sukunasfartjar_

🫧🪷♒

[k1swass]

when u find a masterpiece x reader fic, but the reader turns out to have a name and a description

[condortoroost]

some random lil re4 doodles ☺️

[belimah]

Old sleepy Sukuna and little uraume art by chucklenuts

[leonsfawn777-deactivated2026050]

Overpower me ughhh

[belimah]

You know when cats take a fat nap and wake up all scraggly art by chucklenuts

[lloeydd]

megumi's morning view

[cherycherybabe]

wanna grab his ass

[lsklvr]

LEON S. KENNEDY in RESIDENT EVIL, dev. Capcom

[gilverrwrites]

You love your sister Jill, and you have so much fun hanging out with her. That's why you always stop by the station at lunch time, when she’s on site anyway.

Yep, your sister is your bestie. That's why you always waltz right on in, sporting the shortest skirt you can get away with, a coffee in each hand as you poise yourself on her desk, legs ‘carelessly’ swinging into a provocatively crossed position.

All about your favourite sister Jill and nothing to do with her Captain. The one with shiny blond hair you just want to run your fingers through for hours and the permanently stoic demeanour.

He always shares the same sour expression as your sibling when you turn up unannounced, but he's too courteous to really chew you out about it despite the twitch in his jaw, the telltale that he desperately wants to give you a verbal tongue lashing, much to the chagrin of the little devil on your shoulder that aches to see him lose his composure—too much of a professional to humour your advances.

But he wants you too. He’s not so subtle as he tries to be, or perhaps he's merely hiding his attraction from everybody but you.

Whatever the case may be, you’ve seen how his scowl simmers into a smirk when he catches you staring for too long. How his eyes peer over those god-forsaken sunglasses, hungrily mesmerising the image of you all postured perfectly, begging for him to soak you in.

How he inches closer and closer to you every time you bump into him on your way to the S.T.A.R.S office, the dark aroma of his musky, leather-steeped cologne making you slightly dazed as you engage in curt but polite small talk that seems to go on longer and longer every time it happens.

You see Captain Albert Wesker. You notice every little thing about him, every hair out of place; no matter how few or far between, every rise of his chest. But you're totally not here for him. Nope, not at all.

[de-rachel]

Albert Wesker (re1) x my oc

[riverstoddtbh]

When the smut is genuinely so good you look like ts

[torturedwench]

imgonnagetyouback

leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: believe it or not, breaking up with leon kennedy was the easy part. deciding whether to move on or make him regret it is harder. inspired by taylor swift's song, imgonnagetyouback.

cw: eventual smut, re9!leon, dso!reader, brat!reader, large age gap, toxic relationship, sexual tension, alcoholism, jealousy, possessiveness, power imbalance, weapons, mentions of re8

part one of two | comment to be tagged <3 | divider cred @/feimingo

You were so over Leon Kennedy.

So over him, in fact, that you requested reassignment at the DSO. You had dated for several months and had been partners for even longer, but you could hardly imagine continuing to work in the same office let alone together in the field. Your job was serious! You were a special agent! And though you truly cared about your current assignment- investigating the village incident in Romania a few years ago- you needed to put as much distance between yourself and Leon as possible.

So, instead of traveling to Romania, you were going to be staying rather close to home. Your boss put you and your new partner, Penn, in charge of investigating the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center.

“This is a huge mission, agent,” said the director. “I expect the utmost discretion.”

“Yes, sir,” you replied, eagerly leaning forward in your chair. You had arrived to work only a few minutes ago and your first stop was his office after receiving the email that your transfer request had been approved yesterday evening.

“I am entertaining this sudden reassignment because I respect you. I also think it will be beneficial for an experienced agent such as yourself to show Penn the ropes,” the director remarked. “But I will not lie and say that I am not disappointed that I have to split you and Agent Kennedy up.”

“I understand, director. This will be for the best,” you said passionately, rising from your seat. “I won’t let you down.”

And it was true- you were very good at your job. You had received an award for your valor in your field and you weren’t even 30. That was unheard of in the DSO, especially for a female agent. And Leon had been sure to throw that in your face that night. You tried not to get lost in your thoughts at work- again, this mission was important. But you couldn’t help yourself as you recalled the night you called it off as you made your way back to your office.

It had been a good day to start. That morning, you met with a few agents from the BSAA to review the information they had on their extraction of Mia and Rose Winters. This was going to progress your investigation greatly and allow you and Leon to head to Romania sooner than you thought. You were very used to living and traveling together, after all, it had been one year of it. Your formal education in biochemistry and his extensive experience in combating bioterrorism was a perfect match, your director said.

A perfect match indeed. He was much older, yes, but you were mature. Leon was a charmer, that much was true. He was funny, sexy, and intelligent- all things you had ever hoped for in a partner. You dated a few boys in college, but this was a man. Everything, from his watch, to his car, to his guns- both department issued and god-given- was attractive. You couldn’t believe he wasn’t married. Looking back, it should have been more obvious.

You were a little hesitant to begin with- one really should not date their coworkers, especially as a new employee- but you both agreed to keep your developing relationship on the downlow. During the day, you would both do your jobs. You were professional. And to this day, not many know about your history with Leon. But at night, you would either hang out at your apartment- never his- or he would take you out a few towns away in a dress and heels his hefty DSO paycheck paid for. You were spoiled and you loved it. At first.

You started to find yourself quite annoyed with him often. He had practically moved into your apartment, which was fine, until he’d get home far too late for a weeknight. Despite many attempts, he’d blow you off anytime you suggested staying at his place for a weekend. It seemed he didn’t want to let you in, in more ways than one. At first, you told yourself that he’d spent most of his life traumatized and misunderstood. But how long were you willing to make excuses for him?

That particular night, you were debriefing Leon on your conversation with the BSAA agents. “The BSAA don’t think that Miranda is truly dead,” you informed him, pacing back and forth in your kitchen as he sharpened his hatchet at your table.

“Ethan blew up the entire village. She’s dead,” he argued without even looking up from his task.

You opened your refrigerator and grabbed your favorite wine. You were silent as you poured it, but after you took your first sip, you replied. “But the BSAA recovered some kind of fragment that they believe contains her consciousness. I just feel like if we go to the site and-“

“Listen,” Leon cut you off. “I’ve been dealing with the BSAA for years. They don’t know what they’re doing. Let me deal with them.”

“I am capable of doing my job, you know,” you shot back, standing directly in front of him now. “I don’t always need your help.”

“Don’t get like that,” he said, standing up from the chair to put his gear back in his bag. “You’re a rookie, that’s all. I am just trying to help.”

“A rookie?” you scoffed. “I would think the recognition I got at last month’s gala would elevate me from rookie.”

“Yeah, it’s very impressive,” he replied, drawing out his words, his gaze still fixed on his bag. “I wonder if the director knows I did most of the work.”

“Excuse me?” you replied, not believing he said what he did. “Are you seriously trying to take credit for my success? You know of all people should know how fucking hard I worked on that case.”

Leon let out a ‘hmpf’ and shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, don’t be short with me now, Leon. It seems you have sooo much to say, so let’s hear it,” you said, crossing your arms. “Tell me more about how I’m so inexperienced.”

Leon finally looked at you then, slow and deliberate, like you were something he had to assess rather than someone he cared about.

