[korijime]

now playing… american wedding — frank ocean.

❥ about me ( carrd ). masterlist. introduction.

# riyuu, she/her.

# requests are always open, but i will only write them if i feel like it.

# sfw + slightly suggestive content, rb nsfw content.

# read carrd for byf/dni.

★ latest. none.

★ upcoming. none as of now !!

★ currently. online. lurking. offline. inactive.

ⓒ all rights reserved to korijime. do not repost, modify, or plagiarize.

[frazzled-soul]

After the Chaos

Leon Kennedy x Female Reader

Summary: After a long day in the chaos of his world, Leon finally gets a break… and you’ve got a full plan to help him relax. From an acupressure mats to playful dinner, face masks, and quiet moments on the sofa, you guide him to unwind, showing that even the simplest things can feel extraordinary when shared.

Word count: 2,2k

Featuring: fluff, established relationship, kissing, sexual tension, playful teasing, cute moments, taking care of our poor Leon, domestic slice-of-life

A/N: Just pure, rotting-teeth fluff. Works with any Leon! After reading, a visit to the dentist may be required. English isn’t my native language, sorry for any mistakes.

You couldn’t wait for Leon to arrive. He had promised he’d finish work early today – just wrap up the mandatory reports – and come over for dinner and a lazy evening together. You knew he’d been working hard lately, and you hadn’t had the chance to see each other as often as you would’ve liked. All the more reason for you to make sure he finally got the rest he deserved.

When the doorbell finally rang, you practically rushed to it, almost bouncing on your way.

The moment Leon saw how eagerly you flung the door open, a roguish smile spread across his face.

“Missed m– ” he didn’t get to finish, because you threw your arms around his neck, pressing a loud, exaggerated muah to his cheek.

You grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. As soon as he shut the door behind him, his hands instinctively found your waist, squeezing gently as he pulled you closer.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“Hey,” you replied softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. You could see he was tired – dark circles under his eyes, his expression worn, his posture slightly slouched. You placed both hands on his biceps, slowly sliding them up to his shoulders and neck.

Leon watched you with quiet curiosity, his thumbs absentmindedly tracing your hips. A faint grimace crossed his face when you pressed lightly against the back of his neck.

“Leon… you’re so tense,” you murmured, gently trying to work the stiffness out of his muscles.

He responded with a low hum, eyes fluttering shut. “I know… might be time to get a new chair at work,” he admitted, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to the tip of your nose.

“I don’t think that’ll fix it… you just hunch like a shrimp,” you pointed out, letting go of his neck and placing your hands firmly against his chest.

A quiet chuckle left him before he pulled your hips closer to his. “You have to admit, though – I make a pretty handsome shrimp.”

You rolled your eyes and rose onto your toes, sparing him from having to bend down any further. Your lips brushed softly against his, lingering for a moment as neither of you moved.

Your favorite scent wrapped around you – his cologne, mixed with coffee he must have been drinking far too much of lately. You’d missed it. Missed him. That strong, solid presence that could crush you without effort, yet handled you with the gentlest touch.

Finally, you felt Leon’s hand on your cheek, a quiet sign of his impatience, so you gave in and deepened the kiss – slow, soft, deliberate. He tried to match your pace, but the way he pressed his lips firmly against yours made it clear it wasn’t enough for him.

You pulled back slightly, intending to meet his gaze – but he didn’t let you. He closed the distance immediately, chasing your lips, more insistent this time. You let him, feigning compliance as you parted your lips just a little – only to catch his lower lip between your teeth, tugging playfully.

A low, rough sound escaped him, and you felt his hand slide from your hips dangerously close to your ass.

You pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him. Every time you tried to lean back, he followed, chasing your mouth with growing urgency.

“Leon… you must be starving…”

“I definitely am,” he said, locking eyes with you – his pupils blown wide.

“Good,” you laughed, trying not to flush under the intensity of his gaze. “Because I made bolognese.”

As much as you didn’t want to leave his arms, you knew he needed a proper meal, or things might escalate… and spaghetti would be for breakfast.

“I’ll just put the pasta on, okay? And I’ve got something for you in the meantime.”

“Oh?” he muttered, clearly not thrilled about the sudden loss of contact as you walked toward the living room, signaling him to follow.

“You’re going to lie down here, and I’ll call you when dinner’s ready. Deal? Your muscles will thank you.”

Leon looked at you like he wasn’t sure whether you were joking – or if he had somehow overestimated how much you liked him.

You laid out the mat in front of him – covered in thousands of tiny spikes.

He stared at it in silence for a moment, then glanced back at you, uncertain.

“…I didn’t know you were into torture devices.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, placing your hands on your hips.

“It’s an acupressure mat, goof. It helps relax your muscles. Just lie down for a bit – you’ll feel better, I promise.”

“Right…” he said, leaning down to press few spikes with his finger. “I’ve always been more of a traditional massage guy, but I’ll trust you.”

He let out a quiet chuckle at your attempt to keep a straight face.

“Your muscles are basically made of stone, Mr. Kennedy – you won’t feel a thing. Now lie down,” you said, leaving no room for argument.

He gave the mat one last wary look before slowly starting to undress.

His jacket landed on the couch, and when he pulled his shirt off – so tight it clung to every contour – you couldn’t help but stare. His muscles flexed and rolled under his skin with every motion as he drew the fabric over his head.

Leon sat down carefully, eyeing the mat behind him with a hesitant glance before letting himself down as gently as possible.

The moment his back met the spikes, he sucked in a sharp breath – but didn’t pull away, allowing his full weight settle.

You smiled, watching him shift slightly, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation. Then you crouched down and started untying his shoes.

“…Okay. Maybe it’s not that bad,” he admitted after a moment, peeking at you through his lashes.

“Told you. Now behave and relax. I’ll call you,” you said, patting his knee lightly before grabbing his clothes and heading out.

You hung them up in the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen.

By the time the pasta was done and everything plated, you called for him – but got no response.

Curious, you walked back into the living room – and snorted at the sight.

Leon was out cold.

Hands clasped loosely over his stomach, head tilted to the side, lips slightly parted. A few strands of hair had fallen over his closed eyes – he looked… softer like this. Almost peaceful.

You stepped closer and nudged his shoulder.

“Leon? Food’s ready.”

He flinched slightly at your voice, then slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“Already?”

“Already, handsome. Didn’t think my ‘torture device’ would knock you out like that.”

You laughed as he sat up.

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was brooding,” he muttered defensively, unwilling to admit how good it had felt.

“Of course you were,” you said flatly.

You reached up and, with exaggerated slowness, wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth. His ears turned faintly pink.

“Come on. Before everything gets cold.”

“Damn… my back’s warm,” he noted, getting up.

“That means it’s working,” you replied, patting his back as you both headed into the kitchen.

Leon didn’t leave your side. He pressed close behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder as you tried to serve the pasta.

“Where’s my shirt?” he asked.

“You don’t need it.”

“Like what you see?” he teased, his lips brushing dangerously close to your neck, curling into a faint smirk.

“Always,” you answered truthfully.

“Careful, sweetheart – that barely fits on the plate,” he remarked, teasing.

“You’re going to ask for seconds anyway,” you shot back, nudging him in the ribs with your elbow, earning a playful smack on your backside in return.

“Leon, sit down,” you laughed.

“As the lady wishes,” he drawled, taking his seat like he’d been properly instructed.

Even though your portion was barely a fraction of his, Leon finished eating before you did. You watched him loosen up more and more with every bite – it was obvious he needed a proper, warm meal.

“So? Is it good?” you asked, finishing up.

“You’re seriously asking…?” He leaned back in his chair, slowly exhaling. “It was delicious. Thank you.”

“Then next on the agenda is…” you leaned in, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, “face masks and a movie night.”

Leon blinked at you, visibly thrown. “F-face masks? Wait… those don’t have spikes, do they?”

You snorted and flicked a stray piece of pasta at him. It hit his cheek perfectly, leaving a smudge of sauce on his nose.

“You minx– ” Before you could react, Leon was already on his feet and right next to you. Instinctively, you jumped up from your chair and darted away, circling the table.

“That was self-defense, Leon!” you squeaked – but it was already too late. He caught up to you in two long strides, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. With his other hand, he started tickling you mercilessly.

You tried to break free, but it was useless – his grip held you in place like a cage. He only loosened his hold when he noticed tears of laughter gathering in the corners of your eyes.

Finally, you caught your breath, instinctively grabbing onto his wrists, just in case he decided to resume the torture.

You wiped your eyes and looked up at him. Leon was studying your face, his gaze soft – almost fond.

You reached up, brushing the remaining sauce off his nose with your thumb, then slowly licking it off your finger without breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna be the death of me…” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours, eyes closed. “Fine. I’ll take a shower – get those masks ready.”

You smiled, gently brushing his cheek. “Come on, I’ll grab you something to change into.”

Leon disappeared into the bathroom – but didn’t even bother closing the door. Before the water started running, you heard him call out:

“Just don’t make me look too young – I don’t want my phone failing face recognition.”

***

Finally, the moment you’d been waiting for.

Leon, just for you.

You leaned back against the couch, Leon settled between your arms, his back pressed against your chest. A sheet mask covered his face, his hair still damp from the shower. Your fingers traced absent patterns across his stomach, your other hand loosely intertwined with his.

A comedy played in the background – one you couldn’t focus on. Leon’s scent was far too distracting. Shower gel mixed with the warmth of his body, creating something almost addictive. For a moment, you wondered if you could actually smother him with affection.

Leon absentmindedly brushed his thumb over your hand, occasionally making quiet comments about the movie. At some point, his words blurred into soft murmurs – you were pretty sure he wasn’t even fully awake anymore.

You loved moments like this. Doing nothing with him – just being.

You knew how rarely he got to experience anything close to normal, and you’d made it your quiet mission to make every second you spent together count. Leon made it easy, too – with him, even lying around felt like something worth cherishing. He seemed to feel the same.

It hadn’t always been like this.

The beginning of your relationship had been rough. He didn’t know how to rest. Never let his guard down. His mind was always on edge, stuck in survival mode. Spending time together like this – quiet, soft, unguarded – had been foreign to him. Work and life blurred into one, inseparable thing.

And honestly, you weren’t even sure that would ever fully change – considering everything he’d been through.

It turned out Leon just needed time at your side. His habits never really left him – he’d still jolt awake in the middle of the night at the sound of a plastic bottle popping on your nightstand. But the moments he spent with you became something he started to look forward to – rare instances when he allowed himself to feel that you were his safe harbor, an anchor that could pull him, if only for a while, away from the dull brutality of everyday life and remind him that even the simplest things were worth celebrating.

Without thinking, you pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. In response, you heard a quiet sigh and felt Leon shift, wriggling slightly as he changed position – rolling onto his stomach, resting his head against your chest.

Somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten about the sheet mask. Half of it crumpled awkwardly against his face as he nuzzled into you. You gently took him by the chin, trying to pull him back just a little.

“Leon, careful with the mask…” you murmured.

“Mmm.”

“You’re going to smear it all over me… come on, let’s take it off, okay?”

“Mhhmm.”

His response, however, didn’t quite match his actions – your shirt was soon damp with the substance as he stubbornly buried his face against your breasts again, one hand slipping behind your back to grip your waist.

You stayed like that for a moment, considering just letting him fall asleep.

But you still had one last trick up your sleeve.

“Hey, pretty boy… I won’t push you… but I did have one more thing planned for tonight…”

You only got a muffled, “yeah?” in return.

You leaned down, brushing your lips close to his ear. The warm breath against his skin made him shiver faintly.

“Remember that lingerie I was looking at online? You know… the one you liked,” you teased.

That did it.

Leon lifted his head immediately, blinking at you through half-lidded eyes, brows slightly furrowed, the mask barely clinging to his face.

“You kiddin’ me? Course I remember…” he rasped.

“I bought it… but I haven’t tried it on yet. I don’t even know if it fits. I wanted your opinion… but maybe we should leave that for tomorrow,” you said sweetly, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes.

A new kind of energy sparked in him instantly. He pushed himself up off you and sat beside you, peeling the mask off his face and inspecting it for a second.

“Come here, I’ll rub in what’s left – you don’t have to rinse it,” you said, climbing onto his lap.

Instinctively, his hands settled on your hips.

