Summary: You're the scary mobster's sweet, pretty prize.
Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Dark!Curtis. Reference to violence and death but nothing is shown. Non con. Unprotected sex. Allusions to kidnapping and captivity. Angst. 18+ 🥵😈
Status: In progress
🥵 Indicates explicit sexual content.
😈 Indicates dark content.
I think Zoro would be completely unable to handle getting romanced by Sanji. Maybe a little while into them already having gotten around to the fact that they are kind of into each other Sanji thinks to himself "you know what? Why should I keep myself from treating the person I'm into like how I've always dreamed up my fairytale romances to be?" and he starts small with some heart shaped garnishes on Zoros food and then some flowers maybe and I don't think he'd admit to himself that he means it seriously actually. But then Zoro completely blue screens at these little gestures much to his own horror. Zoro is like "what the fuck I don't even WANT to be treated like one of the cooks lady conquests!" but he is young and hasn't really been actively seduced by anyone he's interested in before and he gets so shyyyyy
well this ended up on another journey but fuck it we ball!!! it's soft silly zosan hours baby!!!!
x
Zoro doesn't understand, at first, that he's being courted. He understands attention and understands intent and understands when Sanji’s being an asshole, when Sanji’s picking a fight, when Sanji’s showing off, when Sanji’s silently taking care of somebody by pretending not to. He understands more about Sanji than he's comfortable with, which is already its own humiliation.
What he doesn't understand is romance when it’s pointed directly at him, mostly because romance has always seemed like something that happens to other people in other lives that don’t revolve around trying not to die on a daily basis. Nami gets flowers from idiots on shore, Robin gets looked at with awe by people who’d probably walk into the damn sea if she asked nicely. Sanji spins whole little worlds out of candlelight and wine and practised smiles whenever a woman worth the effort crosses his path. Even Usopp, somehow, has figured out the shape of longing well enough to blush about it and make some kinda fool of himself in ways that seem almost aspirational, really.
Zoro’s just… never had any use for it. Well, to be more specific he’s had no use for romance as a performance. No use for prettiness in the abstract or interest in bouquets or compliments or the kind of exaggerated attention Sanji gives women.
But want? That’s a different matter: he understands want plenty. He just understands it like battle, as focus and heat and this constant, irritating instinct to move closer. As the body recognising something dangerous and desirable but refusing to stop turning towards it. He understands it in the way Sanji’s become the centre of a whole new category of want, which is one hell of a problem to have these days. Is it embarrassing? Hell yes. Inconvenient? Definitely. It’s also enough to make training impossible and sleep kind of weird and normal interactions on deck feel like surviving some brutal lightning storm on the best of days, so. He’s resigned to it now, in the way you can resign yourself to just about anything if you become jaded enough.
All that to say: not in his whole fucking life did he account for Sanji deciding that wanting him back means Zoro should be treated like a romantic lead in one of the cook’s own private delusions.
The first sign is breakfast, which is always suspicious for other reasons, mostly involving Luffy and portions and whether anyone’s touched anything before Sanji got the plates down. Zoro doesn’t even notice the change right away because he isn't, contrary to public opinion, constantly staring at his own food. He notices it only because Usopp points across the table with all the malice of a man who’s just stumbled over premium material before nine in the morning. “Why does yours have a heart?”
The table goes quiet in that specific Straw Hat way that means everyone just became way too interested in the same thing at once, but at least three of them are trying not to look interested.
Zoro looks down to his plate, piled with eggs and potatoes, grilled tomatoes, a wedge of toast... and the little curl of red capiscum cut into a clean heart shape sitting smack bang on top of the eggs. Sanji doesn’t even turn around from the stove, which is double suspicious because any man not guilty of something would turn around immediately and start insulting people. Instead he only says, too casually: “Maybe I felt artistic.”
Nami makes a tiny sound into her cup while Robin lowers her eyes to hide a smile. Luffy leans halfway over the table. “Can I have a heart?”
“No,” Sanji and Zoro say at exactly the same time, which gets a laugh out of Chopper, the traitor.
Zoro looks back at the plate but the heart doesn't become less heart-shaped under scrutiny. He pokes it with his fork like there might be some kind of practical or magical explanation hidden under the eggs but there isn't. “What.”
Sanji turns then, tea towel over one shoulder, and gives him a look so bland it could start wars. “What what?”
“It's a heart.”
Sanji’s mouth twitches at one corner. “Aw, congrats. You can identify shapes. Maybe colours will come next if you keep at it.”
Usopp chokes on his tea and Zoro thinks about throwing the capsicum at his head but can’t quite bring himself to touch it. He eats the eggs around it first, then the potatoes, then the toast before finally, because the table’s still too aware and because he absolutely refuses to make a spectacle of a fucking vegetable, he eats the heart last.
The second sign comes at lunch and admittedly this one is a little harder to dismiss because flowers are a little less deniable than garnish. Thankfully it’s not a bouquet because Sanji isn’t completely deranged, yet. Just one flower, a little pale blue thing tucked into the bottle of water by Zoro’s plate, small enough to miss if one weren’t already alert to bullshit and living in a state of low level dread around the blonde.
Zoro sees it immediately. “What's that?”
Sanji glances at the bottle like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “A flower?”
Zoro’s jaw tightens. “I know it’s a flower.”
“Ah, good. This meal’s already going so much better than breakfast.”
Franky lets out the kind of barked laugh that means he’s trying to swallow it and failing. Brook, the bastard, actually hums like he’s watching a favourite opera gain momentum. Nami doesn’t even pretend not to be listening this time and Zoro wants to die.
It’s one thing to be annoyed by this because, yeah, Sanji’s being ridiculous and theatrical and suspiciously pleased with himself, which are three categories of bullshit that have always deserved correction. It’s a whole other thing to also feel that strange sharp jolt low in the sternum when he notices the stupid little flower, that hot stupid flash of being singled out. Chosen. Marked. The awful bright awareness of that was put there for me. He hates the way his pulse stumbles and the way his ears are suddenly hot and that he doesn’t even know what expression his face is making but he reckons it’s probably the wrong one.
He reaches for the flower on instinct, maybe to remove it, maybe to crush it, maybe to prove to the room and himself that he hasn’t been moved by a decorative plant but Sanji says, sharply: “Don’t.”
Zoro draws his hand back like he touched the stove.
The damn flower stays.
By dinner the whole crew’s openly unbearable. Luffy keeps asking whether there will be more shapes and Usopp asks if they’re escalating ‘through the full courtship rituals of the East Blue’ which makes zero sense because Sanji’s not even from the East Blue and Franky suggests candles and Brook offers to compose 'a tender romantic nocturne for the swordsman’s awakening heart' and, well. Zoro thinks about stabbing him a little.
Sanji ignores all of them with the kind of icy superiority that usually means he’s privately delighted which Zoro would normally find infuriating but, alas. He finds himself watching Sanji’s hands instead. It’s always a bad start to any situation because Sanji’s hands, once noticed, are difficult to stop noticing. He’s got those long fingers and quick wrists and just. Beautiful control. Even now, serving food and slapping Luffy’s reaching hand away with one motion while fixing the tilt of a bowl with the next, they move like they know exactly how much the world will give them if they ask nicely and exactly how much they’ll have to steal if it refuses.
Those hands cut capsicums into hearts, apparently, and tuck flowers into bottles by his plate. Those hands know the shape of romance so well they can make it look casual.
Zoro spends the entire evening in a state of horrified, electrified suspicion.
By the third day, he's got two simultaneous and deeply conflicting beliefs. The first is how ridiculous this is and how it should be absolutely fucking intolerable. Sanji’s treating him like one of those blushing women he used to trail around restaurants with silver platters and smirking devotion and Zoro wants no part of being turned into somebody’s conquest or whatever. The second belief is that he's going to die if Sanji keeps doing this… and also might die if Sanji stops.
This, unfortunately, is harder to live with than the first. The thing about being seduced, it turns out, is that Zoro doesn't know how to stand in it. When Sanji touches his shoulder in passing the touch always lingers by a fraction of a second too long, warm through fabric but charged enough to leave a ghost of a thrill. When Sanji sets down a cup by his hand, the handle’s always turned the easy way for him to grab. When Sanji passes him food the best piece has somehow become his, to Luffy's chagrin. Twice in one week Zoro finds little strips of fried potato twisted into some decorative nonsense at the side of his plate and can only assume the world’s become a criminal place.
And flowers. There are more flowers. One tucked into the strap of his hammock when he comes back from training and finds Sanji by the door with an innocent face. One pinned, somehow, to the outside of his shirt sleeve at dinner so that he doesn’t notice until Chopper points and then nearly apologises for noticing.
Everytime it happens Zoro’s brain just. Stops. A flower appears naer him and suddenly he can hear blood in his ears and none of the words in the world arrive in any kind of useful way. Sanji will be standing somewhere nearby, totally composed, cigarette in hand, with that slight unbearable curve to his mouth and Zoro will have to stand there inside his own skin while every single survival instinct he has collides at once.
He keeps waiting to hate it but what actually happens is stranger and much more treacherous. He gets… shy. It’s fucking ridiculous: he’s spent twenty-one years on this earth without ever needing to account for shyness as a force in his own body. Embarrassment, yes. Irritation, constantly. Self-consciousness when a feeling gets too close to speech. But shyness? The actual physical disorder of it? The stupid heat in his face, the sudden inability to hold eye contact without feeling like he’s being skinned, the miserable awareness of another person's hands and mouth?
No.
Unacceptable.
And yet. And yet there he is on the Sunny’s deck at sunset with a damn flower tucked into his haramaki after a spar and Sanji leaning at the rail beside him saying: “It suits you,” like he's the villain in some romance novel and Zoro can’t think of a single thing to say that doesn’t make him sound either 12 years old or in love.
(Not that he isn’t the latter, maybe, but that’s a whole other problem he can't look at right now.)
One evening after training he gets an offhand: “Sit still, idiot,” before Sanji’s wiping blood from the split above his eyebrow with a level of attention that feels almost criminal in public. Zoro tears the sleeve of his shirt sparring on deck because Luffy barrels through a training session with all the directional control of a cannonball and catches him on the shoulder hard enough to rip the seam straight down from cuff to elbow. Zoro would, under ordinary circumstances, continue wearing the shirt until the sleeve either falls off entirely or someone burns it for public safety. Sanji, seeing the tear over dinner, sighs. “Take it off.”
Zoro glances up, startled. “What?”
“The shirt, idiot. Unless you’re making a statement.”
Before Zoro fully understands what’s happening the shirt’s gone from the back of his chair and later that night it reappears folded with the sleeve mended so neatly he can’t even find the thread until he holds it up to the light. Zoro wears that shirt again the next day and spends the entire afternoon feeling like his own skin’s become an accomplice to something.
There’s a hand at the back of his neck while Sanji reaches past him for a jar in the galley, brief and warm and almost survivable only because it happens too fast to properly brace for. A little twist of lemon peel balanced on the rim of his sake cup one evening, useless and decorative. An apple cut in half and shoved into his hand on deck with a muttered: “Eat something with vitamins before your body gives up on you entirely.” Sanji brushes dirt off his shoulder with two annoyed fingers and a muttered insult about presentation and Zoro gets to spend the next ten minutes pretending his pulse isn't behaving insanely.
He gets food altered toward his taste before he says a word and flowers chosen for colour rather than smell because Sanji knows he doesn’t give a fuck about scents and little practical touches hidden inside the flourish, like Sanji can't help but romance somebody through care no matter how much decoration he wraps around it.
The flower from the bottle by his lunch plate dries between the pages of some useless old navigation book Usopp left lying around. The tiny ribbon Sanji used to tie a bunch of herbs used to flavour his sake bottle ends up wound around the hilt of Kitetsu for two whole days before Zoro reluctantly removes it.
He ties it back the next morning, anyway.
x
The next shore leave starts suspiciously, which Zoro notices immediately because it’s been a week of this and god knows by now he’s learned that any interaction with Sanji that begins too smoothly is probably a setup. Usually going ashore shore with the cook means one of three things: Sanji vanishes into the markets like a bloodhound with a credit budget, Sanji gets distracted by women and leaves Zoro swearing in the street or Sanji acquires seventeen bags of ingredients and then, with criminal inevitability, makes them Zoro’s problem. That’s the established pattern, so when Sanji appears beside him on the dock with one hand in his pocket and says, with suspicious casualness: “Come with me,” Zoro assumes he’s about to spend the next hour hauling vegetables.