“You want me to say it?” he asked, his voice low. “Fine. You’re good, smart. But you’re not ready for half the things you think you are.”

You let your hands fall to your sides. “There it is.”

“I’ve seen the shit that happens out there,” he gestured with his hands towards the door, stepping closer to you now. “You read reports and conduct interviews-”

“I was in the field with you, Leon," you snapped.

“And I kept you alive,” he shot back, sharp.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “Wow. So that’s what this is? You think I’m some child you have to fucking babysit?”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” he said. “And instead of listening, you… what? You get a little recognition and suddenly you think you don’t need my guidance?”

“Guidance?” you repeated. “Is that what you call it? Because it feels a lot like control.”

“You don’t know what control looks like, babe.”

“Don’t babe me,” you challenged. “If it’s not control, what would you call shutting me out of your life? Or refusing to even let me step foot in your god damn apartment? Or deciding you’ll ‘handle’ things? We’re supposed to be equal, Leon.”

“The apartment thing,” he stopped on that part. “Is different. I've told you that.”

“Is it?” you pressed. “Or is it just easier for you to keep me at arm’s length so you can keep pulling rank over me?”

You caught his jaw jump. “You’re twisting this.”

“You loooove that you’re older. More experienced. It gives you an excuse to talk down to me like I’m one of your little trainees.” Your voice was raised now.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Are you sure?” you shot back. “Because it sounds like you can’t stand the idea that I don’t need YOU to do MY job.”

“That’s not-” He stopped, exhaling. “You’re missing the point.”

“Then enlighten me,” you said, throwing your hands up. “Since you always know best.”

“Someone has to,” he said, quietly.

“Yeah,” you said with finality. “I think we're done here.”

Leon frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you said, stepping back, putting space between you and him. “It means I’m not doing this anymore. I’m not going to keep fighting to be taken seriously by someone who’s supposed to be on my side.”

“You’re overreacting,” he said immediately.

“No,” you replied, shaking your head. “I’m finally reacting the way I should have a long time ago. I think you should leave.”

“Seriously?” he asked, his brows pulling together.

“Yeah, seriously.”

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re kicking me out over a little argument?”

“I’m ending this,” you corrected. “The ‘little’ argument where you spent 10 minutes insulting me just made it obvious.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was waiting for you to back down. Like you always did. But you wouldn’t this time. “Pack your things, Leon.”

Your arms were outstretched, your hands against the credenza in your office with your back towards the door when a sharp knock rang in your ears. You hoped to god before you turned around that it wasn’t him so soon after recalling that memory, so you were delighted to see Penn leaning against the door frame.

“Don’t tell me you’re already stressed about the case,” he said, sinking down into one of your chairs. "You're supposed to be the brave one. I'm practically shitting my pants."

You tucked your hair behind your ear as you leaned down to grab some files from the cabinet. “No, no,” you laughed. “I’m... trying to go caffeine free and it’s really not working out.”

“Oh,” Penn replied, sharing in your laughter. “No offense, agent, but I really do feel like that is bad timing.”

“I am beginning to agree,” you said, rubbing your head, feigning a headache, when really, you were trying to scrub the last remnants of Leon Kennedy from your mind. “Anyways, I think it’s best if we meet in the conference room to discuss our strategy after we’ve both had a chance to read the briefing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Penn affirmed. “I’ll see you after lunch?”

You nodded your head at that, and as he left, your gaze was fixed on his dark, curly hair. Cut it out, you almost said to yourself out loud. You straightened, exhaling through your nose as your eyes shifted down towards the files in your hands. You pressed your lips together, squaring your shoulders as you stacked the folders into a neat pile. Work. That’s what this was. A new assignment, a new partner, a clean break. And you really need to get out more.

Though, you knew it was only a matter of time before you would have to see him.

That afternoon, you made your way to the conference room, a steaming cup of the DSO’s finest coffee in hand. You swung open the door without much care, thinking it would be empty save for maybe Penn, if he had arrived early. Instead, you found Leon and his new partner, a seasoned agent named Marco. It looked like they were reviewing video footage from the village in Romania.

“Hey there, miss big shot,” Marco teased. “Look at you moving on up and leaving us poor bastards with your sloppy seconds.”

You let out a laugh and tried your hardest not to look at Leon with a slight sense of satisfaction. “I’m a tough act to follow, I know,” you replied.

You could feel the heat of his gaze on you. Truthfully, you didn’t know if it was in anger or desire. You hadn’t talked since that night and there was plenty left unsaid. You didn’t care, though. He made his bed and now he could lie in it.

“We were just leaving,” Leon finally said, sharply. “The room’s all yours.”

You didn’t bother responding as crossed the room and set your stack of files on the big glass table at the center of the room. As Leon and Marco gathered their things, Penn walked in.

“Hey, sorry- I got tied up downstairs-”

You looked up as Penn stepped into the room, a little breathless but smiling, one hand still on the door.

“Right on time,” you said, a touch lighter now.

Penn’s gaze flicked between the three of you in the room. “Oh, uh, hi,” he added, straightening slightly. “I didn’t realize the room was occupied this afternoon-”

“Marco,” Marco cut in, stepping forward and offering a hand. “Don’t worry about it. We’re on our way out.”

“Penn. I’m new to DSO. Nice to meet you.” Penn looked over at Leon, thinking he would introduce himself like Marco did. When he didn't, “Agent Kennedy,” Penn said instead, extending his hand politely.

Leon looked at it for a beat too long before taking it, his expression unreadable. “Penn,” he repeated flatly.

Penn, to his credit, didn’t falter. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, glancing briefly in your direction. “You’re like, a fucking legend.”

Something tight coiled in your chest, but you pushed past it, offering Penn a small smile as you stepped beside him. “Oh, he’s not too intimidating,” you said. You reached for one of the folders and handed it to him.

At your kindness towards Penn and your smart remark, you could have sworn you saw Leon’s jaw tightening, his shoulders squaring just slightly, like he was settling into something he couldn’t quite name.

Marco glanced between the two of you, then at Leon. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands together once, breaking the tension, “we’ll let you two get to it.”

Penn let out a small breath after they had closed the door with a sharp click. “...Was it just me, or was that-”

“What?” you questioned, already moving to sit at the table, flipping open your file like nothing had happened.

Penn laughed under his breath. “Nothing, nevermind.”

You didn’t look up. “Don’t worry about it,” you said. “Let's get started. We have a lot of work to do... try to keep up.”

[lolalov3s]

Fine Wine

Leon Kennedy (Re9) x Fem!reader

Summary: Hitting the big 3-0 feels like an existential crisis when society has convinced you your desirability will officially expire. Fortunately, your 51-year-old neighbor is more than happy to prove that sex appeal only gets better with age.

Content: Smut (fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie), slightly insecure reader, and so much fluff it’s actually sickening

Word count: 6.5k

-

“What are you doing out here?”

The scent of cedar and gunpowder hits your nostrils before a pair of polished boots comes into your line of sight, stopping inches away from your toes.

Your complete lack of awareness is exactly why embarrassment warms your cold cheeks. Too consumed by mourning your current predicament, you hadn't even caught the subtle displacement of the evening air, nor the heavy crunch of Leon's stride closing the stretch of lawn between your two houses.

