warm foam slid across her shoulder blades in slow, patient circles.

"I d-don't want paperwork," she mumbled, relaxing despite herself. "I j-just want you there... with me."

"For you? Anything, Grace."

Grace turned halfway toward him, closing her arms around his neck. Their chests pressed together, damp strands of hair clinging to Leon's forehead. His lips grazed the tip of her nose before he placed the gentlest kiss upon it.

Silence settled between them, broken only by the rain tapping softly against the window and the quiet slosh of water whenever one of them shifted. Grace could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. It had become one of her favorite sounds in the world.

Privately, she thanked every star in the sky that she had never told Leon about Dempsey's questions.

She hadn't thought it was a good idea before, but now that they would soon be in the same room—with alcohol, and plenty of it—telling him seemed even more dangerous.

If there was one thing she never doubted, it was that Leon would go to the ends of the earth to keep her safe. She didn't want the FBI gala to become another battlefield for him. She wanted one evening where he could simply be Leon; the man who quietly watered dying herbs, teased little girls about raccoon conspiracies, and absentmindedly scrubbed her back with a bath sponge while making terrible jokes about paperwork.

Just one normal night.

Even if neither of them had ever been particularly lucky with those.

#kennecroft #leon kennedy #grace ashcroft #fic recommendation

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

One Way To Go