mads @ghoulbli - Tumblr Blog

the sound a body makes when it's still

interlude: as soon as you're gone

leon kennedy x doctor!reader

Author's Note: thank you guys so much for the love on the first chapter of this series, it means so much that y'all are enjoying it! next chapter will likely be out in two weeks so stay tuned :))

Summary: Leon doesn't have a mind to celebrate, unless it's with you.

Word Count: 8.5k

Content: 18+, smut, takes place between re2 & re4, doctor!reader, angst and fluff and more angst but there's also more fluff, mentions of past trauma, jealous!leon, undefined relationships, leon is a yearner but also incredibly stupid at feelings, oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v sex, leon whimpering and a lil subby but only a lil, no use of y/n

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April 14th, 2000

Standing in the hall, Leon can hear the music from inside the apartment, your tone-deaf singing carrying just a bit louder. He's amazed that none of your neighbors have filed a noise complaint yet. His mind tries to conjure the image of you dancing as you sing along—he's caught you a few times, shimmying in the kitchen when you're preparing a snack or bopping to the beat as you sit on the couch, engrossed in medical journals.

He wonders how you dance when no one is watching.

Exhaling an amused snort through his nose, he stares down at the key held between his fingers with the little Furby keychain you attached to it, its wide, unblinking eyes looking back up at him as if taunting him.

"It's so creepy," he told you as you handed him the key.

You laughed, the corners of your eyes crinkling with mischief. "Yup," you confirmed with a hard pop on the 'p'.

Still holding the key, he raises a hand and gives three firm knocks on the door, loud enough that he's positive you'll be able to catch it over your music—and your bad singing.

"It's the way you lo—" He hears you stop mid-song, and the volume of your radio drops before hurried footsteps approach the door. When it's flung open, he sees you standing there; your hair is in a haphazard bun, but you're wearing your scrubs, your badge still clipped to the pocket.

You must have just gotten off work.

There's a hollowness under your eyes, the result of too many doubles and far too many sleepless nights. You waved off his concerns when he brought them up, claiming that being sleep-deprived just comes with the territory, which didn't ease his worries any. Pursing your lips, glance down at his hand, where he's holding the key, then reach out and grab him by the wrist, holding it up to his face. "I gave you a key for a reason, dingus."

He shrugs halfheartedly, and even though you narrow your gaze at him, you still step aside to let him in, watching as he takes off his shoes and sets them next to yours at the entrance. He can't tell you how you still make him nervous, how the thought of walking into your apartment unannounced gives him heart palpitations—even the simple intimacy of seeing your shoes sitting together sends an unspeakable feeling crawling up his throat.

"How's it feel to officially be done with your training?" you ask as you close the door. "Did Krauser cry?"

Leon rolls his eyes at the mention of his most… prolific instructor over the last two years. "Tears of joy, probably, if he can even feel such an emotion," he says sourly. "Apparently, they're going to be pairing us for missions for a while. He told me not to be dead weight and then just walked away."

You let out a bark of laughter as you turn your stereo down even more, though you keep humming along as you continue what you were doing before he knocked—tidying up, as if Leon cares at all if your apartment is a mess, which it never is. He watches as you fold the throw blanket that was in a bunch on the couch, and he imagines you curled up there watching TV last night.

"How was work?" he asks, lingering in your entryway. You make a face, giving him a side-eye that says everything he needs to know. "That bad, huh?"

"We have a new attending, and he's a fucking nightmare," you explain as you walk into your kitchen to stick your coffee cup from this morning into the dishwasher. "I was overseeing one of the med students doing a simple suture, and he walks in, takes one look at the stitches, and—right in front of the patient—goes, 'You suture like anatomy is a suggestion.' I thought the poor thing was going to cry."

Leon grimaces. "Yikes," he says. "At least you only have a few months left in your residency, right?" A sigh escapes you—it's forlorn, and his brows pinch together. "What's wrong?"

"They want me to pursue an infectious disease fellowship," you say as you come to a standstill, hands on your hips, a frown on your face.

He knows who 'they' are—STRATCOM—the same 'they' that he spent the last two years training under. A scowl of his own forms on his lips. "You love working in the E.R., though."

The look you give him is one of livid acceptance—your hands are, unfortunately, tied, and in the end, it does not matter what you want. Your service to your country would come first—they ensured your compliance after Raccoon City. "I'm more useful to them with that research under my belt than in the Emergency Department," you explain, pausing briefly. "I'm gonna go change, sit down, and stop standing near the door like a freak."

Leon suddenly becomes acutely aware that he's been loitering at the entrance to your apartment. As you disappear into your bedroom, he makes his way to the couch. He helped you haul it up four flights of stairs when you bought it—both of you too stubborn to ask anyone else for help, not that there was anyone else to ask. You just had each other. After you two finally got it into your apartment, you made Leon move it around the apartment several more times because of your indecision about where to place it, citing something about the living room's feng shui.