You should’ve, considering you’ve always been attuned to his presence, to the low timbre of his voice—heard it across the street while he’s bent over the hood of his car, felt it vibrate through the air when he offers a polite good morning that lingers long after he’s gone.

But that same voice currently carries a note of concern as he finds you at your absolute lowest, shivering in a low-cut party dress and smudged eyeliner right on your doorstep.

Your composure slumps even lower. “I’m locked out.”

The polished leather of his boots shifts. "Locked out," he repeats, “from your own house?”

“Lost my keys,” you explain, sounding as pathetic as you feel. You can feel his gaze tracking the line of your neck, kissing the field of goosebumps blooming across your skin. Leaving the house in nothing but a slip of silk suddenly seems like the worst decision of your life.

"I see," he says. "You don’t have a spare key under one of your plants?”

Your nose wrinkles in a small, self-deprecating scrunch as you glance up at him.

“Wouldn’t that be too obvious?”

“Obvious is often better than shivering in the dark.” His eyes sweep gently over your collarbone, noticing the way the thin straps of your dress dig slightly into your skin as you hunch over. “How long have you been sitting out in the cold?”

“Long enough to lose feeling in my toes.”

He frowns at the way you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself. Fragile little thing. “Come on.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to let you freeze to death on your own porch," he says, extending a hand towards you. "And I’m certainly not going to watch you turn blue from across the street while I have a perfectly good spare room.”

You stare at his large hand, contemplating whether stepping into the lair of the neighborhood’s most eligible (and most intimidating) bachelor is actually a safer bet than hypothermia.

Is it a good idea? Probably not. But the alternative is another hour of trembling in a thin slip while the wind bites harshly at your skin.

So you reach up, and under the disguise of a curiosity on what lies beyond his walls, you let his hand engulf your smaller one. His skin is a shock of warmth against your frozen fingers, and he pulls you up with an effortless strength that makes you feel momentarily weightless.

“Just for tonight,” you mumble, trying to reclaim a shred of your dignity as you wobble on your numb feet. You pointedly ignore the sharp pain in your heels as you find your balance. “I’ll call the locksmith first thing in the morning.”

“There’s no rush.” He lets go of your hand, palm sliding from your fingers to the small of your back. “The locksmith can wait until you’ve actually had a few hours of sleep.”

“I look that bad, huh?”

“Bad isn’t the word I’d use. Tired, maybe.” He gives you a once-over, looking a little bashful. “Still unfairly pretty.”

You let out a shaky breath, your legs feeling like lead as you navigate the curb. “You’re just being a good neighbor. You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying. The dress looks good on you.”

You look down at the soft material that clings to your damp skin, feeling suddenly very exposed. “Thanks.” Unconsciously, you find yourself leaning a fraction closer to him, seeking his body heat. “But it’s doing a terrible job of keeping me alive right now.”

And unconsciously, his palm skims around the curve of your waist. “Inclined to agree, unfortunately.”

“It was aesthetics over survival, felt like a fair trade for a celebration.”

“Yeah? What was the occasion?”

You let the silence linger a little longer before slowly answering, “My birthday.”

There’s a slight, reflexive squeeze of his hand on your waist. "Today's your birthday?"

“Yesterday, technically,” you correct him, noting that the hour has long since bled past midnight. "But yes."

"Well, happy birthday."

"Mhm."

He stops just inches from his front door, turns his head to peer down at you. You notice his brows pulling together in an observant line. "Don't sound too happy about it."

You let out a long sigh, letting your weight slump against the cold wood of the doorframe. The exhaustion is finally winning. “Birthdays are depressing,” you hum, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “Another year of expectations you didn’t meet, another reminder that the clock is ticking. Don't you find them a bit… grim?”

He looks at you for a long beat before shaking his head, a single lock of silver falling across his left eye. "No. Not really," he says, turning the heavy brass handle and pushing the door inward. "But I’ve already had fifty-one of them to get used to the idea."

“So what you’re saying is I have to wait another twenty years to finally stop feeling like the world is ending?”

He catches your gaze, his expression softening into something dangerously close to a smile. “I’m saying that by the time you hit fifty, you realize the expectations were the only thing making it grim."

"That doesn't sound encouraging," you note as the house’s heating begins to thaw your frozen skin. "Twenty years is a long time to spend being disappointed."

His lips twitch. "It's not about the wait. It's about the perspective," he explains, guiding you further into the amber warmth of the foyer. "And you’re far too young to be this cynical."

"I wouldn't call myself young anymore."

"Fifty-one minus twenty. That makes you… what? Thirty-one?"

You try not to flinch, but a small, involuntary wince escapes you at the overestimation. "Thirty, actually."

"That’s still fairly young."

You throw him a dubious look. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. "It’s young," he insists, kicking off his shoes. You follow suit. Then he reaches out, catches your elbow, and guides you toward the living room where a long couch waits for you in the shadows.

His space is exactly as you’d imagined, steeped in warm masculine tones of deep walnut and charcoal. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There’s the scent of old paper, expensive tobacco, and something clean like rain-washed cedar.

You also catch a faint, woody sting of bourbon, which you expected, but as you sink into the couch, you're surprised to notice a lone glass of red wine sitting on the coffee table.

"You drink wine?" You ask. "Never pegged you as a wine kind of guy."

He reaches for a heavy throw blanket draped over the back of an armchair and drapes it over your shoulder. "What do you peg me for?”

“Straight bourbon,” you admit, huddling into the wool. “Neat. Probably a double."

“I do have my few shares of bourbon.”

“Then I rest my case.”

He tilts his head in contemplation. "I suppose I've earned that reputation."

"You've earned a lot of reputation in this neighborhood."

“Don’t think I want to hear the half of it. Would you like a glass?"

You ponder if it’s a wise move. You’d spent the last four hours drowning in cocktails that were far too sweet, and the fuzzy warmth in your chest is a precarious balance against the exhaustion. Adding a glass of wine to the mix might be the final nudge your brain needs to completely shut down.

But as you look at him, standing tall and massive against the backdrop of his endless books with the fluorescent light tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the idea of a quiet glass of wine with your hot neighbor suddenly feels much more appealing than any of the neon shots you’d endured at the bar.

"I probably shouldn't… but it is my birthday.”

“Not trying to pressure you.”

“Not pressured. I’m actually curious what kind of wine a fifty-one year old bachelor drinks.”

“So I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Take it as a hell yeah.”

He disappears into what you think is a kitchen, and your bravado disappears along with him, replaced by a sudden spike of nerves. Now that he isn't standing directly over you, the reality of the situation settles over you like a heavy blanket draped over your frame.

You’re sitting on the couch of a man who is as intimidating as he is handsome, and you’re about to spend the first hours of your thirty-year drinking expensive wine in his lair.

The rug tickles your bare feet as you nervously tuck them under your thighs, trying to make yourself as small as possible in the vastness of his cushions.

“Here,” he announces himself again, and you notice that he’s pushed the long sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are corded with muscles and mapped with a faint dusting of hair.

You try not to blatantly stare at the prominent veins tracing down to his wrists as you reach out to take the glass from him. “What is it?”

“A Stag’s Leap Cabernet Sauvignon,” he says, settling into the opposite end of the long couch. He drapes one arm over the back, turns his body toward you. “From Napa. This one’s got a bit of ripeness to it. Black cherry, maybe a touch of vanilla.”