“I’m not carrying your shopping.”
Sanji lifts one eyebrow. “Bold of you to start this conversation like I asked.”
Zoro, already matching pace because some part of his body has become embarrassingly accustomed to following when Sanji uses that tone, snorts. “Then what?”
“You’ll see.”
That isn't an answer. It is, in fact, a phrase specifically engineered to make Zoro suspicious enough to turn around on principle but he doesn’t, of course, because Sanji looks especially good. The suit’s a little sharper than his usual, the shirt open one button lower at the throat, the cuffs neat, the shoes polished enough to catch light. His hair's curled exactly the way Zoro likes it, the way it gets when he comes out of the shower. Zoro’s already having a hard enough time existing around the man on deck and now, on land with space and light and no crew to dilute the effect, it’s become ridiculous so excuse him for not being able to stare and talk at the same time.
They walk through the town under the late afternoon sun, past market stalls and canvas awnings and the smell of frying fish and citrus peels and the sea pressing itself into every open street. People pass and traders call and somewhere seagulls are screaming over a dropped prawn like the apocalypse itself has arrived but Sanji doesn't go toward the produce market at all. He just keeps walking through the crowd with the easy measured pace of a man who knows exactly where he's headed and has absolutely no intention of letting Zoro discover it before they arrive.
Zoro frowns. “If you’re leading me into some weird trap I’m going back to the ship.”
Sanji looks sideways at him, mouth curling. “If I were trapping you, trust me, you’d know.”
That doesn't help - nothing helps, not until they come to a stop in front of a restaurant, small and yellow, with clean windows and blue windows and actual lanterns hanging under against the decorative glass. The sign above the door is tasteful in a way Zoro instinctively distrusts. Inside, through the open front, he can see linen on the tables with proper wine glasses and a vase of flowers on the front table. Zoro stops dead. Sanji, half a step ahead, turns and looks at him, the evening light catching at the angle of his mouth and the gold in his hair, the little satisfied stillness in him that says yes, i know exactly what this looks like and no, i’m not going to save you from it.
“What.”
Sanji’s face is so composed it should be illegal. “What what?”
“What is this?”
Sanji glances at the restaurant like he’s only just discovered its existence, the asshole. “Looks like dinner.”
Zoro stares because no, actually, this doesn’t look like dinner. This looks like a scene in one of Robin’s romance novels. This looks like a place Sanji’d take a woman to if he wanted candlelight and compliments and all the little performative courtesies he executes with that learned charm of his. It doesn't look like anywhere he should be standing with Zoro.
And yet. And yet.
Zoro’s pulse is suddenly everywhere. “You’re kidding.”
Sanji’s expression softens by less than a degree but enough that the joke beneath the surface shifts into something much more dangerous. “I’m really not.”
Zoro should ask, probably. He should demand what is this and why here and is this what i think it is but he can’t, because the truth is that if Sanji answers directly – if he confirms that, yeah, this is a date – Zoro isn't sure he’ll survive the rest of the evening. “This place looks expensive.”
Sanji rolls his eyes and opens the door. “Come on, Moss.”
Inside, the restaurant is even worse. It’s quiet in the costly way, hushed by the soft clink of cutlery and the low private murmur of other people’s evenings. The lighting’s warm and low enough that everything glows at the edges, the windows open to the sea air. Somewhere in the back a quartet’s playing something instrumental and beautiful, probably, but there’s an awful racketing buzz in Zoro’s ears so it’s lost on him. Their table’s in the corner by the window, where the last of the sunset lays a stripe of gold across the linen and the sea outside’s gone all bruised blue and silver. There’s a candle in the middle.
Zoro sits because his legs are still technically functioning and no-one has yet declared an emergency. Sanji sits opposite him with the relaxed, polished ease of someone who belongs in every room he enters… or maybe only the ease of someone who's decided to belong and then does. He thanks the waitress, orders water, glances once at the wine list and then at Zoro. “Any objections?”
“No,” Zoro croaks.
Sanji doesn't consult the menu for longer than a heartbeat before selecting half the table himself under the guise of sharing because he knows exactly what Zoro likes well enough to choose dishes that sound expensive and complicated and still somehow undeniably like things Zoro’ll actually eat. It sends one of those awful hot little jolts through Zoro’s chest everytime Sanji says: “He’ll like that,” or “No sugar,” or “Make the fish the second preparation, not the first.”
Zoro spends the first half of the meal in a state of electrified disbelief: the food’s incredible. The fish is perfect and the roasted vegetables are the exact degree of charred at the edges and the sauce with the meat’s sharp enough to cut the richness but soft enough not to overwhelm it. The wine’s better than any wine Zoro would’ve willingly chosen for himself and exactly right with the food, which feels like a private act of manipulation so fucking refined it qualifies as art.
Sanji watches him taste things, looking up at the exact second Zoro takes the first bite or the first sip or discovers some detail in the dish he clearly wasn’t expecting. Watching with that quiet, terrible little focus of his. At one point Zoro realises he’s gone nearly five whole minutes without speaking because he's too busy having his internal organs rearranged by the sheer force of all this.
“Did the food kill you or are you finally learning manners?” The light catches in his hair and in the curve of the wineglass at his fingers and in the soft line of his mouth where it’s gone less sharp with the evening. He looks looser here. Not less controlled because god knows Sanji’s never really uncontrolled unless something has gone very wrong or very right but… less armoured? Like he wanted this enough that some part of him has stopped pretending otherwise and that thought’s so dangerous Zoro almost chokes on his wine.
“You... made a reservation.”
Sanji looks incredulous. “Wow, and he's observant, too.”
“That’s… not normal.”
“Nothing about you is normal and I still manage.”
Zoro narrows his eye but the banter helps give him a road to run on. Everytime the whole affair starts to feel survivable, some new detail lands and knocks him sideways again. The waitress tops up their glasses and Sanji thanks her with effortless charm but doesn't, pointedly, let the charm turn anywhere else. The best bite of one dish gets nudged onto Zoro’s plate without comment. When Zoro reaches for the bill at the end Sanji catches his wrist under the table for half a second and says, without looking up: “Don’t insult me.”
He wants so badly, by then, to just ask the questions that’ve been been pacing in him all evening like a caged thing. is this a date? is this what you do when you mean it? am i reading this right or am i making a idiot of myself in a whole new category? But each time a word gets close to his mouth something in him locks, too aware of how much the answer matters.
They leave the restaurant long after dark, when the town’s gone soft around the edges. Voices drift from bars farther down the street, blurred by distance and sea wind and somewhere further down a wannabe musician’s murdering a violin in the name of love. The tide’s in and the air smells like salt and warm stone and wine still ghosting on the back of Zoro’s tongue. Sanji walks beside him through the narrow street toward the inn where the crew’s shacked up, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush every few steps.
There’s suddenly nowhere left for Zoro’s gaze to go except Sanji’s mouth; it’s not subtle. Worse, he knows it’s not subtle. He can feel his own body leaning toward the moment before he’s even moved, the wine a warm low hum in his blood. The whole evening is still in him – the candlelight, the reservation, the hand on his wrist, the fact that Sanji never once made him carry anything and somehow fed him exactly what he didn’t know he wanted. The thing is, Zoro’s never been kissed by someone he wanted like this and definitely not while standing in a quiet street after a meal that felt so blatantly like Sanji’s version of flirting that he still can’t quite believe it was real. He thinks – he really thinks – this is happening, that they’re going to lean in and it’s going to happen and all this static horrible impossible want is finally going to have somewhere to go besides his own bloodstream.
Then the panic hits, the sudden spike of fear of getting it wrong with a body that suddenly feels too large and clumsy and newly awake in all the worst places, of being seen in the exact instant before contact and having all of his own shyness and wanting fully visible in his face. He mutters something that might be “night” or might be a prayer to whatever god oversees cowards, turns too fast, shoulder checks the door frame, catches himself and goes inside with all the dignified speed of a man escaping a fire he personally started.
He gets three steps into the inn before he realises what he’s done and stops right there in the dim hall with his heart trying to climb out through his throat. Outside, through the open doorway, he can hear the sea and the distant murmur of the street and nothing else. He turns, slowly, expecting maybe no-one, maybe anger, maybe Sanji gone entirely but Sanji’s still in the doorway with one hand in his pocket and the other loose at his side, looking at Zoro with an expression so complicated it nearly kills him on sight.
Fond.
“You’re an idiot,” he says softly and Zoro, standing in the hall like the world’s least accomplished romantic lead, feels his whole face go hot.
“I was –”
Sanji lifts one eyebrow, mouth curving small and wicked and unbearably warm. “Go to bed, Zoro.” And turns away before Zoro can die a second time on the same night.
x
Zoro doesn't really sleep. He lies down on the narrow bed with his arms folded under his head and his jaw set and tells himself, with considerable force, that the evening’s already over. It happened! It’s finished happening. He's horizontal therefore he should sleep but his body, traitor that it is, straight up refuses. He lies there in the dark and replays the evening so many times it should really count as a second happening.
The restaurant, the candlelight, the hand around his wrist under the table, the walk back, the doorway. Sanji standing there with his mouth parted slightly and the whole evening hanging in the air between them like a match waiting to go. And Zoro… Zoro doing what any self respecting man confronted with romance and possibility and his own terrified body would do, which is apparently sprint inside like he’s being hunted for sport.
He turns onto one side and then onto his back and then onto the other side, because maybe shame has different angles? Maybe one of them will be more restful? The first dream takes him just before dawn and is so stupidly transparent that waking from it feels like being mocked by the universe: it's all kissing Sanji in the galley with one hand braced on the bench and Sanji laughing softly against his mouth, kissing him on deck by the rail with the sea black around them and Sanji’s tie blowing sideways in the wind. Kissing him exactly where he nearly did outside the inn, except in the dream he doesn't panic and flee – he leans in and Sanji’s hand catches at the front of his shirt and then everything goes warm and bright and unreal in some deeply embarrassing way.
He wakes from that one with his face hot and his pulse climbing and reckons he’s slept a total of maybe forty minutes. He drags himself upright and sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his head in both hands, which really only gives him a more structured position in which to suffer.
The inn’s dining room is only half awake with a few other guests, some fishermen and an elderly couple eating toast in complicit silence. Nami’s already there and, really, Zoro should turn around but he’s tired and Nami has coffee and she spots him before he can run, anyway.
She takes one look at him and laughs. “Wow. You look terrible.”
He sits with a scowl, because pride’s a luxury but coffee sure as hell isn't. “I slept great.”
Nami snorts into her cup. “You look like you got into a knife fight. Date didn’t go well?”
Zoro stares at her and fights tooth and nail to get past the sheer embarrassment of Nami knowing his love life (or the fact that he apparently has a love life). Out of spite, he steals her coffee and considers how much he’s willing to share. Nami’s useful, sure, but she’s also… well, Nami. Information given to her becomes a blade she might later use for your own good while laughing at you. And yet. And yet. She's also the person Sanji has apparently gone to for advice at some stage in this whole disaster. More importantly, he's knackered and full of candlelight and flowers and the memory of almost leaning in. “He took me to dinner.”
Nami smirks. “Yes, I know what a date means.”
Zoro closes his eye. “It wasn’t…”
“Mm?”
He opens his eye and finds her looking almost unbearably pleased. “He didn’t say it was a date.”
Both of Nami’s eyebrows go up. She looks like she’s struggling not to laugh. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Are you thick? Nicest restaurant in town, just the two of you? I assume he paid because he’d rather die than let you do it if he was being serious?” Zoro doesn't react and Nami’s smile widens like a knife being polished. “Oh my god. He paid.”
“This isn't helping.”
“Did he flirt?”
Zoro thinks about the whole evening and realises with a kind of exhausted horror that he no longer has any kind of clear definition for flirting where Sanji’s concerned. The restaurant was flirtation in architectural form. THe garnish campaign has turned his meals into emotional warfare. Sanji breathing too close to his mouth in a doorway is pretty much attempted manslaughter.
“Wow,” she says again, softer this time and much more delighted. “He really is wooing you.”
Zoro wants to throw himself through the window. “I hate that word.”
“Clearly not enough.”
He glares as she steals the coffee back and takes an obnoxious sip. “So what happened after dinner?”
Zoro says nothing because what the heck can he even say?
“Oh no.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “We were outside.”
“And?”
