Summary: Leon blames you for not following orders. You blame him for never trusting anyone. Tonight it cuts deeper than either of you expected, and when it finally breaks, it's not with an apology. It's with your back against the wall and his mouth on yours, angry and desperate and nothing like forgiveness.
Just Enough Time to Ruin You š¶ļø
Summary: The mission is over but the tension never really faded. It just shiftedāsettled into the space between you and Leon in a cramped safe house where the walls are thin and the team is always too close. When a ten-minute window opens, it's not a gift. It's a risk. And he doesn't waste a single second of it.
A Luxury He Can't Afford š„
Summary: He was just in your arms, desperate and vulnerable, but the second it was over, the armor went back on. Standing in a shadowed Vienna hotel room, Leon refuses to accept that you want himābroken parts and all. He believes the only way to protect you is to leave, even if it destroys you both.
Beating the Spanish Heat š¶ļø
Summary: When a mission in Spain forces Leon to turn on the charm for a local contact, you can't ignore the jealous rage burning in your chest. It's an ugly feeling, one you try to outrun, but Leon is always one step ahead. He follows you into the night, turning your anger into a desperate, possessive encounter that proves heās just as obsessed as you are.
You're Out of Your Mind š¶ļø
Summary: Picking up where the first night in the safe house left off, you wake up in the middle of the night to find Leon tense and unable to sleep, so you distract him the best way you know how.
Think You Can Stay Quiet? š¶ļø
Summary: Stuck in a crappy safe house with paper-thin walls, you and Leon are too wired from a long mission to sleep. So you find another way to burn off the tensionāon a tiny bed, in the dark, trying to stay completely silent while your teammates are just feet away.
Hello hello! I lived (barely, but still counts). I've been dealing with some health stuff and ended up in the hospital for a while, which was not on my 2026 bingo card š I'm home now though, doing better, and I'm finally starting to write again after the world's least fun hiatus. I've missed this a lot more than I realized, honestly, and I'm just easing back into things slowly. No big schedule or anything yet, just trying to find my way back into my stories. Currently staring at a draft of jealous Leon and trying to remember how words work again. Bear with me while I shake the rust off š«¶
I'm convinced the universe is actively sabotaging me. I finally get two weeks off work, which means two whole weeks to actually sit down and write. My docs were open, my motivation was high, I was READY. But apparently, the universe took one look at my plans and said "absolutely not," because now I'm writing this from a hospital bed šš Just my luck. Pray for my WIPs!!
Summary: Leon blames you for not following orders. You blame him for never trusting anyone. Tonight it cuts deeper than either of you expected, and when it finally breaks, it's not with an apology. It's with your back against the wall and his mouth on yours, angry and desperate and nothing like forgiveness.
The safe house was damp, smelling of mildew and old dust, a far cry from the polished briefing rooms of Washington. The single overhead bulb flickered, casting erratic shadows against the peeling wallpaper. Somewhere in the walls, a pipe dripped in irregular beatsāthe only thing marking the passage of time in this forgotten hole in the wall.
The silence between the drips stretched thin, pulled tight by the adrenaline crash settling in your veins. Your hands were still trembling, the aftershock of a firefight playing out in your nervous system. The only other sound was the heavy, ragged breathing of two people who had just cheated death and hadn't quite convinced their bodies of it yet.
"You didn't run."
Leon's voice was flat, stripped of the usual tired sarcasm that kept people at arm's length. He was tearing off his tactical vest, the velcro ripping through the quiet like a gunshot. He didn't look at you, his jaw set so hard you could see the muscle twitch beneath the stubble-darkened skin. His fingers moved mechanically, like the task was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.
"There was a guy cutting left to flank our exit," you shot back, slamming your own gear onto the rickety wooden table. A coffee cup rattled near the edge, threatening to spill. "If I had just blindly run, he would have been waiting at the door before we got there. I stopped to track him. Maybe if you had actually communicated your plan instead of barking orders like a drill sergeant, I wouldn't have had to improvise."
He spun around, eyes blue and cold. The light caught the dried blood on his cheekbone, a thin rust-colored line you hadn't noticed until now. "My plan was simple. Get to the exit. Don't stop. Instead, you broke off, and I had to double back into a kill zone to save your ass because you were busy tracking a single hostile while the facility came down around our ears."
"I didn't ask you to come back for me," you said, stepping into his space. Close enough to see the frayed threads on his collar where shrapnel had caught the fabric. Close enough to see the pulse jumping at the base of his throat. "I had it handled."
"No, you didn't." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "I gave you a direct order to run, and you chose to stand your ground on a split-second read. That's not handling it. That's rolling the dice and hoping the odds shake out."
"I was right, though."
"You were lucky. There's a difference." His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinkingāthe kind of stare that made trained operatives look away. "And luck runs out. Usually right when you need it most."
"Luck runs out," you repeated slowly. "That's what you tell yourself, isn't it? So you never have to actually trust anyone. You've already decided everyone around you is going to failāthat way, when they do, you can say you saw it coming." You shook your head. "Maybe the problem isn't me. Maybe you're just so obsessed with being the martyr that you can't trust anyone else to do their jobābecause if someone actually keeps up with you, what do you have left to prove?"
Leon flinched. Barelyāa twitch at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as fast as it came. But you saw it.
Then something hardened. His eyes went flat, the brief crack in his armor sealing shut with an almost audible click.
"You think that's what this is? You think I want to carry dead weight?" He took a step closer, and you held your ground. "You want to talk about trust? Trust goes both ways. You didn't trust me enough to follow orders, and now you're standing here acting like I'm the problem."
"That's not what Iā"
"You're not as good as you think you are." The words came out clean, deliberateālike he'd been sitting on them the whole ride back, turning them over like a blade between his fingers. "You've got instincts. Fine. But instincts don't make you reliable. You don't listen, you don't adapt, and the moment something doesn't go your way, you improvise and call it competence." His lip curled. "I've worked with amateurs who took orders better than you."
The breath left your lungs. Because he knew how to hurt people. Not with fistsāwith precision.
"Then maybe you shouldn't have requested me," you snarled, shoving him in the chest with both hands.
Leon stumbled back a single stepāonly because he let himselfābut his hand shot out like a trap springing shut, catching your wrist. His grip was iron, fingers wrapping around the narrow bones hard enough to feel your pulse hammering against his palm. He yanked you forward, and you collided with his chest, the impact knocking what little air remained from your lungs.
"You want to say that again?" he hissed, his face inches from yours. This close, you could see the flecks of grey in those cold blue eyes, the faint scar bisecting his eyebrow, the way his pupils had blown wide despite the anger.
"You heard me," you spat, breathless. "I'm done taking the blame for your control issues. You can't handle not being in charge of everythingāincluding me."
"Control issues?" A dark, humorless laugh scraped out of him. "You have no idea."
He slammed his mouth onto yours.
There was nothing gentle about it. His lips crushed against yours, forceful and demanding. Teeth clicked, and the tender skin of your bottom lip caught and split against the sharp edge of his canine. Copper bloomed across your tongueāhis or yours, impossible to tell, didn't care. It was angry and visceral, forty-eight hours of sheer terror and unfiltered rage finally finding the only exit it could.
You didn't pull away. You met him with equal force, grabbing a fistful of his damp shirt and dragging him closer. Your knuckles turned white twisting the fabric, your other hand flying up to knot in the short hair at his nape, pulling his head down to a better angle. You bit down on his lower lipāhardāand he groaned. Deep, ragged, torn from somewhere low in his chest. It vibrated against your mouth, traveled through your ribs, and sent a sharp rush of heat pooling low in your belly.
He moved blindly, walking you backward without breaking the kiss. Your shoulder blades hit the wall, the impact knocking a shaky exhale out of you. The plaster was cool and gritty through the thin fabric of your shirt, a jarring contrast to the furnace of his body pressing you into it. His heartbeat hammered against yoursāfrantic, desperate, nothing like the controlled front he wore like armor.
"This what you want?" he muttered against your bruised lips, breath coming in hot, uneven puffs. He barely pulled back enough to speak. "To shut me up?"
"Maybe." You swallowed his next words in a messy, consuming kissāall teeth and tongue and zero tenderness. "You talk too much anyway," you breathed into the sliver of space between you.