You hum, bringing the glass a little closer.

“Gets better with age too,” he continues, eyes lifting to yours. Then with the faintest hint of a smile, “Though it'd be perfect for the occasion.”

You can’t stop the flutter in your belly.

“That’s very sweet of you.”

“It does have a touch of sweetness if you let it sit.”

“No, I mean you, Leon.” You finally gather the nerve to meet his gaze, and find yourself tracing the tiny, crystalline specks of silver that radiate from his blue orbs. “Trying to make me feel better, offering me shelter when I was half-frozen on my doorstep.”

The air in the room seems to shift the moment his name leaves your lips. His shoulders visibly drop an inch. “Yeah, well, you’d do the same.”

You would. Although, as you look at the unshakable size of him, you could never imagine a man like him sitting pathetically out in the cold, mourning a nonexistent tragedy while spiraling over a birthday. Still, you’d have opened your door for him in a heartbeat, even if he weren't half-frozen—maybe especially if he weren't.

And you’re not sure what to make of that.

It’s a thought that feels a little too dangerous to hold onto while sitting this close to him, and you find yourself suddenly, helplessly distracted by the sharp curve of his lower lip.

“Here’s to saving Neighbors in Distress, then,” you offer absentmindedly.

He reaches out for his own glass on the coffee table. Hones his eyes on you with a sincerity that feels tangible as the room falls to the quiet space between his gaze and your breath. The silver specks in his irises seem to ignite in the low light, pinning you to his cushions.

“And to aging like fine wine,” he adds.

A soft burst of laughter bubbles out of you. “That is so corny.” Then angle your head to the side. “And such an old saying.”

“I’m half a century, what did you expect?”

There’s no trace of forced humor in his voice, and that lack of irony makes his delivery even more amusing. The smile on your face lingers as a warm pulse in your cheeks. It blooms as a genuine spark of comfort in your chest, prints over the rim of your glass as you take a sip.

“Wow,” you say appreciatively. “That’s really good wine.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s also incredibly dangerous, I think I need to pace myself,” you admit, placing your glass on the coffee table. “Thirty is supposed to be the age of moderation, isn't it?”

“According to who?”

“Everyone,” you answer, a little too quickly. “Social media, podcasts, people who suddenly start playing padel and structured routines.”

“I think moderation is something people reach for when they’re trying to feel safe,” he observes, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Less risk. Fewer surprises.”

You smile faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s… reality catching up?”

His gaze shifts, catching that subtle change in you. “You don’t sound convinced.”

You shrug. “I just thought by now things would feel more... settled. Or clear.” Your fingers trace the intricate, frayed embroidery at the edge of the blanket around you. “Instead it kind of feels like I’m aging out of things without ever really being part of them in the first place.”

“Aging out of what?”

You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “Being… wanted, I guess.” A quick, self-conscious laugh follows. “Or at least effortlessly so. Like there’s a point where you stop turning heads and start blending in, and you don’t even realize when the moment of being undesirable happens.”

“You really think that’s already happened to you?”

You don’t answer right away, and that probably answers enough. His glass meets the table with a soft thud. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”

“More dangerous than the wine?”

“Much. Because it’s wrong.”

You’re not sure whether to laugh it off or deny it outright.

“Desirability isn’t about being the loudest thing in the room,” he continues. “Or the youngest. It’s not about catching everyone’s attention for five seconds.”

“Then what is it about?”

The room exhales into silence. The lone lamp spills a muted glow, its light stretching into uneven shadows that breathe along the walls while somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticks softly as each second threads itself through the sudden quiet.

“Presence,” his voice finally settles into the stillness. “About knowing yourself well enough that when someone does notice you, they don’t forget it.”

“And you think that just… gets better?”

“I know it does.”

The certainty in his voice makes your chest tighten. You look down, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders under the blanket, the thin fabric of your dress, the way you’d felt so exposed stepping into his house.

He leans forward then, just enough to close some of the distance, the sheer presence of his broad frame grounding in a way that makes it harder to retreat into your own thoughts.

“Look at me,” he urges softly.

Hesitation flickers through your posture before you finally lift your chin. There’s a quiet warmth in his gaze, something unguarded that softens the harder edges of him that turns all his intensity into something almost unbearably kind.

“You're worried about becoming invisible, but I can tell you right now, there is not a single thing about you that is easy to look away from."

Your breath shatters in your throat as he reaches out. His hand is large, the skin calloused, but his touch is incredibly light as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Caresses your cheekbone with a thumb.

“So no,” he adds, quieter but no less certain, “I don’t think you’re becoming less desirable.”

If you weren't sure what would finally wreck you on this milestone birthday, what would be the thing to finally break the surface of your spiraling thoughts—you are now, and it’s the magnetic pull of wanting to kiss a man twenty-one years your senior.

But age is just a number, isn't it? Leon has obviously made it clear that he doesn’t view the passage of time as a problem, and looking at the way his eyes are currently tracing the shape of your mouth, you’re starting to believe him.

The gap between your ages feels like an invitation to a level of intensity you weren't prepared for at twenty-nine.

“You really think so?”

“Sweetheart, you’re the most desirable thing I’ve had the privilege of seeing in my entire life.”

You can’t believe you’ve resisted his charm for so long.

You’ve imagined similar scenarios, of course. Living right across to a man who carries himself with so much lethal grace made it entirely impossible not to.

The men you’ve dated in your twenties were mostly just boys still trying to figure themselves out. You were used to clumsy hands and rushed fumbling, to guys who barely knew how to hold a conversation.

Leon is different. Maybe it’s his age. Confidence, agility—it’s obvious he doesn't possess the frantic energy of a younger man, instead moving with an authority that commands your attention without him even having to try. As a result, countless lonely nights were spent of you lying awake wondering what it would actually feel like to have his solid weight pressing you down.

Not that you would ever dare to admit that to anyone. No, thinking it in the privacy of your own mind is already embarrassing enough.

Although the gratification of having him kissing you obliterates any sense of shame. And the way his hands are exploring every corner of your curves proves that he’s spent just as much time agonizing over the exact same thoughts.

You’re uncertain when the blanket fell off your shoulders, but you can feel the rough friction of his palms everywhere. Your arms, your knees, your thighs. You’re aware of him bunching the skirt of your dress upward until it’s gathered at your waist.

You also sense a slight desperation in his touch. A monumental inkling of need bleeding through a composure that suggests he’s been holding himself back for so long, and it is as staggering as the deceptive softness of his lips to realize the sheer force of his hunger.

It isn’t until your lips are swollen and stinging and wet from the relentless pressure of his that you finally fill your lungs with air.

And to your chagrin, he momentarily pulls away. “Maybe we should slow down.”

“Why?” you whine, a little pout hanging on your puckered lips. “Thought I was desirable.”

“You are,” he grunts. His nose grazes the high curve of your cheek. “Believe me, you are.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

He levels with your concerned gaze. “Don’t want you waking up thinking this was a mistake.”

Yeah, right. As if a few sugary cocktails could be the sole reason of a desire this potent.

Sure, there’s a sweet haze effectively numbing your usual inhibitions, but alcohol didn't carve the hollow ache in your chest every time you watched him pull into his driveway. Nor did it plant the heat that pooled in your belly whenever he caught your eye over the property line—more times than you could admit, less than what you truly craved.