“And…” He stops and starts again because even the memory’s enough to make his damn ears burn. “It felt like maybe we were gonna…”
Nami slaps one hand over her mouth, her eyes huge over her fingers and delighted in the worst possible way. “You were going to kiss.”
“We weren’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
“We might have.”
“What did you do?”
He doesn’t answer. Turns out he doesn’t have to: Nami makes a small strangled sound into her palm and then actually bends over the table laughing. Zoro stares at her with the dead eyed hatred of a man who knows, in his soul, that he deserves this but resents it anyway. When she finally recovers enough to speak, she wipes under one eye. “You ran. Oh, this is art.”
He steals the coffee back instead of murder, because apparently murder in public’s frowned on or whatever. Her face softens by a fraction then, amusement still all over it but threaded now with something more practical. “Okay, you’ve got two options.”
Zoro narrows his eye immediately. “I didn’t ask.”
“You very much did by sitting down looking like the ghost of yearning.” He doesn't dignify that with response and Nami continues anyway like she was always going to. “Option one: you talk to him. Use your big boy voice and ask him if it was a date. Tell him you liked it. Tell him you panicked because your brain fell out, whatever. Just be honest.”
Zoro looks and feels horrified. “No.”
“Then option two: do something romantic back.”
The sentence is so appalling it actually leaves him briefly blank. “What?”
Nami smiles with all her teeth. “Romance him back.”
Zoro’s soul exits his body. “I’m leaving.”
She laughs again, more softly now, and props her chin on one hand. “It doesn’t have to be huge. Just… something that makes it clear you’re not only standing there dying everytime he’s nice to you.”
“That’s not what I do.”
“Oh buddy, it’s exactly what you do. Bring him something or ask him somewhere or give him your full attention. Say something nice and don’t die afterward. I mean, c’mon, Zozo, you’re into a man who cuts veggies into hearts and takes you to candlelit dinners. You can probably survive one romantic gesture.”
He can’t survive one romantic gesture, is the problem. The thought of attempting one himself makes his skin go hot in a completely new pattern of dread. What does romance even look like from him? A dead fish? A whetstone with meaning? Sitting near Sanji on deck and not pretending it’s tactical? The whole category feels fucking rigged.
Nami watches all of this cross his face and, because she isn't content with simple victory, sighs. “If Usopp can do it you can manage it too, I promise.”
Unfortunately for both of them, again, Zoro’s not actually stupid. He turns painfully slowly. “What? Do you mean… with you?”
Nami’s eyes flick up to his and for one tiny weird second there’s actual awkward silence between them before she says, much too quickly: “I mean, like, in general. Do not make this about me.”
“It kinda... is about you?”
“It absolutely isn’t.”
“It just was.”
She goes pink in the most satisfying way he’s ever seen on her and immediately doubles down into offense. “You know what, forget all my advice.”
He sits back a little, the stolen coffee finally beginning to make him feel vaguely composed and malicious enough to enjoy this. “You brought it up.”
Nami looks like she’d like to throw a spoon at his face. “Fine, yes. I mean me. Kind of. A little. Whatever! The point is if you like someone and they’re very obviously trying it wouldn’t kill you to try back.”
The words settle more deeply than the teasing had and Zoro scowls and slumps down in the chair. Outside the window the harbour’s waking properly, all sunlight on the water and seagulls fighting over the day’s first scraps. Somewhere upstairs a door slams and somebody – Luffy probably – immediately yells that he’s starving.
try back. It sounds simple when she says it. It sounds, worse, possible. Sanji’s made this whole thing so clear, in retrospect, and maybe Zoro’s the only one still hiding behind static and panic and body failure.
Nami sees some shift in his face and leans back with the expression of someone who’s successfully kicked a boulder downhill and now intends to watch it gather speed. “Oh, you’re actually considering it.”
“I’m considering murder.”
“Same look, different outcome.”
He drinks the last of her coffee in one swallow and stands up before she can get any more mileage out of his expression. As he turns to go, she suggests, in a tone far too innocent to be trusted: “Maybe start small.”
He pauses. “What’s small?”
Nami’s smile goes sweet as poison. “Tell him he looks good.”
Zoro leaves immediately, not because the advice is bad but because the thought of saying that to Sanji with his actual mouth makes his vision go a little white at the edges. He gets halfway up the inn stairs before he realises Nami’s laughing again behind him but the thing is, though… the thing is he keeps thinking about it.
He thinks about it all the way upstairs and then all the way through washing his face and all the way through getting dressed. All the way through trying and failing not to imagine Sanji’s face if Zoro, by some fucking catastrophic lapse in self preservation, actually tried romance back. By the time he catches sight of Sanji across the harbour later that morning – coming back from the market with a bag over one shoulder, sunlight on his hair, mouth curved in concentration around a cigarette he hasn’t lit yet – Zoro’s heart’s already doing too much again.
It's a stupid idea.
And yet. And yet.
x
He lasts a grand total of four hours.
It’s not entirely Nami’s fault, to be fair – Sanji has to shoulder some of the blame for making romance look like a thing that can be done rather than just kind of suffered through, and for doing it with such pointed intent that Zoro's spent the week feeling like someone strapped his nervous system directly to a bell and keeps ringing it every damn time the cook enters a room.
So now Zoro’s on shore at eleven in the morning, in a market town he doesn't give a shit about, buying bread with the focused expression of a man selecting explosives. The harbour’s already busy in that bright irritating way coastal towns are once the sun's up properly and Zoro moves through it like a man under duress because if he slows down long enough to think too hard about what he's doing he’ll absolutely abort the mission and spend the afternoon pretending he lost track of time ina bar.
The bakery’s tucked between a fishmonger and a shop selling rope thick enough to halt a battleship, shelves crowded with loaves and rolls and sugared pastries. He stares at the bread and knows he’s fought bounty hunters with more confidence than he currently feels selecting fucking carbohydrates.
A broad old woman behind the counter holds up two loaves for him to inspect. “You want the crustier one or the softer one?”
Zoro stares at them like the answer might be hidden in the scoring. Sanji would know which one to pick immediately, probably while insulting the baker’s rye percentages and also charming her into throwing in rolls he doesn’t even need. He'd have a basket and a plan or a cloth or some impossible arrangement of fruit and cheese and... atmosphere.
Zoro has panic and bread, apparently. “The… better one?”
The old woman snorts. “For what?”
He should lie, he knows he should lie. He should say lunch or the ship or literally anything except the truth. “A… picnic?”
The old woman’s whole face brightens with immediate understanding. “A picnic?”
Zoro feels his ears go hot. “It’s not –”
“Romantic?”
“No.” Zoro pays and escapes before she can elaborate, bread hot and accusing under his arm. The bread under his arm’s warm through the paper and it’s only fifteen minutes before he’s also gotten his hands on a small wedge of decent goat cheese, a few apples and a bottle of something local the shopkeeper swears is light enough for the afternoon but serious enough for love.
Zoro almost walks out at that line, too.
Sanji has flowers and candlelit restaurants and all the polished architecture of romance built into his bones while Zoro has bread and cheese and a growing conviction that he should throw himself into the nearest fucking river so he doesnt have to actually present these items like they mean anything.
And yet. And yet.
The thought of doing nothing feels worse so he keeps going. There’s a little path beyond the edge of the market, leading up past the town into a rise of pale trees and patches of grass where the view opens now and then over the cliffs. Zoro had passed it on the way in and thought, with all the blunt poetry available to him, that it looked less stupid than sitting in the town square with a blanket or something. The plan’s simple enough in theory: get the food, find a decent spot, go back for Sanji, say something minimally humiliating. Eat bread. Don’t die.
By the time he gets the apples his hands have started sweating. He keeps replaying versions of the invitation in his head and rejecting all of them.
come eat this with me sounds like a threat but i got lunch sounds like an accident. He's halfway between the cheese shop and the path into the woods, bag under one arm and dread blooming in his ribcage when he hears a familiar voice behind him drawl: “Well.”
Sanji’s standing a few metres away in the middle of the road with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. The wind’s done that thing it does to his hair where it lifts the fringe off his forehead and makes him look unfairly alive, even with the ridiculous eyebrows. There’s a basket over one arm, covered in some paisley cloth and Zoro stares at it with the growing horror of a man watching his own brilliant plan get outclassed in real time.
Sanji’s mouth curves. “That’s a lot of feelings for bread, Mossy.”
“You followed me.”
Sanji snorts. “Please, you’re not subtle enough to require following.”
That’s… probably true. Zoro grits his teeth anyway, just for kicks. “What’s in it?”
“Well, that’d ruin the surprise, wouldnt it?”
Zoro narrows his eye. “You made a picnic.”
Sanji says nothing. The whole answer’s in the line of his body, in the basket, in the fact that he's standing in the road with that expression and that bloody ten-steps-ahead certainty.
“I was also making a picnic,” he says before he can stop himself, the words coming out so defensive and so deeply embarrassing that he wants to bite them in half.
Sanji blinks before his expression gives way to something much warmer and infinitely more dangerous. “You were?”
Zoro’s ears burn. He considers denial but the evidence, unfortunately, is under his arm and smells like a bakery and also he just said it, so. “Maybe.”
“Wow,” Sanji says softly.
Zoro wants to strangle him. “Shut up.”
“No, I don’t think I will.” The grin that finally breaks over his face is small and brilliant and so clearly not mean spirited that Zoro’s whole body misfires around it. This is the other thing no-one told him about trying romance back: if the other person is Sanji and he (apparently) likes you, your every clumsy attempt becomes, apparently, the cutest thing Sanji’s ever seen in his life.
The market noise goes on around them – vendors calling, gulls screaming over fish guts, footsteps on stone, laughter spilling from somewhere under an awning – but it all begins to blur at the edges. Zoro becomes aware only of the warmth of the bread under his arm and the basket on Sanji’s wrist and the fact that the man in front of him’s looking at him like this.
“So,” Sanji says. “This was… your idea?”
Zoro’s mouth goes dry. “It was a bad one.”
“And here I thought the romance was in the effort.” Zoro just scowls because the alternative’s collapsing and Sanji’s eyes drop to the paper bag again. “What kind of cheese?”
“Goat.”
“At last. You truly know my heart.”
That shakes out – against all will – one rough bark of laughter and Sanji’s whole face softens around the sound. Then he lifts the basket slightly. “C’mon, Mosshead. I found a spot.”
The woods are cooler than the market, all green shade and patches of sunlight broken over the path in gold scraps. The air smells like pine and dirt and sea wind coming through the branches. Sanji walks ahead at first, basket swinging lightly at his side before he slows enough that Zoro falls into step beside him. “So. Just to make this clear: you were going to ask me on a picnic?”
Zoro closes his eye. “Don’t.”
Sanji’s voice warms with laughter. “No, I think I’m gonna enjoy this one.”
“It was… tactical.”
“Of course.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are, bread in arms, halfway to seducing me in broad daylight.”
That nearly makes Zoro walk into a tree but Sanji reaches out on reflex and catches the back of his sleeve before he can, sending a sharp bright line straight through Zoro’s spine.
“There you go,” Sanji murmurs. “Head in the game, swordsman.”
“Hard to do that when you won’t stop talking.”
Sanji’s laugh moves through the shaded path like sunlight in water. The spot he picked is, infuriatingly, perfect: it’s a little clearing near the cliff edge where the trees break just enough to give a view over the sea without losing the shelter of shade. Someone – maybe guests, maybe locals – has left a flat stretch of stone there half covered in moss and sun warmed enough to use as a seat. The grass around it’s full of tiny white wildflowers and, below, the water’s a deep impossible blue. The basket goes down on the mossy stone with all the ceremony of a magic trick and the whole thing gets worse. There’s smoked fish wrapped in wax paper and olives in a little jar and roasted tomatoes shining with oil. A small knife, proper plates, glasses wrapped in linen so they don’t clink, fucking strawberries, some absurd little pastries dusted with sugar and a tiny bottle of honey because apparently there’s no limit to Sanji’s need to overachieve.
Zoro sets his own bread and cheese and apples down beside the spread and Sanji grins, genuine and soft and no trace of mockery at all. “Perfect. You got the good bread.”
The praise is so sincere Zoro almost has to sit down before his knees decide for him.