The TV is already on, playing reruns of The X-Files—every time you two watched the show together, you would argue about which of you is Scully.

"She's a medical doctor, obviously, I'm Scully," you disputed when he tried to lay claim to the fictional character.

"Yeah, but you believe in aliens," he retorted.

"So do you!" you said exasperatedly.

By the end of the back-and-forth, neither of you budged—a stalemate silently declared when you switched the channel to another TV show in a huff of indignation. Leon tried to hide his grin because he knew he was definitely Mulder—he just liked riling you up about it.

He plops onto the couch, his mind too busy to pay attention to the show as he glances around your apartment—it's pretty small, but certainly nicer than his, if only because you've taken the time over the last two years to make it into a home, while he only just got a box spring for his mattress a couple of months ago after you looked him dead in the eye and said, "A twenty-three-year-old man needs a box spring, Leon… and a headboard."

So now he has a box spring, a frame, and a headboard, all of which you helped him pick out. His cheeks burn at the memory of you dragging him to the furniture store and how domestic it had felt, as if you two were a normal couple—like you were a couple at all. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he sinks further into the couch, as if willing it to swallow him whole.

His gaze falls to the collection of photos you have hanging on the wall—the frames are mismatched, ones you picked up at a thrift store. Pictures of you and your brother from the holiday breaks he spends here, ones of you both with Sherry from your monthly visits, and a few of you together. They're all recent, from the last two years—you'd lost everything you owned in Raccoon City, except, of course, the picture of you and Jill that you'd found in the R.P.D.

It hangs on your wall now, and the picture still makes him smile—seeing how carefree and happy you'd been.

A month after you both were brought to D.C., you were settling into your new apartment after spending the better part of the last few weeks in a hotel. You'd started at the hospital only a week ago, and Leon was two weeks into his training—they'd barely given either of you time to recover from Raccoon City before throwing you to the wolves.

Sink or swim, they told you.

It was much more threadbare in here, with just two lawn chairs and a milk crate holding up your TV—you had only just gotten an actual bed to sleep in, and your refrigerator had two things in it—a half-empty six-pack of beer and leftover Chinese food you were living off of until you got your first paycheck.

You and Leon were sitting in the chairs, nursing the shitty, cheap beer, the beginnings of what would become your weekly lamentations about the state of your lives, when your phone rang. His eyes slid to you as yours stared at it with apprehension. Your brother was still at school until winter break the following week, and it wasn't your designated call time for Sherry. He could see the way anxiety coiled around you.

You were up in the next moment, hesitantly approaching the phone, and he followed after you—fearful and protective—leaning over your shoulder as you picked up the receiver and held it to your ear. "Hello?" you said.

"Hey," a female voice answered in a sigh, as if it were a relief to hear your voice. "You're a bit hard to track down now, did you know that?"

When he glanced down at you, he saw your brows rise in shock, and then he watched your lower lip quiver as realization dawned on you. "Jill?" you whispered into the phone, white-knuckle grip on it.

"Yeah," she confirmed, and he could hear the way her voice wobbled. "It's me."

Leon slid down the wall with you as you collapsed, his arms wrapped around you, holding you close as tears streaked down your face. "You're alive," you sobbed, your body shaking. As you covered your eyes with one hand, Leon pressed his lips to your temple.

"I'm alive," she repeated, voice hoarse like she was barely holding it together. "And, so are you."

She said it like a reminder—like she knew you needed it. He could feel you unraveling, the guilt you'd been carrying washing away with your tears. He stayed with you on the floor as you and Jill talked for hours, his cheek resting against the top of your head, taking in the lightness in your voice he hadn't heard before—another brief glimpse of who you used to be.

A person you would never be again.

The next time you spoke to her was the following month, to tell her Claire's whereabouts, after Leon received an e-mail from Claire about what was happening on Rockfort Island and Umbrella's surveillance on Chris. Jill called the next day to let you know that both Claire and Chris were all right, though they'd taken a short trip to Antarctica.

You and Leon had exchanged dumbfounded looks.

Jill has remained a steady part of your life since then—you would meet up with her every few months when she was stateside. With Chris, Jill has been trying to combat Umbrella across the globe, and they have recently been lobbying Congress to fund their efforts—or at least formally sanction their operation. Though Jill had told you they have no problem continuing their work without permission, "It's always easier to ask for forgiveness," she said.

In truth, Leon feels jealous of the freedom the two have—the leash that STRATCOM has kept him on, ever-present in his mind, especially now that his training has ended and his first mission looms on the horizon, only a few hours away. He runs his palms up and down his thighs, jaw clenching as he thinks about what tomorrow will bring—another change that will push him further from who he used to be.