In retrospect, the tension had always been there. Unconsciously. Even if you were stone-cold sober you would still be here.

The morning light couldn't possibly undo the rightness of finally having him in your vicinity.

You reach a palm towards his face. “The only mistake," you whisper, soft words against the rough scrape of his jaw, "would be making me wait another second."

He’s quiet for a moment, but your pretty eyes tip whatever restraint he’s holding onto. Has him tracing the supple skin of your breast with a newfound zeal.

“You sure?”

“Why don’t you take off my dress and find out?”

You feel his amusement radiate against your skin. “Glad your confidence is back.” Then he hooks a finger under the thin silk of your dress, slides the strap down your shoulder. “Because you are beautiful.”

The cool air hits your skin. Two sensitive peaks beg for his attention.

“So goddamn beautiful. Look at these tits.”

There’s amusement laced in your smile. “Also didn’t peg you with such an abrasive vocabulary.”

“Politeness won’t cover what I want to do to you right now.”

Soft strands of hair thread between your fingers as his mouth wraps around a nipple.

Plays with it eagerly, lapping around in circles with agonizing precision before drawing it back as if trying to make the sensitive point swell even larger in his mouth. Repeats the motion far longer than you anticipated, searing a path that sends a rush of hot blood to your core until every atom of your being is vibrating.

You’re convinced the room is spinning as he gives the same attention to your other breast, painting your areola with a slickness that is as heavy as the dampness between your thighs.

He seems to sense the change in your breathing, lets a hand travel down your hip before draping one of your legs over his lap. Bends your other knee, fingers hooking into the crook of your leg to draw you apart.

“Keep them open for me.”

You nod limply. He kisses the side of your throat.

“Undesirable,” he tuts, large hand moving to the wet patch on your panties to map the exact shape of your arousal through the silk. “Do you realize how ridiculous that is?”

You try to form a response, to make some self-deprecating excuse about the depressive weight of your birthday or the slow decay of your youth, but the air simply vanishes from your lungs. The pressure he applies over you sends an electric shockwave of sensation through your nervous system.

He watches the words die on your lips. Watches the way your hips hitch upward. Observes the shallow rhythm of your chest with every rhythmic circle he rubs into your aching little clit.

His mouth ticks up into a smile that softens the weathered lines of his devastatingly handsome face.

“Should I show you myself then?”

“Show…” The supple grain of the couch bites into your shoulder blades as your toes curl into the material. “…what?”

His fingers slip under your flimsy lace. “Exactly how desirable you are.”

“Ahh—” Your hazy mind goes into an absolute sensory overload. One second the room is a blur of amber light and red wine, the next heartbeat you are violently aware of the viscous heat of your own arousal as he gathers it on his fingertips. “Leon—”

He sweeps upward, smearing that glistening moisture across the swollen outer folds and pressing it deep into the delicate flesh of your labia, and you are acutely aware of the aching bead of your clit trapped beneath the abrasive swirl of his fingers, feeling it throb in perfect synchronization with your racing heart.

Leon feels it too. The sharp rhythm of his breathing stutters as he watches you squirm.

“Gorgeous girl.” The blunt tip of his middle finger presses against your slick opening, testing the tight ring of muscle before slowly sinking in. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Le…on… oh!”

The addition of a second finger pulls a high keening from your throat.

Two fingers and you feel impossibly full. You can barely fathom the weight of taking his actual cock, and your walls pulsate at the thought. He groans, pulls his hand back almost to the entrance before driving his knuckles deep inside you again.

In and out, back and forth, turning your entire world into a blur of pleasure and the heady scent of him. Incredibly, unapologetically male.

The only thing consuming your mind right now, rightfully so. The pleasure-induced haze that clouds your brain parts just enough for you to breathe in his musk, to watch the absolute concentration on his face as he dedicates himself to your pleasure. At the quiet lines carved beside his eyes. The faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The hard flex of his chiseled jaw, dusted with fine hints of gray.

Maybe aging isn’t so bad after all. You’re suddenly grateful for every single year that carved him into the man who’s currently dismantling you with his bare hands.

Because you feel it. The ongoing swell of an orgasm gathering at the base of your spine. Your breath fractures into a wordless sob and Leon feels your undoing the second it begins. Helps you through it. Massages the deep, aching knot of tension inside your cunt, using the volume of your own wetness to press the base of his palm against your puffy clit.

Your mouth opens wide to gulp in air but all that comes out is a groan that shocks your bones.

Legs parted instinctively wide, it is one of the strongest orgasms you have experienced in a very long time. You’d argue it might be the strongest one ever, but the thought of cumming onto his cock seemed like the only thing that could possibly top the rank.

Your satiated limbs melt into the cushions as he kisses the sweat dripping down your hairline. “Lift your arms up for me.”

You obey wordlessly, and he starts to undress you. Slips off the once delicate lace down the length of your legs. You’re still drifting in a post-orgasmic haze, but your focus snaps back the second he peels his shirt over his head. The flex of his thick biceps and broad shoulders completely rewires your sluggish brain that you find yourself leaning forward as he makes quick work of his pants.

And then it’s genuinely hard to believe that the Leon Kennedy—intimidating, sweet Leon who lives right across your house—is sitting spread out with a raging hard-on that demands your attention.

Which, obviously, you give to him without needing to be asked. The second your fingers fully encircle and squeeze his impressive size, his head falls back against the couch, exposing the strained column of his neck.

You also give your attention to the erratic pulse at his throat. Pressing your lips against a scattering of sun-faded freckles beneath his jaw, swallowing the deep vibration of another groan.

Leon, you’ve come to realize, is not ashamed of being loud. A delightful knowledge that this formidable man is perfectly willing to let his voice gravel with each motion along his shaft. You experimentally tighten your grip and drag a thumb across the weeping slit of his cock, and feel your heart swell with giddiness the moment he comes to cradle your cheeks and groans straight into your mouth.

The power you hold over him is intoxicating. Addicting. Very, very dangerous. Whatever excuse you initially gave yourself about tonight as a symptom of being touch-deprived and horny on your birthday is rapidly dissolving. You can already see yourself easily basking in the undivided attention he's so far given you.

Granted, it is nearly impossible to worry about the long-term consequences when he’s panting directly into your open mouth, failing bid to keep his control intact.

You decide to offer him some grace, slowly loosening your grip. Let your nails graze the soft hair at his base, trace the dark trail up the firm ridge of his stomach until your hand settles on the hard plane of his chest.

He pulls back and pins your hand over his heart. “We should move to the bedroom.”

The heat of his skin is too comforting for you to even consider the effort of standing up.

“Why?”

“Condoms," he huffs. "Don't have any on me."

Your nose curls. It really is hard to worry about the long-term consequences when all you can think about is the desperate need to feel him raw. Surprising, considering safe sex is a practice you've always adhered to.

But Leon really does have a habit of pulling completely new things out of you. Effortlessly dismantles your depressed thoughts, unravels your usual guarded boundaries, and is now rewiring your entire view on intimacy.

There’s a tiny lull of silence before you gather the courage to ask, “How much can I trust you without using one?”

His heartbeat kicks under your palm, and you watch as his brows draw together before the harsh lines on his face soften. “As much as you’re willing to give.” His thumb drags over the back of your hand. “You sure ‘bout that?”