For a moment, you sat in silence while you gently worked the remaining serum into his skin. It softened you, the way he leaned subtly into your touch, unconsciously chasing it. His gaze stayed on you – relaxed, steady – his hands holding you just a little tighter.

“There you go,” you murmured, breaking the silence as you finished, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “You handled my ideas like a champ, Leon. I think you’ve earned a reward.”

“That was hardly a challenge, love,” he replied, returning the kiss, his hands now very deliberately sliding down to your ass. “But I won’t say no to a reward.”

“We could always wait until tomorrow… you should get some sleep first,” you teased, even as his lips moved to your neck, placing soft, featherlight kisses along your skin.

“There’ll be time for sleep… later,” he murmured. “I’m collecting my reward now.”

And then he kissed you again – this time deeper, hungrier.

Your arms slipped around his neck on instinct as you felt his grip tighten, lifting you up from the couch. He adjusted his hold, tossing you lightly in his arms, and without breaking the kiss for even a second, started making his way toward the bedroom.

For some reason, you were pretty sure you wouldn’t be trying on that lingerie tonight after all.

Thank you for reading. Would appreciate feedback!

[viktateapot]

THE WEDDING NIGHT

PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/reader (MF) Ada Wong, Claire Redfield, Chris Redfield, Ingrid Hunnigan, Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira (mentioned)

RATING: Explicit

GENRE: Romance / Fluff / Established Relationship

SUMMARY: You came home after midnight, exhausted but happy. Gifts waited to be opened—from Claire, from Chris, from Jill and Carlos. And one more. A thin black envelope, no return address, with your name written in elegant, flowing handwriting.

You came home after midnight. You kicked off your shoes at the door, not even trying to put them away, and walked barefoot into the living room. Leon followed, undoing his bow tie, which finally gave up after several failed attempts.

"I'm tired," you announced, collapsing onto the couch. "I'm tired as a dog. No, dogs don't get this tired. Dogs sleep twenty hours a day."

"You haven't slept in two days," Leon reminded you, sitting down beside you. "It's normal that you're tired."

"It's not normal that at a wedding you have to smile at every idiot who comes up to congratulate you."

"You didn't smile. You looked at them like a wolf."

"That is my smile."

He chuckled, pulled you close. You buried your nose in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent—cologne, whiskey (he'd barely drunk tonight, you'd kept count), and something else that was just him.

"Presents," you said suddenly.

"What?"

"Presents. We haven't opened them."

"They can wait until morning."

"Leon." You lifted your head, looked at him. "I want to open them now."

"You just said you were tired."

"I'm tired, but I want to open presents."

He sighed—that particular sigh that meant "arguing is useless."

"Fine. I'll get them."

He brought two boxes and several envelopes from the hallway. You sat cross-legged on the couch and started sorting through them.

"This one's from Claire," you said, opening the first envelope. "A gift certificate to a kitchenware store. Is she hinting that we need real plates?"

"We have plates."

"We have two plates. And one of them is cracked."

"It's cracked, but it's loved."

"Leon, it's a plate."

"It remembers our first meal together."

You looked at him. He was serious. Completely serious.

"You're an idiot," you said.

"But you love me."

"That's the only reason you're still alive."

You set the certificate aside and picked up the next box. From Chris. Inside was a bottle of whiskey—expensive, old, with a meaningful label. You turned it over in your hands, then looked at Leon.

"He shouldn't have," Leon said.

"He meant well."

"He knows that I..."

"I know." You set the bottle aside. "We'll put it on the shelf. For guests."

Leon didn't answer, but his shoulders relaxed slightly.

Then came gifts from Hunnigan—a set of stationery labeled "for reports"; from the operatives at USSTRATCOM—a restaurant gift card with a note attached: "Use it before we change our minds." You smirked and tucked the card into Leon's pocket.

"Where?" he asked.

"For a date. Take me somewhere that doesn't smell like gunpowder."

"Deal."

Two envelopes remained. One thick, heavy, with a return address you recognized immediately. Jill and Carlos. You opened it, pulled out a card.

"Congratulations! Wish we could have been there. Jill says you're the perfect couple. I say you're both insane, but insane people who deserve happiness. Carlos."

Attached to the card was a receipt. You looked at the amount and whistled.

"They bought us a dishwasher."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. I guess Jill saw our cracked plate too."

Leon laughed. A real, living laugh, the kind you didn't hear as often as you'd like.

You took the last envelope. Thin, made of heavy black paper, no return address. Just your name, written in elegant, flowing handwriting.

You froze.

"What is it?" Leon asked, noticing your pause.

"I don't know." You turned the envelope over in your hands. "But I have a bad feeling."

"Who's it from?"

You didn't answer. Instead, you opened the envelope—carefully, unhurried. Inside was a note on the same heavy black paper, and a small velvet box. You unfolded the note first.

"Open without Leon."

You smirked.

"What is it?" Leon repeated, trying to look over your shoulder.

"Nothing." You pressed the note to your chest. "It's personal."

"From who?"

"From a woman who knows how to make surprises."

Leon frowned but didn't ask further. He knew that look—when you closed a topic, you closed it for good.

"Alright," he said. "I'm going to take a shower. You'll be okay?"

"I'm always okay."

He left, and you were alone. You unfolded the note, read it again:

"Dear Y/N. I'm not good at saying these things in person, so I'll write. You're the only woman I can't hate. Maybe because you never tried to replace me. Maybe because you're just honest. Take care of him. And yourself. P.S. The gift is not for his eyes. Trust me, it's not something you want to explain to a man. Ada."

You smirked. Shook your head. Then opened the velvet box.

Inside was lingerie. Black. Lace. The kind you would never have bought for yourself—too revealing, too provocative, too... Ada. You held it up by the thin straps, examining it in the lamplight.

"Damn," you breathed. "Damn, damn, damn."

You didn't know what to do. Part of you wanted to throw it in the trash—on principle. Another part, the one that lived deep inside and whispered that you were still a woman, still wanted to be desired—that part insisted on trying it on.

"Just once," you said to the empty room. "Just to see."

You took off your jacket, blouse, trousers. Put on what Ada had sent. The lace was cool against your skin, the fit was perfect—as if tailored. You looked at yourself in the mirror on the inside of the closet door.

"God," you whispered.

You didn't know if it was shock, admiration, or the urge to take it off immediately. On one hand, you felt ridiculous. On the other—for the first time in a long time, you saw in your reflection not a fighter, not an agent, not a wife who bandages wounds and checks magazines. But a woman. Just a woman.

From the bathroom came the sound of water. Leon wasn't out yet. You looked at yourself in the mirror and thought. Then you heard the water turn off.

"Y/N!" he called. "Do we have any clean towels?"

"In the closet!" you answered, but your voice cracked.

You didn't have time to change. Didn't have time for anything—he came out of the bathroom sooner than you expected. Towel over his shoulder, wearing only sweatpants, hair wet and plastered to his forehead. And he froze.

You stood in the middle of the bedroom in that black lace, and even your composure cracked.

"Leon," you said. "I can explain."

He said nothing. Looked at you the way you look at something impossible—something that exists only in dreams.

"It's Ada," you continued. "She sent it. As a gift. I just... wanted to try it on. Didn't think you'd come out so early. And anyway, this is stupid, I'll take it off and—"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't take it off."

He stepped forward. Then another step. Came so close you could feel his breath on your skin.

"You..." he began and stopped. "You're incredible."

"It's Ada's gift. I don't know whether to laugh or—"

"I don't care whose gift it is." His hands found your waist, fingers tracing the lace. "You. Just you."

You looked at him. At his eyes—darkened, with an expression you didn't see often. At his lips, which you'd kissed a thousand times. At his hands, holding you as if you were the only thing that mattered.

"Leon," you whispered.

"I love you," he said. "You know that, right?"

"I know."

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. In that stupid lace thing and without it. In trousers and in a dress. With a knife and without."

"You just want to fuck me right now," you smirked.

"That too."

You couldn't help but laugh. And he leaned down and kissed you—gently at first, then deeper, more demanding. His hands slid down your back, over the lace, over the skin it revealed. You threaded your fingers through his wet hair, pulling him closer.

"Bed," you breathed. "Now."

"Won't make it," he answered, pressing you against the wall.

You didn't argue.

He didn't carry you to the bed. You fell onto the floor, knocking the blanket off the couch, tangling in the lace that never quite came off. You ended up on top—it was more comfortable for you, so you could control the depth, the rhythm, the angle. And so you could see his face.

"Leon," you whispered, leaning down.

"I'm here," he answered, his hands sliding over your thighs, holding, guiding.

You lowered yourself onto him slowly, feeling him enter you—familiar and new at the same time, as if every joining was the first. His breath hitched, his fingers dug into your skin, and you knew he was trying not to rush, to give you time. But you didn't want time. You wanted him.

"Harder," you breathed.

He obeyed.

The movements became deeper, sharper. You gripped his shoulders, bit your lip to keep from crying out—not because you were afraid someone would hear, but because you wanted to keep that sound just for him. Leon was whispering something—you couldn't make out the words, only felt the vibration of his voice against your chest, his lips on your neck, his hands on your back, where the corset was, where the old wound was, where everything that made you who you were.

You came first—suddenly, intensely, arching your back, throwing your head back. He followed almost immediately, pulling you close, burying his face in your hair.

"Y/N," he whispered.

"Mmm?"

"Don't fall asleep on the floor."

"Why not?" you mumbled. "It's soft here."

"It's cold here."

"You'll keep me warm."

He chuckled, kissed the top of your head. Then, with obvious effort, got up, scooped you into his arms—you gasped, wrapped your legs around his waist—and carried you to the bedroom.

"You're going to drop me," you said.

"Won't drop you."

"You're drunk."

"Sober as a glass. You were counting."

"I could have been wrong."

"You couldn't."

He set you down on the bed—carefully, as if you were something fragile. You pulled him down with you, and he lay beside you, pressing against your back, wrapping his arms around you, burying his nose in your hair.

"Leon," you said.

"Yeah?"

"This was a good evening."

"The best."

"Even with Hunnigan's stupid toast?"

"Even with that."

You smiled into the darkness. He kissed your shoulder, and you felt his breathing grow steadier, deeper. He was falling asleep.

"Leon," you called again.

"Mmm."

"I love you."

"Me too."

You knew tomorrow would be a new day. Reports, calls, missions that no one had cancelled. But tonight—just this night, this home, this man who held you as if you were everything.

"Ada must never know," you said after a minute.

"Know what?"

"That we ruined her gift."

"We'll buy a new one."

"You think I'm going to wear that?"

"I hope so."

You turned your head, looked at him. He lay beside you, disheveled, with red marks from your lips on his neck, a blissful smile on his face.

"You're impossible," you said.

"I know."

You smirked and closed your eyes. Outside, dawn was breaking. A new day was beginning—the first day of your new life. And you knew it would be good. Because you were together. And because Ada Wong, strange as she was, sometimes gave very good gifts.

[rosierecs13]

⭒ Leon S. Kennedy Recs

⭒ Masterpost ⭒ 03/30/2026

⭒ Video Games Masterlist

⭒ Resident Evil

Masterlist | @leqonsluv3r

Til’ Death Do Us Part | @astronautlawliet

A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when you’re bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.

hot milf finds her first gray. | @leonarchive

yet another miscommunication arc. | @/leonarchive

bleeding hearts. | @/leonarchive

“if she dies, there’s nothing in the world left for me anymore.” | @vowheavyyz

You return home after a long day at work, expecting a normal night. You were getting ready for bed as you waited for your husband when the electricity went out, startling you. But before you could call your husband, you were kidnapped by a certain doctor. Leon comes home to find you gone, and he isn’t happy at all.

Just A Touch Of Your Love | @midnightsummerrain

Leon is touch-starved. Of course, he would never show this in public, but as soon as the two of you are alone, he can't help but crave your touch.

post re4!bf leon headcanons | @satorucele

Wedding Ring | @topsytervy

your husband can't find his gloves for the latest mission he's been sent on and he refuses to leave without them

Bring Him Back | @/topsytervy

things aren't looking to good for your boyfriend on his mission so he decides to call you.

lovers rock | @h4neypot

4 times the team notices something's up with leon and the 1 time they figure it out

Crawl Home to Her, Part 2 | @laceybubble

Leon has done well separating home from work, that is until the T-Virus rears its head once again. And it's worse than he could imagine...because it's not just him.