When you emerge from your bedroom in comfortable lounge clothes—a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt—he straightens, eyes on the TV, nervous you'll see right through him. He juts his chin toward the plant on the end table, one he's sure wasn't there the last time he was here. "That new?" he asks.

"It's fake," you say as you pick up the remote and switch to a different channel, knowing full well that Leon isn't as engrossed in the show as he pretends to be, and maybe desperate to avoid the impending Scully or Mulder argument. As if sensing the words about to come out of his mouth, you quickly add, "The charge nurse gave it to me when I was complaining about how I kept killing plants."

"You know you could just remember to water them," he snorts.

You're about to retort with some smartass comment, no doubt on the tip of your tongue, when a knock on your door interrupts. "That's probably the food," you say before calling out, "One sec!" You snatch your purse off the coffee table, rummaging around until you come up with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

You pad over to the door and swing it open.

"Hey, Ian," you greet the delivery driver—by name, Leon notes. He resists the need to glance over, instead resting his cheek against his hand as he idly watches the new show you put on, pretending he's not eavesdropping.

"Hey, doc," the man replies. There's far too much familiarity in his tone, and Leon's gaze flicks toward the door, realizing he doesn't have a good angle from here. "How's your night going?"

You take the pizza box as he hands it to you, exchanging it for the cash in your hand, which he pockets when you tell him to keep the change. "Just got off work a bit ago," you reply, your tone polite but still friendly.

He tips his head back to get a better view and sees a lanky man leaning against your doorframe. He's smiling down at you; his interest is plain as day to any idiot with eyes. "No hot date?" His head tilts to the side as he asks playfully, inquiring, Leon realizes.

Leon feels his stomach roil, a foul feeling itching up his throat that he tries to swallow back down. It shouldn't surprise him that other people notice how pretty you are. There are moments when the light hits you just right, and it feels like he's been punched in the gut. He wonders if you know how breathless you leave him sometimes.

But even still, you're not his, he reminds himself.

After everything—surviving Raccoon City together and all that's come after; the late-night phone calls from nightmare-induced panic attacks, the hours upon hours spent together in this very apartment, the way his eyes have memorized the contours of your face and his hands the curves of your body.

You're still not his.

It's something he thinks about a lot. It's crossed his mind more times than he can count—to ask. He's done it before with high school girlfriends and with the girl he dated when he was in the academy, even though it feels like a lifetime ago now.

A part of him wants to feign ignorance, to pretend he doesn't know why he can't say something as simple as, "Will you be my girlfriend?" But he knows why it feels like a Sisyphean task.

He's never asked because if he did, it would give this feeling a name—a name he doesn't think he can say out loud, as if doing so would jinx it. Admitting everything would make the possibility of losing you even more real, and he's convinced himself he's far happier to stay in this maddening limbo than to risk losing you entirely.

"You're funny," you say with a snort, stepping back, one hand resting on the door while the other balances the pizza box. "No, just a movie night with my friend."

Like a knife straight to the heart. Friend, he thinks bitterly.

"Oh, you know," Ian starts, not as smooth as he thinks he is, and Leon narrows his eyes, not that the man could see him glowering from here. "I also like movies. Maybe one night you and I could go see one? A movie, that is."

You laugh, slowly closing your door, as if this isn't the first time the delivery boy has tried to ask you out. "Have a good night, Ian."

"You too, doc," he says, not at all deterred by your blatant dismissal, hands tucked into the front pockets of his hoodie as he steps back from the door, watching you until the very last second as you shut it, a dopey smile on his face.

When you turn back around, there's an amused smirk on your lips, but it drops when you see Leon staring at you. "What?" you ask cautiously.

"You on a first-name basis with the delivery boy?" he questions as you set the pizza box down on the coffee table in front of him. He tries to say it casually, quirking an eyebrow and resting an arm over the back of the couch.

He sees you toss him a sour expression over your shoulder as you head to the kitchen to grab plates. "I order from there like twice a week," you say, as if in defense of yourself. "They have really good pizza."

"You're a doctor," he says it like it's an accusation. "Aren't you supposed to be like super health-conscious?"

That makes you laugh. "Like you have room to talk, the most I've seen you do is microwave a cup of ramen," you reply with a roll of your eyes. "Do you want a beer?" you ask as you open the fridge.

"Yes," he answers, a frown on his face that definitely wouldn't be mistaken for a pout. After a beat, when he realizes how ridiculous he's being, he adds, "Please."

"So polite," you tease as you hand him the beer, then plop down on the couch as you both dig into the pizza, which is admittedly very good, though Leon only grunts a reply when you ask if he likes it.

Half an hour later, most of the pizza is gone, and you're both on your second beer. A scary movie that came out last year, which you both said you'd actually go to the theater to see but never did, plays on TV, though neither of you flinches at the jump scares. You make an idle comment, "If they had a shotgun, this movie would've been ten minutes long."

He almost chokes on his slice of pizza.