His hands slid downāpast your ribs, past your waist, finding the strip of bare skin where your shirt had come untucked. His palms were calloused, the kind that don't soften, and the drag of them against your skin made your breath hitch. He didn't caress. He gripped, fingers digging in until you couldn't tell where the pressure ended and the ache began.
The kiss broke, and his mouth dragged down the line of your jaw, movements jagged and impatient. The rough scrape of his stubble against your skin sent a jolt down your spine, a sharp contrast to the heat of his tongue. You tugged at the hem of his shirt while his mouth worked at your neck, your knuckles dragging against his stomach, needing the fabric gone, aching for skin against skin to prove you were both still alive.
He pulled back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, and then his hands were on you, hooking under the hem of your shirt and dragging it upward. You raised your arms without thinking, already past the point of pretending you didn't want this. He stripped it off in one motion. Rough, warm palms hit your bare skin, skating up your ribs with a possessiveness that made your breath catch. He reached behind you, knuckles brushing your spine as he unhooked your bra with an ease that annoyed you almost as much as it turned you on, and he pulled the straps down your arms and tossed it aside without breaking eye contact.
Then he justāstopped.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent except for your ragged breathing. His gaze dropped. Slowly, deliberately, like he was taking inventory. Down the line of your collarbones, the slope of your breasts, the dip of your waist. Not rushing. Not touching. Just looking.
His head lowered, and his mouth found the hollow of your throat. Hot, open-mouthed, dragging lower down your chest. His hands came up to cup your breasts, palms sliding over the skin, and his thumbs brushed over your nipples in a slow, maddening rhythm that had your back arching off the wall. Then he latched on without warning, his tongue swirling around the peak before he sucked hard. A sharp, white-hot jolt shot straight between your legs. You cried out, your head falling back against the wall with a dull thud, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails biting into the muscle.
He didn't let up. Nothing reverent about itāno tenderness, no restraint. He devoured you with a desperate, messy intensity, like he'd die if he stopped. His teeth grazed the peaked nipple just hard enough to make you gasp, then soothed the sting with a slow drag of his tongue. He switched to the other side, sucking it deep into his mouth, his hand heavy on the breast he'd abandoned, kneading until it hurt.
"You like that?" he murmured against your skin, the vibration humming through you.
Your only answer was to thread your fingers through his hair and hold him there. He huffed a dark laugh against your breast, the air cooling the wetness he'd left behind.
One hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers digging in as he pulled your body flush against his. The hard line of his cock pressed against your lower stomach through his cargo pantsāthick and insistent, a stark reminder of exactly where this was going.
The remaining fabric was maddeningātoo many layers, too much cloth between skin that needed to meet. You needed to break him apart the way he was unraveling you, so you grabbed his jaw and pulled him off you. His lips were wet and swollen, his eyes glazed with a mix of lust and that same stubborn anger that had started this whole thing.
"Done already?" you taunted, your words fractured by shallow pants. "Scared you can't keep up?"
Leon's eyes narrowed. His hands slid from your breasts to grip your hips, fingers pressing in until it ached.
"Scared of you?" A short, sharp exhale that wasn't quite a laugh. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're going to be this much of a brat when I'm inside you."
"Try me and find out."
He dropped, his knees hitting the dusty floor with a muted thud. Before you could process it, his fingers were hooked into the waistband of your pants. He didn't undo the button and zipper with any care; he practically ripped them open, the fly protesting with a sharp metallic sound in the quiet room. He pulled your boots off one at a time, quick and impatient, tossing them aside. Then his hands gripped the loosened fabric, dragging your pants down your hips and over your thighs.
"Lift," he commanded, smacking your hip sharply.
Your pride flared at the order, but your body betrayed you. You stepped out of the pooled fabric, leaving you in just your underwear. The damp air of the safe house clung to your bare skin, but Leon's gaze was a physical brand, trailing hot up the length of your legs.
"Look at you," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, rough and gravelly. His gaze lingered between your thighs, and the corner of his mouth curved. "All that attitude, and you're soaking wet for me."
"Don't flatter yourself," you managed, though your voice wavered as he leaned in, pressing his face against the damp fabric of your panties. He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing against your clit through the cotton, and your knees nearly buckled. "It's just adrenaline."
"Sure it is." He hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear and dragged them down your legs and off your feet in one rough motion. "Keep telling yourself that."
Before you could catch your breath, he grabbed the back of your thigh and hauled your leg over his shoulder, opening you up to him. The position left you vulnerableāback against the wall, one foot barely touching the floor, hands tangled in his hair just to stay upright.
He didn't tease. He didn't start slow. He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, hard and relentless.
"Fuck." Your head cracked back against the wall, a cry tearing from your throat. He worked his tongue against you with a precision that was almost cruelāalternating between broad, flat strokes and sharp, targeted flicks that had your thigh trembling against his ear.
He groaned against you, the vibration traveling straight through your core, amplifying everything until the edges of your vision blurred. His hands were everywhereāone gripping your ass to hold you up, the other sliding between your legs to push a finger inside you.
"You're tight," he grunted, pulling away just long enough to speak before diving back in. He added a second finger, curling them upward to find that spot that made your breath hitch. "Relax. You're so damn tense."
"I'm tense because you'reā" You broke off with a moan as his teeth grazed your inner thigh, a sharp bite that made your hips jerk. "Because you're annoying."
"Yeah?" A dark laugh scraped out of him, muffled against your skin. "Then why are you this wet?"
He pumped his fingers faster, matching the rhythm of his tongue, driving you relentlessly toward the edge. It was too much, too fastāthe anger in his movements translating into a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. The coil in your belly tightened, heat climbing your spine.
"Leon, waitā" you gasped, tugging at his hair.
He pulled back, his chin wet, his eyes dark. "Come for me. Show me you can actually follow orders for once."
And then his mouth was on you againāsucking, relentless, his fingers curling deep.
Your orgasm hit. One second you were hanging on the edge, and the next it ripped through you. Your back arched off the wall, your entire body locking up, a sound wrenched from your throatāraw and wrecked, bouncing off the walls of the safe house. Your leg locked against his shoulder, your hips jerking against his mouth as you rode his face, and he didn't pull awayājust worked you through every last spasm. The damp smell, the flickering light, the cold plasterāall of it gone, wiped out by the blinding rush that left you shaking and completely undone.
When he finally pulled away, you were slumped against the wall, boneless. Your legs shook. Your lungs burned. He looked up at you from his knees, chin glistening, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes never left yours.
"Still have something to say?" he asked, his voice thick and rough.
He lifted your leg off his shoulder and let it dropāyour foot hitting the floor with a thud you barely felt, your thighs still trembling. He pushed himself up from his knees, and you grabbed the back of his neck before he was even fully upright, crashing your mouth against hisātasting yourself on his tongue, messy and desperate and nothing like the precision of what he'd just done to you. You wanted to return the favor. You wanted to ruin him.
"Get your pants off," you demanded against his lips, your hands already tugging at his waist. "Now."
Your trembling fingers fumbled with the heavy brass buckle, the cold metal slipping against your skin. He could have helped. He didn't. He just stood there, chest heaving, letting you struggle with itāwatching you with that dark, half-lidded stare that made you feel like you were the one on your knees. Every time your knuckles brushed against the hard plane of his stomach, you felt the muscles jump beneath your touch, and that small crack in his composure sent a fresh spike of heat through your chest.
"You're enjoying this," you muttered, yanking at the leather.
"Immensely."
You finally got the pin free, and the belt slid through the loops with a hiss. You tossed it somewhere behind youāheard it hit the floor with a heavy clankāand moved straight for the button of his cargo pants. He was hard. Had been since he'd pressed you against the wall, and seeing the strain against the fabric now, the obscene outline of him, made your mouth go dry even though your body was still thrumming from what he'd just done to you.
You gripped him through the fabricāonce, rough, possessiveāand his jaw tightened. His abs contracted sharply above your hand, and the sound he madeābarely there, bitten offātold you everything his mouth wouldn't.
"Still think I'm not as good as I think I am?" you asked, squeezing just hard enough to make his breath hitch.