School Call | @/laceybubble

Leon leaves work early after hearing his daughter got in a fight at school.

Shower | m6cabre

My wife hates me, I might as well jump off a cliff, Part 2, Part 3 | @leonskluv

An argument erupted between Leon and his wife, and now he's doing anything he can to gain your favor back.

ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ᴀʀᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜱᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | @/leonskluv

Leon and your daughter Isabella had told you both interesting information which led you both to believe a cheating scandal ensued.

you fell first, but he fell harder. | @halbravd

leon kennedy’s heart wasn’t immune to love, after all.

“Slow Drive “ | @littlepumpky

The first thing you do after finally being cured from the virus is fall asleep in the car.

“You Don’t Stand a Chance” | @/littlepumpky

Somehow, you end up back in the RPD. With two Leons. One is your husband: older, tired and way too protective. The other is his rookie self: confused, stubborn and definitely not prepared for you calling him “cute.”

LEON W/ ROOKIE!READER, PT. 2 | @aliidarling

Leon never treated a rookie differently than he would treat an equal. that is.. until you come along.

handyman husband | @clemenchives

preparing for your baby’s arrival, leon has taken it upon himself to start projects that involve babyproofing the house, prepping up the nursery, and supporting you all throughout your pregnancy journey. it’s like having your own personal handyman in the shape of your husband.

finally homebound | @/clemenchives

after returning from raccoon city, you find it imperative to be the one to take care of your husband, leon.

your wittle face | @dollyzdaydreamz

after a traumatic year, you and leon are finally getting the hang of mending your relationship again. when he thinks he’s changed so much he must be unapproachable, you remind him he’s not so far off from that adorable, doughy faced rookie cop you met in 1998.

the work dilf | @/dollyzdaydreamz

after a long day of work at the dso, you were streaming when a subscriber admits they embarrassed themselves in front of a crush. to make them feel better, you tell them about the time you embarrassed yourself in front of an older agent, who you just so happened to have a fat crush on.

Biohazard | @/dollyzdaydreamz

a video game company reaches out to the dso, asking to use agents mr. and mrs. kennedy as face models for their upcoming action horror game called biohazard. while your husband is reluctant, you, being a lover of video games, are more than ecstatic to accept the offer.

Nudelates | @/dollyzdaydreamz

you and your friend are goofing around when you two decide to test out a tik tok trend: call your husband and tell him you accidentally signed up for nude pilates…with a male instructor who won’t give you a refund.

Insomnia | @/dollyzdaydreamz

Relax babe, I got you | @screaming-potato

Tracking your husband down was no simple task but reuniting with him and joining him on his mission made it all the better. They just didn’t expect you to be like him…just with enhanced abilities.

Heart Bound | @/screaming-potato

Going down memory lane, you’ve realized no matter how long you’ve loved Leon you know you can’t compare to her. Leon convinces you otherwise

No one disrespects her | @multi-fandom-imagine

Hold On | @/multi-fandom-imagine

Somethin’ Stupid | @chickensim07

Married life means a couple things, being there for the good, the bad, and especially the seemingly stupid. So when Leon comes back home with an unexpected surprise you can only hope he has a good reason for selling your car.

Runnin’ for The Hills | @/chickensim07

You wake in the middle of the night because of a dream. It’s not the horrifying flashbacks that usually haunt you, it’s the sweetest, most comforting, beautiful dream you’ve ever had. And it left you restless. Why? Because you know it’ll never come true.

Hold you till I can’t | @/chickensim07

You and Leon’s days of fighting bioweapons are over. You’ve built your peace from the ground up in the mountains, your husband and your way of life protected by the hills and valleys of the earth, but all that goes up must come down

THE ‘SHUT UP MOM’ PRANK | @uramakimochi

in which yours and Leon's teenage kids decide to pull a prank from TikTok on him.

Stay | @froggibus

Leon shows you that his commitment issues don’t apply to you

A Moment of Hesitation | @/froggibus

leon has always kept you at arms length in order to protect you, but after leading the two of you into a trap, the cracks start to show and feelings come to light

The Three Times You Share A Bed | @/froggibus

two times you sleep in leon's bed, and the one time he sleeps in yours

The Second Choice | @/froggibus

after losing Ada, Leon can’t get her off of his mind—and can’t stop comparing you to her

When The Dust Settles | @/froggibus

after a gruelling mission, Leon takes care of you

Leon Kennedy One Shot | @mirainwonderland

You get bored and tie a ribbon around his bicep

A QUIET AGENT!PARTNER | @harbours-lighthouse

CATCH SOME SHUT-EYE | @/harbours-lighthouse

Scoot On Over  | @drabblesandimagines

Hitched | @/drabblesandimagines

Swingin' | @/drabblesandimagines

Home | @/drabblesandimagines

Crash | @/drabblesandimagines

Zombieboy, part 2 | @the-archxr

As Leon starts to feel the initial effects of las plagas, Luis fills you in on a little secret about the disease that could potentially help out your partner.

Blue in the Night | @/the-archxr

Leon doesn’t always let himself be vulnerable. But after being granted a second-chance at life, he reasons that it wouldn’t be so bad to try.

Miss– Mrs. Kennedy? Well, your wife… | @escapic-mezzanine

You were pretty sure you preferred being strangled to death on a mission over having a phone call with a stranger… Embarrassing as it felt. Luckily, your closest co-worker is there to save you.

Nothing in the world belongs to me | @/escapic-mezzanine

Affection and attachment. Strange things that Leon saw as great values, yet ones he couldn’t afford because of his job. He didn’t know if it was a sense of responsibility or fear of disappointment that made him so reluctant… Well, good thing that the famous ‘cat distribution system’ doesn’t care. Nor his luck for incredibly charming neighbours.

I still dream of violence, Part 2 | @/escapic-mezzanine

When a young married couple disappears, who could be better at investigating the case than a pair of special agents used to working together and known for their high efficiency? Well, probably nobody, but someone clearly ignored the fact that one of them should retire a long time ago, and they are both too good at their job to rot in rural America. Not to forget the questionable nature of their professional relationship and mutual tension.

guard dog | @secretlyazombi3

Nightmares | @/secretlyazombi3

leon's arms | @/secretlyazombi3

Chained up | @hotdogcatalogue

Rooftop | @/hotdogcatalogue

Drabble | @finalresidentevilfantasy

Re6 Leon Hcs | @/finalresidentevilfantasy

[astronautlawliet]

Til' Death Do Us Part

Pairing: husband!Leon x wife!Reader

Word count: 11.3k

Summary: A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when you’re bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.

Warnings/tags: bite injury (reader), infection themes (fever, delirium), mentions of blood/wounds, mission-related violence, guns, angst, protective leon

The hallway smells like antiseptic and old rain, sharp enough to taste at the back of your throat. Emergency lights pulse a slow red, painting everything in the color of a heartbeat that refuses to settle. Somewhere deeper in the facility, something metallic groans, the sound carrying through the walls like the building itself is shifting in its sleep.

Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.

You.

He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.

"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.

"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.

His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."

"Very."

He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.

Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.

Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.

"Don't," you breathe.

Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.

Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.

"Persistent," you mutter.

"Understatement."

It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack. 

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.

"You okay?" he asks without turning.

"Fine."

He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.

"Your heart rate's up."

"So is yours."

"Occupational hazard."

You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I adjusted my stance."

You snort. "Sure you did, hero."

His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.

"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.

"You hate sand."

"I could learn."

"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."

"It started it."

He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."

"Coward."

They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.

Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.

Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."

"And our worst bet for everything else."

"Probably."

He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."

"I am standing back."

"Further."

He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.

"Try not to worry so loudly."

"I don't worry."

You glance up. "Leon."

"...I worry a normal amount."

You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."

You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.

"You can let go," he says gently.

You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."

"Very."

But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.

Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.

Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.

"Help," he croaks.

Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"

The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."

His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner.  Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.

"Careful," he murmurs.

"I know."

His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.

The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."

Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.

"Jackpot," you whisper.

Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.

Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."

You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.

Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Good."

"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"

The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.

The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.

"Back!" Leon snaps.

You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.

One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision. 

More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.

"Too many," you shout.

"Move!"

You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.

A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.

The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.

"Leon!"

He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.

Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.

Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.

He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head, throat tight. "No."

"Good."

His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.

"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."

You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.

Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.

The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.

Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.

"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."

He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."

"You got a call."

"We both got a call."

"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."

"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."

"That's not a crime."

"It should be."

You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."

"I'll buy you dessert."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time, too."

His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."

You glance at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."

"I'd last three."

"Two and a half."

He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."

The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.

Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.

"Hold."

You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.

He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."

"Could be."

He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"

"Always."

One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.

You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."

"Switch packs with me."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"It wasn't an order either."

For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.

"Tension," he says softly.

"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."

"Comes with the badge."

"You don't even carry a badge."

"Metaphorical badge."

You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.

"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.

"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.

He gives you a look. You give him one right back.

"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."

"Yes, dear."

His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."

"Yes, sir," you salute.

Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.

"Stand clear," you say.

He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.

"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."

He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."

Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.

"On you."

You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.

Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.

All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.

"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.

You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.

"Stay close," he murmurs.

You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.

"Always do," you whisper back.

The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.

Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.

A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.

"Probably just settling," you whisper.

Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.

Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.

"Leon—!"

He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.

You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat. 

Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.

"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.

Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.

The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.

"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."

You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."

His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.

The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.

You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.

"Oh," you say softly.

Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.

"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.

He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.

"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."

You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.

"Good news," you murmur.

His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.

"This won't stop it," you say quietly.

"I know."

He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.

"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.

"No."

"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"

"No, Leon."

He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.

"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."

You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.

He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.

He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.

"Always," you whisper.

Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.

"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.

"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.

He glances at you immediately. "What?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.

The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.

"Hey," Leon says quietly.

You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."

He stops anyway.

"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."

Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down. 

When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.

You shake your head. "We don't have time."

"Sit."

There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.

The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.

His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.

His brows draw together. "You're burning up."

"Shock," you say weakly.

"You know that's not true."

His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.

"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.

"We're going to fix this," he says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.

"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."

His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"...Maybe."

"Confusion?"

You hesitate.

His expression darkens. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.

"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."

"I'm right here."

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.

"Leon."

"Yeah."

"If I start to..."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."

"You need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"That's not what I mean."

His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.

"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."

Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.

"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."

"Maybe," you echo.

He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.

Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.

You blink. "Leon—"

"Save your strength."

"I can walk."

"I know."

And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.

You nod weakly. "Yeah."

"Good."

He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything."

You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.

"...Dessert," you mumble finally.

A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.

Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.

Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"

A pause. "...Yeah."

The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.

The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.

Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.

"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."

A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."

He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."

You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.

"It's... dark," you mumble.

His chest tightens. The lights are still on.

"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."

Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.

"...Leon."

Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."

Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.

"You look... tired."

He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.

Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.

"You should sleep," you whisper.

The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.

"Soon, sweetheart," he says.

Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.

Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"

The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.

Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.

"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice. 

Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."

Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.

"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."

You stir weakly. "...'m tired."

"I know."

"So tired."

His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.

"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.

Your eyes open a sliver.

"...Promise?"

The question is so small it barely exists.

He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.

He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.

"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.

He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.

"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."

He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.

"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."

The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.

Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.

A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.

"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."

He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.

"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."

Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.

Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.

"Where are we?" you murmur.

"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."

Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."

His throat tightens.

"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.

He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.

He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.

He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.

A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.

Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.

"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.

He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.

Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.

He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.

"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.

From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.

Behind him, the ward remains still.

Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"

He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.

"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."

You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."

"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."

Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.

The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.

"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."

Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.

The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.

Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.

Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.

He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."

He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.

His pulse hammers harder.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers.

Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.

Mutation rates. Transmission vectors. Failure rates. 

Failure rates.

His jaw tightens.

A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.

He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.

ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE

He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.

Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.

Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.

"Damn it," he breathes.

The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.

Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.

For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.

He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.

"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."

His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.

His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.

He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.

Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.

Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:

ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN

For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.

"Okay," he whispers, voice breaking anyway. "Okay. We're good. We're... we're good."

He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.

"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."

Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."

No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.

A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.

"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."

Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.

"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."

His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.

"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."

Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."

His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.

"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."

He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.

"You hear me? We've got plans."

Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."

He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.

"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."

He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."

The needle presses into your skin.

He hesitates.

Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."

He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.

"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."

He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.

Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.

"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."

He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.

"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."

Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.

"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.

Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.

He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.

"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."

He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.

"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."

Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.

There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.

"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."

Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.

"That's it," he says urgently. "That's something. That's good. Keep going."

Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."

Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.

"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.

"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."

He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.

Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.

His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.

"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."

Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.

Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."

Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.

Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.

Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.

Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.

The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.

Leon.

He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.

Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"

He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.

For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.

"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."

You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."

Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."

"Was I... gone?"

His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."

You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.

"You scared me," he says quietly.

Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."

His head snaps slightly. "Don't."

The word is sharp, then softens immediately.

"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."

You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.

"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."

He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."

He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.

"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"

"Everything hurts."

He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."

Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.

"...You found it," you whisper.

He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.

Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."

You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.

"You were crying," you say softly.

Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.

"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."

A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.

"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.

Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.

"I'm here," you whisper.

He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in. 

"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."

You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.

"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."

He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.

"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.

A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.

Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.

Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.

Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Monitoring," he corrects.

"You blink?"

"Sometimes."

You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Always."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.

When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.

"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.

Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.

You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.

"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."

Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.

Your chest tightens.

"You remembered," you whisper.

He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."

You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.

An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.

For a long moment, you can't speak.

"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."

"Leon..."

He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.

"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"

You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."

You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.

"Worth it?" he asks.

You nod. "Absolutely."

You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before. 

You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.

"I love you," you whisper.

His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."

Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."

You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."

"Still."

His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.

Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.

"Two weeks," you murmur.

"Yeah."

"You think you can handle boring?"

He huffs softly. "I'll manage."

You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open! I would love to hear from you!

[dollyzdaydreamz]

leon kennedy x reader fluff

Your Wittle Face

description: after a traumatic year, you and leon are finally getting the hang of mending your relationship again. when he thinks he’s changed so much he must be unapproachable, you remind him he’s not so far off from that adorable, doughy faced rookie cop you met in 1998.

fluff ☆ 彡 angst (mentions of alcoholism + depression) ☆ 11k words -> leon kennedy masterlist

It was one of those rare days you could drag Leon out of your home to hangout with Claire, Chris and Jill for Claire’s birthday.

The small get together in Chris’ home was planned months in advance seeing as the government were dragging you each of you from one god awful mission to the next.

It’s only been a few months after the you and Leon had survived securing the presidents by a hair.

If you thought Raccoon city had taken a major toll on Leon’s mental state, you were in for an even bigger surprise.

The drinking, the insomnia, the drunken and sleep deprived slurred words that’d come out of his mouth to get you to leave him alone, or just leave him altogether to spare you the pain.

Needless to say the last year had been merciless and it had certainly left its mark on your relationship.

Intensive therapy, rehab for Leon, and even a backup prescription of Lexapro just in case, had finally mended things between you.

Once the rain clouds over your heads started to clear, you guys finally started doing the things together again.

Some nights you two settled on the couch, watching something lighthearted like a comedy (horrors always reminded you two of work). The night always ended with you and Leon coming up with new references, giggling so hard your ribs turned to mush.

Cafe dates where Leon stared down your oddly colorful drink before taking a cautious sip and concluding it was so sweet it could chip his tooth off.

He always asked why you wouldn’t get something simple, until you finally relented.

You reluctantly took a sip of his iced black coffee and grimaced, coughed at the burnt taste and asked him how the hell he drank this acid every morning, he may as well go back to the whiskey.

That’s when he let out a long sigh, getting up again to grab your usual order.

He had even started collecting rock CDs again after the two of you found an old record store crammed into a little alleyway of a town you took a road trip to. He’ll still thrum his fingers against the wheel or bounce his knee as the music rings softly during your late night car rides.

But all that that didn’t mean some days Leon didn’t wake up all dreary, cheek smushed against your chest as his slow gaze landed nowhere really, unwilling to face the day.

There were days where you were no better. Leon made sure to put his own grief aside to step up on those days. He’ll order your favorite food to eat in bed, or even offer to cook something for you if you’re really not up for anything.

Leon’s aware that he’s a horrific chef, but he also knows that you like watching him struggle, rub at the stress lines on his forehead while squinting at the recipe and mumble obscenities under his breath.

Alas, today it was your turn to take the reins and pick him up from whatever slump he was in.

You promised you’d spend the rest of the night together after this if he could muster up the energy to get ready and leave for the party.

So here you guys were.

Chris’ place was warm tonight. Not just from the heating, but from the noise and the smell of the food.

Jill’s laugh carrying from the kitchen, Claire’s bright voice cutting through conversation, someone had put on music low enough to glide beneath everything without sounding overwhelming.

It was nice, and things felt almost normal.

Claire plops down beside you on the couch, nudging your shoulder. Jill settles on the armrest, swirling a drink in her hand.

“So,” Claire says, softening her voice just slightly, like she was about to ask about a sensitive topic, “How are you two doin’?”

Jill hums in agreement. “Yeah. Things look…good.”

You follow Jill’s gaze without thinking.

Leon is leaning against the balcony railing beside Chris. He’s not really talking anymore. He’s listening, nodding at something Chris says, and he actually looks like he was having an okay time.

You find yourself grinning softly at the way he chuckled when Chris said something funny.

He finally unfurrows his heavy brow bone guarding the residual naivety in his eyes, his pearly white teeth barely shining through as he suppressed his smile.

It’s rare to see his whole face light up like that.

You wondered if he felt he didn’t deserve to let himself or the people around him bask in that light.

As much as you wish he didn’t feel that way, it made sense. It was hard to just let yourself feel happy most days too.

Claire smirks gently. “You know, he’s been watching you all night.”

You furrow your brow and look back at her.

Had he? You didn’t notice.

You look back and right on cue, Leon’s eyes catch yours.

His shoulders loosen just a fraction when he sees you looking back and he grins softly as he holds your gaze.

You turn back to Claire and Jill with a small smile.

“Things are getting a lot better.”

Claire nudges you lightly. “Told you. He’s like a lost puppy.”

You snort softly. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

A few minutes later, Chris and Jill are in the kitchen debating whether the cake should be cut now or later.

Claire’s somewhere in between helping and bossing them around.

You’ve went closer to the hallway near the balcony door, needing a breather from the noise. You wonder if you should join Leon in the balcony, but then settle on letting him have some space.

Yet the glass door slides open and a gust of cold air slips in.

Leon shuts it quietly behind him, and makes his way toward you.

“You hiding?” he teases.

You huff, “No…just taking a break.”

His playful edge wears off instantly and he nods like he understands that completely.

For a few moments, Leon is staring straight ahead, brows drawn together in that way you know too well.

The brooding face.

You tilt your head, studying him for a moment.

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Your stomach dips a little. “Is it…something I did?”

That snaps him out of it.

He blinks, turns toward you like he just remembered you’re there.

“What?” His voice is rough from disuse. “No. No, you didn’t do anything baby.”

Your body relaxes in relief.

“I was just thinking about which movie we should watch later,” he smiles softly in a way that sort of makes him look all soft and innocent again.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then you laugh.

“What?”

“Your thinking face is terrifying.”

He huffs under his breath, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, well. Claire says that too.”

“And Chris,” he adds disparagingly. “They both say I haven’t been exactly…approachable.”

“Maybe it’s just because I’ve changed,” he finishes quietly.

You scrunch your face like he just said something offensive.

“You haven’t changed.”

He glances at you sideways.

“You just think you have,” You conclude softly.

There’s a pause. He watches you for a moment. Then, he glances away, “You’re just saying that because you love me.”

“I love that you still want to help people,” you say.

“No matter how complicated our missions get, or how detached they try to make us, you’ve always been so kind, Leon. You always care.”

He looks at you, the storms in his eyes clearing, like he’s sort of disarmed.

And because you can’t leave things too heavy for long, you reach up and grab his face with one hand.

His cheeks squish between your fingers.

“Look at you,” you coo. “So cute!”

He makes a strangled noise, eyes going wide in horror at the realization you’re having a bout of cuteness aggression.

Unfortunately for him, it’s a very common occurrence, he just never expect for this to happen in public.

“You know, sometimes I notice you still have some baby fat on your wittle face!” you dote, placing a loud kiss on his smushed cheek.

Leon’s browbone drops again, taken aback like he’s a little self conscious now, “I—baby fat?“

He freezes at the soft chorus of “Awwww” drifting from behind you.

Claire and Jill are standing a few feet away, cake plates in hand, staring at Leon and doing a very poor job at holding in their giggles.

Jill breaks first.

Claire cackles, holding onto Jill.

Leon scoffs, but then the color creeps up on his face.

“Awe, are you blushing?” You chuckle.

“No,” Leon mutters, attempting to pry your hand off his face without actually being rough.

The pink deepens. Spreads down the side of his neck, disappearing under the fur collar of his jacket.

Jill lets out a stunned laugh. “I have never seen this.”

Claire hums, “His wittle face is all red…”

“You’re all insane,” Leon grumbles with no real bite.

Chris comes back from the kitchen, “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing!” Leon snaps a little too quickly.

Needless to say, he occasionally brought a self conscious hand up to his cheeks throughout the night only for you to replace it with your own grabbing ones.

———

“We should watch another comedy,” he says suddenly on your way home in the car, like he was finally recalling what all the brooding was for.

You grin, “Comedy it is.”

———

You barely make it through the front door before kicking your shoes off and flopping onto the couch.

Leon disappears and returns shirtless and in sweats, hair slightly damp from a quick shower.

By the middle of the movie, you’ve migrated closer to his warm torso.

By the end of the second act, you’re practically molded to him.

Your cheek is pressed to his shoulder, one arm slung lazily across his stomach.

His arm rests around you, thumb tracing small lines along your side.

The room is dim except for the soft glow of a lamp and the screen, casting soft flickers of blue and gold across his face.

You’re so warm and comfortable in that cottony, heavy lidded way.

The movie keeps playing, but you’re not following it anymore.

You watch Leon instead.

His jaw is nice and relaxed. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheekbones. His crystal blue eyes catch the light when the screen brightens.

Leon shifts and looks down to find you staring.

Your eyes are half open, squinty and unfocused.

He chuckles softly, bringing you impossibly closer to give you a quick kiss. Then another, and another.

It sort of lulls you, the way your eyes feel heavier.

“You’re falling asleep,” he murmurs.

You shake your head weakly. “No.”

Your voice comes out muffled against his shirt cause your cheek is basically smushed against him.

He lifts a hand and, without warning, squishes your face between his fingers the way you did to him at Claire’s party.

Your lips pucker involuntarily.

“Mmph!—“ you whine in protest.

He grins down at you and if you weren’t so tired and cranky, your heart would soar at the crinkles forming around his eyes.

“What? I thought this was cute.”

You try to pull away, but he keeps gentle hold of your cheeks.

“Stop,” you protest, though there’s no real fight behind it.

“No, babe,” he warns, voice annoyingly calm, “Let me see that little face.”

You attempt to wriggle free.

He narrows his eyes as his grip tightens.

“Or wittle face, should I say?”

Your eyes widen just slightly before he starts increasing the pressure of his grip, not enough to hurt your face but just enough to leave them sore like you did his.

You squeal, twisting in his arms, trying to shove his hands away. “Ah—Stop!”

You squirm harder, laughter breaking out of you despite your protests. “I…hate you.”

He keeps at it until you’re breathless, clutching at his wrists, groaning helplessly.

Finally, he relents.

You slump against him again, exhausted.

“You suck,” you mumble, rubbing at your pink face.

“You started it.”

You glare weakly up at him, but the glare doesn’t stick. You’re too tired.

“…Sorry,” he mutters with a stupid little smirk. He brings you close, kissing softly at the skin he just nearly assaulted.

He adjusts slightly, guiding you so you’re more comfortably tucked against his chest.

One hand slides to your back, the other cradling the side of your head.

Your eyes flutter again, feeling the sharp curve of his chin rest lightly against the top of your head.

“…Are my cheeks actually kind of chubby though?…”

“Yes, Leon.”

Things definitely are getting better.

sometimes his face do be looking so chubby in re4 it’s saur cute ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

+ i changed the scene where leon tickles the reader to him getting back at the reader by being a little piece of shit lol

also, send me requests !