As you sit on the opposite side of the sofa, your feet are stretched out, barely touching Leon's thigh. He's far too aware of your presence, trying to resist the desire to reach out and touch you. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, switching the can of beer from one to the other, wiping the condensation gathering in his palm onto his jeans, and his leg bouncing all the while.

Like you can sense his nervous energy—or maybe just see how much his leg is shaking, you peek over. "You ready for dessert?" you ask.

His brows furrow. "Dessert?" he repeats. "There's dessert?"

A slow grin spreads on your face. "Of course there's dessert," you reply. "We're celebrating."

"I told you not to make a big deal about it," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

You roll your eyes as you move across the couch, closer to him, and sit on your knees. "Listen," you start, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, and he feels his skin warm under your touch. "We were dealt a pretty shitty hand with all of this—"

He goes to protest, to put on a brave front, but the words die in his throat as he recalls what Adam Benford said to him during his interrogation after Raccoon City. "To be clear, this isn't our first choice, but to ensure your compliance and discretion—" He slid two pictures across the table, one of Sherry and one of you, taken right after the three of you were hauled into unmarked vehicles and brought to a nondescript government facility in the Midwest. "—it would be in your best interest, and theirs, if you agree."

His gaze drops at the memory—one you don't know about, something he's never revealed to you. How could he? How awful would you feel if you knew you were used as leverage to get him to comply? Neither of you has been very willing to talk about those days following your escape from Raccoon City. Somehow, he doubts you ever will.

Your fingertips find his chin, angling it up for him to look at you. "—but you've worked really hard the last two years, and it's okay to celebrate these milestones… even if this isn't how you thought things were going to go." You pause, pursing your lips, and he sees the way your eyes get misty with tears. "We're still allowed to experience life, you know? They don't get to take that away."

He's quiet, softening under your touch—leaning into it—considering your words. As he breathes in, he stares at you, nodding. "Okay."

The corners of your lips twitch tentatively. "Okay?"

He reaches up, giving in to the urge to touch, grasping your wrist and pressing his lips to your palm. "Okay," he murmurs against your skin.

It's worth it to see the smile that lights up your face as you scramble up, but not before kissing the top of his head. "I worked really hard on it, so don't laugh, alright?" He watches as you walk into the kitchen, grabbing something from the fridge, but he can't see what from this angle. "Close your eyes," you instruct.

"Seriously?" he asks.

You pop around the corner, giving him a deadpan look. "Yes, Leon!"

He huffs out a laugh and closes his eyes. He can hear you rummaging around in your drawers, before the tch tch tch of a lighter. His brows raise with curiosity, but he resists the impulse to peek as you come back over, and he can feel the couch beside him dip down.

"Okay, open your eyes," you say.

When he does, you're sitting there holding a plate with a cake that is definitely lopsided—the frosting is a patchy baby pink, as if you didn't mix the food coloring in fully, and he can see crumbs mixed in, probably because you were impatient and didn't wait long enough for the cake to cool before decorating it.

It seems like you tried to cover up your poor frosting job with big, chunky rainbow sprinkles, and in bright red gel icing, you've written 'congrats leon' in barely legible cursive, complete with a crooked smiley face.

The cherry on top is the lit candles, which are starting to melt.

"It's not my birthday," he points out as his face dons a confused expression at the flickering flames.

Your eyes narrow, like you know he's baiting you. "Shut up and blow the candles out, Leon."

He tries to hide the smile spreading across his face. "Yes, ma'am," he says, about to blow them out, but you yank it away at the last second, sputtering a 'wait, wait, wait'. "What?" he asks.

"I have to get a picture for Sherry, hold on," you say as you shove the plate into his hands and dig through the drawer of your end table until you come out with a Polaroid camera. "Okay, say 'cheese!'"

"You're such a pain," he says through gritted teeth, grinning anyway.

You snap the picture, shaking the Polaroid as it comes out of the camera. Inspecting it as it starts to develop, and once you're sure you didn't catch him blinking, you gesture toward the cake. "Okay, blow them out now before wax gets on the cake," you say impatiently, as if you weren't holding this whole thing up.

"Probably would only make it more edible," he mutters, chuckling as you swat at him before blowing out the candles. "Happy?"

"Extremely," you muse as you take the plate from him to set it down on the coffee table. "Sherry picked out the flavor and color—it's strawberry, by the way."

Leon laughs. "Of course she did." He imagines that the little girl—well, teenager now—had given you specific instructions on the exact shade of pink to use for the cake and exactly how to decorate it. No doubt you did an abysmal job following her directions, and you would hear no end of it once she saw the picture.

It seems that isn't all you have planned, as you pluck a box from your bag and hold it out to him. It's nicely wrapped—like the kind of gift you get professionally wrapped at a fancy department store. "You didn't have to get me anything." When you gesture insistently for him to take it, he does, then carefully unwraps it, well aware of how eagerly you're watching.