He didn't answer. Just watched you, his breath coming too fast.
āThat's what I thought," you muttered, shoving his pants down over his hips, along with his boxers, in one rough tug, leaving them bunched low down his thighs. And then there was nothing between you. The sight of him hit you all at onceāthe broad shoulders, the scarred torso, the sharp cut of his hips tapering down, the flushed, leaking hardness of him jutting out.
You swallowed.
For a fraction of a second, the anger falteredāreplaced by something rawer, something that felt dangerously close to vulnerability. You'd wanted him before. On quiet nights in shared hotel rooms, in the space between orders and briefings, you'd wanted him. But wanting him like this, with his blood still drying on his cheekbone and your skin still stinging under his gripāthat was different. That was a door you couldn't close.
He must have seen something shift in your face, because the arrogance flickeredāreplaced by something hungrier, more honest. He stepped forward, closing the gap, and his hand came up to grip your chinārough, tilting your face up to meet his.
"Hey." His voice was low, and the gentleness in it was worse than the cruelty. "Still with me?"
"Don't go soft on me now," you said, the words thinner than you wanted. His grip on your chin tightened.
"Turn around."
"What?"
"You heard me." His thumb traced the line of your jaw, a ghost of tenderness that made your skin prickle. "Turn. Around."
Every instinct in you screamed to push back, to refuse, to keep fighting for control. But your legs were still unsteady, your body still humming from the orgasm he'd pulled out of you, and some deep, aching part of you wanted to see what he'd do when you gave him an inch.
So you turned. Slowly. You pressed your palms flat against the wall, leaning forward, bracing yourselfāand waited.
For a moment, nothing. Just his breathing behind youāragged and unevenāand the faint creak of the floorboards as he shifted his weight. Then his chest pressed against your back, the heat of him searing into your spine, and his mouth found the curve of your shoulder. Not a kissāa press of lips, firm and deliberate, but his hand was trembling when it settled flat against your stomach, and he pressed forward gently, pushing your hips deeper into the arch until your ass was flush against him.
His hands slid up your sides, palms skating over your ribs, the dip of your waist. He was slower now, methodical in a way that felt different from before. Less frantic. Like he was mapping you, memorizing the terrain before the invasion.
"Leon," you started, your voice cracking.
"Quiet." His breath was hot against the shell of your ear. "I spent the last forty-eight hours wondering if you were going to die in that facility. So I'm going to take my time with this. And you're going to let me."
The words landed somewhere deeper than you were prepared for, because beneath the command there was something you hadn't expectedāfear. Real, raw fear, the kind he'd never admit to, buried under layers of stoicism and sarcasm. He wasn't just angry. He'd been terrified. And thisāhis hands on you, his breath on your skin, the slowness of it like he was afraid you'd disappearāwas him trying to prove you were alive.
You didn't say anything. You let him.
His hand slid down between your thighs from behind, his fingers finding you still slick and swollen from before. He groaned against your shoulderāa low, broken soundāas he dragged his fingers through your folds, spreading the wetness over you. You hissed at the contact, overstimulated, and your hips jerked forward against his hand.
Then his hand left you, and you heard the wet sound of him stroking himselfāslow, measured strokes, spreading your slickness over his length. The head of his cock slapped against the curve of your ass, blunt and hot, and you flinched. He did it again, dragging himself between your cheeks, then down, until he was sliding through your folds from behind.
He gripped your hip, widened your stance with his knee, and the bare head of his cock caught against your entrance. You both stutteredāhim with a sharp inhale, you with a whimper you couldn't swallow.
He pushed inside.
The first inch split you openāa slow, burning stretch that stole the breath from your lungs. He was bigger than you'd prepared for, thick in a way that your fingers couldn't replicate, and the wetness helped but it was still a lot. Your body struggled to accommodate him as he fed himself into you slowly, the raw drag of him sinking deeper. Your hands flattened against the wall, fingers splayed, and you pressed your forehead against the cool plaster and tried to remember how to breathe.
"Fuck." The word hissed through his teeth, his grip on your hips tightening until the bones ached. "You feelā" He didn't finish. Couldn't. His voice dissolved into something barely human. And then, quieter, almost to himself: "So fucking good."
He bottomed out, and for a moment neither of you moved. He folded himself over you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his hot, uneven breaths fanning down your spine. You could feel his heartbeatānot just inside you, but against your back, two pulses in different places, both racing. The heat of him. The way he throbbed inside you in time with that pulse. The slickness of your own body stretched tight around him.
Then he started to move.
The first thrust was slowāexperimental, like he was testing the give of your body. The second was deeper, his hips snapping forward with a force that drove you up onto your toes. By the third, whatever restraint he'd been holding onto snapped like a frayed wire.
He fucked you against the wall with a desperation that bordered on violence. His pace was relentless, each thrust driving the air from your lungs in short, sharp gasps, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the safe houseāobscene and loud. The angle had your hips pushed back, your spine arched, your ass bouncing against him with every snap, and he was hitting something deep inside that made your vision blur at the edges.
"Youā" He was struggling to speak, his words fractured by the effort of his rhythm. "You haveāno ideaāhow longā" Each phrase punctuated by a thrust, harder than the last. "I've thought about this."
"Tell me," you gasped, though the words came out broken, barely audible over the sound of his hips meeting your ass. You wanted to hear him fall apart. You needed it.
"No." His hand slid up your spine, slow now, almost gentleāa stark contrast to the brutal pace of his hips. His fingers threaded into your hair at the base of your nape, and he fisted his hand and pulled, arching your back deeper, forcing your head up. The angle shifted, and you cried outāloud, raw, echoing off the walls. "You don't get to hear that. Not yet."
He leaned down, his chest pressed flush against your back, his mouth against the shell of your ear. His hand left your hair and slid down the front of your throatānot squeezing, just resting there, his fingers wrapping around the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. You could feel your own heartbeat hammering against his palm.
He shifted again, and it was devastatingādeeper, slower, each thrust a grinding roll of his hips that dragged the entire length of him against your front wall. The friction was overwhelmingāslick heat, every ridge and vein catching against your walls in a way that made your toes curl against the cold floor. His other hand wrapped around your front, finding your clit, his fingers working you in tight, precise circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
"Come on," he muttered, his voice ragged and hot against your ear. "I want to feel you come apart on my cock."
It was too muchāthe deep, relentless pressure inside and the targeted friction against your clit, his hand on your throat, the solid weight of his chest pinning you in place. The coil in your belly wound tighter, your thighs shaking so badly you wouldn't have been able to stand if he wasn't holding you up.
"I'māfuck, I'm gonnaā" The words broke apart in your mouth, crumbling into something between a gasp and a whine.
"Let go." He bit down on the curve of your shoulderāhard enough to mark, hard enough that you'd see the indentations of his teeth tomorrowāand the sharp sting of pain was the final push.
The orgasm crashed through you like a shockwave. Your entire body seized, your walls clamping down around him so hard he groanedāa raw, wrecked sound, his rhythm stuttering for the first time since he'd started. You could feel yourself pulsing around him, the wetness increasing, your body gripping him in waves as the pleasure rolled through you. Your knees buckled, your vision whited out, and a sound ripped from your throat that echoed off the safe house walls and came back sounding nothing like you.
He didn't stop. His hips kept moving through it, fucking you while your walls clenched and fluttered around him, and you could feel him losing controlāhis rhythm falling apart, his thrusts turning sharp and erratic, his breathing ragged against your shoulder. His hand slid from your throat, the other from between your legs, and both hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in hard as he chased his own end. You could feel him swelling inside you, his whole body going rigid against your back.
His hips slammed forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt so deep you couldn't breathe, and he came. Your name cracked and half-strangled, wrenched out of him like he didn't have a choiceāshuddering against you now, his weight crushing you into the wall. And you felt it. The pulse of him, thick and hot, spilling into you, deep enough that you swore you could feel it in your stomach. His thrusts turned shallow, involuntary, filling you with every jerk of his hips.Ā
He didn't pull away. He stayed flush against you, his full weight pinning you in place, hands clamped tight on your hips as the aftershocks rolled through your shared heat. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, damp with sweat, and he didn't moveāstill deep inside you, softening. Beneath the grit and the exhaustion, you could feel his heartbeatāa frantic, trapped bird slowly realizing the cage was open, its pace finally starting to stutter and slow. The iron grip on your hips eased. His thumbs dragged in absent, feather-light circles over the aching prints his fingers had left behind.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The silence that settled over the room was different from beforeānot the thin, razor-edged silence of the argument, but something heavier, stickier. The kind of silence that follows a confession neither of you meant to make.