[shikiyomizu]

mrs dot kennedy ──────── (re9) l. kennedy

summary . . . after finishing his most recent mission, leon can finally focus on making amends with you years after the divorce.

notes. i have been down bad in my leon era for years now and requiem gave me the motivation to start writing for him. i wrote this at work in two hours, and then an hour at home. ngl, my bad if the time line is wonky bc the timeline for re is weird for me 🚶‍♀️ i had to use the wiki site for this.

tags ──────── fluff & angst, ranges from the years of re2 to re9, contains spoilers for requiem. cw, mentions of alcoholism because of ven!leon. word count: 3.1k words.

Leon Kennedy married at the age of 27.

It was shortly after he returned from his mission abroad in Spain. But it only lasted for 9 years.

He’s 49 now and he’s been divorced for 13 years. He has many regrets in his life, being the cause of his divorce is his biggest one.

He’s on the road, driving above the speed limit to get to his destination quicker. There is a beautiful bouquet sitting in the passenger seat of his expensive car. Every time he presses his foot against the brake pedal at a yellow light turning red, his eyes glance over it to make sure it’s not about to fly off.

He couldn’t let them get ruined before presenting them to his ex wife.

You were the greatest thing that happened to him since that fateful night in Raccoon City. It’s been 13 years, and he still believes you were the only good thing to happen at all in his twisted life. The marriage might have been short, but he cherishes the moments.

Your love, your touch, your presence.

He met you through Claire. He liked to talk to her from time to time and see how she was doing. Although, their conversations weren’t very consistent. It never took long for her to bring up the same name each time. Yours. You worked at TerraSave with her. She always spoke so highly of you.

Maybe he felt a little envious that she found friendships easier than he did. Yet, it did leave him curious as to who you were. He eventually met you one day. There you were, attached to Claire’s hip. It was nice to put a face to a name.

He couldn’t deny the sudden attraction. He reached out to you in secret after everything was said and done.

Claire would forgive him for stealing her friend away, wouldn’t she? Now, instead of him hearing about you, Claire was hearing about him through you. You knew she probably found you very insufferable when that engagement ring appeared on your finger.

He slowly circled the parking lot of TerraSave, scanning the remaining vehicles. There weren’t many. Just the usual workers who stayed after hours to finish their assignments. You and him had that bad habit of overworking. He eventually spotted your car. He should know it. He bought it for you after all.

Leon held back his smirk when he saw the empty parking spots surrounding your car.

Perfect. Everything was going according to plan.

He parked beside you and turned off the engine. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. He pocketed his keys, unbuckled his seatbelt, and grabbed the bouquet. He checked over it. Still in good condition. He opened the car door, his boots stepping on gravel.

He knew very well what he was doing. He intentionally wore his usual attire that you always had your gaze wandering over to him. His leather jacket, his dark jeans, a tight fitting shirt underneath. Though, he did feel a little ridiculous because it reminded him of being in school and trying to get your crush’s attention.

Leon closed his car door and held the bouquet in both hands. His eyes went from your car to his. What would be better? For you to find him on yours or his? He decided on yours, and when he was practicing which pose he should go with, he got caught by some young male employee walking by. The two of them stared at each other and had an unspoken agreement to pretend that didn’t happen.

He laid the bouquet on the hood of your car and leaned against it. He closed his eyes briefly, taking another moment to inhale and exhale. He would fully admit that he was nervous.

He began to think back to the moments that led him here. Working under the DSO and the horrors that he’d seen had affected him deeply. He knew it, and instead of relying on you or others for help, he turned to his vices. Leon allowed his drinking habits to get out of order. The arguments ensued. You told him to stop, he did for a few months, and he’d come home drunk after a grueling mission.

He never knew when your breaking moment occurred. He only remembered that when you said the word, divorce, he snapped out of his drunken haze. Only then did he start begging for you to reconsider. He’d even fallen to his knees, arms wrapped around your legs, telling you how he’d get the help he needed. Anything to get you to stay. But you were firm.

It hurt so badly to see you sign your name followed by “Kennedy” on those divorce papers.

More than all those times he got launched into oblivion by some bio weapon.

You separated. He moved out to some apartment. Now he drank because his life was shitty and you were gone.

You two were very cordial with each other. There weren’t any hard feelings and Leon never blamed you for the decision you took. He pushed you to it. So, in this new arrangement, he felt like he owed you something. He paid his and your bills, he sent you money, he took care of any problems you might have, and he bought you any necessities. And at least, in this way, he was still taking care of you like he promised you in his vows.

He got better after he helped Chris take down Arias. He focused on himself. And really, he wanted to fix things with you in the following months of his mission in Alcatraz.

But when his thumb hovered over your contact in his phone, he stopped. Something held him back. The doubt crawled. What if he found himself falling into that dark space again? The thoughts continued to fester. He wasn’t good enough, and you deserved better.

2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. 2020.

The years started to fly by. Every single damn time he went to call you, he held himself back. When he finally decided, no more, he found out he was infected. Despair filled his heart. Why now? He couldn’t go back to you like this. So he put it on hold.

He would fix things with you once he found a cure for this. Helping himself and the others infected with the same thing was part of his motivation. The other part? The absolute refusal of dying before repairing your relationship.

The mission was brutal. But like all the others, he pushed through. There were times his infection got the better of him and he did lose a little bit of hope. He was on edge wondering if his time was finally up.

Whenever he fell unconscious, he saw you. Your bright and glossy eyes when he got on one knee. You, in your beautiful white dress, approaching where he waited at the altar. Leon remembered shedding tears at how gorgeous you looked on your shared special day.

No, he couldn’t die here. Not yet. Not when he still wanted you.

He pushed through, and succeeded. You were his motivation.

And once he settled back to normal, he made his plan. Now, in the parking lot of TerraSave, he’d wait here as long as he needed to for you to come out. He opened his eyes again, filled with determination as the sky changed colors.

The parking lot began to empty as more employees clocked out.

Until—

Click. Click. Click. The sound your heels made on the pavement made his head snap in your direction. You were searching for your keys in your purse. You let out an annoyed huff. Why didn’t you get them before you left your office? Same problem at the end of every day. The lanyard around your neck was also fueling your annoyance. You jerked it back into place, finally finding your car keys.

You snatched them out of your purse and hooked the straps in the crook of your elbow. You lifted your head and came to a sudden stop.

Your brows knitted together. Were you… Were you seeing things?

Leon Kennedy was leaning comfortably against your car, his arms crossed over his chest. You spotted the bouquet behind him. The corners of his lips quirked upwards at the way you reacted to seeing him. He pushed himself off the hood of your car, reaching for the bouquet.

“Long day?” His voice cut the silence.

Yes, it was. You wanted to go home and throw yourself on your couch. What was your ex husband doing here? He looked better.

You took cautious steps closer. The bouquet he bought for you was beautiful, and he got your favorite flowers too.

“What are you doing?” You asked, the suspicion in your tone very much clear. His smile grew a little wider and he chuckled.

“I can’t come see my ex wife and give her some flowers after a stressful day?” He asked. You were standing closer to him now. He briefly checked out your ID attached to your lanyard. Oh, the giddiness he felt seeing “Kennedy” in bold print on the simple piece of plastic. He knew you never changed your last name after the divorce. “Are we on bad terms and I wasn’t informed?”

Leon watched your eyes slowly narrow. Damn. You were getting suspicious of him. How dare you still be quick to catch on to his schemes.

He held out the bouquet, “These are for you.”

“Yeah, you said that.” You waited a couple seconds before finally taking the bouquet from his grasp. Your fingers grazed his rough palm briefly. Although you thought nothing of it, Leon felt his heart pound harder against his chest.

Just like the first time he met you, he was instantly drawn into you. He noticed your features. He could still see the younger you in there. It reminded him how you were both much older now and all the time spent apart. He should have been there the last decade. To see you and him slowly age together.

He found you so much more attractive. A part of him wanted to sit and stare at you for hours on end.

You snapped your fingers in front of his face which brought him out of his trace. His eyebrows quirked upwards for a moment.

“Did you hear what I said?” Leon blinked. He gave you a sheepish look and shook his head. You huffed and frowned. You were cradling the bouquet in your arms now, “I asked why are you here.” You weren’t mad or hostile, just curious to see him appear where you worked. He hasn’t done this since the divorce.

He didn’t respond right away. He tilted his head back slightly. He was contemplating on what to say. Or how to explain the way he’d felt since the first time he wanted to reach out to you.

Meanwhile, you kept staring at him with that look of curiosity. But on the inside? You were just as affected by his presence as he was by yours.

“I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders became tense at his apology. It was sincere, you knew it. Not like the one he gave you from his knees when you told him you wanted a divorce. Those were desperate attempts to keep you. Even he was aware he didn’t mean them.

“I’m sorry,” Leon repeated, his eyes meeting yours. “For everything. For being the reason why our marriage failed. For not being the husband I told you I was going to be… You didn’t deserve any of that. I don’t blame you for leaving me because you tried to help me, and I didn’t want any help.”

An unknown feeling in your body slowly began to disappear. Your throat tighten. This closure you were getting with Leon was something you didn’t realize you needed. For a brief moment, you were sent back to those early days when you were dating. He was still the same rookie cop from Raccoon City, slowly being shaped into an elite agent for the government.

“And I don’t blame you for no longer loving me.” He muttered, his expression becoming rather grim. It had been a while since he was this open with you. “I just need you to know that I’m still in love with you, and that I’m truly sorry.”

“Leon… I didn’t… I didn’t leave you because I stopped loving you. I never did.” You admitted. Your admission of how you truly felt made a flicker of surprise appear in his eyes. “I left you because if that’s how you were going to spend the rest of our lives together? … I wasn’t going to be able to live like that and watch you keep turning yourself into someone you weren’t.”

Did he really think because he became an alcoholic for a moment in his life that you’d stopped loving him? He couldn’t be more wrong. Yes, you hated that vice. It had destroyed him and taken control of him. But during the time he drowned his sorrows in heavy liquor, you never stopped seeing him as your Leon. He was just your misguided Leon.

He spent all these years believing you’d stopped loving him because of his addiction. This moment caused something to shift inside him. You’d given him all the confirmation and confidence he needed.

Leon slipped a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. His gaze went to the bouquet and then to you again.

“Do you want to go out sometime?” He asked. Leon watched you press your lips together, clearly not trying to smile. He chuckled softly, “You know you want to.”

You rolled your eyes at his cocky attitude, “I’ll send you my schedule.” In all honesty, if you didn’t send it to him, he’d be okay with that. It would give him all the more reason to start pestering you since you wanted to play hard to get this time around. He did, however, feel a sharp pain in his chest when you mentioned a schedule.

It was a reminder how he no longer knew exactly what time you’d come home, whether you’d be flying out of state on a random Tuesday morning, or leaving the country.

Leon plucked your car keys from between your fingers. You gave another confused look as he pressed the unlock button on the remote. He walked over to the driver’s side and opened it. He held it open, nodding his head and motioning you to get inside.

Great, he’s starting already.

You made your way and stood in the middle. You shifted your purse, setting it on the passenger seat. You slipped into the driver’s seat, moving the bouquet from your lap and beside your purse.

He dipped his head down, planting an unexpected kiss on your cheek. You would have thought it was sweet… If he didn’t go and mess it all up by sinking his teeth softly into your flesh and giving it a pull. You hissed. He always did that in the early mornings when he was rushing off to the DSO because he chose to stay in bed with you a little longer.

“Stop it!” You covered your cheek with one hand and swatted him repeatedly with the other. He snickered, shielding himself behind his arms from your soft blows. You wiped away the saliva that wet your palm on the plastic wrap surrounding the flowers.

“What?” He laughed one more time. He rested his forearm against the top part of the car. “How do you expect me to act after my ex wife admits she still has a crush on me?”

“Leon, please do not call it a crush.” You rubbed your forehead with your fingertips. Here came the headache, “We’re 49 years old.”

“I’ve missed you.” He said. A smirk appeared on his face when you glared up at him through your lashes. He patted the roof of your car and dangled your keys in front of you. He quickly moved them out of the way when you tried to grab them, “C’mon. Are you going to make me work for it? ‘Cause you know I will.”

“I guess… I’ve missed you too.” You finally relented.

“Oh, you guess?” Leon mocked. You grabbed the keys in one swift movement from him.

“Get out of here before I call the security guard on you for trespassing.” You scoffed, putting your seatbelt on. He let out a loud gasp.