It's a watch—similar to the one you wear every day.

"Now we match," you say with a grin as you hold up your own to show him. "It's solar-powered, so you don't have to worry about it dying or having to change the batteries, and you can set timers, and there's a compass, oh, and—"

"I love it," he murmurs gently.

"Yeah?" you ask quietly, brows lifting in relief as if you'd been nervous he wouldn't like it.

He sets the watch down and reaches out before he loses his nerve, grabbing you and pulling you into his lap. You let out a surprised noise, bracing your hands against his shoulders as he caresses the line of your jaw. "Yeah," he confirms, his gaze meeting yours and catching the way your eyes dip down to his lips for just a second.

His chest pools with the unnameable feeling, but he knows he would gladly drown in it. It sets his veins on fire as he nuzzles his nose against yours, angling his head to slot your mouths together. He kisses you like he's a prisoner and you're his last meal.

You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows it down readily, dragging you closer to him.

This isn't something that happens often.

The sex.

And maybe that's why your relationship is so… muddled.

Maybe it's why he doesn't know where you two stand with each other—why he's afraid to ask.

Or maybe it's just another excuse he can tell himself.

But when you're so pliant under his touch, like right now, he can forget—he can pretend that, irrefutably, you are his, especially when you whisper his name against his lips like a confession. Your fingers weave through the hair at the base of his neck, deepening the kiss as your tongue glides along his lower lip.

He is reminded of how you'd grinned, tugging at his hair after his first week of training. "Glad they didn't make you shave your head," you teased. "You'd look weird bald." He scowled, face flushed, and waved your hand away, even as your laughter sent a swirl of butterflies through his stomach. He didn't know then how that feeling would grow, how it would consume him.

It feels like he can't get close enough to you, even as your tongues brush and his fingertips dig into the plush flesh of your thighs—it's still not enough. His breath catches in his throat as you nip at his bottom lip, not enough to hurt, but enough to feel it, a tingle shooting straight down his spine.

He briefly wonders if you can feel how hard he is beneath you already. Then, as if sensing his thoughts, you shift—he might even mistake it for you just readjusting, if not for the way you smile against his lips as he groans, canting his hips up against you.

Then you do it again, none too conspicuously, and his vision erupts with white dots as he moans your name. He can feel the heat of you through your shorts, and his fingers itch to dip beneath the waistband of them to discover how wet he hopes you are.

But then you pull away, breathless, face flushed, eyes half-lidded, and you can't help but lean in once more for a quick peck. "You want your other present?" you ask, fingers knotting into the fabric of his shirt.

His brows furrow, his mind still hazy from the kiss. "What?" There's a mischievous glint in your eye as you slide off his lap, though he holds on to you until the very last second, watching with a slack jaw as you nestle between his legs. Heat spreads across his face, up to his ears, as he stares down at you. "You—" His voice cracks, pitching up, and he coughs. "You don't have to—"

You unfasten his belt and look up at him just before you undo his pants. "Feel free to stop me anytime," you say as you pop the button open. You pause, your eyebrows raised as if waiting for him to tell you to stop. When he opens his mouth and nothing comes out, you grin.

He's white-knuckle gripping the arm of the couch with one hand, his other hovering just at the side of your head like he doesn't know what to do with it. He shudders as you wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it up and down a few times when you pull it out, as if he wasn't already rock hard from just a bit of kissing.

"So," you murmur as you bend down like you're about to take him into your mouth, but stop just shy, glancing up at him from beneath your lashes. "Do you want me to stop?"

He's shaking his head back and forth, stuttering out his answer in a desperate plea. "No, no, please don't stop."

You maintain unwavering eye contact as you stick your tongue out, pink and glistening, swiping it all the way from the base of his cock to the tip in one languid motion that makes him pant, hand instantly finding purchase on the back of your head. His fingers tangle into your messy bun way more roughly than he intends, and he realizes it right away, snatching it away like he's been burned.

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly.

You take his hand and put it back on your head. "You're allowed to touch," you say, and he doesn't know whether it's the low tone of your voice or the way you flatten your tongue against the leaking tip of his cock that makes his eyes roll back in his head.

He's more tender, though, only applying force when you slowly start to bob your head up and down. "Oh fuck," he moans, gasping your name. You take him inch by inch, your jaw relaxing to accommodate his thickness. One of your hands is on his thigh, keeping you steady while the other grips the base of his cock, a constant pressure that makes the pleasure begin to build deep in his core.

By the time he hits the back of your throat, his head is thrown back against your couch. When you gag, it only turns him on more as he peers down at you, watching the drool pool at the corners of your mouth as you bring your head back up, licking your lips once and blinking away the tears before diving back in.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes out as you take him even deeper. His hips slant up just a bit, forcing himself down your throat even more, and when you only swallow him down, he grips your hair with both hands now. "Shit, you're so good."