The pipe dripped. The bulb flickered. His breath warmed the skin between your shoulder blades.
Then he pulled outāslowly, carefullyāand you felt the loss of him, the wet drag of him leaving you, followed by the slow trickle of warmth down the inside of your thigh. You shivered and it wasn't from the cold.
Your legs finally gave out. You turned, your shoulder scraping against the plaster as you slid down, and ended up sitting on the cold floor with your knees drawn up and your head tipped back. Your body achedāhips, shoulders, thighs, the tender skin of your lip. Everything felt sore and used and alive.
Leon stood in the middle of the room. His hair was a mess from where you'd pulled it, his lip swollen and bleeding from your bite, and red lines ran down his shoulders where your nails had been. He looked like someone who had just been dragged through hell and come out the other side not sure if he was still on fire.
He bent down, pulled his pants back up, and didn't bother buttoning them. Then he crossed the small room, picked up his shirt from the floor, andāinstead of putting it onābrought it back to you and dropped it over your shoulders.
You looked up at him. He wasn't looking at you. His jaw was set in that familiar hard line, but his eyesāwhen they finally met yoursāwere something you'd never seen before. Unguarded. Exhausted. Terrified.
"You scared the hell out of me," he said quietly. Not an accusation. Not a weapon. Just the truth, stripped bare.
Your throat tightened. You pulled his shirt tighter around your shoulders, and it smelled like copper and salt and something burnt, smoke and sweat soaked into the fabric over forty-eight hoursāand your eyes burned in a way that had nothing to do with the flickering light.
"I thought I was going to die in there," you admitted.
He sank down beside you, his back against the wall. One leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent, his forearm resting on his knee. His shoulder was close enough to yours that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and let out a long, shaky breath.
Neither of you said anything else. You didn't talk about what this meant. You didn't talk about the mission, or the facility, or the fact that in a few hours you'd have to report back to headquarters and pretend none of this ever happened. You just sat there, stripped down and raw in every sense of the word, with his shirt around your shoulders and his cum drying on your thighs and the damp smell of the safe house filling your lungs.
The pipe dripped.
The bulb flickered.
You let your head fall to the side, settling against his shoulder. He didn't pull away. And for now, neither of you moved.
Thank youu! š«¶ My biggest struggle/greatest joy when writing him is figuring out his exact level of dirtiness. Finding that perfect balance between him being rough and demanding versus that intense, almost desperate neediness takes so many drafts š
I got bored and randomly decided I wanted to try writing angst, but now I'm not sure how to continue this. Do I turn it into hot makeup sex or make everyone cry? Read the snippet below andĀ vote at the end!
"Iām not asking for a mission debrief, Leon." Your voice rose, rough and scraping, drowning out the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. "I asked you one simple question about your drive home just to make conversation, and you looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language."
Leon stood by the window, his silhouette rigid against the darkening glass. The streetlamps outside cast long, skeletal shadows across the floor. He braced one hand against the frame, head hanging low, the tension in his shoulders knotting the fabric of his shirt. When he finally turned, his eyes weren't soft; they were cold, sharp flints of blue ice that had seen too much.
āI'm standing right here,ā he snapped, his voice low and gravelly. "I came home. I put the gun in the safe. Isn't that enough? Or do you need a detailed analysis of every horror I saw today so you can feel involved?"
"I need to know my husband!" you countered, stepping into his space, refusing to let him retreat into the shadows. "I need to know thereās a human being in there, not just a machine the government points and shoots. Youāre cold, Leon. Youāre distant. You come home, pour a drink, and you justā¦ check out."
"Maybe I check out because I don't want to drag that shit into this house!" he yelled, the veneer of the gentleman finally cracking. The exhausted, angry soldier underneath was exposed, ragged and worn. "I spend twenty-four hours wading through the worst of humanity, and the second I walk through the door, you want to dissect my psyche? Iām tired, God damn it. Iām exhausted. I just want to sit in silence."
"You don't want silence," you shot back, tears of frustration stinging your eyes. "You want to be numb. You'd rather be alone with a bottle than face reality. It's pathetic. Youāre forty-nine years old and you still don't know how to be anything other than a victim."
The silence that followed was deafening, ringing in your ears.
Leon straightened up, his jaw clenching tight. "Thatās low. Even for you."
"It's the truth," you said, your voice trembling. "You wallow in it. You hold onto the tragedy because it means you don't have to try. Youāre not protecting me by shutting me out, Leon. Youāre just a coward."
"Don't call me a coward," he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He stepped closer, the smell of gun oil and expensive bourbon radiating off him. "You have no idea what Iāve done to keep this life. You sit here in your safe little world, judging me, while Iām out thereā"
"And there it is!" you laughed bitterly. "The martyr complex. 'Oh, poor Leon, suffering alone.' You think I don't know what you do? I know exactly what you do. I know you kill people. I know you see things that would drive anyone else mad. But you use it as a shield. You use it as an excuse to treat me like garbage."
Leon scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Unbelievable. You know what? Maybe they were right. Maybe this was a mistake from the start."
The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. You took a stumbling step back, the taste of copper in your mouth. "Get out."
"What?"
"You heard me." Your voice dropped to a deadly quiet. "If I'm so much work, if I'm such a burden to your heroic lifestyle, then leave. Go back to the hotel. Go back to the bottle. Go be a hero somewhere else."
Leon stared at you, the fight draining out of him until his expression was hollow. For a second, the silence was so thick it felt like the air might shatter. He gave a sharp, jerky nod, turned, and grabbed his leather jacket from the chair. The leather creaked loudly in the quiet room, a harsh sound against the ticking clock.
He walked to the door, his boots heavy and deliberate against the floorboards. He paused with his hand on the knob, his back to you, shoulders slumped under the weight of a world you couldn't touch.
Then, without a backward glance, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the night.
Summary: The mission is over but the tension never really faded. It just shiftedāsettled into the space between you and Leon in a cramped safe house where the walls are thin and the team is always too close. When a ten-minute window opens, it's not a gift. It's a risk. And he doesn't waste a single second of it.
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader
Word Count: 3,355
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The day had bled into night, bringing the same heavy silence and the same four walls pressing in. The adrenaline from the extractionāand the night that followedāhad faded into a dull, restless tension that no amount of bad coffee could fix.
Diaz stepped out onto the back porch for a comms check, the screen door clicking shut behind him. Mara had her noise-canceling headphones clamped tight over her ears, eyes glued to three monitors as her fingers flew across the keyboard in a fluid, unbroken rhythmāsame as she'd been when you first arrived.
You ducked back into the bedroom and shut the door so softly the latch barely caught. When you turned, Leon was sitting on the edge of the bed, field-stripping his pistol. He didn't look up. He just slid the barrel back, the metal clicking with a precision that made your stomach tightenāa sound you were quickly learning to associate with him.
He was still in his tactical pants, shoulder holster draped over the footboard. His jacket was gone, replaced by a fitted black long-sleeve pushed up to his forearms. The fresh white bandage on his left arm stood out against sun-touched skin, a reminder of the graze he'd refused to let slow him down. His hair fell into his eyes the way it always didāthat messy sweep of dirty blond he never bothered to fixāand a shadow of stubble had darkened along his jaw since morning.
"He's outside," you breathed, the sound loud in the quiet room. "Mara's deaf to the world. We have maybe ten minutes."
Leonās hands didnāt pause. āWe have ten minutes for what?ā
"Don't play dumb, Leon."
His jaw ticked, the muscle jumping beneath his cheek. You caught the faint smile the way you caught everything about him. It wasn't quite a smirkāsomething quieter than that. He set the slide down with exaggerated, agonizing care, and beneath the deliberate movement, you noticed the shift in his shoulders. Tension rerouting. Focus bleeding into something predatory.