“I’m scared.” Leon sarcastically exclaimed. He clutched the front of his shirt, going on with his act of being terrified, “You’re threatening my clean record and my background as a cop.” You clenched your jaw tightly, turning your head the other way. He knew you were trying to control your smile and keep yourself from laughing at his jokes. But you broke. He heard the soft chuckle and you shook your head.

“You’re still annoying.” You looked over at him again. A silence settled. Just you and him staring at each other.

He decided to let you go. Leon closed your door, and walked around the front of the car. He heard the engine turn on. He nearly stopped to open the passenger side door and pretend like he was getting in. Let’s not push your buttons too much.

The two of you drove home on separate roads, miles apart like you had been the last 13 years. The only difference today? The two of you wore the same, identical smile and thought about each other.

Leon is in the familiar room you two once used to share. He’s in the same king sized bed with you wrapped up in his embrace. The feel of your bare skin pressed against his after all these years is so surreal. You’re fast asleep with your head tucked under his chin. You’re exhaling softly, your breath hitting his neck.

His fingertips are running up and down your spine in a slow manner. He’s awake, enjoying this feeling of being content. When was he the happiest, he wonders. Was it the day you exchanged vows on the altar or was it now when he finally had you again?

It had to be this very moment.

He kissed the top of your head, letting his lips linger. A mischievous smile appeared. He quickly rolled you two over, the sheets rustling as he moved your bodies. His weight on top of you pinned you to the mattress. You felt the disturbance in your peaceful slumber.

“Ugh… Leon,” You groaned in a drowsy manner. He grinned, noticing the twitch in your brows. He leaned up until his lips were by your ear.

“It’s your turn to hold me.” He mumbled. Leon began kissing your jawline, slowly moving down and down, until he came to the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped weakly around his shoulders. He felt your nails lightly scratching his nape. He hummed and closed his eyes. His face buried into your neck, taking in your scent.

Nothing mattered. Not when he finally had Mrs. Kennedy in his arms again.

[mystra-midnight]

What the Darkness Learned to Devour

summary: not memories so much as fragments—sound without context, fear without edges. sensory shrapnel. the kind that hit without warning and left him bleeding from places no one could see.

warnings: zero re:9 spoilers. angst. hurt & comfort. brief mentions of gore & violence. no smut. unnamed female character referred to as she/her.

words: 2k

notes: honestly, no one will ever convince me that the survivors of raccoon city don't have major ptsd. especially leon. he was twenty-one when it started. he was a baby. and now that day has stuck with him. shaped him into the man he is. please be kind and don't spoil the game for those who haven't finished it.

Leon woke already drowning.

He woke with the taste of gunpowder in his mouth.

There was no warning. There was no transition. There was no dream he could point at and say that was the trigger. There was just a violent, choking lurch into consciousness, his body reacting before his mind had time to catch up.

The room was dark—too dark. It pressed in from every corner, thick and suffocating, and his lungs refused to pull in air. When he managed to, it tasted wrong, sour in his lungs, as if the walls were rotting from the inside out. His heart hammered so violently he could feel it in his teeth, each beat loud enough that it felt like it echoed off tile and concrete. His vision blurred at the edges, tunnelling inward until the world shrank to a suffocating chokepoint.

He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know when he was.

Gunshots. Sirens. Screaming.

Not memories so much as fragments—sound without context, fear without edges. Sensory shrapnel. The kind that hit without warning and left him bleeding from places no one could see.

Leon bolted upright with a strangled gasp, hands clawing at the sheets as if they were something not quite dead, something pulling him deeper into the dark. His breath came in short, broken bursts, each inhale too shallow, too fast, scraping raw against his throat. The room tilted violently, shadows stretching and warping into shapes he couldn't forget.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse.

Raccoon City burned behind his eyelids like an inferno.

He was back there, twenty-one and exhausted and running on adrenaline and bad instincts. Too young, too hopeful, too unprepared. The police station loomed in his memory like a mausoleum—grand, hollow, full of things that should never have been moving, its marble floors slicked with blood. Emergency lights flickered red across the walls, painting everything in the colour of violence.

He could hear it again: the wet drag of footsteps that weren’t human anymore. And he could smell it, too: the scent of decay that clung to the back of his throat.

He remembered the weight of his gun—how it had felt both too heavy and too light. He remembered the way bodies moved when they shouldn’t.

The way they sounded. The way they didn’t stop.

Leon's hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening. His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe, every inhale fractured, splintering into panic before it could settle. His shoulders hunched forward, instinctively protecting his core, making himself smaller, harder to grab, bracing for an impact that never quite came.

Then another memory slammed into him—harder, sharper.

A rural village swallowed by fog and rot.

He could hear the distant toll of a bell, each peal vibrating through his bones like a warning. He could feel mud sucking at his boots, smell smoke and blood hanging thick in the air. He remembered the first body he'd found—the police officer—butchered like a warning, throat torn open, blood dripping steadily onto rotting floorboards.

He remembered the violence there as intimate.

Up close. Personal. Hands-on.

He remembered the way fear had been quieter but heavier. How it had sat in his chest for weeks, months, years after, never fully leaving. He remembered the warmth of blood on his face, the sting of cuts reopening, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He remembered screaming—his enemies’, his own—echoing through narrow streets lined with leaning houses.

His pulse spiked again, spiralling.

China followed. Chaos layered on chaos. Loss layered on loss.

He remembered neon lights bleeding through shattered glass and the sound of collapsing concrete. He remembered the heat of explosions rolling down city streets like thunder. Even now, the smell of burning fuel and scorched metal left his lungs raw every time he tried to breathe. The infected there had been faster, twisting and changing even as they came for him, teeth snapping and limbs moving wrong as they clawed through the smoke.

Leon dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling as they caught at the roots. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, posture collapsing under the weight of memories he couldn’t outrun. His breathing turned ragged, almost a sob, though no sound quite escaped. It was like his body had forgotten how to be anything but alert, anything but ready to fight or die.

He didn’t hear her move at first.

He only felt the shift of the mattress behind him. Then her warmth pressed against his back, solid and real in a way nothing else in that moment was. Her thighs framed his hips as she settled close, chest to his back, her presence changing the shape of the darkness.

She didn't ask if he was okay. She didn't tell him to breathe.

She wrapped her arms around his middle and drew him against her chest, holding him there. Her breasts were soft against his back, the warmth of her body steady and sure, like she was anchoring him to something that could not be taken away. Her hold did not tighten, did not demand—she simply held him, letting him feel that she was real, that he was not alone.

Leon’s breath stuttered again, but this time it caught on something softer.

Her forehead rested between his shoulder blades. He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, slow and steady, as if she were lending him the rhythm outright. One of her hands spread over his sternum, palm flat, fingers splayed wide, feeling the wild thundering of his heart—warm, grounding. The other curled into his abdomen.

She hugged him tight.

Not restrictive. Not suffocating. Just certain.

His first instinct was to resist. His body wanted to pull away, to get space, to be ready for the next attack. His muscles were locked, every nerve screaming at him that closeness meant danger when you weren't in control. But she didn't loosen her hold.

Leon squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness didn't swallow him this time. Her warmth seeped into his skin, cutting through the panic like a lifeline.

His breath shuddered out of him in a broken exhale.

And then—

The room started to come back in fragments.

The weight of the mattress beneath him. The quiet hum of the building settling around them. The faint scent of her—orange blossoms and vanilla.

Leon pressed a hand over hers without realising he was doing it. His fingers curled, shaking, but he didn't pull away. His head dipped forward, chin brushing his chest, shoulders slumping as the adrenaline began to burn itself out.

It hurt when it did.

Tears stung behind his eyes, unwelcome. He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as if that might hold everything in place. He hated this part—the vulnerability, the way his body betrayed him long after the danger was over.

His voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper. “I’m not. . . I’m not there. I know I’m not. I just—”

She didn’t push him to finish. Her grip tightened again, just a fraction.

Her thumb brushed slow circles over his sternum, a small, absentminded motion that soothed something raw inside him. Her breath ghosted against his spine, grounding him in the present. Leon’s breathing started to sync with hers without him even realising it.

In. Out. In.

The panic didn’t vanish all at once. It never did. It never would. It loosened instead, inch by reluctant inch, like fingers unclenching after holding a weapon too long.

“I know,” she murmured, her voice low behind him, as she pressed a soft kiss to the back of his shoulder.

Leon closed his eyes.

Those two words hit harder than any reassurance ever could. Like a hammer to the heart. She didn’t need him to explain. She didn’t need details or timelines or names. She knew the shape of his nightmares, even if she hadn’t lived them herself.

His throat tightened, emotion swelling up sharp and sudden and unwelcome.

“I—” His voice cracked, useless and rough. He stopped, his breath hitching, frustration flashing hot through the lingering fear.

Her arms tightened in response. She pressed another kiss into the back of his shoulder, her mouth lingering, her breath warm.

“You’re here,” she said. “You’re safe.”

Leon nodded faintly, the motion barely there. He focused on her voice, on the warmth behind him, on the way her legs framed his hips, kept him upright when he felt like he might fold in on himself.

Safe.

The word felt fragile, like glass. But he held it anyway.

His breathing evened out gradually, each inhale less jagged than the last. His pulse slowed beneath her palm, still fast but no longer beating out of control. The images in his head lost their sharpness, fading at the edges until they were memories again, not threats clawing from the dark.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

He didn't count. And she didn’t move.

Finally, the tension drained out of him, slow and uneven, like water slipping through cracked stone. He leaned into her, allowing her to carry some of his weight. His hand tightened around hers, still trembling, but he held on—grounding himself in the reality of her presence.

“I thought I was back there,” he admitted quietly, the words rough but steady. “For a second.”

She hummed softly, a sound of acknowledgment rather than alarm. “You weren’t.”

“I know.” He swallowed. “But it feels like it sometimes.”

Her thumb paused, just for a heartbeat, then resumed its slow, stroking movement. “That doesn’t mean you’re weak.” She had always seen him too clearly—too deeply—reading the words he never said in the quiet spaces between the ones he did.

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something bitter. “Feels like it.”

“Leon.” She said his name gently. “You survived things that would have broken most people. Your body remembering doesn't make you weak.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he tilted his head back just enough that it rested against her shoulder. She adjusted, pressing her cheek to his temple. The closeness made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“I hate that you have to see me like this,” he said after a moment.

Her arms tightened. “I hate that you think that’s something to apologise for.”

That did it.

Leon exhaled shakily, his emotions breaking through at last. His eyes burned, vision blurring as he pressed his face into the crook of her arm. He didn’t sob. He didn’t fall apart completely. He just let himself be held.

And for once, that was enough.

The night carried on around them, quiet and indifferent, but the room felt smaller now—in a good way. Held together by warmth, by love, by her, instead of the fragile patchwork of spit and prayer that had barely kept him standing before she'd come into his life.

When his heart had finally settled into something resembling calm, when the ghosts had retreated far enough to be manageable—she was still there.

Still wrapped around him.

Still holding on. Still choosing him.

Slowly, he pulled a breath into his lungs. The air felt cooler, easier to hold. Not sharp like it had been, when every inhale scraped against memories he tried not to touch.

Tomorrow would come with its own weight. He knew that. The past did not disappear simply because the night had quieted. It would still be there when the sun rose—etched deep into him, permanent as scars carved into bone.

Everything he had done. Everything he had survived. Everything he had failed to stop.

None of it would vanish.

But right now, in this moment, the world had narrowed to something smaller. Something quieter. The rise and fall of her breathing against him. The warmth of her body pressed close. The quiet, stubborn proof that she would not walk away.

That he was not alone.

And that—more than anything—held him together.

It kept him anchored to the present. It kept the ghosts where they belonged, distant and muted instead of clawing at his throat. Because even with everything behind him—his failures, his triumphs, the things he carried that no one else could see—she was still here.

And somehow, that meant he was allowed to remain here, too.

[leonarchive]

is he bothering you, diva? (click here for hot milfs in your area)

☆ summary : hold on, hot stuff! you're trying to rush out for a rare night out, but you have failed to realize your dearest leon has absolutely no interest in hearing about the kids’ routine once he sees you in that dress—and he’s suddenly very concerned about who else will.

☆ caution : fem reader, motherhood, kids, marriage, body talk? slightly naughty. leon is definitely trying to get in those panties later.