You keep bobbing up and down, working what you can't fit in your mouth with your hand in a rhythm that makes his brain fuzzy. His stomach tightens, and when you hollow your cheeks and suck, if he were of a clearer mind, the noise he makes might cause a rush of embarrassment; it's a high-pitched whimper, your name leaving his lips like a prayer.

"Please, please," he begs as he feels himself teetering on the edge. "So close, please."

You clearly don't have any intention of stopping; instead, you double your efforts until Leon is thrusting up, nails biting into your scalp as more tears gather in your eyes while he fucks your throat raw. He can feel the way you moan around his cock as he does, and his head curves back again.

"Shit, shit," he moans. "Oh God, I'm—" The words get caught in his throat when he falls over the edge, his vision blackening around the edges, as he starts to cum. His hips stutter, face twisting up with pleasure as he finishes down your throat. You keep working his cock, and the world becomes a fishbowl around him—muffled and distant.

When he finally regains his senses, he's panting heavily—view hazy as he looks down at you; your hair is a mess from his fingers, and there are tear streaks trailing down your cheeks as you swallow the remnants of his cum. His brain is still foggy, heart racing in his chest as you beckons you up.

You rise to your feet just enough for him to gather you into his lap, straddling him, his softening cock between the two of you, rubbing against the smooth cotton of your sleep shorts in a way that's almost overstimulating. A small whine escapes the back of his throat.

"Did you like your present?" you ask, voice hoarse.

His hand hooks at the back of your neck, dragging you to him to slot his mouth against yours. The taste of himself on your lips makes his cock stir despite having just orgasmed. Fingertips trail up the smooth planes of your thighs before digging into your hips, tugging you insistently closer. Your arms drape over his shoulders as you let him do as he pleases.

As you both draw back to breath, you grin. "I'll take that as a yes," you whisper contentedly against his lips.

He brushes his nose against yours, pecking your lips once before trailing down to your neck. "Not done, yet," he murmurs against your skin, already feeling the telltale twitch of his cock with every tiny movement of you on top of him and soft sigh into his ear.

Then he slides his hands down to the underside of your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh as he hauls himself and you up off the couch. You let out a shocked noise, arms wrapping around his neck as if he would let you fall, and then he's walking toward your bedroom with you in his arms.

"Smooth, rookie," you tease as he nudges your door open, carefully navigating through the door frame.

He can feel the way the heat spreads up his neck to his cheeks from the compliment, along with the way your hands seem to be admiring the way his biceps flex as he carries you. He kisses you once more before tossing you onto the bed, and you giggle, hand covering your mouth, though the amusement on your face quickly morphs into rapt interest as he strips.

Eyes trailing down his form with a hungry look in your eye that sends a wave of confidence through him. You hastily join him, your clothes forming a messy pile on your bedroom floor before you grasp his hand, yanking him onto the bed with you. Your mouths move together in a desperate collision; it's practically all teeth.

His cock is already half hard again, and when you push him so he's lying against your plush pillows, tossing a leg over his waist so you're straddling him, he's hit with the urge to bury himself deep inside of you. As you slide yourself up and down the shaft of his cock, he can finally feel how wet you are—practically dripping. "Oh god," he groans as you grind against him. The rough palms of his hands skirt up the length of your waist, cupping your breasts reverently, causing you to arch into his touch. "So pretty," he notes as his thumbs trace circles against your nipples, bringing them to peaks.

"Leon," you gasp.

He's compelled by your eagerness, tweaking lightly at them, enjoying the way you writhe on top of him when he does. Your hands find purchase on his wrists as you continue to rock back and forth, soaking his now completely hard cock. He can't help himself, sitting up to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking on it in a way that makes you buck against him.

"Ah, shit, Leon," you moan.

He licks a trail up to your neck, then sucks just under your jawline. "Gonna let me fuck you?" he murmurs against your skin. Next thing he knows, he's flat on his back again, your hands on his chest as you slowly grind against him.

"What was that?" you ask lowly, not giving him the satisfaction of the sweet slide into your cunt. He's almost frustrated by the way he can feel the slow build of another organism just from the wet heat of your cunt. He wants to be inside of you, though, desperately.

"C'mon," he practically begs. "Please."

You slow to a crawl, hips canting back and forward at a snail's pace. "Please, what?" you ask teasingly.

He whines, tilting his hips up, trying to renew that delicious friction between you, but you don't give in, causing him to whimper. "Fuck me, please."

You don't let him flounder for long, reaching between the two of you to grab hold of him and press his tip to your entrance before sinking down. Your noises turn soft, slight gasps as you take him inch by inch, and he's moaning as the velvety walls of your cunt surround him. He doesn't know that he'll ever get tired of the feeling.

"God, you're so big," you breathe out.

His ears heat up, cock twitching inside of you. "You can't just say that," he pants.