The picnic itself is quiet in the best possible way. There’s still the low electric hum of everything unsaid, still the awareness of what this is and isn’t and how clearly it resembles a date even without either of them using the word. But there’s also food and the sea and shade and the steady calming practicality of sharing things by hand. Sanji breaks the bread and passes half over without comment while Zoro slices the cheese. Sanji pours wine and Zoro hands him one of the apples and watches his fingers brush Sanji’s skin absently as he talks. They eat the strawberries warm from the basket and the fish with too much lemon and the little pastries, which turn out to have some cheese baked into them. At one point Sanji reaches across the cloth to wipe a smear of honey off Zoro’s thumb and Zoro forgets what he was saying mid-sentence.
Later, when the food’s gone from arranged to devoured and the wine’s loosened the edges of the silence, Sanji leans back on one hand in the grass and smirks. “You were really gonna do this yourself.”
Zoro, stretched out beside him with one knee bent and the other leg straight in the sun, grunts. “Maybe.”
Sanji turns his head to look at him, all fondness edged with amusement edged with something much softer than either. “And what were you going to say?”
Zoro stares out at the sea, knowing the answer is absolutely nothing useful. He grimaces. “Didn’t get that far.”
Sanji laughs under his breath. “Tragic.”
“Shut up.”
“It's sweet when you’re trying.”
Zoro turns his head so fast he nearly gives himself a cramp. “What?”
Sanji’s face goes a fraction pink, which saves Zoro’s life because it means the line wasn’t calculated. It means it slipped, honest and unpolished. Sanji recovers by taking another drink but Zoro doesn't recover at all. By the time the sun begins to slant lower through the trees, everything between them has gone quiet and close and impossibly full. Sanji lies back first, one arm crooked under his head, and looks up through the branches like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Zoro watches him and thinks, not for the first time and with more alarm everytime it occurs, that there might be no cure for this after all. After a minute, though, he lies back as well.
Sanji says, very quietly: “I’m glad you tried.” He’s still looking up at the branches.
“You were serious,” Zoro says. He licks his lips. “About the... hearts.”
Sanji’s smirk is absurdly gentle. “I usually am, once I’ve started bringing flowers into it.”
That gets a low startled laugh out of Zoro before he blurts, unplanned: “I thought maybe you’d laugh.”
Sanji goes still for a bit before he eventually turns his head, the look on his face so open Zoro almost regrets giving him the sentence. “Not at that.”
Zoro can feel the awareness of the gap between them like a living thing, the narrow strip of cloth and grass and air between his fingers and Sanji’s, charged beyond reason simply because it’s there and available and neither of them has yet crossed it. Sanji’s gaze drops once, just once, to Zoro’s mouth and Zoro stops breathing. It feels, with terrible clarity, like the inn all over again except this time there are no walls and no door to panic into, no narrow hallway to flee down while his courage bleeds out through his shoes.
Sanji’s thumb brushes once over the back of Zoro’s hand. “You know, for a man with bread and cheese and no plan, this was kind of romantic.”
Zoro inhales and turns his head, ready with some halfhearted insult he’ll never get to use because Sanji leans in and presses one warm, brief kiss to his cheek. It’s tiny and utterly, utterly catastrophic. Zoro can feel the heat all the way down his throat.
“Come on,” Sanji murmurs, rolling away to gather the picnic cloth. “Try not to fall off the cliff, idiot.”
Zoro lays there another full second, staring at the branches overhead and wondering whether a man can actually die from being treated too nicely. Then he gives up on fighting the smile working its way onto his face, gives up on trying to control the heart climbing up his throat, and lets himself grab Sanji’s hand properly this time, for real, for keeps. “Yeah. Okay.”
x
wow nothing in the world compares to good bread hey
also not me throwing usonami everywhere these days <3 it's a disease i simply cannot help it
ALSO this is a common thread through whatever i write but i have this hc that kitetsu is sanji's favourite & in this essay i will -
Pairing: Leon Kennedy (RE9) x younger female reader
Summary: Leon doesn't do jealousy... Except when it comes to you.
WC: 5.6k
Warnings: SMUT (Oral / fingering / P in V), Age-gap, insecure Leon
Notes: Kinda proofread? Also my first long fic so sorry if it sucks.
The briefing room always felt too small when you were in it with him.
Not physically–there was more than enough space for the dozen agents scattered around the table–but something about the presence of Leon S. Kennedy made the air feel heavier. Maybe it was the reputation. Maybe it was the quiet way everyone deferred to him without realizing they were doing it.
Or maybe it was because you knew him in ways they didn’t.
You sat at the desk, near the middle, arms loosely folded over some of the files that were spread around. Across from you, leaning back against the wall like he had all the time in the world, Leon looked exactly like he always did during briefings: quiet, controlled, giving nothing away.
All sharp edges and professionalism.
It was almost funny.
Because less than two hours ago, he’d been anything but controlled with you. Hands roaming over your body, and soft kisses on your skin as you woke up.
You swallowed the thought quickly, eyes flicking away before they could linger too long. That was the rule–no staring, no unnecessary attention, no romantic contact. Only a handful of higher-ups even knew about the relationship, and that was strictly on a need-to-know basis. Operational safety, they’d said.
Now, it was second nature.
“…intercept the exchange before distribution,” the handler droned on, clicking through slides that cast a blue glow across the room. “Bio-weapon shipment, suspected to be a modified strain. Both buyer and seller are considered hostile. You are authorized to seize all materials and eliminate all involved parties.”
Standard.
Your gaze flicked briefly to Leon again. He hadn’t moved. Arms crossed, one boot hooked casually against the wall behind him, head slightly tilted as he listened. God, he made it look easy.
“…this will be a three-unit operation.” That caught your attention. You straightened slightly.
Three?
You hadn’t been told that. The handler nodded toward Leon “Leon, you'll take lead.
Your third operative is-”
The door swung open and everyone looked up at the man who stepped inside, not looking the least bit apologetic.
He was younger–maybe late twenties–with an easy confidence that bordered on arrogance. His tactical gear sat comfortably on him, like he was used to wearing it, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned how badly things could go wrong.
His eyes swept the room once, quick and assessing. Then they landed on you and stayed there.
“Wow,” he said, voice light, amused. “It’s my lucky day.” You didn’t react. Didn’t give him anything. He stopped beside the table, gaze still fixed on you as it dipped–not subtly–down your body before coming back up again. “I get to work with a legend.”
You gave him a small, polite smile. “Try to keep up.” you replied with a subtle shrug. The man’s grin widened. Then, finally, he glanced past you–toward Leon. Leon hadn’t moved, still against the wall, just watching.
“…and a fossil.” the new guy added, tone teasing, almost playful.
You didn’t look at Leon. You didn’t need to. Leon pushed off the wall slowly, unfolding to his full height with that same unhurried ease that always made people underestimate him.
“Careful” His voice calm as always. “Wouldn’t want to peak during introductions.” A few more suppressed laughs. Tension broke, just slightly. The handler cleared his throat.
“Agent Hayes,” he said, gesturing to the newcomer. “You’ve already been briefed?”
“On the drive over.” Hayes confirmed easily. “Intercept, seize, eliminate. Standard stuff.” His eyes flicked back to you. “Should be fun.” You ignored the way your skin prickled under his attention but Leon noticed the slight shift.
●◉◎◈◎◉●
The target point sat on the outskirts of a crumbling industrial zone–abandoned warehouses, rusted fencing, dead security systems.
You crouched behind a stack of rubble–broken concrete, scrap metals, failed experiments–scanning the perimeter through your scope.
“Two at the north entrance” you murmured into comms. “Armed.”
“Copy that” Hayes’ voice replied smoothly, casual but alert.
“The perimeter looks clean otherwise” you continued. “No visible snipers.”
“Doesn’t mean there aren’t any.” Leon said.
“Wouldn’t be a party without surprises.” Hayes added. You rolled your shoulders back, settling into position, looking through the sniper scope again.
“Ready when you are,” You said, letting them know you're ready.
“Move.” Leon ordered. Everything snapped into motion. Leon and Hayes broke from cover at the same time, fast and deliberate, closing the distance to the entrance before the guards could fully register what was happening. Their boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete.
The first guard turned too slow. Leon was already there. A quick, efficient takedown. No hesitation, no wasted movement. The man dropped before he could even shout.
Hayes handled the second with equal speed, though his style was a touch louder, more force behind it, a little flashier. Still effective. The guard hit the ground hard, weapon clattering beside him.
“Entrance clear.” Hayes spoke into comms. You kept your scope trained, steady and patient, sweeping across the terrain and building.
Then a third man stepped out from behind a rusted support beam, rifle half-raised, eyes locked into Leon. You didn’t hesitate.
A single shot.
The crack of your rifle split the air. The man dropped instantly, crumpling where he stood.
“Third down,” you said calmly.
A brief pause.
“Damn. Remind me not to get on your bad side.” Hayes said, low and impressed. You ignored it, already rising from your position.
“Area’s still clear. No additional movement.” You descended quickly, boots finding familiar footing through debris and broken ground.
Leon's gaze flicked to you, only briefly, but cautiously. You gave a small nod. Even after all the years, missions, him knowing what you're capable of, nothing ever stops him from checking in with you. Hayes glanced between the two of you, but it was gone just as quickly as it came.
Both men stepped towards the door and you followed without a word, slipping into formation beside them.
“On me.” And just like that, you pushed inside.
Inside, the warehouse was dim, lit only by scattered overhead fixtures that flickered intermittently. Voices echoed from deeper within.
You signaled the others.
Three.
Two.
One.
You moved.
The takedown was fast, controlled chaos.
Gunfire cracked through the space, sharp and deafening. You dropped low, sweeping one target off his feet before disarming him, pivoting to fire at another rushing in from the side.
Where Hayes was loud, Leon was quiet. Where Hayes forced openings, Leon created them. Every movement was deliberate, every shot placed with lethal precision. You caught glimpses of him between targets.
“Behind you!” Hayes’ voice snapped your attention back just as a man lunged from the side. You reacted instantly, twisting out of reach and driving your elbow into his throat before taking him down.
“Got it,” you said.
“Nice” he murmured, stepping closer than necessary. “You’re even better up close.”
“Focus,” you said.
He chuckled softly, and from across the room, Leon watched. He didn’t say anything but the next time you moved, he was there. His hand brushed your arm as he guided you back slightly, positioning himself between you and the few remaining targets. His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to.
Hayes noticed. You saw it in the way his expression shifted–just briefly. The remaining targets went down quickly after that. You exhaled slowly, lowering your weapon.
“Package secured.” you reported, moving toward the case in the center of the room. “Bio-weapons confirmed.”
“Extraction’s inbound.” Leon said. “Lets head out.” He lifts the heavy case with ease and headed towards the door.
“Not bad for someone who was taught by an old man,” He said lightly.
“Not bad for someone who showed up late.” you replied, with a shrug, and he grinned.
“Guess I made a good first impression.” From the smirk on his lips you could tell he was proud.
“Jury’s still out.”
He laughed. The distant thrum of helicopter blades began to build overhead. You moved toward the designated point, stepping out into the open yard as the helicopter descended, wind whipping around you.
Hayes moved in close again as you waited for the rope drop. When it did you grabbed it without hesitation, climbing up. Hayes followed, then Leon last.
The ascent was quick, the ground shrinking beneath you as the helicopter pulled away from the site.
Inside, the noise was loud enough to drown most conversation. Yet still Hayes tried. He leant forward in his seat.
“Drinks after this?” he called over the roar.
“Not usually my scene.” You shook your head.
“Didn’t say no.” He tilted his head slightly when you look over at him. You shook your head again, in a sense of disbelief, he wasn't giving up.
Leon didn’t look at either of you but his jaw tightened. The rest of the ride passed in relative silence.
●◉◎◈◎◉●
Back at base, the debrief was brief–Successful mission. Minimal complications. Objectives completed–Exactly what was expected.
As people shuffled out the room Hayes lingered. You acted like you didn't see him, gathering your gear, keeping your movements purposeful, aware of him approaching before he even spoke.
“So…” he said, stopping just within your space again. “You always turn down offers or?”
You slung your bag over your shoulder. “I don’t mix work and…whatever this is.” you said, gesturing between the small space between you. He studied you for a moment.
“Fair enough. I’ll wear you down eventually.”
You didn’t respond because Leon stepped in, joining the conversation. Standing close enough that your arms nearly brushed.
“Briefing’s over” Leon said coolly. “Surely there's somewhere else for you to be.”
Hayes looked between the two of you, a slight squint before going back to norm, like something clicked.
“Right,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.” He gave you one last look. “I’ll see you around.” Then he walked off. You waited until he was gone before you let out a slow breath.