☆ note : series? maybe? maybe not. work was kind of crazy today—the snow caused a lot of cancellations so I didn't have much time to finish family protection act but I wanted to post something! forgive me! (╥﹏╥)

you’re already running late.

the zipper of the dress finally settles into place after a short fight with the fabric, the material hugging close in a way that makes you pause for half a second in the mirror. hm. three kids have softened your body in ways it never used to be—your hips fuller, your chest heavier, the curve of your stomach gentler than it once was—but whatever! the dress still fits! that’s a win in your book. gosh, does it feel like it’s been ages since you’ve gone out for a girl’s night.. you’re! nervous! but a good kind!

you reach for your earrings on the counter, studying your reflection as you do so. “honey!” you call toward the bedroom. “listen to me for a second, because i need you to remember this!” you're already worrying your head off, will you even have fun tonight? jesus. that chardonnay was calling your name and yes, you checked the menu beforehand because you were overthinking this morning. its just the anticipation of it all!

leon’s leaning in the doorway. and he’s been standing there longer than you realize, watching the way the fabric of this little number pulls tight over your ass as you lean over the sink. his eyes move slowly over you, starting at the heels and working their way up. “..yeah,” he says.

you take that as confirmation that he's listening and keep talking while fastening the first earring. “the kids already ate, but they’re probably gonna ask for another snack anyway so just—” you stop when something warm settles against your waist. leon’s hand.

he’s stepped up behind you, palm spreading over your hip. “—leon.”

his thumb presses into the soft curve there and he hums absently. you narrow your eyes at his reflection in the mirror. “did you hear what i just said?”

his other hand slides to your stomach, resting there comfortably while he leans down beside your shoulder, studying you so hard that you almost want to ask if there's something on your face.

“..not a word, miss.” he admits.

you turn your head sharply. “babe!”

man.. he doesn’t even look guilty. his brows are slightly drawn together now, gaze drifting over you again—and the longer he looks, the worse the situation becomes in his jeans. yeah, he was a little hard. can you blame him?

“when were you planning on warning me you owned this dress?” he asks.

you blink. “never.”

his hand squeezes your hip slowly. “feels like an important detail..”

you twist slightly to face him, one eyebrow raised. “what’s wrong with you, mister handsy?” you turn back to the mirror, trying to finish your second earring while his fingers keep tracing distracted lines over your waist. 

leon doesn’t answer, his attention drops instead, eyes catching on the movement of your hand as you reach to adjust the second earring. the light from the bathroom catches the stone sitting on your ring finger, the diamond throwing a brief sharp glint across the mirror.

he takes your hand before you can pull it away, his fingers curling around yours slowly and a rough thumb turns your hand just enough to look at it properly. the five carat stone flashes again under the light, big and pretty against your skin. it was a pretty penny but you’re worth it and more—he wanted to go bigger but you told him no because then it would look like costume jewelry. leon exhales quietly through his nose and his thumb brushes once over the ring. then again as if? he’s checking that it’s still there. committing it to memory.

“keep this on tonight,” he mutters under his breath.

you blink at him. “i wasn’t planning on taking it off.”

his mouth twitches slightly, but he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. instead, he presses a quick kiss to your knuckles before dropping them back toward you.

“…good,” he says as he studies the dress again, his mouth pulling slightly to one side. “and where exactly are you going again..?”

“dinner.”

“with who.”

you stare at him. “my friends.”

his eyes narrow a fraction. “..which ones.” oh my god! so needy!

you look at him incredulously. “you’re being insane.” a giggle.

he exhales through his nose, running a hand back through his hair—he already knows he’s being ridiculous but he can’t quite stop himself from being so. he has the same expression he used to make decades ago, back when he was twenty one and pretending he wasn’t jealous of anything that breathed near you. because admittedly, you were his first baddie.

“just seems,” he mutters, tugging down at the fabric at your thighs, “like a pretty serious dress for dinner.”

you cross your arms. “is thee leon scott kennedy pouting right now?”

his eyes flick up to yours. “..no.”

you squint and he sighs, touching you again. “you’re not letting anyone buy you drinks.”

you giggle at him. “honey.”

“i’m dead serious— the kids can’t know i’m a.. what do they say on tiktok? a simp? beta? omega—whatever the hell.” ohhhh, he’s all huffy now.

“i’ve been married to you for fifteen years.” she says.

“…yeah,” he mutters. his thumb presses into your waist again. “score.”

© leonarchive

[lirficos]

leon s. kennedy resident evil 9 requiem

age-appropriate relationship ( leon s. kennedy forty—nine + reader same age ); soft intimacy; post-sex cuddling; praise & affection; light possessiveness; female reader.

The kitchen light is the only one on at 11:47 p.m., warm yellow spilling over the counter where you’re stirring pasta sauce with a wooden spoon. The house smells like garlic, tomatoes, and the faint cedar of Leon’s aftershave that clings to everything he touches. You hear his boots first—soft thuds on the hardwood—then feel him before you see him.

Arms slide around your waist from behind, slow and sure, like he’s done it a thousand times and still wants to savor every one. His chest presses to your back; he’s warm through his black t-shirt, solid in the way only years of survival make a man. He doesn’t say anything at first—just rests his chin on the top of your head, exhales long and quiet against your hair like the day’s weight is finally leaving his shoulders.

“Smells good,” he murmurs eventually, voice low and rough from the debrief that ran two hours late.

You tilt your head back until your temple brushes his jaw. “You’re home early.”

“Missed you.” Simple. No elaboration. His hands splay over your stomach, thumbs tracing lazy circles through the thin cotton of your sleep shirt. Then his mouth finds the side of your neck—soft at first, just lips brushing skin, then a slow open-mouthed kiss that makes your breath hitch. He lingers there, stubble scraping gently, before moving to the slope of your shoulder, kissing the bare skin where your shirt’s slipped down.

You lean back into him, sauce forgotten for a second. “Food’s gonna burn.”

“Let it.” Another kiss, lower this time, right over your shoulder blade when you arch a little. His arms tighten, pulling you flush against him so you can feel how hard he’s getting just from this—standing in your kitchen, holding you like you’re the only steady thing left in his world.

Dinner ends up slightly overcooked. Neither of you cares.

Later, after the dishes are in the sink and the lights are off except the bedside lamp, you’re sprawled across him on the bed. Sheets tangled at your waists, skin still damp from the shower you took together. You’re lying on top—chest to chest, legs slotted between his, head tucked under his chin so your ear rests over his heartbeat. It’s steady, strong, a little faster than usual because he’s still coming down from fucking you slow and deep until you were both shaking.

His fingers card through your hair—slow, rhythmic strokes from scalp to ends, then back up again. Every few passes he twists a strand around his finger, lets it slip free, like he’s memorizing the texture. His other hand rests low on your back, palm flat, thumb sweeping small arcs over the dip of your spine.

You shift, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “You’re quiet tonight.”

He hums, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Just thinking.” Another pass through your hair. “About how you feel like home.”

You lift your head enough to meet his eyes—blue even in the dim light, softer than they ever look in photos or files. There’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind he saves only for you.

“Cheesy,” you tease, but your voice is thick.

“True.” He cups the back of your head, guides you down until your forehead rests against his. “I like being behind you in the kitchen. Arms around you. Chin on your head. Feeling you breathe. Makes the rest of the world shut up for a minute.”

You smile against his lips when he kisses you—lazy, unhurried, tasting like toothpaste and the red wine you split earlier. When you pull back he chases your mouth for one more peck, then settles you back against his chest.

His fingers resume their path through your hair.

“Stay like this,” he says quietly. Not a command—just a request from a man who’s spent too many nights alone.

You settle deeper, cheek over his heart again, listening to the steady thump-thump that’s become your favorite lullaby.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

He exhales, long and slow, arms tightening around you like he’s anchoring himself.

“Good.”

The lamp clicks off a few minutes later. Darkness settles, but his hand never stops moving through your hair—gentle, steady, like he’s still holding on even after the world goes quiet.

In the morning he’ll wake you the same way: arms around your waist from behind while you brush your teeth, chin on your shoulder, kissing the curve of your neck until you laugh and elbow him softly.

But for now it’s just this—his heartbeat under your ear, his fingers in your hair, the weight of forty-nine years of hard roads finally easing because you’re here, on top of him, exactly where he wants you.

reading a little bit of leon really makes me feel a little better :)

[mychoombatheroomba]

I'd Give You The Sun

RE9 Leon x GN! Reader

“How ‘bout we split the difference and say we’ve both got it good?” He smiles, and you give him that smile right back.

“We’ve got it terrible,” you point out. “But it’s okay, long as we’ve got each other.”

Word Count: 3,031

CW: NSFW, fluff, smut, established relationship (married idiots), agent! reader, hand jobs, fingering (reader receiving), oral sex (reader receiving), penetrative sex (reader receiving), switch! reader and leon, a little angst, y'all just love each other a lot

Warm sheets. A flowery candle that’s been burning too long. Golden light dragging lazily across the walls you painted together. The last autumn leaves are falling outside, the chill seeming an entire world away because of the warmth of the man in your arms. The concept of cold had no place here. Not now that you’re both home. 

The two of you have hardly left the bed all day, even now as the sun settles into the ground to rest. You’re both content to let the universe shrink into the space of your bedroom, everything else forgotten as, for the first time since those black marks appeared on his skin, you are able to touch. To press skin to skin. Once you’d rested, once he had energy enough, that had been all you’d done all day, relearning each other now that no sickness lingered on him. Now that Leon was back in your arms.

Your body has some aches to it as he sits against you, his head on your naked chest. Neither of you are as young as you once were, after all, but it’s alright. After nearly losing him, you would take all the pains in the world to have this chance; to have him leaning back against you, eyes closed, the worry lines of his brow smoothed as your fingers brush over them. You know for damn sure that the passion you’ve been sharing all day will be back before long, but this moment between it all, this quiet peace . . . you know you’ll be clinging to this moment for a long time. 

“You’re missing the sunset,” you tell him gently as you run your fingertips from his brows to his temples, pressure gentle. 

Leon doesn’t open his eyes, his bare chest rising before he lets out a lazy sigh. “The sunset’s missing out on this.” 

Not one of his best lines, but you huff anyway. He looks younger like this - he has since you returned from Raccoon City. Twenty-eight years of troubles, not gone, but eased; and now he has a moment to just . . . be. To lean against you, his lips wearing a gentle curve, and let you run your fingers through his hair. His body, still scarred and beaten, fully relaxes against yours, and you would give anything for this to be everything for him. But since you couldn’t give him everything, you would give him today. 

And as many days after as he wanted. 

“Come here,” you command gently, “sit up a little.” 

“Mm . . . pretty comfy right here, though.” 

“Baby.”

He laughs and then shifts to obey. “Alright, alright.” His body disconnects from yours for just a moment, but it’s quickly remedied as you lean forward, your hands moving instead to his shoulders. Your thumbs dig into the tense muscles, the knots that will never fully go away, but that you know you can help to alleviate. He groans his approval, and a smile curls your lips. 

“Glad you moved?” you tease, and he chuckles again, the sweetest sound you’ve heard in your life. 

“Getting there.” 

You work diligently, soothing where you know he aches, pressing into the muscles along his spine, his shoulder blades, and the back of his neck. You punctuate your work with kisses, lips brushing his back, his shoulders, anywhere you can reach. 

“Think you missed your calling, baby,” Leon says as you press into a particularly nasty knot, his noises just short of something sinful. 

It makes you smile as it always does. “Maybe I’ll hand in my resignation, then. See if Massage Envy is hiring.” 

Leon laughs, soft and easy. “Would that mean I’d have to pay for this treatment?” 

You hum, making a show of pondering nothing at all. “I guess you could have the occasional one for free.” You press the heels of your palms into the muscles he’s worked so hard for over the years, feeling them loosen just a bit under your touch. “Just don’t go telling everyone, it’d be bad business.” All the while, your fingertips run over scars, all of them long-since familiar to you. You’ve watched more and more be added to him over the years, a patchwork masterpiece that lets you see all that he’s survived. All that he’s managed to endure in order to keep fighting. To come back to you. 

There’s no mark left from his latest brush with death - nothing remaining of the black marks that had decorated his skin only days ago. Still, as you reach that spot on his neck, that place you’d watched for weeks, wondering if it meant you would lose the man you loved, you lean forward. 

Leon stills as he feels the kiss you lay there, his head turning a little towards you, eyes opening at last. Your eyes catch his, and you don’t need words to understand the gratitude in his eyes. The relief and love. 