āCome here.ā
You crossed the room before you could think twice. You were already in your underwear and one of his t-shirts, and the fabric hung loose over your thighs. When you stopped in front of him, he didn't stand. He reached out, pushing the hem of the shirt up just enough to hook his fingers through the waistband of your panties. He didn't pull them down. He just held themāa light, possessive tug that drew you a step closer, into the v of his legs.
You could feel the heat radiating off him. The warmth of his thighs bracketing yours, the solid muscle of his chest right in front of you, rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. He smelled like musk and cedar, the same scent that had been clinging to your pillow all day.
āTen minutes,ā he repeated, tilting his head back to look up at you. The blue of his eyes was nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils. āThat's not a lot of time.ā
āThen stop wasting it.ā
Something flashed across his faceāheat, hunger, the edge of something dangerousāand he yanked you forward. You stumbled, and his hands caught your hips, spinning you, pushing you back onto the bed with a controlled violence that made your head spin.
You bounced once, the springs screaming in protest. You both winced.
But Leon didn't stop. He grabbed your ankles and yanked you down the mattress until your legs hung off the edge. The rough drag of the threadbare sheet beneath you made you arch, the shirt riding up as you slid, and then he dropped to his knees on the cold floorboards, his hands hooking behind your knees and pushing your thighs apart, spreading you open in front of him.
He stared.
Just for a second, but it felt like an hour. His eyes tracked down your bodyāthe bunched-up cotton, the bare skin of your stomach, the damp fabric still clinging where it shouldn't have been. His jaw tightened, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed.
āChrist,ā he muttered, almost to himself. āYou're alreadyāā
He cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. His thumbs traced slow circles into the soft skin of your inner thighs, and the contrast between the gentleness of his touch and the darkness in his expression made your breath hitch.
He hooked his fingers in your underwear and dragged them down your legs, the fabric catching briefly on your ankles before he tossed them somewhere behind him. Cool air hit your bare skin and you squeezed your eyes shut, face burningāand then you felt it.
The first, hot drag of his tongue.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a taste. He flattened his tongue and licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance all the way up, collecting your arousal like he'd been starving for it. The rough texture of his tongue, the scratch of his stubble against your inner thighs, the wet heat of his mouthāit was overwhelming, and he'd barely started.
āLeonāā
Your head fell back and you slammed a hand over your mouth so fast your palm stung, a cry dying in your throat.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his mouth hovering against you, breath hot on your wet skin. "Shh. Keep your voice down, or I'll stop."
Then his mouth was on you againābut slower now. He used the flat of his tongue to lap at you in broad, lazy strokes that covered every inch, teasing your entrance without pushing inside. He was savoring you, groaning low in his throat like you were the best thing he'd ever tasted, and the sound of it made your stomach clench. Leon didn't make sounds like that. He was controlled, composed, always holding something back. But here, with his mouth between your thighs and your taste on his tongue, he let the mask slip.
The wet sounds filled the small room, echoing off the thin walls, and there was nothing you could do about it. You could only lie there, one hand clamped over your mouth and the other grabbing fistfuls of the bedding, shaking, while Leon worked you open with a patience that felt almost cruel.
The heat was buildingāa slow, heavy pull low in your bellyābut it wasn't enough. You needed more. You tried to shift your hips, to grind against his face, but his grip on your thighs was iron. He held you exactly where he wanted you, controlling the pace, controlling the pressure, and the helplessness of it made you throb. You could feel the strength in his handsāthe same hands that could field-strip a rifle in under a minute, that had killed men without hesitationāholding you open like you were something delicate.
"You taste so good," he murmured against you, the words vibrating through your body, and the crude intimacy of it made your cheeks burn hotter. "Been thinking about this all fucking day. Every time you bent over that desk. Every time you bit your lip looking at those surveillance photos."
He moved higher. The tip of his tongue circled your clit once, twiceāslow, deliberate strokes that made your hips twitchāthen he sealed his lips around it and sucked. Hard. His tongue flicked rapidly against the swollen flesh, and the suction was devastatingāa sharp, wet pull that shot electric arcs up your spine.
Your hips jerked uncontrollably, a desperate bid to escape the intensity or chase itāyou weren't sure anymore. But Leon was ready. He growled low against you, the vibration humming through your clit and making your vision blur, and forced your legs wider, burying his face deeper. The sting of his stubble scraping your inner thighs mixed with the pleasure until you couldn't tell them apart.
Every nerve ending felt exposed. The tension in your belly wound tighter and tighter, so taut you could barely breathe. Your thighs trembled against his head, your muffled whines leaking through your fingers. You were right there. Right on the edge. Seconds awayā
And then he stopped.
His mouth lifted from you. Just like that. Cool air hit your wet, oversensitive flesh and the absence of his tongue was so sudden it almost hurt. Your eyes flew open and you choked out a sound that was half sob, half gasp.
Leon sat back on his heels. His chin was slick. His lips were swollen and glistening, and when he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, the sight of himāwrecked and calm at the same timeāmade something inside you crack. His pupils were blown wide, eating up the blue, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that you'd never seen before.
"WhatāLeon, what the fuck are you doing?"
He didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked briefly to the door, checking the shadows beneath the frame. Silence. He looked back at you, his expression unreadable, save for the dark intensity in his gaze. You were panting, your chest heaving, your entire body focused on the aching, hollow need between your legs.
"Shh," he said, softer this time. Almost gentle. His hands slid from your thighs to your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the jut of your hipbones while you shook beneath him. "Take a breath."
"I don't want to take a breath, I want you to finish what youā"
"What's the rush?" His gaze dragged over your heaving chest and the flush painting your skin, and he looked entirely too pleased with himselfāa dark, arrogant satisfaction settling in his eyes that made you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. "You were getting there too fast. I wasn't done with you yet."
"You're a bastard."
"I've been called worse."
He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. The faint drag of his stubble caught against your skin, a rough contrast to how gentle his lips were. Barely any pressure. Just the heat of his mouth and the ghost of his breath making you twitch.
Then another kiss, an inch higher. Your hips shifted off the mattress, instinctively chasing the contact, but his hand pressed flat to your stomach to pin you down. He moved higher still, veering deliberately toward the crease of your hip, miles away from where you actually needed him.
"But you love it," he murmured. He tilted his head, looking up at you from between your thighsāeyes dark, jaw slack, mouth hovering so close it made your muscles clench. "Look at you. Shaking. You're so wet it's dripping onto the sheets."
Your fingers slid into his hair, tangling in the messy blond strands, and you tried to guide him where you needed him. He let youāfor half a second. Then he pulled back, slipping out of your grip, and your hands fell away empty. He watched your face the way he did everything elseālike he already knew how this would end and was just enjoying the steps in between.
Then he dragged his mouth back downāpast the crease of your hip, along your inner thighāand his tongue slid out, wide and flat, licking a long, slow stroke through your folds. Nowhere near enough friction to push you over the edge, but just enough to make your thighs tremble around his ears. He took his time, tasting you with a patience that felt almost cruel, like the ten-minute countdown didn't exist.
The hand on your stomach slid lower. His fingers trailed through the slick mess he'd made of you, not touching your clit, just dragging through the wetness, spreading it, letting you feel exactly how close he was without being where you needed it. You whimpered, your hips tilting desperately, and then his fingers found your entranceācircling slowly, once, twiceābefore he slid two inside, knuckles deep.
Your walls clenched around him immediately, a greedy, involuntary pulse, and he groaned against your thigh like he felt it too. He crooked his fingers to find that spot, the one that made your vision blurābut he didn't move them. He just held them there, filling you, stretching you open. You could feel every ridge and joint of his knuckles, the warmth of his skin, the impossible stillness of his fingers inside you while his tongue continued its lazy, maddening work above.
"Leon." His name cracked in your throat. "Please."
He pumped his fingers onceāhard, fast, enough to make you gaspāthen stilled completely. "Tell me what you want."
You stared down at him. Your chest was heaving, your whole body wound so tight it ached. He was impossible. And you were completely at his mercy.
"Please." Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging hard enough to make his head tilt back. "Let me come. Leonāplease."