The room had emptied, leaving just you and Leon now. Silence stretched between you for a moment.
“That guy’s a problem.” Leon muttered. You huffed a quiet laugh.
“He’s harmless.” You counter. Leon turned his head slightly, finally looking at you properly. You do the same before moving in front to look at him properly.
“He’s not harmless,” he said. “He’s reckless.”
“And you’re not?” You tilted your head. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
“Not like that.”
“You were jealous.” You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice. His expression didn’t change but you felt it.
“I was adjusting the situation,” he said, tone steady. You softly laugh, just an exhale through your nose.
“Right. Just happened to put yourself between us.” You moved a fraction closer, testing, watching him. His gaze dropped to you, slow, deliberate. It made something tighten low in your chest.
“Didn’t think you were the territorial type at work.” You tilted your head slightly.
“I’m not.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Silence stretched for a moment.
“He was pushing.” Leon said finally, quieter now. “Seeing what he could get away with.”
“And?” Your eyes searched his. It was normally like this, having to prompt Leon to get more of an answer when talking about feelings. His jaw flexed, just slightly.
“I didn’t like it.” He admits, slow.
“Didn’t think it’d bother you that much.” His gaze dipped for half a second, then came back sharper.
“It doesn’t,” he said. You raised a brow.
“Leon.” A beat.
“…It does.” That pulled a faint smile from you. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, voice rougher now.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You held his gaze, placing a hand on his chest.
“We’re in public.” he reminded you quietly. You hummed.
“Barely.” You fob it off. “I meant what I said.” you flutter your lashes softly. “He doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know.” And he did. That was never the issue. The issue was everything else. The secrecy. The lines you couldn’t cross. The way you had to pretend none of this existed the second anyone else walked into the room.
You shifted back, moving your hand off of his chest.
“Let's go home,” you said softly.
“Yeah.” He grabbed his bag and you walked out to the carpark, getting into your separate cars to go to the same location.
●◉◎◈◎◉●
The drive home was done in silence. The familiar streets blurred past Leon’s windows, city light and nightlife, but his mind wasn’t on the road. It was back in the warehouse, in the briefing room, on the helicopter. It was on Hayes.
He’s harmless, you’d said.
Leon’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the new leather creaking under his fingers. He knew better. Men like Hayes weren’t harmless. Confident, entitled, seeing something they wanted and assuming the path to it was clear. He’d seen the look in Hayes’ eyes when he’d watched you move, when he’d stepped into your space. It wasn’t just professional admiration. It was hunger. A young, brash hunger that didn’t hide itself.
And why should it? Hayes was young, and talented. He had the physicality of someone whose body hadn’t been carved by decades of scars. He had a smile that was quick and still real. He could offer the kind of simple, open affection that Leon’s life had long since burned out of him.
The age difference had never felt so wide before. It was just a number, a fact. But tonight, it felt like a weight. Hayes’ teasing ‘fossil’ comment echoed in his mind, not as an insult, but as a reminder. Leon was a veteran of a war that reshaped him, built from trauma and resolve. You were… life. A vibrant, brilliant life. You cooked meals that filled the quiet apartment with warmth. You fell asleep on his chest, your breathing soft against his skin. You pulled him into slow dances in the kitchen when a good song came on the radio, laughing when he stepped on your feet.
These were the precious things Hayes likely still took for granted. The things Leon clung to with a quiet, desperate kind of devotion he could never say out loud. What if, one day, you wanted something easier, choosing a man without ghosts over one who carried a cemetery inside himself?
He pulled into the underground garage of your shared building, the engine turning into silence. He saw your car already parked, and the sight was both a comfort and a fresh twist of anxiety. You were home, and safe. You were his. But for how long?
The apartment was quiet when he entered, the only sound was the distant rush of water from the shower. You always showered first after a mission. Wash away the grime, the tension, the scent of violence and fear. He did the same. It was a way to leave the operational persona at the door.
He went to the second bathroom, stripping off the tactical gear with practiced efficiency. The hot water was pure relief, over knotted shoulders and the scattering of old scars. He scrubbed at his skin as if he could erase the memory of Hayes’ smirk, the proprietary glance he’d given you. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, letting the steam envelop him.
By the time he emerged, dressed in soft sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, the apartment smelled of garlic, ginger, and soy. You were in the kitchen, moving with a softness that was the direct opposite of your strict precision in the field. Your hair was damp, curling at the ends, and you wore one of his old sweaters that swallowed your frame.
“Stir fry okay?” you asked without turning, sensing his presence.
“Perfect,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. You glanced over your shoulder, a soft smile on your lips.
“Long shower.” You commented, not pushing for anything, just an observation.
“I needed it.” He had moved closer, placing a kiss on your cheek.
Dinner was had in comfortable silence while the tv played a nature documentary. Moving to the couch once you cleaned together.
You sat on the chaise, Leon settled behind you, his legs bracketing your body. You leaned back into him with a sigh, your head coming to rest on his shoulder. His arms came around you naturally, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other coming up to idly stroke your damp hair.
This was the peace he fought and killed for.
The documentary droned on. An older lion, challenged by a younger, stronger male from a rival pride. The narration felt targeted. The older male, though experienced, may no longer have the sheer physical power to defend his territory…
“Does it ever bother you?” The question was out before he could stop it.
You tilted your head back to look up at him, your brow furrowed. “Does what bother me?”
He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He gestured vaguely, his hand leaving your hair to indicate the space around you, then coming to rest on his own thigh. “This. Me. The… gap.” You shifted, turning within the circle of his arms so you were half-facing him, your expression now one of confusion.
“What are you talking about?” You questioned it, but he couldn’t meet your eyes, he just looked at the television.
“The age difference. I don’t have that… easy energy anymore.” He looked down at you, his blue eyes stark with a vulnerability he showed to no one else. “You cook for me. You fall asleep on me. You drag me into dances when I’d rather just stand and watch and I love it. I love all of it. But it’s your youth you’re spending on me. What happens when the newness of it wears off? When my quiet feels like silence? When my scars feel less like history and more like… baggage?”
Your expression had softened from confusion into something unbearably tender. You brought a hand up, your fingers tracing the line of his stubbled jaw. “Leon…” you whispered yet he pressed on.
“One day, you might want someone who can give you a life that isn’t measured in mission cycles and security clearances.” He captured your hand, holding it against his cheek, turning his face into your palm. “The thought of you losing that feeling for me… of you looking at me one day and just seeing an old agent… it terrifies me more than anything else ever could.”
You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his, seeing the raw truth of his fear. Then you moved. You pushed yourself up, kneeling before him, your hands coming to cup his face, forcing him to hold your gaze.
“Listen to me,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “The moment I stop feeling the way I do the moment my heart doesn’t skip when I see you, the moment I don’t crave the weight of your arms, orI don’t look at your scars and feel proud of the man who made it through… that’s the moment I take my last breath because loving you is the one thing I know I’ll never let go of.”
A soft breath escaped him. He didn’t speak; his words were inadequate for what he felt. Instead, he moved forward, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that was nothing short of electric.
It wasn’t gentle. It was all the words he couldn’t say poured into the meeting of lips and tongue. You met him with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could fuse your bodies together.
He broke the kiss only to whisper your name against your lips. Then his mouth was everywhere–on your jaw, down the column of your throat, nipping at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder. He pulled the oversized sweater over your head. His hand came to palm at your breast, his thumb circling your nipple until it pebbled into a hard point. A sharp gasp escaped you when he pinched, and the sound went straight to his cock, which was already straining painfully against his sweatpants.
“Leon!” you breathed, arching into his touch.
In one fluid motion, he stood, pulling you up with him. He didn’t carry you to the bedroom; the distance was too great. He needed you now. He laid you back onto the chaise, your legs hanging off the end.
He yanked your panties off with urgency, and worshiped every inch he uncovered. He knelt down between your legs, kissing your stomach, then over your hips, and your thighs. His stubble lightly scratched along your skin.
When his mouth finally found your core, you cried his name out softly. He didn’t tease. His tongue worked with a hungry, single-minded intensity, circling your clit before dipping lower. He savoured the taste as if it were the antidote to every poison he’d ever ingested.
His hands held your thighs apart, his grip firm and unyielding. You tried to buck against the overwhelming sensation, but his hold was immovable. He pinned you to the couch, forcing you to feel every devastatingly perfect movement. He established a brutal, perfect rhythm. Long, languid strokes of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, gathering your wetness, then plunging back inside, fucking you with his mouth. You could hear the wet sounds filling the room, your own cries were layered over the top–whimpers, soft sobs, and repetitions of his name.
“Please…” you managed to gasp, though you didn’t know what you were begging for. He answered by shifting his focus, zeroing in on your clit. His tongue became a rapid, fluttering point of fire, circling and flicking so fast it was almost a blur of sensation. You moaned, your hands flying to his hair, not to push him away, but to pull him closer, grinding yourself against his face in a frantic search for release.
His hair was soft between your fingers, a stark contrast to the harsh, demanding pleasure he was wringing from your body. Just as you felt the first sign of an orgasm gathering deep in your belly, he stopped. You let out a soft cry. Your hips jerked up uselessly against the empty air.
He lifted his head, breathing heavily, his lips swollen and wet. He didn’t say a word. He simply watched the desperate frustration on your face, the slight tremor through your body.
Then, he lowered his mouth again, but not to where you needed. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, his teeth nipping at the skin. He then traced the spot with his tongue, a soothing counterpoint to the sting. He moved to the other thigh, repeating the process, his hands still vise-like on your legs, keeping you achingly open.
“Look at me.” he commanded. You forced your eyes open, not realizing you’d closed them. Looking down the length of your body, to where he knelt between your thighs. The sight was erotic–his broad shoulders, the focus on his face, his mouth hovering so close to where you ached for him. He held your gaze as he slowly extended his tongue and gave one long, slow, flat lick from your entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit. You whimpered, your hips lifting off the bed.
He dove back in with renewed fervor. This time, he introduced his fingers. You felt the blunt pressure of one, then two fingers at your entrance, testing, circling, before pushing deep inside you in one smooth stroke.He crooned his fingers, finding the spot that made you see stars. He worked them in and out, in a counter-rhythm to his tongue on your clit.
The dual assault was too much. It was everything. The coil of pleasure, so tightly wound before, now snapped with ease. You shattered around his fingers, rhythmically, and his mouth never left you, feeling every pulse and spasm. He worked you through it, his tongue gentling to soft, lapping strokes, his fingers slowing to a gentle pumping, drawing out the aftershocks until they were tiny, sensitive shivers.
When the last tremor subsided, he finally withdrew his fingers. He placed one last tender kiss on your oversensitive clit, making you flinch with a residual jolt of pleasure. Then he released your thighs, his fingers leaving faint, red imprints on your skin. He moved up your body slowly, kissing his way up your stomach, between your breasts, along your collarbone. He was heavy and warm as he settled over you, his arousal a hard pressure against your thigh.
His breath was hot and ragged against your lips.
“You are everything to me.” he whispered, the words gravelly and raw, as if it was dragged from a place deeper than his soul. He didn’t wait for a response. He kissed you again, a consuming kiss that let you taste yourself on his tongue.
Your hands came up, sliding under the soft cotton of his t-shirt, mapping the hard planes of his stomach, the ridges of old scars you knew by heart. You pushed the fabric upward, and he broke the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside.
Your fingers went to the waistband of his sweatpants, but he caught your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly above your head on the couch cushion. Holding your wrists with one strong hand, he used the other to push his sweatpants and boxer briefs down over his hips in one impatient shove. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and beautifully hard, the tip already glistening. He kicked the clothing away, leaving him naked.
He released your wrists, but only to settle his weight more fully over you. He was so warm, so solid, so real. You wrapped your legs around his hips, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer until the hard length of him nudged against your entrance.
He slowly rocked his hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name like a mantra.
“I need to see you.” he rasped, more to himself, lifting his head. He braced himself on his forearms, caging your face, his eyes locked on yours. “I need to watch you take me.”
You nodded, breathless, beyond words. You reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his length, guiding him to you. The broad head pressed against you, and you both let out a shuddering sigh. With agonizing slowness, he pushed forward.
He watched your face intently, every flicker of pleasure, every wince of overwhelming sensation. He sank deeper, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just stayed there, You could feel the tremble in his muscles, to hold still.
“Leon…” you breathed, your voice trembling. You shifted your hips, a tiny, instinctive movement, and it broke his stillness. A low groan tore from his throat. He began to move.