"Don't pretend you don't like it when I stroke your ego," you say as you slide down the last inch, and Leon groans as he bottoms out in you.

"Shut up," he replies with no real bite, pinching the skin at your hip.

You grin in response, and then you start moving up and down, and he's whimpering your name. "Holy shit," he pants. This isn't an angle of you he's had the pleasure of witnessing very many times before, but it's definitely one of his favorites. His gaze focuses on the way your breasts bounce with your movement, how you arch your back. His hands grip the plush flesh of your ass, eyes gazing down to where you two are joined, watching as he disappears into you with each rock back and forth of your hips.

You moan with every drag of his cock in and out of you, your face twisted up with pleasure, and he can only watch you with reverence. You're so otherworldly, he thinks. He would gladly supplicate for the rest of his days and become a lamb for sacrificial slaughter if the suffering came from your pretty hands.

He takes one of your hands pressed to his chest, and holds it to his lips devotedly, staring at yours in the dim light of your bedroom. He wonders if you can see it in his eyes—the things he would do for you—what he's already done for you.

His tender murmured praises keep you going until he knows your legs are tiring, thighs straining from the movement. Then, when you start to falter, he guides you with his hands, feet planted into your bed so he can thrust up to meet you halfway, his end rapidly approaching.

"Touch yourself," he orders lowly.

He wants to feel you cum around him; it's the only thing his mind can focus on right now.

You comply instantly, and he can feel the way you clench around him, like you enjoyed him ordering you around. When you swirl two fingers around your clit, your pussy turns into a vice grip that makes his eyes rolling into the back of his head. "Leon," you moan desperately. Your movement turns sloppy as you teeter close to the edge, your other hand barely keeping you upright on top of him as he continues to thrust up into you, harder now.

"C'mon," he groans. "Give it to me."

Your breath pitches up, gasping and panting as you cum around his cock, thighs tightening as your orgasm washes over you. Pleasure morphs your face into something sinful, and Leon doesn't give you even a second of reprieve before he's bucking up into you, desperately chasing his own end while fucking you through yours. You collapse against him as your muscles fail you, burying your nose into the crook of his neck.

His arms wrap around you, holding you close to his chest as he tumbles over the edge. His lips find your shoulder, kissing and biting at the delicate skin in between the carnal way he moans your name—it's almost animalistic, originating somewhere from deep in his chest. But, it's pure relief as he cums in you, hips tilting up again and again until he's sure he's emptied inside of you.

He keeps you there on top of him, even when your skin starts to stick together from the sweat, even as he feels himself leak out from you, and only when you finally seem to regain function of your body do you pull away, though he cradles your face before you can get too far. "Was that okay?" he asks.

He always does.

Your cheeks are flushed, and you nod, smiling down at him with a dazed look in your eye. "More than okay," you confirm tenderly, and he feels his heart stutter when you press a kiss to his lips. "Let me go get cleaned up."

And then you're slowly extricating yourself from him, wincing a bit, before heading out of your bedroom toward the bathroom. Leon watches you go, fixated on your backside until you disappear from view. He lies there, catching his breath as he listens to the toilet flush and the water run. When you return, your hair is a bit tidier, though your skin is still rosy. As you grab a new pair of underwear from your dresser and another t-shirt, he gets up and heads to the bathroom to wash up.

His gaze gets caught on the mirror as he's washing his hands, finding his own eyes in the mirror. There are moments when he doesn't recognize the person staring back at him, and it feels like it's happening more and more often. There's something in his eyes, he thinks, something that's broken, and he thinks sometimes you can see it, too.

He wonders if you feel this way—if there are days when you can't look at your own reflection because it's like seeing a stranger staring back at you. In the back of his mind, he contemplates whether part of him got left behind in Raccoon City, a part he'll never be able to get back.

Blinking, he turns the water off, rubbing at his face as he shakes his head. As he walks back in, you're already under the covers, and after finding his briefs that he tossed to the side earlier and putting them on, he slides in behind you.

"You staying?" you ask, muffled against your pillow.

You always ask, and he always stays.

"Yeah," he mutters as he gathers you up in his arms, tugging you closer to him, and inhaling the smell of your shampoo, dulled by the scent of antiseptic and hospital.

The bedroom is silent, but he can still hear the TV on in the living room—no doubt the movie you were watching has ended and the credits are rolling. Through the open window you must've cracked when you came back in, cars drive by on the street below, and he catches the gentle, fragmentary murmurs of conversations from random passersby.

His brain won't quiet—it hardly ever does late at night. From the way your thumb gently traces along his arm wrapped around your waist, you haven't given in to sleep either. He knows you have a hard time sleeping at night, too—there's a bottle of Ambien prescribed to you in your medicine cabinet. You only tried it once and had such horrible nightmares that you called him sobbing at two in the morning.

You didn't want to talk about it—you only wanted to hold his hand and listen to his heartbeat.