Something shifted behind his eyes. The arrogance softened into something hungrier, and his hold on your hip tightened hard enough to bruise.
"Good girl."
That was your only warning. Then his mouth sealed over youāno more teasing, no more slow strokes. He sucked hard, relentless, his fingers finally movingāpumping in and out with a wet, driving rhythm, each thrust deep and precise, curling on every pull to drag against that spot.
The sound that tore out of you was too loud. Both hands clamped over your mouth, palms pressing so hard your teeth cut into them, but Leon didn't stop. His tongue worked in tight, rapid circles while his fingers pressed right there with a grinding pressure that never let up, never gave you a second to recover. The scratch of his stubble against your thighs, the press of his nose against youāhe was everywhere, consuming you, and the tension in your belly was winding so tight you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but shake apart.
It was filthy after that. The slick noise of his fingers moving inside you, the obscene wetness of his mouth working over you, the creak of the bed frame as your body jerked with every thrust. You could feel yourself smearing on your inner thighs, on his chin, dripping onto the cheap mattress, and some distant part of your brain screamed that Diaz could walk back in at any moment, that Mara was just down the hallābut the thought dissolved the instant Leon curled his fingers deeper and hummed against you.
The vibration was your undoing.
The orgasm didn't build. It detonated. It ripped through you like a shockwave, starting at your core and radiating outward in white-hot pulses that locked every muscle rigid. Your back arched off the mattress, your thighs clamped shut around Leon's head, and a muffled scream leaked through your fingersāraw and broken and completely beyond your control.
Leon didn't stop. He worked you through it, his fingers never slowing, his mouth never lifting, maintaining that same relentless pace even as your body convulsed around him. You could feel yourself clenching and spasming, the orgasm rolling through in wave after wave, and each time you thought it was peaking he'd suck harder, thrust deeper, drag you up another impossible inch.
You were crying. You didn't realize it until you felt the wet heat on your cheeks, tears leaking from the corners of your squeezed-shut eyes. Your hands had dropped from your mouth to the sheets, fingers twisting in the threadbare fabricānot pushing him away, just holding on, anchoring yourself to something because the pleasure was so overwhelming it felt like falling.
"LeonāLeon, I can't, it's too muchā"
He pulled his mouth away just long enough to speak, his fingers still pumping, still curling, his voice ragged and low. "You can. Give me one more."
"I can'tā"
"You can." He sealed his mouth over you againālower this time, his lips wrapping around the base of his fingers where they slid in and out of youāand his thumb found your clit, pressing firm, deliberate circles into the swollen, oversensitive flesh. The added pressure sent you hurtling over the edge a second time before the first had even faded.
This one was different. Sharper. It cracked through you like a whip, your whole body going taut, a silent scream frozen in your throat, your hands flying from the sheets to his hair, nails digging into his scalp hard enough to hurt. The pleasure was almost violent, pulsing through you in rhythmic contractions that gripped his fingers, pulled them deeper, your body begging for something your mind couldn't process anymore.
He worked you through every last second of it. Only when your thighs stopped shakingāwhen the aftershocks faded to faint, irregular fluttersādid his fingers slow. He didn't pull out right away. He let them rest inside you, feeling the last of the spasms around them, while he pressed soft, grounding kisses to your inner thighs. Gentle now. Almost tender.
When he finally withdrew, the loss made you exhale a shaky, ruined breath. He sat back on his heels, and without breaking eye contact, he brought his fingers to his mouth. His tongue slid between them, slow and deliberate, tasting you off his own skin. His chest was heaving, his black shirt damp with sweat at the collar, and you could see the hard line of him straining against his tactical pants. He hadn't even touched himself.
He reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. His hand was trembling.
"You alright?" he murmured.
"I think you ruined me."
The ghost of a smile. He stood, his knees cracking on the floorboardsāhe'd been on them long enough to pay for it laterāand leaned over you. One hand braced beside your head on the mattress, the other cupping your jaw, tilting your face up. His thumb traced your lower lip, dragging it down slightly, and then he kissed you.
Slow. Deep. Filthy. His tongue slid into your mouth and you tasted yourself on him, warm and slick and undeniable. Something about the intimacy of it made your head spin. He groaned low and rough into the kiss, like making you taste what he'd been savoring was another way of claiming you. His fingers tightened on your jaw, and the kiss was so possessive, so thoroughly Leon in its quiet intensity, that your spent body twitched beneath him.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Just a breath. His eyes were closed, ragged exhale fanning across your lips.
Then it was gone. His expression smoothed back into that unreadable mask, and his hands swept down your thighs, your hips, tugging your t-shirt back into place. He grabbed the discarded underwear from the floor.
"Put these on." His voice was wrecked.
You tried to push yourself up, but your arms buckled beneath you, elbows giving out before you'd even made it an inch off the mattress. Your limbs felt like they belonged to someone elseāheavy, uncooperative, still tingling with the aftershocks of what he'd just done to you. You let out a frustrated huff and let yourself fall back.
Leon didn't say anything. He just knelt again, one knee on the floorboards, and slid the underwear over your ankles with a patience that didn't match the man who'd been between your legs two minutes ago. He drew them up your calves, past your knees, over your thighsāhis touch careful and unhurried, like he was handling something that might break. His fingers lingered at your hips, adjusting the waistband, and then his hands swept down to smooth your shirt over your thighs.
Then he sat back on the edge of the bed, picked up his gun, and went back to it like nothing had happened.
You lay there, boneless, staring at the ceiling, your heart still hammering against your ribs. The taste of yourself lingered on your tongue, mixed with the ghost of his mouth.
From the hallway, the back door opened and closed. Heavy boots on the floorboards.
"Comms are clear," Diaz's voice called out. "Mara, you get that data packet yet?"
Mara's muffled response. Footsteps passing the bedroom door.
Leon glanced at you. His mouth was still glistening. His hair was a wreck from where your fingers had tangled in it. And he had the audacity to wink.
"Eleven minutes," he whispered, turning back to his gun. "Not bad."
Summary: He was just in your arms, desperate and vulnerable, but the second it was over, the armor went back on. Standing in a shadowed Vienna hotel room, Leon refuses to accept that you want himābroken parts and all. He believes the only way to protect you is to leave, even if it destroys you both.
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader
Word Count: 2,705
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The rain in Vienna didn't smell like rain; it smelled of cold wet stone and old smoke, drifting in through the cracks of a hotel window that refused to fully close. The room was expensive and impersonalāan upgrade forced upon him by the agency after the last operation went sideways. The carpet was plush enough to swallow sound, and the curtains were heavy velvet, designed to keep the world at bay.
But even the velvet couldnāt dampen the chill radiating from the man sitting on the edge of the bed.
You lay on your side, the sheet pulled up to your chin, watching the sharp, tense lines of Leonās back. He was shirtless, his skin pale in the ambient glow of the city filtering through the glass. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped loosely, staring down at the floor as if the answers to the darkness in his head were written in the pattern of the hotel rug.
Ten minutes ago, the room had sounded entirely different. The silence had been broken by ragged breathing and the creak of the mattress. He had been holding you tightly enough to bruise, his weight pinning you beneath him, his mouth hot against your neck, whispering things that made your blood sing. He had been desperate, drowning in you, and for a few fleeting moments, the crushing weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders.
Now, the weight was back, and it was breaking him.
"Leon?"
You kept your voice soft, terrified that if you spoke too loudly, the fragile quiet would shatter and cut you both.
He didn't turn. He just gave a small, barely perceptible nod. "Yeah."
"Are you okay?"
A long, heavy silence stretched out, filled only by the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant wail of a siren echoing off the wet cobblestones below. Finally, he exhaledāa sound that was less like a sigh and more like a deflation.
"I'm fine." The words were automatic, robotic. A reflex.
He didn't sound fine. He sounded miles away.
You shifted closer, the mattress dipping under your weight, and reached out to trace the scar running down the length of his spine. It was an old wound, jagged and raised. You felt the muscle jump beneath your fingertips, a subtle flinch he tried to suppress. Your hand drifted lower, brushing the damp skin at the small of his back, where your nails had dug in only moments ago.