His first thrust was a deep, deliberate roll of his hips, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in with the same measured pace. It wasn't frantic, it was worship. Each stroke was long, deep, and achingly slow. He was making love to you with a focused, tender intensity that was somehow more overwhelming than any display of brute force.
“So perfect.” he whispered, his voice thick. “So tight for me. Taking me so deep.” He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. A faint, satisfied smirk touched his lips. “There it is.”
He found that angle and held it, each slow, penetrating thrust now brushing directly over that sweet, sensitive spot deep inside you. Pleasure began to coil again, low and hot and insistent, but it was a different kind of build–deeper, slower, more consuming. It wasn’t a race to the peak; it was a deliberate climb up a mountain, and he was ensuring you felt every single second.
One of his hands slid down your body, his fingers finding the swollen nub of your clit. He didn’t rub frantically; he simply pressed the pad of his thumb against it, as he continued his deep, smooth thrusts. The dual stimulation was maddening in its perfection. Your moans became continuous, a soft, broken melody that filled the space between your ragged breaths.
“That’s it” he encouraged, his own breath coming in hot gusts against your cheek. “Let me hear you. Let me feel you cum around me.”
His pace began to increase. The slow, deep rolls became more urgent, the slide of his body in and out of yours creating a wet, rhythmic sound. The pressure of his thumb on your clit became a deliberate, circling motion, perfectly timed with his thrusts. Your legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper.
“I’m… Leon, I’m going to…” you choked out, the words fracturing into a gasp.
“Look at me.” he commanded again, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own climax. “Come for me. Let me see it.”
You held his gaze as the wave broke. It crested not with a violent crash, but with a deep, rolling swell of pure pleasure. Your body clenched around him in powerful pulses, milking his length, drawing a ragged groan from his chest. Your vision whited out at the edges, but you kept your eyes open, locked on his, and you saw the exact moment your pleasure triggered his own.
His control shattered. With a final, deep thrust that buried him as far as he could possibly go, he threw his head back, a raw, guttural groan tearing from his throat. His nose scrunching softly, as he gritted his teeth. You felt the hot rush of his release deep inside you, each jet synchronized with the contractions still rippling through your own body.
Slowly, the tremors subsided. His weight settled upon you, a warm, comforting heaviness. He was still inside you, as his breathing gradually slowed from ragged gasps to deep, even draws. He turned his head, his lips finding your shoulder, placing a soft, lingering kiss there.
For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sounds were the whisper of the television and the syncopated rhythm of your hearts slowing together. The couch was nothing but a mess of discarded clothes and tangled limbs, but at that moment, it felt like the most sacred of places.
Slowly, he lifted himself carefully off you, the loss of his warmth and weight made you shiver. But he didn’t go far. He gathered you into his arms, shifting both of you so you were lying side-by-side on the couch, your back curled against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you. He pulled the soft throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over both of you.
He nuzzled into your hair, his lips brushing your ear. “I love you.” he whispered, the words simple, final, and carrying the weight of the entire universe.
You covered his hands with yours, lacing your fingers together over your stomach.
“You’re thinking again.” you murmured, not even opening your eyes. A soft huff of breath left him, almost a laugh.
“That obvious?”
“Always.” There was no bite to your reply. Just familiarity. You shifted slightly, pressing back into him more fully, your head tilting just enough to brush your lips against his jaw. “I’m here.” you added quietly, making his hold on you tighten, just for a second.
“I know,” he said, though it came out rougher than he intended. But you felt the truth in it. He did know. He just… needed to keep knowing. You turned in his arms until you were facing him properly. Your hand came up, resting over his heart which was still beating a little too fast.
“You don’t have to compete with anyone,” you said softly, your eyes searching his. “Not him. Not anyone. There’s no comparison to make.” His gaze flickered, like the instinct to argue was there, but he didn’t even open his mouth. “I’ve seen what’s out there, Leon.” you continued, your voice gentle but unwavering. “I chose you anyway. Not because you’re safe, or easy, or convenient…” Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “But because you’re you.”
You saw that it meant something to him in the way his expression shifted, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.
“You’re the one I come home to, or…with.” you added, quieter now. “The one I think about when things get bad. The one I want beside me when things are good.” A small, almost shy smile touched your lips. “You’re it for me.” And for a moment, he just looked at you.
Like he was trying to memorize every word, every expression, every piece of you that was offering him something he still didn’t fully believe he deserved. Then his hand came up, covering yours where it rested over his heart, pressing it more firmly there.
“Yeah?” he asked, softer now.
“Yeah.” You didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. He stayed close, eyes still half shut like he didn’t quite want to come back from the moment. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slowly, as something in him finally settled.
Summary: The first thing you do after finally being cured from the virus is fall asleep in the car.
Your husband, Leon, keeps stealing glances at you while he drives. The streetlights pass slowly over your face and his jacket is draped around your shoulders.
He is glad your still with him.
Note: For my own sanity, I seriously need more fluffy RE9 Leon content. SOS.
Words: 2001
To call this day beyond shitty was an understatement.
Not only did you have to fight against another kind of fucked-up Wesker clone, because apparently the world would never be free of that man’s shadow. That wasn’t even the worst part. No. As if that wasn’t enough, you also had to endure another day in Raccoon City.
Raccoon City.
The one place you had promised yourself you would never come back to. The ruins still felt haunted, even in daylight. Every street corner carried memories you didn’t want to unpack.
But in the end, you came back for your husband Leon.
You came back because somewhere in this decaying graveyard of a city was a lead. A file. A sample. Something that might help you find a cure for the virus slowly eating you and him away. And if there was even the smallest chance, you were going to take it.
And now you were here with your husband. Both of you fighting, coughing up blood, dizzy and barely steady on your feet but it was all worth it.
You had finally found the cure. Because of Grace.
For the first time in what felt like forever you felt amazing. The fear that had followed you for months, maybe longer, wasn’t suffocating you anymore.
You were sitting among the ruins where you had just fought Victor until his last breath. Dust still lingered in the air, mixing with the metallic scent of blood.
Your body screamed exhaustion at you from every direction. Every muscle ached. Your lungs burned. Even breathing felt like work.
You just wanted to sleep. You had enough.
“I’m so done,” you finally let out, closing your eyes for a second – just a second – as if that alone might make the world stop spinning.
He notices before you fall over.
He kneels in front of you.
“Hey. Don’t close your eyes on me like that.” His tone is worried.
“I’m just resting my eyes a little.”
He huffs quietly. “Yeah? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
He brushes dust off your shoulder, checking your pulse in the process. Just to make sure.
You catch his hand with yours, slowly opening your eyes to look at him. Gently, you press his hand against your cheek, leaning into the warmth of his skin.
“Leon–” You pause, your voice trembling from exhaustion. “I’m so happy we made it. I thought… I really thought I was going to lose you.”
Leon looks at your exhausted frame.
“You almost did.”
It’s the truth.
You nearly watched your husband. The love of your life, die right in front of you.
“But you didn’t,” he continues, softer now. “I’m still with you.”
You smile faintly at that and let your eyes close again, just for a second.
“Doesn’t mean you get to pass out in a biohazard zone,” he adds, though there’s no real bite behind it.
“Yes, sir.” You gave him a tired grin.
With a sigh, he picked you up in his arms and held you there while you waited for rescue. His grip was steady despite his own exhaustion, like putting you down simply wasn’t an option.
A few steps away, Grace watched the two of you interact. As if she were witnessing something fragile in the middle of everything.
“Well,” she muttered, glancing at the ruined building behind you, “next time someone says ‘routine investigation,’ I’m transferring departments.”
You huffed a weak laugh against Leon’s shoulder.
Leon shook his head slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “That’s not comforting.”
In the distance, the low hum of approaching rotors cut through the night air.
Rescue.
Grace looked toward the sound first. A rope dropped from above, and a soldier descended swiftly from the helicopter.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy?” he called out as his boots hit the ground.
When you woke once more, it was time for the medics to check you over — to make sure there were no wounds or anything more serious. You let the procedure happen without protest. All you wanted was to go home and finally take the rest you’d been dreaming of.
When they finally let you go, you were relieved. You said goodbye to Grace, who was sitting right next to you. Leon spoke his final words to her as well before lifting you from the open back of the ambulance.
You didn’t resist. You didn’t want to fight it anymore.
All that mattered was that he was here with you, and that you were finally safe… finally free from the virus.
When you finally reached his car, he opened the passenger door and carefully helped you down into the seat. One hand steady at your waist to make sure you don’t get hurt.
You let yourself sink into the leather with a long, heavy sigh. Every muscle in your body relaxed at once. The exhaustion finally catching up now that the danger had passed.
Leon moved around to the driver’s side and slid in beside you. For a moment, he just sat there with both hands resting on the steering wheel. You watched him quietly.
His eyes were rimmed with fatigue, faint shadows beneath them. His posture was straight out of habit rather than strength. Shoulders tight like he was still waiting for something else to go wrong.
“You’re getting old, darling,” you muttered softly in his direction. A tired smile tugging at your lips.
He let out a quiet huff – not quite a laugh.
“Yeah?” he replied, starting the engine. His voice sounded tired. “Pretty sure I just carried you out of there.”
He glanced at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting just slightly.
“Don’t think I’m the one we should be worried about.”
But there was no real bite in his tone. Only relief.
His hand lingered near yours on the console, close enough to touch – just in case.
You roll your eyes faintly at his reply. Too tired to argue properly.
“Mm. Still old,” you murmur while shifting in your seat to get comfortable. “I saw you wince when you lifted me.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
He snorts under his breath, pulling the car onto the road. “That was tactical strain management.”
“Sounds old.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
You smile to yourself, watching the passing streetlights blur across the windshield. The ruins of Raccoon City fade slowly behind you, swallowed by darkness and distance.
“You know,” you mumble again, your words beginning to drag slightly, “when we get home… you’re making tea. And I’m not moving for at least a week.”
“Tea?” he replies. “After everything we just—”
But when he glances over to finish the sentence, he stops.
Your head has tipped toward the window.
Your eyes are closed.
Your breathing has evened out.
Mid-talk. Just like that.
Leon exhales slowly through his nose, something between a sigh and a quiet laugh.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he mutters softly.
:::::::
When you reached the city you still where deep asleep. At the next red light, the car comes to a gentle stop. The glow washes over your face in red and gold, and he looks at you once more.
Just looks.
There’s dried blood near your hairline. A faint crease between your brows even in sleep.
He reaches over without thinking and turns the heat down slightly. The air was too warm – you always get overheated when you’re exhausted.
When the light turns green, he accelerates slowly. Carefully. Every bump in the road, he eases over it. Every pothole, he swerves around. The last thing he wants is to wake you.
Another red light.
Another glance.
This time longer.
He shrugs off his jacket with one hand while the car is stopped, movements slow. Leaning across the console, he drapes it gently over your shoulders. You stir faintly but don’t wake up.
His fingers linger for a second near your collarbone before he pulls away.
A siren wails somewhere in the distance.
Instantly, his posture shifts. His hand twitches toward the gun at his side. His eyes scan the mirrors, the dark sidewalks, the empty intersections.
But then you shift in your sleep.
Your head tilts slightly toward him instead of the window.
And just like that, his shoulders ease.
His hand leaves the weapon and instead settles over yours on the console.
Your fingers move instinctively, curling weakly against his. You don’t wake up.
You don’t have to. He swallows, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
He’s faced bioweapons that could level cities. Faced monsters that wore human faces. Faced death more times than he can count.
But this?
This scares him more. Because you’re soft. You’re warm and you’re his.
And you’re something he could lose. The light turns green again. He drives.
Slower than usual. When you finally reach the quiet stretch of highway, the city nothing more than a shadow in the rearview mirror, he glances over one more time.
Your breathing is steady.
Peaceful.
He doesn’t wake you when he pulls into the driveway.
He turns the engine off. The world goes quiet.
And for a long moment, he just sits there – watching your chest rise and fall. Peacefully.
Leon watches you for a moment longer, memorizing the slow rise and fall of your chest. The way his jacket has slipped slightly down one shoulder.
He reaches over and adjusts it. Fingers brushing your skin.
“Always said you weren’t tired,” he murmurs under his breath.
He steps out first, moving around the car quietly. The night air is cool, calmer than the city ever was. When he opens your door, he does it slowly.
He leans in.
One arm slides behind your back. The other beneath your knees.