It surprises you how easy the words slip past your lips, devoid of the usual overthinking that has haunted this day so far.

For the first time in a long time, the air in your lungs feels clear.

“I want you to go without,” you confirm.

“C’mere.”

He tugs you closer and sits you right on top of his lap, back firmly flushed against his chest.

“Lift your hips a little.”

You brace your hands against his thick thighs, let him guide the blunt tip of his cock right to your slick hole. The keening sound you make vibrates in the room as gravity slowly takes over, allowing your wet muscles to swallow the first few inches of him.

It doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t any less intense. He fills you with a burning heat.

“Ah—ngh… Leon…”

“Breathe,” he drawls. You feel his lips on the crook of your neck, gooseflesh rising up when you feel the tip of his tongue. “A little more, yeah?”

Your head bobs in a nod. Lungs expanding, lungs deflating—diaphragm relaxed. You count to three and let your body melt against his chest.

It takes him a full minute, filled with soft whines that rumble in the back of your throat and little strokes coming from his hips. Your eyes are unfocused when he gives a final jerk, feeling the coarseness of his hair grind against the slope of your ass.

“Oh, fuck.”

“So fucking warm,” he grunts, pulling open your thighs wide across his lap, knees hooked over his sides with your bare feet dangling in the air. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” you slur. There’s no pain to speak of but the strain of him pressing against your sensitive flesh. “Just… full.”

At least, full is the only word your overstimulated brain can offer.

No amount of previous longing could have prepared you for the way his pulse drums in tandem with your own, thudding so violently against your internal nerves. Perfectly snug inside you, as if your very anatomy is fundamentally shifting—melting, molding. Making room to seamlessly map every thick ridge of his shape until there's no space left between your bodies.

But sitting perfectly still is its own kind of torture. The throb in your cunt is spiraling into a desperate itch, and simply having him seated to the hilt is no longer enough.

Friction is what you seek, and friction is what you ask, rolling your hips in a needy grind, doing your best to wiggle against his lap just to coax out even a fraction.

"Christ." The sound he makes vibrates through your entire back, dragged out with sluggish words you have trouble making sense. "...embarrassing this old man.”

You tilt your head back in confusion, try to parse his meaning through the thick haze of pleasure.

“Won’t last long tonight," he explains, slowly rolling his hips that draws another groan. “Not even a good ten minutes.”

A giggle interrupts your keening whine. You let your head fall to the side, resting your temple against the sweaty curve of his throat.

“It’s okay... you can fuck me again in the morning.”

The breathless laugh he wheezes sounds partly wicked.

“You’re goddamn right I will. Take you in my bed.” He drags his hips backward. “The shower.” Then languidly thrusts forward. “Even the kitchen.”

He takes the full weight of your breasts in eager hands.

“Fuck you in the back of my car like rabid teenagers.”

You choke on a moan and reach behind, fingers finding the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t think our bones can handle the lack of legroom.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

You feebly smile at the confidence in his voice.

Somehow, you don’t doubt him. Anyone with a conscious mind would agree that Leon is a man of absolute competence. You might not know the secret he keeps behind closed doors, or the full depth of his life, but you know the way he commands the space he occupies. And you'd expect nothing less from him when the space he's currently residing in is yours.

Physically, sure. He's sheathed impossibly deep within your cunt.

Metaphorically, too, when he’s been threading in your thoughts with a steady persistence. Lingers between looks, between breaths. Settles deep into the unspoken gaps of your everyday life, anticipating your needs long before you do by offering things without excess.

A roof over your head. A glass of wine in your hand without expectation. Heartfelt words that reach you even when you hadn’t realized you needed to hear them.

You wonder if you asked for more for the sake of your own comfort, he would give that too.

For your pleasure, at least. The stretch of him fucking you in slow ceremony is already delicious as it is, but a fierce hunger still gnaws at your neglected clit. You try to guide the hand on your right tit down to the slope of your stomach, drawing it directly toward the spot where your bodies meet.

Fortunately, Leon is more than happy to oblige.

“Right here?"

You nod silently, let your body do the talking. And talking it does in a language of erratic breaths and arching hips. Pliant to his touch, yet greedy for his fingertips. The sheer volume of slick, overheated syrup that instantly coats his skin has him inhaling sharply.

"Fucking drenched,” he grunts, feeling the rigid length of his cock disappear completely between your glistening folds. "Gonna eat this pussy next time."

Crude and abrasive. You like this version of him. So much so that your internal muscles respond before your voice can, milking him with a series of desperate clenches that has his jaw locking tight.

“Next time, sweetheart,” he promises, rubbing circles over the hard knot of your clit. “Taste how sweet this pussy is.”

That seems to do it. Your entire frame tenses, toes curling in anticipation of the sensation climbing up in your leg. Even breathing seems like a secondary concern, a distant chore your lungs are struggling to remember how to perform when you’ve succumbed so completely to the intensity.

"That’s it. You gon' give me another?”

You hiccup through a frantic chorus of “Fuckfuckfuckfuck” and wail helplessly.

“Go on. Let me feel it."

“Shit,” you heave, right before you shatter, squeezing your eyes shut.

You collapse with a satisfied smile, reveling in the ecstasy seeping deep into your bones. But that quiet hum is cut abruptly short when his hands suddenly hook under the backs of your knees, hoisting your legs up and peeling you open.

Starts fucking you for the sake of his pleasure.

You find no mercy in his rhythm, pistoning force that has your breasts bouncing with every jarring strike. Limbs shaking, bones rattling. The room shuddering with echoes of wet, heavy slaps.

It’s nothing you can’t take when you seem to be enjoying it yourself. You realize, staring down at the clotted, white fluid foaming around his cock, that you would gladly give him anything he so much as looked at. He’s already given you plenty of attention that you’ll let him take whatever he needs in the name of gratitude.

A token of appreciation, if you will. A thank you for being the perfect neighbor—the perfect man, capable of melting your resolve with kind gestures before proceeding to rearrange your guts.

Although thinking this is solely for his benefit seems foolish when he's ruining you oh-so-good. Fast and precise, hitting right where you love it, touching exactly where you're tight. 

A harsh jerk of his cock has you blubbering incoherent words, "HolyfuckLe—Leon!"

You're answered with a row of grunts, of squelching noises that increase the more he thrusts in. You feel like a carved pretzel as he pins your legs to your chest, locking you firmly in place. Drilling hard, erratic, pushing all the strength he possesses into your pliant body.

There’s a hot tension in your lower belly. The muscles slacken in your neck—throat closing in as your mouth opens in a scream that doesn't quite make it through.

The silence punched out of you is finally rewarded.

Your third orgasm is gut-wrenching when it happens. It twists your insides, wringing you dry. You’re a mess of tears and drool and Leon makes sure you aren't left completely empty. With two final strong thrusts, he pumps a flood deep into your cunt in exchange for every drop of liquid he’s drained from your pores.

Overstimulated and exhausted, you slowly let your heartbeat settle. So does Leon. His breath tickles the crook of your neck, and there’s a thick, gravelly edge in his voice as he drawls, “I should’ve pulled out.”

Not exactly regret, but an acknowledgment of his complete loss of control. Not that you particularly care.