"You don't have to go back there," you whispered, letting your hand rest flat against the center of his back. "Not yet. Stay here with me."
Leon turned his head then, just enough to profile his face against the window light. His eyes were shadowed, dark pits of exhaustion. He looked at you, but his gaze was unfocused, as if he were looking through the wall to something you couldn't see.
"I canāt," he said quietly.
āWhy not?ā
He didn't answer. He just stood up.
The movement was suddenānot rushed, but absolute. It was like a switch flipped inside him. One second he was sitting on the edge of the bed with your hand still warm against his skin, and the next he was on his feet, putting distance between you with the same unconscious efficiency he applied to everything else. It wasn't just physical distance; it felt like he was erasing the last hour from his memory.
He reached for his pants draped over the chair. His movements were mechanical, preciseāthe same way he loaded a gun, the same way he cleared a room. One leg, then the other. The fabric slid over skin you had been touching minutes ago, covering him, putting him back in the body he used for everything else.
You swallowed the ache in your throat. It was always like this. Every single time. He would come to you already cracked openānot because he chose to let you in, but because the damage was too big to contain, and it spilled over whether he wanted it to or not. And for a few hours, you could see through the gaps. Feel the warmth of the person underneath. Touch the parts of him that were soft and aching and so desperately human that it made your chest hurt.
"Leon."
He didn't turn. He zipped the fly and buckled the belt. The sound was a sharp, final hiss in the quiet room. He reached for his shirt nextāa black tee tossed over the lampshade. He shook it out, the fabric snapping softly, and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.
As the cotton settled over his shoulders, the man you had been holding disappeared. The agent was back. The scars were hidden, the skin covered, the vulnerability locked away behind a wall of fabric and muscle.
He finally turned to face you. He looked fully composed now, save for the bare feet. His expression was neutral, the lines of his face smoothed into that practiced mask of bored indifference he wore for the world.
You stared at him, searching for a crack in the faƧade, a flicker of the man who had been trembling in your arms only minutes ago. But he was gone. The blue of his eyes was flat, reflecting the streetlights, giving nothing back. It was like looking at a photograph of himāstatic, unmoving, frozen in a moment that had already passed.
"You're just going to leave," you said. It wasn't a question. The defeat in your voice was heavy, dragging the words down.
"I have to." He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 03:21. "Three hours until the briefing."
"To hell with the briefing," you whispered, gripping the sheet tighter until your knuckles turned white. "You were just here, Leon. You were right here. I felt you. You can't tell me that meant nothing to you."
He didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, and for a fleeting second, the mask slipped. You saw the weight of it, the bone-deep weariness of a man who had been fighting a war for twenty years without ever leaving the battlefield. He looked at your mouth, then your eyes, and you saw the hunger thereāthe desperate need to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over both of your heads until the world burned down around you.
But then his jaw tightened. The shutter came down. He looked away, his gaze fixing on the jacket draped over the chair. He reached for itāthe heavy brown bomber, the fleece collar worn flat and the leather scarred from years of close calls. He held it for a moment, weighing the familiar burden in his hands. Then, he let it drop back onto the chair.
"It doesn't matter what it meant," he said, his voice rougher now, less robotic but no less final. "It doesn't change what I have to do."
"Why do you do this?" you asked, your voice cracking. "Why do you act like you can just turn it off? Like you don't feel anything?"
"I wish I could," he murmured. "That's the problem."
He said it softly, stripped of cruelty, which only made it worse. If he had been cold, you could have hated him for it. You could have used the anger as a shield. But he was just... sad. Resigned. Like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing he was about to step off, refusing to take your outstretched hand not because he didn't want it, but because he knew that holding on would only pull you over the edge with him.
He looked at you then, and the raw honesty in his eyes stole the breath from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the walls came down, showing you the crushing isolation that lived inside him. He wasn't detached; he was drowning in it.
"I can't turn it off," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I feel everything. And itās dangerous. If I let myself focus on thisāon usāI stop looking over my shoulder. I get distracted. I get sloppy. And in my line of work, sloppy gets people killed. I can't let my life be the thing that destroys you."
"We just... I just gave you everything, Leon," you whispered, the vulnerability making your voice shake. "I let you in. I need to know that I'm not just a warm body to help you pass the time between one nightmare and the next."
The vulnerability in his eyes died out. His expression wasn't angry. It was just empty. A beautiful, tragic blankness.
"I never said you were," he said softly. "You know I care about you."
"Caring isn't enough," you countered, your voice trembling. "I want to know what this is. I want to know if there's a chance for more. For us."
Leon looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. He hesitated, the silence stretching thin and tight between you.
"If I say yes," he started slowly, "if I tell you there's a chance, I'm lying to you. And I don't want to lie to you. Not about this." He looked up, his gaze intense. "There is no 'us' in the field. There is no 'us' in the life I lead. Thereās just the mission, and the time in between. Thatās all I have to give."
The silence that followed was crushing. You didn't look away, and neither did he. His finality hung in the air, suffocating and absolute.
"Leon," you whispered, the sting of tears making your eyes burn. You reached out, your hand trembling as it grabbed his wrist, stopping him from retreating further. "Please. Don't just accept that. Don't tell me that's all there is."
He went still. For a moment, you thought he would pull away, that he would shake off your grip and walk out the door. But instead, he took a step closer to the bed, closing the distance he had so carefully created. He didn't look at your face; he looked down at where your fingers gripped his wrist. Slowly, he turned his hand over, cupping yours in his.
His grip was firm, his palm rough and calloused against your skin, holding on with a strength that contradicted his detachment. It was a confusing, mixed signalāthe touch of a lover who was already saying goodbye.
"You deserve a life," he said, finally. His voice was low, rough around the edges like sandpaper. "A normal life. Someone who comes home at the same time every night. Someone who doesn't wake up screaming. Someone who can give you a future."
"I don't want a normal life," you argued, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. "I want you. Even the broken parts. Especially the broken parts."
A flicker of pain crossed his face, so fast you almost missed it. He squeezed your hand, almost painfully tight, before bringing your knuckles to his lips. He kissed them gently, a tender, ghost-like brush of his mouth that felt more like a final benediction than a promise.
"I can't give you that," he whispered against your skin. "I don't know how to be that person anymore. The parts of me that could build a life with you... they're gone. They were ground down a long time ago."
"Then let me help you find what's left," you said, desperation clawing at your throat. "We can look together."
He held your gaze for a long moment, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. A sad, faint smile touched his lipsāthe smile of a man who had seen too much to believe in fairy tales, but who desperately wanted to believe for your sake.
"You can't fix a soldier by loving him," he said quietly. "You just end up with a soldier who loves you. And he still has to go to war. That's not a life, that's a tragedy waiting to happen."
Then, gently, he pulled his hand from yours. The loss of contact felt like a physical amputation.
He took a step back, widening the distance between you. He reached for the jacket he had abandoned earlier and shrugged it on. The heavy leather settled over his shoulders like armorāthe final layer of the man he had to be. He turned toward the door, his profile sharp and severe against the city lights.
"I'll call you when it's done," he said.
It was the same thing he said every time. The same hollow promise that you both knew meant nothing, because "when it's done" was never done. There was always another mission. Another country. Another name on a file.
"Will you?"
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. His shoulders stiffened, and you could see the war happening inside himāthe pull toward you, the desperate, aching want that he buried so deep he probably couldn't even find it anymore, warring against the years of conditioning that told him attachment was weakness.
"Yeah," he said, and it was a lie. You both knew it was a lie. He knew that you knew. And still, he said it, because the alternative was telling you the truth: that every time he walked out that door, a part of him hoped you wouldn't be there when he came back. Not because he didn't want you, but because you were the only good thing left in his life, and he was terrified of what he'd become when he finally destroyed it.
He opened the door.
"I love you, you know."
The words were out before you could stop them. They fell into the space between you, raw and naked and trembling, and you immediately wished you could take them backānot because they weren't true, but because you could see what they did to him. His hand gripped the doorframe so hard the wood creaked. His head dropped forward, and you watched his shoulders rise and fall with a breath that looked like it was being pulled from the bottom of the ocean.
"Don't," he whispered.