He lifts you carefully, like he’s done a hundred times before – except this time there’s no urgency or bioweapons.
Just you.
Your head falls against his shoulder instantly, body molding into his without resistance. Your hand grips weakly at the fabric of his shirt even in sleep.
His chest tightens.
He nudges the car door shut with his foot and walks toward the house. Even exhausted, he carries you like you weigh nothing.
At the door, he pauses just long enough to adjust his hold.
You mumble something incoherent against his collarbone.
He freezes.
“…I’m here,” he whispers immediately, before you can even wake fully.
Your grip relaxes again.
Inside, the house is dark and quiet. Safe. He moves through it carefully, not bothering with the lights. He knows the layout by memory.
When he reaches the bedroom, he lowers you onto the bed. One hand stays behind your back until you’re fully settled against the mattress.
You turning slightly toward him. He crouches beside the bed for a moment instead of standing up.
Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.
His lips move down to your hairline, then finally to your cheek. A second kiss.
“You scared me,” he murmurs quietly, more confession than accusation.
You shift toward him, like your body knows he’s there. He exhales through his nose, resting his forehead briefly against yours.
He’s faced monsters without blinking.
But this – this soft, sleeping version of you – makes his hands tremble just a little.
After a moment, he carefully removes his jacket from your shoulders. He puts a blanket over you instead and brushes his thumb once more across your cheek.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers.
And for the first time in a long time he finally was home.
IM BEGGING FOR A TOUCH-STARVED SOFT LEON (RE9) WITH A YOUNGER READER PLEASEEEE LET THIS MAN BE SOFT AND SPOILED AND HAPPYYYY
Just A Touch Of Your Love
(RE9 Leon Kennedy x Wife!Reader)
A/N: Hey, thank you so much for your request! Yes to soft and happy Leon! Your begging has been heard and answered, and I hope this is what you had in mind hehe. I tried to make it as soft as possible. Enjoy! Much Love, Shell xo
Warnings: Age Gap (Reader in her 30s, Leon around 50) only Fluff!
Summary: Leon is touch-starved. Of course, he would never show this in public, but as soon as the two of you are alone, he can't help but crave your touch.
You and Leon were at a party at Chris’s house. He had invited you over, along with other friends and colleagues, for a few drinks, food, and a little chit chat.
For over four years now, you’ve been together with him, two of them being married, and his friends have immediately welcomed you into their group. You had been nervous at first, since you were a few years younger than all of them, but your worries had been unfounded.
Leon always told you that you were keeping him young and alive. Not only because of the age difference, but because you always managed to make him smile with one of your jokes or by simply beaming at him.
My Sunshine was one of his favorite nicknames for you, and that seemed to be true. Whenever he returned home from a mission and saw you lying in your shared bed, tired because it was way too late, but with a soft smile playing on your lips, he knew that life was worth living.
Currently, you were both sitting on the couch, drinks in hand, listening to the others' stories and jokes. It was honestly just a really nice and relaxing evening, without having to worry about any mission or other life-threatening events that were usually interrupting your peace.
Still, you sensed that Leon couldn't fully relax. His shoulders were tense, his jaw slightly clenched, and whenever he smiled, it was that kind of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. You knew him well enough to notice that this man was still stressed. No surprise, given the workload he carried.
When no one was looking, you gently reached out to him, caressing his neck and occasionally playing with his soft hair. You knew how much he liked it when you touched him so gently and carefully. His shoulders relaxed slightly, falling into the featherlight brushes from your hand.
With a satisfied smile, he locked eyes with you, a quiet thank you coming from his lips that only you could hear. You felt warmth spread through your body when he looked at you that way.
„Oh, look who is getting soft.“ You could hear the teasing voice of Chris, who had turned his attention to you and Leon, wiggling his eyebrows.
Leon sat up a little straighter, almost as if he was trying to rebuild the armor that he always wore in social settings.
He rolled his eyes playfully at his friend's words. „Are you jealous, Redfield?“ he shot back.
„Not really. Just wondering when you’re gonna start purring like a cat,“ Chris laughed, taking another sip of his beer before turning his attention to you. „Is he doing that sometimes? Purring like a cat?“ he asked teasingly.
„I guess you’ll never find out,“ you said, winking at Chris. Immediately, a murmur went through the crowd, followed by laughter coming from various people.
You grinned quietly to yourself, not wanting to expose Leon to his friends like this. Still, Chris’s accusation wasn’t that far from the truth. Whenever you two were alone, Leon couldn’t keep his hands to himself, always finding excuses to touch you.
Whether it was just a quick hug, a kiss to your forehead, or just holding your hand for a while. He enjoyed it even more when you took the first step by cuddling him or massaging his temples whenever he was brooding too much.
After the little banter between Leon and Chris was done, you both decided to head home. It was getting late, and you both were exhausted from the previous week.
„It was a fun evening,“ you said once you got into the car, putting on your seatbelt.
„Yeah it was,“ Leon hummed, somewhat absentmindedly as he drove off. He still looked tense. His grip on the steering wheel was a little too tight, his gaze fixed intently on the road ahead.
“You look so tense,” you remarked cautiously.
“Hm?” he said questioningly, glancing briefly at you. “I’m just tired,” he added with a slight smile and looked straight ahead again.
His free hand reached over and took yours, his thumb stroking soothingly over the back of your hand.
You smiled and squeezed his hand a little tighter.
“I was worried Chris’s jokes had gotten to you,” you chuckled.
He laughed softly and shook his head. “Trust me, it takes a little more than a soldier with bad jokes”
He looked over at you again. “Besides, I know he’s just jealous,” he grinned, pulling your hand toward him to gently kiss it. “Because he knows I hit the jackpot with you.”
„You’re so cheesy,“ you teased, though clearly enjoying his compliments.
„And yet you love me,“ he winked at you before looking back on the road again.
„I do“ You laughed shyly and snuggled closer into his jacket, which he’d draped over your shoulders before the drive.
When you got back home, Leon was immediately behind you, helping you out of the jacket and sneaking his arms around you. He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. You giggled when you felt his stubble ghosting over the softness of your skin.
„You smell so good, Baby. Like coming home. Literally,“ he muttered, inhalting your scent once more.
You sighed as you eased into his embrace, letting your head fall back against his broad chest.
„I love it when you’re like this,“ you whispered.
„Like what?“ he mumbled, his voice muffled as he kissed the top of your head.
„So…..touch-starved,“ you said with a small smile.
„What?“
„Touch-starved,“ you repeated, looking up at his confused face.
„Is that one of those new words I don’t know? Did you get that from one of these social media sites you’re always scrolling through?“ he asked, his brows furrowed.
You laughed. „No, this is a normal word, Leon. You are just hungry for physical touch and I love that. I love how soft and needy you get. Really,“ you explained, caressing his arms that were still wrapped around you.
He continued to hold you close, burying his face in your neck once again. „Well if it means that I can’t get enough of you and want to hold you close forever. Then yes, I guess I am,“ he grinned, now placing a few kisses on your skin.
„That’s exactly what it means,“ you sighed contently, closing your eyes and simply enjoying the intimate moment you both shared. It was not sexual, not charged, it was just holding each other, relishing the closeness.
"You know what I love?," he whispered into your ear.
"Hm?" you asked.
"You. I love you," he said with a small smile playing on his lips.
"I love you too Leon," you whispered back.
After a while of him just holding you, you eventually went to your shared bedroom. While you were still busy in the bathroom, taking off your make-up and brushing your teeth, Leon was already in bed. He was looking through some of his messages that still needed to be answered, his reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.
„Weren’t you the one who scolded me for being on my phone so late? I think you even told me it’s not good for my eyes or something,“ you grinned as you quickly slipped under the soft covers.
„Well, this is work related. I’m not watching cute puppy videos until late into the night,“ he answered smugly, watching you over the top of his glasses. He looked like a professor scolding you for being late to his lecture. And yeah, maybe you kind of liked that look on him.
„Hey, last time I watched them without you, you complained because you wanted to see them too. Because – again- you were being soft,“ you smiled.
He rolled his eyes playfully, taking off his glasses and putting it on the nightstand table, along with his phone.
„Alright, alright. I guess the texts can wait,“ he admitted.
„Very well,“ you smiled triumphantly, cuddling yourself into the covers. He watched you for a moment with a loving gaze, before gently extending his arm.
„C’mere,“ he muttered, gesturing with his head toward his chest. You immediately moved closer to him, putting your head on his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat.
„This is a much better evening program anyway,“ he mumbled, pulling you a littler closer.
One of your legs was draped over his, your arms wrapped around each other as if neither of you wanted to let go of each other ever again.
„Was it only this? That you were touch-starved? Or is it something else? Because you really seemed deep in thought earlier,“ you asked softly, searching for his eyes.
He sighed, kissing your temple before answering.
„I have to leave again next week. And I….I feel like with every mission, I just miss you more and more,“ he admitted, laughing half-heartedly. „Maybe it’s the age. I’m getting sentimental“
You felt a little sting in your heart, remembering the fact that he was leaving you so soon again. When would you ever get used to that?
„It’s not the age. Because I feel the same way,“ you said honestly. „And I’m younger than you,“ you added with a smirk.
He tickled you a little, causing you to fall on your back again. He slowly he leaned himself above you, watching you intently.
„Thanks for the reminder, sweetheart,“ he said sarcastically before he fully leaned down to kiss you.
„Or maybe Chris was right,“ he muttered between kisses. „I am really getting soft“
You grinned, wrapping your arms around his torso, ready to fire back another cheeky remark but he beat you to it.
„Enough talking. Let me just kiss you, god damn,“ he mumbled as your lips melted against each other, soft and tender, and yet so intense that it sent butterflies to your stomach.
One thing was clear. No matter what the reason was, you loved this man. With all your heart and with everything you had. Unconditionally.
Final Note: I hope you enjoyed it! As always, feedback is very much appreciated and means the world to me! No matter if its comments, likes, reblogs. I appreciate the support so much. 💗
My Leon Kennedy masterlist can be found: here
If you want to be tagged in future stories, feel free to reach out to me here or in the comments
Also: if you want to, you can always slide in my inbox and have a chat with me 🫶🏻
You and older!Leon tangled up in bed together, naked and wrapped in that post-intimacy warmth. Now you lay on his chest as you trace the hard lines of his face with a gentle touch. There’s something in his eyes… the way they reflect the light looks heavier than usual. Your fingertips slip to the edges of his jaw.
“What is it?” Your words are almost a whisper as you reach out to feel what he’s feeling.
He doesn’t look up from where his calloused fingers are fondling your elbows and the soft skin of your arms. Not at first.
“You’re beautiful.”
A soft smile tugs at your features, quickly dampened by the melancholy creasing his face a touch more prominently.
“Why do you say it like that?”
He looks up at you finally, head reclining against the pillows as he regards you through a half lidded gaze.
“Because look at you.” His hand reaches out to touch your face, fingers slipping beneath the tendrils of loose hair to touch your soft skin. His intense eyes flicker over your beloved features. Then he loosens, and his fingers slip away.
“And look at me.” The cadence of his words fall off into self reproach, which sounds more like resignation to the fact that he’s aged. His skin is rough and scarred, his eyes are dark and tired. But that’s not how you see him.
Your cool fingers come to cup his face.
“I am looking at you,” you murmur, leaning in. “I’m always looking at you.”
His rough hand wraps gently around your upper arm as you bend down to softly kiss his lips. A tender, faint smile tugs at them when you pull away. His eyes remain closed for a sweet moment longer. You bring your lips to his ear.
“And I adore what I see.”
He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his arms. You settle in comfortably against his chest as he presses his face to your hair and stares at the ceiling for several beats. Finally, a kiss finds its way to your temple, and you can hear him softly breath you in.
“You make me want to lay you out under me all over again.”
You smile, and hide your pink cheeks against his neck. He looks down and your eyes meet. His thumb brushes your cheek.
“If it wasn’t so hard on my back.”
You slap his chest and laugh quietly. “Oh stop it.”
He pulls you close again and the two of you lie there for several long, sweet minutes, enjoying each other’s warmth. His lips brush your hair again, and then his voice is at your ear.
“Hey.” His nose brushes the shell, and your shoulders tense lightly with a shiver. “Stay with me, yeah?”
“Forever and ever?”
“Mm. Forever and ever.”