Lifting a lazy hand, you gently stroke the corded muscle of his arm, soothing down the dusting of silvered hair.

“You don't see me complaining," you whisper, voice utterly sated.

“Yeah? Let me see you.”

The smell of sex is so pungent and sweet as he slips you off his thighs. Lays you gently on the empty space of the couch beside him. Parts your legs for the many times tonight, and marvels at the sight of his cum making its way down to your puckered hole.

He spreads your spent, swollen folds with his thumb. “Gorgeous girl.”

You offer him a tired smile.

Surprisingly, you do believe him.

In a physical sense, yes, that’s true. The way he’s imprinted himself inside your body is proof enough of exactly how fiercely he desires you. But the weight of his words carries a gravity that pulls at something far deeper than your skin. Past the pulse at your throat and the ache in your thighs, settling heavy in the hollow of your chest.

Society has a way of making you feel like you’re meant to diminish with time. Expected to survive in barren soil, pouring yourself out while trying to bloom from roots that wouldn't even bother to water you. Grown accustomed to a slow drought from an environment that convinced you were fading out of focus as the years ticked by.

The way he looks at you defies that logic. The blue in his eyes suggests time has only made your harvest sweeter.

Any insecurities you harbored evaporate under the pads of his fingers as he maps the rise of your belly. All the self-criticism and nagging fear of becoming invisible dissolve the same way he smoothly glides through the valley of your breasts.

The frantic noise of the world goes completely silent when he palms your cheek. His body is hot atop yours, and his gaze holds genuine comfort of being truly, unconditionally seen.

For the first time tonight, you discern the affection decorating his eyes.

And it’s certainly not for the last.

His smile is warm and tender as his breath kisses your lips. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Your birthday is happy indeed.

[haddonfieldwhore]

borrowed - leon kennedy

gn!reader • 580 words • re9 leon (no spoilers)

you liked to steal things of leon’s. clarification, you liked to borrow his things, and then forget to give them back. nothing significant that he would miss, or be upset without - but little things, like his clothes or his cologne when he was gone and you missed the way he smelled.

it doesn’t bother him, it’s more of a reassurance knowing that if he’s misplaced something, you likely know where it is.

•

“hey, have you seen my-“ he asked, emerging from the bathroom, his lower half covered only by a towel as his eyes landed on you. you stood in front of the coffee maker, filling it with water wearing the pyjama pants he had been looking for.

“hmm?” you asked, turning to fave him, a sleepy look in your eyes.

“nevermind,” he smiled, shaking his head, water falling from his hair that was still wet from the shower.

“okay. coffee will be ready soon.”

“sounds good. i’ll be right back,” he walked over, kissing the side of your head before disappearing back into the bedroom to find something else to wear. he loved when you wore his clothes, so he couldn’t even be mad that you’d stolen his favourite pants. but he’d definitely make a joke about needing to take them off you later.

•

“where the hell did you find that?” leon asked, amused as you walked into the living room wearing his brown bomber jacket.

“it was in the back of the closet,” you shrugged, tugging the sleeves down over your hands.

“haven’t seen that in years,” he commented, looking you up and down. “forgot i still had it.”

“the you won’t mind if i wear it? it’s getting cold out,” you gave him your best puppy dog eyes, as if that was necessary.

“knock yourself out,” he laughed, taking your hand and spinning you around. “you ready to go?” he asked, grabbing his keys and glancing at his watch, making sure you still were on time for your dinner reservation.

•

leon got home late from work one night to find you curled up in bed, sleep with an open book in your lap and his reading glasses perched crookedly on the bridge of your nose.

“gonna give yourself a headache,” he scolded softly, as he kissed your forehead to wake you. he took the glasses off your face and placed them on the nightstand.

“you look handsome with them on, you should wear them more,” you mumbled, looking up at him.

“my eyes are fine - only need them sometimes,” he replied. his liked to think his eyesight was still pretty good for someone his age.

“you look good without them too,” you added, leaning up to kiss him.

“sure you don’t need your eyes checked?” he teased, and you pushed his shoulder playfully.

“the grey hair really suits you- hey!” you laughed as he tackled you on the bed, hands tickling your sides. “that was a compliment!”

“my hair is not grey,” he argued. you pointed to his head, taking a strand of hair between your fingers.

“are you sure because i see a few-“ he interrupted you with another kiss, and you hummed against his lips, lacing your fingers through his hair and tugging softly.

“you are gonna put me in an early grave,” he teased, and you smiled up at him as he hovered above you, his arms on either side of your head.

“i certainly hope not.”

[breathinginyoursmoke]

I need more domestic stuff with Leon

You clean his guns.

They are always heavy, magazines empty from either work or him being cautious. Most of the ones he carries are black, sometimes chipped, or carrying other signs of wear. Grime is usually visible on the chambers or the trigger itself. Nothing you've ever judged him for. He's worn out, practically about to fall asleep at the doorstep if it weren't for your couch.

Leon never brings home more than two guns, possibly because of work policy, or he simply refuses to shove so many firearms into your home. You wouldn't have minded. It just would mean a few more barrels to clean.

The one in your hands now is full of history. Taking it apart, even to do something as nice as wiping the grease, feels immoral. As if you're taking apart someone's treasured memory piece by piece, cracking it open for all its secrets. What would you find in this chamber? Would you even be able to handle the weight it carries?

A shiver crawls up your spine. Probably not.

This one is a grey pistol. Leon has always had it, ever since the two of you met. It symbolizes something important in his life. You can see it in the way he handles it. The way his eyes linger on the carvings for just long enough, possibly hoping he can reach into it. You don't ask him about his past too often because it's easy to see what it does to him. Though, you can't help being human and curious as to why he'd keep such a trinket that causes him agony in the first place. Not that it's uncanny or not normal. You, of all people, know how easy it is to get swept in your own personal goals. It blinds you for a time until you wake up and realize it too late.

The marking says Kendo. You wipe the darkening creases of the K and the O.

Dirt build-up is common for any item in use, but those two letters build up the fastest. It makes you wonder how often Leon himself grazes that same carving.

You frown. No use overthinking about it.

You check the digital clock on your stove. 12:30. Leon will be up soon. A sense of nostalgia fills your body, as you recall times like these again and again. Deja vu, some would call it. Your frown disappears into a small simper.

Having a routine with someone is a feeling one can never truly forget. It's hard to start at first, with a new environment and a new life. Your old habits kick in, sometimes causing chaos in this new bubble. And then, somehow, your body adjusts to the nature, overwriting the old with the new. Your normal isn't what it used to be.

Dating an agent of some kind, whether government or CIA, has merits. And flaws. But so does everything.

A schedule he can not change. Bruises he cannot explain. It's a lot for two people to handle, let alone one.

Despite everything, your love for him always wins. And you want to believe it always will. For now, anyway.

Being so lost in your own thoughts, you don't hear his heavy footfalls. (Leon is exhausted most of the time and falls asleep in his boots.) Two bulky arms wrap around your middle, and you stiffen, suppressing a yelp.

"Don't do that when I have a gun in my hand," you complain, holding up the part as emphasis. Your heart is pumping in your chest, hands shaking with oncoming adrenaline.

"It's not loaded," he snickers. "I would know."

"Jackass," you murmur. You feel him kiss the back of your hair, and the irritation disolves as if it was never there.