The word was so quiet you almost didn't hear it. But you did. You heard it, and it shattered something inside you that you didn't know could break.
"I'm sorry," you said, even though you weren't. You'd never be sorry for loving him, even if it was the most painful thing you'd ever done.
He didn't turn around. He couldn't. If he turned around, he knew he wouldn't leave. He knew he'd cross the room, pull you against his chest, breathe you in, and say the words backāGod, the words were right there, right behind his teeth, choking him. And then what? Then he'd drag you into the dark with him.
"Take care of yourself," he said, and his voice was so steady it was inhuman, and that steadiness was the cruelest thing he'd ever done to you.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
The room felt impossibly empty. The imprint on the mattress where he'd been sitting was still warm, and you reached out and pressed your palm into it, as if you could absorb whatever heat remained. The rain kept falling against the window. The siren had faded into nothing.
Somewhere in the lobby, the elevator dinged. You imagined him walking through it, hands in his pockets, face blank, becoming no one. Becoming the ghost that slipped through checkpoints and crossed borders and left no trace. You imagined him stepping out into the Vienna rain, the cold stone smell washing over him, and you wondered if he'd look back up at the building. If he'd wonder which window was yours.
He didn't look up.
You didn't know that, of course. You'd never know that. But the truth of it was written in the silence of the room, in the ghost of his warmth fading from the sheets, in the way the rain kept falling as if nothing had happened at all.
Because to Leon Kennedy, love was a luxury he couldn't afford. And the tragedy wasn't that he didn't feel it. The tragedy was that he felt it so deeply it was killing him, and he chose to bleed in silence rather than let you see the wound.
Honestly? I donāt think he'd initiate with words at all. At 49, Leon is completely drained by the world. He wouldnāt do a smooth pickup line or a cheeky wink.
I think the initiation is purely physical and subconscious. Heād walk up behind you while you're doing the dishes or folding laundry, wrapping his arms tight around your waist. Heād press his chest against your back, burying his face in the crook of your neck and resting his entire weight on you. He wouldn't say "I want you", heād just stand there, letting you feel his heartbeat, waiting for you to turn around and take the lead because he just wants to be taken care of for once. Itās less about passion and more about needing an anchor to keep from drifting.
Not me describing the nastiest things Leon can do with his tongue while Godfrey, First Elden Lord blasts in the background. The dramatic choir is really setting the mood!!
idk why but I love the jealousy trooope so much with leon!! imagine re4 leon not having the guts to cross the professional line to his partner even though they both pine for each other so much but then she gets invited to a date and out of anger says yes and right before she has to leave her apartment for it leon stands in front of it (of course drenched from the rain) and begs her to not gooooo omg
OMFG yes! Leon being jealous is hella sexy and cute at the same time! The visual of him just soaked through, looking at her like heās about to cry if she actually goes out with that guyā¦ it actually hurts my heart š And you know he wouldn't even be mad at her, just mad at himself for letting it get this far
one idea i had abt re4 leon is after ashley & him just escape from the island in spain, obviously the first order of business is for them to recieve medical attention (in my mind). im picturing reader as a nurse, pretty early on in her career, having to examine leon immediately after that mission. heās understandibly exhausted, and i can see him even involuntarily relaxing under readerās soft touch as she checks leonās body all over for wounds - then when reader gets to examining his back/shoulders, she notices leon closing his eyes with a soft exhale and leaning into readerās touch, his muscles relaxing entirely, and reader gathering the courage to softly massage & rub leonās shoulders to relieve the tension left in his muscles a bit more cuz she knows he needs this peace & quiet more than any kind of medicine. the 2 of them share a couple coy glances, dragging the examination out as much as possible for the enjoyment of both of them. reader being a bit intimidated by this unbelievably handsome agent looking into her eyes when they make eye contact, then reader immediately blushing after leon thanks her for making sure he is fine, in a way that feels a lot more intent and suggestive than it was probably meant to be.
aaaaand after a couple days pass, leon cant get reader out of his mind, bc he feels like she was the only one who truly paid attention to him, enough to notice his needs and to be gentle with him when he really needed it the most. so he looks forward for his 5-day checkup after the mission like a giddy teen boy going on his first date (obvi he requested for exlusively reader to see him). but once reader and leon are alone in that examining room, the tensions between them is palpable and maybe more than a medican exam will happenā¦
is this anything?? i was curious abt your thoughts on this situation ^.^
Ohh I love this!! Iām obsessed with the idea of post-mission medical care turning into something more! After the absolute nightmare on that island, the idea of him finally letting his guard down and accepting comfort makes me insane. Heās so touch-starved and exhausted š
Itās just so cute to imagine him acting like a giddy teen while waiting for his next checkup, knowing where that tension is going to leadā¦ I need that!
Iām absolutely, 100% writing this! Thank you so much for sending this in, it's pure gold! š«¶
I got bored and randomly decided I wanted to try writing angst, but now I'm not sure how to continue this. Do I turn it into hot makeup sex or make everyone cry? Read the snippet below andĀ vote at the end!
"Iām not asking for a mission debrief, Leon." Your voice rose, rough and scraping, drowning out the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. "I asked you one simple question about your drive home just to make conversation, and you looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language."
Leon stood by the window, his silhouette rigid against the darkening glass. The streetlamps outside cast long, skeletal shadows across the floor. He braced one hand against the frame, head hanging low, the tension in his shoulders knotting the fabric of his shirt. When he finally turned, his eyes weren't soft; they were cold, sharp flints of blue ice that had seen too much.
āI'm standing right here,ā he snapped, his voice low and gravelly. "I came home. I put the gun in the safe. Isn't that enough? Or do you need a detailed analysis of every horror I saw today so you can feel involved?"
"I need to know my husband!" you countered, stepping into his space, refusing to let him retreat into the shadows. "I need to know thereās a human being in there, not just a machine the government points and shoots. Youāre cold, Leon. Youāre distant. You come home, pour a drink, and you justā¦ check out."
"Maybe I check out because I don't want to drag that shit into this house!" he yelled, the veneer of the gentleman finally cracking. The exhausted, angry soldier underneath was exposed, ragged and worn. "I spend twenty-four hours wading through the worst of humanity, and the second I walk through the door, you want to dissect my psyche? Iām tired, God damn it. Iām exhausted. I just want to sit in silence."
"You don't want silence," you shot back, tears of frustration stinging your eyes. "You want to be numb. You'd rather be alone with a bottle than face reality. It's pathetic. Youāre forty-nine years old and you still don't know how to be anything other than a victim."
The silence that followed was deafening, ringing in your ears.
Leon straightened up, his jaw clenching tight. "Thatās low. Even for you."
"It's the truth," you said, your voice trembling. "You wallow in it. You hold onto the tragedy because it means you don't have to try. Youāre not protecting me by shutting me out, Leon. Youāre just a coward."
"Don't call me a coward," he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He stepped closer, the smell of gun oil and expensive bourbon radiating off him. "You have no idea what Iāve done to keep this life. You sit here in your safe little world, judging me, while Iām out thereā"
"And there it is!" you laughed bitterly. "The martyr complex. 'Oh, poor Leon, suffering alone.' You think I don't know what you do? I know exactly what you do. I know you kill people. I know you see things that would drive anyone else mad. But you use it as a shield. You use it as an excuse to treat me like garbage."
Leon scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Unbelievable. You know what? Maybe they were right. Maybe this was a mistake from the start."
The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. You took a stumbling step back, the taste of copper in your mouth. "Get out."
"What?"
"You heard me." Your voice dropped to a deadly quiet. "If I'm so much work, if I'm such a burden to your heroic lifestyle, then leave. Go back to the hotel. Go back to the bottle. Go be a hero somewhere else."
Leon stared at you, the fight draining out of him until his expression was hollow. For a second, the silence was so thick it felt like the air might shatter. He gave a sharp, jerky nod, turned, and grabbed his leather jacket from the chair. The leather creaked loudly in the quiet room, a harsh sound against the ticking clock.
He walked to the door, his boots heavy and deliberate against the floorboards. He paused with his hand on the knob, his back to you, shoulders slumped under the weight of a world you couldn't touch.
Then, without a backward glance, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the night.