──────────────────────
This may or may not have been inspired by the re9 Leon reveal I NEED HIM SO BAD MY SHAYLA he looks so good but I know that man is tired 😭💛
i will never understand the Zoro‑over‑Sanji crowd. like what are you seeing that i’m not. like… genuinely. be serious. we’re talking about SANJI. choosing Zoro over him is wild behavior.
(english is Not my First Langues, so i'm sorry If i make Mistakes)
I think the Look is nothing we can Talk about, everyone has a different typ and that's fine. (Beckman is the sexiest Anime Charakter EVER!!!)
I dont Like Anime Sanji because of His weird Pervert Charakter. I know he's a little Bit Different in the Manga and I Love that the Live-Action Change him a little Bit. I Just thinks he's weird and as a girldlfriend...i dont know if i could Trust him.
What I Love about Zoro and why I would ALWAYS choose him over Sanji is His Loyalty. Loyalty is my top Prio in every Relationship and Zoro is the King of Loyalty. From the beginning He is there For Luffy and His Crew. Luffy never watch His Back when zoro ist around because He knows Zoro is there and will never fail. Zoro will never betray Luffy Like allOthers...I know they all had a reason but...no! Everytime Luffy say "Zoro is taking Care of it" and He never have to worry about it.
No, Zoro would never do to Luffy what Sanji did because of His Family. NEVER!
For me, Zoro wins over Sanji because of His Loyalty.
summary: A glimpse into a casual, soft afternoon of Ari and Cherie.
warnings: None. Fluff. Established relationship. D/s dynamic.
word count: 1k
Author's Note: As you know, I've been in mood for soft and sweet recently, and the muse strayed toward these two. Pure fluff, but with a hint of teasing typical for them 🤭
Heart of Ruby Masterlist
Ruby Garden Masterlist
Ari closed the door behind him with a soft click. Enchanting tunes welcomed him, spilling from the speakers and making for a vibe of a sultry, sticky summer day. A smile instantly tugged at the corners of his lips as he thought of you singing badly along a few lines, like you often did whenever the mood to listen to music struck you.
He toed off his boots and walked further into the apartment. While he expected to see you sway to the music, the sight you presented wasn’t uncommon either.
You were stretched on the floor, in the rectangle of bright sunlight. Like a kitten taking a nap. A sprinkling of rainbow spots twirled around the living room and across your body - from the few suncatchers Ari got for you.
Clad in his t-shirt and a pair of pink shorts, you rested peacefully. Though your ankles were hooked one over the other, and your feet swayed to the beat of music. You weren’t singing. Just relaxing and soaking up the sun.
With a smile, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and simply watched you.
There was a time in his life when Ari got back to his apartment thinking there was nothing better than its quiet comfort and eclectic artistry paired with masculine simplicity. He’d cringe at the mere thought of hanging tacky crystals to catch sunlight, or adding a stack of red-rimmed, heart-patterned plates to the composition of his vintage, eggshell dinnerware.
He couldn’t imagine not having those parts of you scattered around the place now.
His days started brighter when he had to gently untangle from your limbs; when his gaze landed on a velvet chest overflowing with sparkling jewelry that stood on the dresser. On occasions, when he was dead tired, he mistook a bottle of your shower gel for his and then not only he smelled of oranges, but his skin also shined with extra glow.
There was also something extremely hot about your lingerie hanging on the upholstered chaises. Or the way your sparkling pink toenails looked as you padded barefoot across the creaking floors.
You tilted your head slightly and opened your eyes, looking right at him. You smiled. One of those softer, but happy, contented smiles. No jumping up to pounce on him, but still a wave of welcoming warmth.
When you closed your eyes and tilted your head back toward the sunlight, Ari moved from his spot. He walked across the room, floorboards creaking in that familiar manner. He could lie down next to you, but he opted for the sofa instead.
He had to place his ankles on the armrest to stretch fully. With one hand beneath his head and the other resting across his belly, Ari closed his eyes and let the sun caress his face.
Music continued, lulling him gently. In his mind, he imagined you on that floor, falling asleep and curling on your side. Once, you fell asleep with your cheek resting on his knee. You were kneeling between his legs while Ari stroked your head. It wasn’t even post a scene, just a casual evening with the tv on.
He was right on the edge of dozing off when a creaking floorboard alerted him of your movement. He didn’t open his eyes, just waited. Then your familiar scent and warmth were right there in his arms as you crawled on top of him.
Ari’s arm instantly wrapped around you, helping you settle, before his hand drifted a little lower to cup your ass. You made a little noise as you readjusted to comfortably squeeze your boobs against his chest.
Your lips sealed a soft kiss to his neck before you tucked your head beneath Ari’s chin.
Both of you rested in silence. Not out of exhaustion, simply because it felt so good to be this close and enjoy the moment. Until important issues made it to the front of your mind and grew in demand for attention.
“Ari, I’m hungry.”
He smiled, not opening his eyes.
“We still have soup from yesterday,” he murmured, “or do you want something else?”
There was a short pause and he knew you were seriously considering your stomach’s desires. After a moment, your body shifted.
“Can you make a burger bowl?” There was that tint of excitement in your voice which - though Ari tried to play stern and not reveal it to you too often - always made him want to give you whatever you wished for.
Finally, he opened his eyes. You were looking right at him, your head lifted up and inches above his.
“A burger bowl, huh?” He squeezed your ass. “Why not a classic burger and fries?”
“I don’t want buns.” You scrunched up your nose. “Just meat and fries, and veggies, oh and that sauce you make!”
“And the sauce? Wow.” Ari grinned and you rolled your eyes at his slightly mocking tone.
“Pleeease.” You pecked a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Pretty please-” another kiss on his cheek- “please-” you started kissing all over his face.
“Okay.” Ari’s blue eyes sparked in amusement and affection. “But I want a proper kiss first.”
You instantly licked your lips, your gaze falling to his mouth for a split of a second before shifting up.
“I don’t know.” You hummed, lowering your head an inch. “If I kiss you, it may actually postpone my food delivery.”
Ari’s hand on your ass clenched tighter. It took a lot of your willpower (or maybe your hunger was winning with the other need by a hair) to not roll your hips against him. Judging by the smirk slowly curving Ari’s mouth, he was very much aware of your struggle.
“Well, I could settle for a kiss afterwards,” he mused, “but you also have to drink two glasses of water.”
“One glass.” You narrowed your eyes, indignant with the hydrating police mode Ari instilled daily. You often tried reasoning with him that soda should be considered as hydrating, too. It was liquid, after all.
“Two.” Ari’s Dom tone didn’t take away from affectionate softness, but it was unmistakable.
“Fine. But only because I really want that burger bowl.” You grumbled with a pout.
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream it’s because you want to be a good girl for your caring Dom.” Ari snorted, giving your ass a spank.
“Never.” You grinned.
And, because you couldn’t help yourself, you dropped a short kiss to his lips.
a short series featuring Andy Barber as a soft dark mafia boss who set his sights on you and never plans to let you go
While Andy Barber was well-known in Boston, there are whispers of a darker side, but few know the depths of his darker side. He's successful, he's charming, he's generous, and you're about to find out just how dangerous he can be.
Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings]
DUBIOUS CONSENT, extortion, explicit smut (see individual parts for detailed warnings), power plays, manipulation, financial spoiling, forced marriage
COLLECTION:
I'm Your Man [3k]
Morning Radiance [750]
Prepare for Takeoff [1.5k]
Don't Look Too Far [6.4k]
Burned Off the Haze [4.5k]
Cracking Locks [5k]
Dangerous Desires [6.3k]
Only Your Actions Talk [5.9k]
By the End of the Night [6.2k]
ANDY'S POV You Should Know [800]
Currents Sweeping Through [3.8k]
Different Things [3.9k]
ask: a moment on your honeymoon [350]
Make Her Glow [1k]
EXTRAS:
↠ will Andy let the reader work?
↠ what if Andy were forced into marriage with the reader?
↠ what if sweetheart tried to get rid of her engagement ring?
↠ does Andy have ulterior motives?
↠ did Andy pick you to be the mother of his children/did he watch you before?
I think my Boy Chris from Destroyer dosn't get enough Love on Tumblr, so If you feel Like it, it would be nice ❤️ and Naughty 😈
P.s. I Love you and your fics ❤️
✨✨✨
The party at the clubhouse is in full blow, half of the men are already pretty drunk and busy with eager mouths and pussies, so it's no surprise no one noticed an uninvited person slipping in.
No one would ever even think to keep watch out for him, because no one in their right mind would dare to cross into an enemy's territory.
But he dared.
You didn't even manage to peep a squeak, or to make any sort of ruckus, he was on you so fast. Hand on your mouth for a split of a second, before he cinched your lips shut with a stripe of duct tape.
He bound your wrists behind your back, tightening a zip-tie around them.
When he turned you around, pressing your hips into the edge of your vanity, you were met with your own fear-blown eyes in the mirror's reflection. And the cold blue of Chris' dark gaze.
He rolled your dress up slowly, smirking at the panic rising in your eyes. He mapped your pussy with dedicated fingers, sneaky and skillful in the same way he breached the clubhouse. Your cunt stretched around his gloved digits without much resistance.
The jangle of his belt buckle mixed with his pleased grunt as he finally released his cock and tapped it against your ass.
"Big decisions await you, princess." He rasps against your ear, guiding his cock between your thighs. "You can come with me right after I fill this pussy with my cum. Or you can stay and tell your brother how you came all over my dick like a pretty little whore-"
duct tape muffles your moan when he pushes into you
"Or-" Chris groans, sliding deeper- "you can tell them in a few weeks, when your belly starts growing."
Summary: You like to trace and kiss the scars that mark Leon’s body, wanting to know and love every part of him.
The first time you ask about his scars, he goes quiet.
You are lying beside him in bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
Your fingers trace lightly over the pale lines across his shoulder, down his arm, over his ribs.
“You’ve got so many,” you murmur gently.
Leon exhales through his nose.
“Comes with the job.”
You hum softly, not satisfied with that answer, but not pushing either.
Your fingertips follow one thin line along his collarbone. Then another across his side. You treat them carefully, like they might bruise under too much pressure.
“You don’t have to tell me how you got them. I just… want to know them.”
He looks at you then.
There is something unguarded in his expression. Something uncertain.
“You want to know my scars?” he asks quietly.
“I want to know everything about you.”
That does something to him.
He moves slightly onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Giving you access. Trusting you with it.
You press a soft kiss to the first scar you find.
Right on his shoulder.
He stiffens for half a second.
Then relaxes.
“What was that one?” you whisper.
“Knife,” he replies simply.
You nod and kiss it again.
“Okay.”
Your lips move lower. Another pale line near his ribs.
“And that one?”
“Shrapnel.”
You press your mouth to it, slow and deliberate.
“Okay.”
He watches you now instead of the ceiling.
You do not look afraid. You do not look overwhelmed.
You look… tender.
When you reach a thicker scar across his lower abdomen, your fingers pause.
“This one,” you say softly.
His jaw tightens.
“That one’s mine.”
You glance up at him.
“They’re all yours.”
He shakes his head faintly.
“No. That one… that one I messed up. Bad call. Bad timing.”
There it is. The guilt he carries like an extra layer of skin.
You lean down and kiss that scar the longest.
Slow.
Intentional.
Like you are erasing something.
“I love you and I love them,” you whisper against his skin.
His hand comes to your waist immediately. Firm. Grounding.
“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly.
“I love that you survived, I love that you’re still here.”
His throat moves as he swallows.
You move higher, pressing another kiss over a faint mark near his heart.
“And I love this one most.”
He lets out a soft, almost breathless laugh.
“That one’s barely there.”
“I know. Still counts.”
Your lips brush over it.
He closed his eyes.
Leon does not talk about what he has been through. He does not lay it out like a story for sympathy. He does not want you picturing it.
But he lets you see it.
He lets you touch it.
When you finish your exploration, you rest your cheek against his chest.
“I love you,” you say, simple and steady.
Silence.
You feel his hand slide up your back. Feel his fingers thread into your hair. He tilts your head up gently.
He does not answer with words.
He kisses you.
Slow. Deep. And full of emotion.
His other arm wraps around you and pulls you fully on top of him. Like he needs the weight of you there to keep him anchored.
When he pulls back, his thumb traces over your jaw.
"I love you."
His voice is so low, you barely hear him. He presses one final kiss to your lips. Then another to your temple. Then one to the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse.
You understand.
He will never love loudly.
But he loves fully.
And every scar on his body tells the story of how hard he fought to still be here with you.
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