"How bad was the damage this time?"

"Just a little grime here and there. Dried blood from... something was on the magazine, but you probably already knew that."

"Yeah, work was work." A phrase he often says. As if he's saying an inside joke that only he knows about. You hope one day he'll let you in on it. "You don't have to clean these, you know. I can do it."

"Well, you do things for me," you reply, still wiping some of the gunk off. "I want to do things for you."

His grip gets a little tighter. "Oh, you do things for me."

You try to shove him. He doesn't budge. "Alright, get off of me. You know what I mean."

He kisses you again before relinquishing his grip. "Yeah, I know. Don't worry."

From the corner of your eye, you watch him. How he moves. He's lighter on his feet this time, turns quickly. It's likely he's not hurt too bad, though he would never tell you. Never would outright crow about if his arm or leg hurts. Even if his bones were visible through his flesh, he would grit his teeth and simply bear it. Leon is too eager to carry his own problems, so you've learned to be observant. Scour any changes in the way he walks and talks, in the way his eyebrows clench.

"You're not my nanny," he told you once. You scowled at him.

"Yeah, you're right, I'm your partner. But it's still my job to be worried, especially when you come home with bandages everywhere."

"I'm fine," he groaned.

"Yeah? And I'm a perfect human being. Try again."

"I'd argue you are."

"Not the time, Romeo."

He's a grown man with his own responsibilities. God above only knows what those said responsibilities are, and that's the part that scares you the most.

"Hey," Leon lightly caresses your hair. "You're lost in your own head again."

"Like you're one to talk." You place the parts all next to each other, taking in your work. Mostly clean, you are sure you've missed a few spots that have hidden brown stains, but you believe this is good enough.

You glance back at him. He's also observing what you've done. "The difference is, I like hearing your voice compared to my own." He says, wasting no time to put his pistol back together. "You're a little more positive."

"And you need a full supply of that and then some."

He clicks his tongue. "Smartass."

"Again, look who's talking." Your voice echoes down the hall as you make your escape. "Have you heard some of the crap you say?"

"Not like I hear it every day or anything."

You smile, one that puts an ache in your cheeks. No other man would ever bring out this side of you. No other man has. And you can't imagine anyone else taking his place.

"Thank you, sweetheart." It's quiet, but he knows you can hear him.

"Love you too."

If only he knew how much. Maybe he does. And maybe that's all the both of you need.

[theweepingangelofcas]

A Lil Jealous

Summary: You're both in Spain for the events of RE4. What happens when Luis flirts with you in front of Leon?

Small Warning: Luis gets a little crude, OG RE4-esque, even.

To be completely honest, Luis should've expected this to happen. This is really just a consequence of his own actions.

It had started innocently enough. He had been casually flirting with Leon's mission partner, Y/N, coyly sharing winks and jokes. He supposes that, in hindsight, he might've taken it a bit too far.

It was when the four of you rushed into a safe house in the middle of nowhere. Leon had one hand around your wrist, the other around Ashley's, making sure you both made it there safe. Even though you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, Leon watched over you like a lover would. Luis, seeing the protective glare in his eyes, decided to test him.

"Ah! I see the lost princesa has been rescued by a beautiful, feminine knight~" His hand landed in yours, uncaring of the dirt and grime beneath your nails. A kiss was placed on your knuckles, a wink gracing his features for a moment.

Leon grumbled, "This is not the time. Is this location safe?"

Ashley was behind him, nodding in agreement. Was it safe? Would they be okay to wait out the storm?

Luis's eyes didn't dare stray from your face, "Of course, mi amor. I would never put such beautiful features in harms way."

You rolled your eyes, trying to pull your hand away. Leon got there first.

Luis was up against the wall before he knew it. Strong fists were in his shirt, lifting him up against the splintering wood at his back. "She's not interested, pal. Now answer the question to my face."

Perhaps rather dumbly, Luis simply looked past him, gaze still trained on you.

"I would answer you, Prince Charming, but I'm too focused on your shield maiden. I knew you two had fire power, but I'm shocked that she's equipped with bazookas."

He winked again, watching as your hand went to cover your clothed chest. He barely got to see your shocked expression before a fist landed in his face.

Yeah, this was his own fault.

His face bloomed with bruises immediately, red flushing his right cheekbone in particular.

Ashley was speaking now, sighing in annoyance, "How rude."

You nodded. Rude, indeed.

Leon looked back at you softly, like he was silently trying to apologize for what had just been said to you. But you couldn't help but notice that his gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts just a touch longer than necessary.

Luis chuckled through the pain. He had achieved his goal after all.

[breathings-of-the-heart]

Heyy!!! If your requests are open I was thinking of reader doing that trend on leon where you glue the lid on a jar and ask for help but leon just opens it in seconds

Leon vs. Superglued Jar Challenge

A/N: This is such a good idea for Leon (any version tbh), I paused everything to write this immediately!!

You stand at the counter, turning the jar in your hands like it personally offended you. The lid does not budge.

Of course it doesn’t.

Because you made sure of that.

There’s a faint, traitorous curl to your lips as you glance over your shoulder—already a little too pleased with yourself.

Your boyfriend is leaning against the doorway, one shoulder braced into the frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his forearms. Your mind lingers, briefly, on the unfairness of how he can dismantle a bioweapon outbreak and still come home and look like that. The stress lines at the corners of his eyes, the salt-and-pepper at his temples, that rugged little frown—if anything, it only makes him more handsome.

Leon taps idly at his screen with that same unreadable calm he carries everywhere, completely unsuspecting.

Perfect.

Because today... you weren't staring simply to admire.

You huffed a bit and tighten your grip on the jar, giving it another very performative twist.

It doesn’t move.

You sigh, just soft enough to be heard.

“…Leon?”

He hums, low in his throat, not moving yet.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate— still struggling against the jar that's personally offended you, like this isn’t the entire point.

“…can you help me, please?” you pout in frustration. "Dumb thing won't budge."

There’s a beat.

When he pushes off the doorway, his hand gently brushes against the small of your back as he steps up beside you. It does something very unfortunate to your heartbeat.

“You try popping the side?” he hums, voice faintly amused.

You try—try—to look a little embarrassed. You even press your lips together, shoulders dipping just slightly, like you’ve already accepted defeat.

“Yes,” you insist, soft, earnest. “But it’s really tight.”

His fingers brush yours when he takes the jar—and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to tamp down the grin threatening to surface.

Leon finally glances down at the lid, turning it slightly with the other hand, thumb pressing along the edge like he’s checking the seal.

And then—

He twists.

There’s a soft, clean pop.

The lid comes off like it was never sealed with extra strength brand you made sure to buy in the first place.

You gape.

Leon hands it back to you, eyes already returning to the work email on his phone. You barely feel the cool glass as your eyes shift back and forth from him to the open jar in your hand.

It takes him a second.

Then he looks up again—does a small double take when he catches your expression.

"What?" He asks cluelessly.

"I-I superglued that," You blurt out. "And you just..."

Leon raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. He turns the lid once between his fingers, examining it.

“…huh. Felt normal to me.”

You scoff, shoving lightly at his chest—but he catches your wrist before you can pull away, and the exasperation melts into giggles as he tugs you closer, pressing a scatter of kisses along your neck, the sound of combined laugher filling the kitchen.