He thinks you dreamed about him dying.

He's dreamed of you dying, too—haunted by visions of falling down, down, down.

Tears gather in his eyes at the thought, and then he's speaking before he even realizes, like he physically can't take the silence any longer. "Do you think we would've met?" he whispers. "If… none of that happened?"

It's a question he's thought about a lot.

An entire world of what-ifs that constantly lives on the periphery of his mind.

What if the outbreak never happened?

What if he arrived in Raccoon City earlier?

What if he didn't find you in the police station?

What if, what if, what if…

He finds himself thinking about these different realities, imagining how they might play out—hoping that in every version, you would find each other. Praying that the two of you were as inevitable as the rising sun.

You don't answer right away, but the sharp way you inhale at the question means you heard him.

"I'm sure you would've landed yourself in the E.R. at some point," you say—lighthearted, as if you can sense the spiral his mind has set itself on. You hum as if you're deliberating before he can feel you nod slightly. "Yeah, the rookie gets brought in on his first day after accidentally tasing himself."

He snorts derisively. "What?"

You peer back over your shoulder at him, and he can see the beginnings of a smile spreading across your face. "That's what would've happened," you say, matter-of-factly. "You'd be so embarrassed, and I'd be like, 'Oh, this happens more than you think'—it doesn't, by the way. I'm just being nice and taking pity on the poor rookie."

He rolls his eyes, not that you can see, but his lips press to your temple as he draws you closer to him, tucking you just under his chin. "What else would happen?" he questions softly.

"I'd send you off with strict instructions to point the taser away from yourself next time," you explain, your tone tender, as if recalling a fond memory. "You'd make it a whole week before you're carted in again—hit-and-run."

He sputters, "Why am I so accident-prone in this hypothetical reality?"

"Because you're accident-prone in actual reality," you prod, drumming the tips of your fingers against his arm. "You fell through too many floors for me not to think otherwise—oh, and that ladder."

He scoffs dramatically. "Whatever." There's a brief pause before, "And then what?"

"Then I would ask Jill if you were a nepo baby, because there's no way you graduated from the same police academy as everyone else."

"Oh my God," he laughs into your hair.

You giggle along with him. "She would, of course, tell you this. You're mortified. I'm unaware. The entire Emergency Department starts to keep track of how long in between your trips to the E.R.—"

"Wait, you guys would do that?" he asks, scandalized.

"Oh yeah," you confirm with amusement. "There'd be a little whiteboard in the break room: 'It's Been 0 Days Since Officer Kennedy Did Something Stupid.'"

"That's so mean," he practically whines at the imaginary scenario.

"We'd probably dress up Mort as you, too—make him hold the sign," you add.

His brows pinch together. "Mort?"

"The C.P.R. dummy."

He shouldn't have asked. "Jesus Christ," he mutters.

You laugh, but it mellows into something sentimental. "So, yeah, I think we would have met… regardless of everything."

"Yeah," he says, the anxiety that was starting to pool in his chest moments ago settling at your words. "I think so, too."

A more comfortable silence envelopes the two of you, and he can feel the way your breathing slows in unison with his. "Good night, Leon," you murmur.

"Night," he whispers back.

He wakes up before you—it's still dark out, and the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:27 AM. He needs to be at the airfield in an hour. With a dejected sigh, he leaves the warm comfort of your bed—of you. You're curled up under the covers, having rolled away from each other at some point during the night, still sound asleep.

As he picks his clothes up from the pile on the floor and shrugs them back on, there's a moment when he debates waking you up to properly say goodbye. He doesn't know why his throat constricts at the thought of doing so—like it would be harder to leave you if he did.

So as he finishes buttoning his pants, he leans over, kissing your forehead. "I'll see you when I get back, okay?"

You don't stir, and part of him is glad for it.

When he steps out into the living room, he spends a few minutes tidying up—turning off the TV, rinsing the plates that were piled on your coffee table and putting them in the dishwasher, and throwing the empty beer cans in the recycling. Just when he's about to put the cake back into the fridge, he pauses, grabs a fork from your drawer, and takes a bite out of it.

The cake itself is probably a little burnt, and the chunky sprinkles add a bit more crunch than he would normally care for, but it's at least edible. He breathes out a huff of laughter through his nose and takes another bite before putting the cake in the fridge and the fork in the dishwasher.

As he puts the watch on, a small smile tugs on his face as he thinks of you saying, 'Now we match!'

After putting on his shoes, he glances once more around your apartment. Swallowing thickly, he calls out tenderly once more, "Bye."

When you wake up, the spot beside you in bed is cold, but you put your hand out anyway, trying to find even a trace of warmth he might have left behind. There's a sting in your sinuses as you blink back tears; the world will keep moving, you remind yourself, as if that's meant to be a comfort.

But you will still sit and wait for him to come home.

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