“Sometimes I don’t know how I got so lucky,” he admits after a moment, and you know he’s not just talking about the fortune of Grace Ashcroft finding the answers to his sickness. You know that, as far as he’s concerned, he’s been on a lucky streak since the day he met you, because you feel exactly the same way. 

So, there was really no choice but to kiss his lips, a hand on his stubbled jaw and your chest full of a familiar ache. “I’m the lucky one,” you tell him when you pull away, because it’s true. Your life was all the brighter because Leon Kennedy was in it, and you’d be damned if he didn’t know it. 

“How ‘bout we split the difference and say we’ve both got it good?” He smiles, and you give him that smile right back. 

“We’ve got it terrible,” you point out. “But it’s okay, long as we’ve got each other.” 

The kiss that follows is slower. Deeper. One that you’ve shared a thousand times before, after a hard mission or when you’ve had a rare and nonviolent day or for no reason at all. It’s his beard, now showing a little grey, brushing against your face, the hand that bears the ring you gave him coming up to cup your cheek, and all the years of shared burdens you’ve had together. 

It’s home.  

The light fades as you go on, exchanging more and more of those kisses, each one lasting a little longer than the last. Your hands move from his back, exploring what you’ve touched a hundred times before, knowing that you could be struck blind and still know the shape of him. Still love each and every imperfection. Still want him in your arms, even after both of your strength has faded and your youth long-since spent. 

You pull him back against you, arms wrapping around him to hold him close against you. He fits perfectly there, as he always does. The blankets that he’d pulled up over him begin to slip, and you feel the brush of his tongue against your lips. 

He says your name like he just can’t help but enjoy the sound of it, and as he starts to turn in your arms to face you, you hold him fast. “I didn’t say I was done,” you murmur against his lips, and he relents with another chuckle. 

“Still so bossy.” 

Your hand slides from his shoulder to his jaw, guiding him to lean his head on your shoulder. To expose his throat to you once more. “You say that like you’re complaining,” you tease, lips against his neck while your free hand presses against his chest. 

Leon melts into your touch, into your warm breath on his neck as you kiss that spot again, like you can pull the last vestiges of rot from him. Like you’re sealing a promise that it will never, ever touch him again. Not so long as you’re at his side. And Leon . . . he sighs, and smiles, and you know that he believes that silent promise. That you are his safety as much as he is yours. As he leans into you, a hand on one of the thighs he sits between, it’s trust that he gives you. 

That trust is worth more than anything in the world, to you. And you will spend it well. 

“God, baby,” he sighs as you nibble on his earlobe, your fingers at his nipple like you know he enjoys. Your other hand remains at his jaw, keeping him right where you want him. Right where he wants to be, as your touch eventually drifts lower. Past the scars and muscles on his belly, under the sheets that you picked out together years ago. Even after all this time, even after all you two have done today alone, you’re rewarded with a little groan as you touch him. 

Your mouth is against his ear, tongue tracing the shell of it. “Just relax,” you coo. “Lemme take care of you.” 

You stop only to lick at your hand, giving yourself more to work with, before you reach back down and take hold of him again. Leon plays along like he is so often content to, letting his eyes fall closed again in the fading golden light. It brings out the blond undertones in his hair, still clinging to life after so many times dyed. Your golden boy, no matter how dark the world gets. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, a word that he might have blushed at years ago, might have insisted didn’t fit. Now, he only chuckles. 

“Look who’s- ngh . . . talking.”

As your hand moves against him, around him, you can only savor the feeling of him against your body, his warmth and presence a blessing you’ve learned to treasure. His breathing grows a little heavier as you mouth at his neck, his shoulder, his hips beginning to twitch up into your hand. 

“That’s it,” you praise as you move faster. “That’s my man.” 

“Baby-” he manages, the tendons in his neck straining, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Fuck. You gonna let me have a turn?” 

He was asking for your sake, you know that well enough by now. Because he wants you to feel good too. Because he’s always, always concerned about that to some degree. You want to tell him that you don’t need a damn thing except him being here right now . . . but god, feeling him hard against your hand again, his body so warm against your own . . . 

“Oh, I suppose I can.” The words don’t have quite the play of reluctance that you’d aimed for. Alas. Still, you let go of his jaw, your fingertips brushing down his throat as you do. All too quickly, he’s turning in your arms, facing you, the blankets fully sliding off of him to let you see all of him. 

You’re still not sure how the hell he can manage to look more beautiful with each year, but then, you might be biased. You know you are. And you have every right to be as he kisses you hard, pressing you against the headboard. 

Tongues don’t so much wrestle each other as they dance, sliding against one another as Leon’s hands trail up your legs, your sides - every inch of you that he can manage. With no infection left, he hasn’t been able to keep away from you, nor you from him. He touches you now like he never wants to let go, one hand quickly slipping between your legs to stoke the fires in you again. To give just as good as he’s been given. 

“Look at you,” he smiles, kissing down your neck as he starts to work you over. 

“Looking isn’t really what I want you to be doing,” you raise a brow, and he scoffs. 

“Can’t blame a man for admiring the view.” Even so, he doesn’t waste much time as he kisses down your body. His head is between your legs before too long, lips and tongue working in tandem with his fingers. After years, he knows exactly what you like. Ever the quick study, he puts it to use as he laps at you, taking his time even at the expense of his own pleasure. But the way his hips grind into the bed . . . you know this isn’t self-sacrifice, because he enjoys this just as much as anything else. 

So, you’re sure to let your approval be known, low groans slipping from your lips as your head tips back. “That’s it . . . fuck, Leon, that’s good-” you tug gently at his hair, just like you know he likes, gripping it tighter as he pushes a second finger into you, as he sucks on sensitive flesh. It makes your hips jump, a whine escaping from your lips. 

“God . . .” you hear Leon groan, his body adjusting as he redoubles his efforts, tongue moving fast against you. It’s everything you’ve come to treasure over the years, everything you desperately need . . . 

But it’s the way he looks up at you in the midst of it all - the way those eyes that have become your sky meet yours - that you treasure above all else. Because he looks at you like you are his stars and moon and the earth keeping him up all at once. 

Even if he punctuates that look with one of his stupid smiles. 

It’s not long before you’re pulling him upwards towards you, kissing him again. Tasting yourself on his tongue. You both tangle in the sheets, bodies pressing up against each other, seeking friction. Wanting to be wrapped up in one another again and again and again. Until, at last, you end up on your sides, one of his hands hooking beneath your knee, holding you open. You guide him, and before long you are both moving together, teeth clacking and hips pressing against each other. Your names are whispered to each other as he pushes in deeper, your foreheads press against one another when you have to come up for air. 

Your nails dig into him, trying to pull him closer, where you know you will never lose him again, and he holds onto you like he might drift away if he doesn’t. He grunts more than he once did, exertion making you both change where you hold on each other, but neither of you stop. Not when you feel that warmth building more and more in your core. 

His hand moves down between your bodies as you both pant, hearts pounding and skin growing hotter. He touches you as you move together, making you moan loud into his mouth, and then-

And then you lock a leg around his hip, pulling him deep as you feel it, your body tensing as pleasure rolls over you. “Leon-” 

“I’ve got you,” he tells you between grunts, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he carries you through it. As he prioritizes you - which you don’t allow for long. 

He lets out a surprised little noise as you roll him onto his back, the motion drawing your pleasure out all the more as you sink down onto him. Your hips moved fast, up and down, taking him like you knew he loved, letting him see your body moving atop him. “Come on, Leon,” you urged, trying to prolong what you felt, to share your bliss. “Come for me.” In an effort to heed your command, strong hands grip your hips, guiding you with a desperate strength as you lean down, kissing at his neck. His chest. His lips. And before long, you watch as Leon tips over his own edge. Warmth flooded you again, his hips stuttering up into yours, his fingers digging into your hips. A groan in the shape of your name falls from his lips, his head falling back against the pillows, and at last, Leon stills. 

“Mm . . . goddamn . . .” he murmurs. His chest rises and falls, just as yours does. You pull back from where your face had been pressed into his neck, kissing him deep and slow. His hands hold your waist, for a moment, but before too long those arms were around you completely, holding you flush against his chest, his lips at the crown of your head. “Still got it, baby.”

“Damn right we do.” 

You remain like that for a while longer, before eventually climbing off of him and settling into the crook of his arm. Like ivy you tangled with him, legs intertwined, an arm draped over his chest. His hand rested atop yours, his thumb brushing the ring you wore that matched his own. Simple. Quiet. Loving. 

And you had almost lost this. 

If anything had happened differently, if you or him had been a moment slower, or if Grace hadn’t been as brilliant as she had been . . . 

“You’re thinking pretty loud over there.” Leon’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. The sky had darkened, so when you opened your eyes, the candle still burning on your dresser was what allowed you to see your husband looking down at you. He wore a soft smile, the one that you’d seen too little of these last few weeks. 

You’d been so close to losing him. You hated that you thought of it now, after a day that had been so full of bliss. It was hard not to, though, when you were overwhelmed with the feeling of him. Even the possibility of it makes your throat constrict now. 

But he was here. 

He was here and with you, and you would fight for the two of you to be like this forever, if you had to. So, as Leon looked at you, as he silently conveyed that he was here if you needed, you just held him a little tighter. “I’m just glad you’re here.” 

As much as you’d tried to soothe his brow earlier, to help him relax after weeks of stress, you can see now that it’s that admission that does more than even your touches. 

Leon leans down, then, his smile as light and gentle as it’s ever been. “Me too, baby,” he nods, pressing his forehead against yours, eyes full of something more valuable than gold: hope. “Me too.”

Masterlist

[lilacgrayskies]

☁︎⋅ re9 leon as a husband (continuation of this)(i'm so brain rotted)

∞︎︎ husband!leon who loves being married. it’s the only sense of normalcy in his chaotic life.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who quietly takes care of the little things without mentioning it. the trash gets taken out, the fire alarm batteries get changed regularly. he forgets to water the plants though (he’s killed every plant he’s ever had). he’s also weirdly good at fixing things around the house because of the puzzles he had to deal with on his missions. 

∞︎︎ husband!leon who’s always touching you. arm around your shoulder at movie night, hand on your lower back when walking, foot brushing against yours at dinner. it’s a subtle way he reassures himself that you’re here, you’re with him.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who reaches over you to grab something from the cabinet. he’ll deliberately press his front against your back, letting you feel all his muscles and taut skin. “you alright, beautiful?” he mumbles, kissing your temple, feigning innocence over his effect on you.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who refuses to live in a house with a basement. after the events of raccoon city, he associates basements with umbrella labs. if there’s any situation (at a family’s house or something) where he has to go into a basement, you can see his shoulders tense up and his eyes grow sharp. he knows there’s nothing bad down there, but he likes to be prepared.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who, if you ever mention bingo, he’ll just go “where’s everyone going? bingo?” and he’ll have a proud look on his face. you don’t know why he does that.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who checks the weather every morning and reminds you to take a jacket 

∞︎︎ husband!leon who gets annoyed at horror movies, especially zombie movies. he’ll point out the inaccuracies of the zombie designs and how stupid the main characters act. eventually, he gives up and starts kissing your neck so you can do something more stimulating than watching this slop.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who checks the locks before bed every night. your home is the safest and most secure place, he made sure of it. knowing that you’re safe while he’s away on a mission gives him peace of mind. 

∞︎︎ husband!leon who will carry you to bed every single time. whether you fell asleep in the car, on the couch, in the office. he’ll lift you up in his strong arms, no complaints or teasing. if you protest, he’ll chuckle beneath his breath. “c’mon, sweetheart…bed,” he says softly.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who pretends to help you in the kitchen. he’s trying to cut some vegetables but he keeps holding the knife like he’s in combat. you’ll chide him, “Leon, you’re supposed to be cutting the vegetables.” “I am,” he retorts. “you cut one,” you giggled. “quality over quantity,” he smiles.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who subconsciously pulls you closer when you’re asleep. his body recognizes not feeling your warmth so he’ll seek it. if he goes too long without you, he’ll wake up and search for you with sleepy eyes. 

masterlist

© lilacgrayskies on tumblr

{dividers from @/cursed-carmine}

[elysiumae]

highway (to your heart)

pairing: mydei x f!reader

word count: 3.2k

synopsis: you wouldn't call you and mydeimos friends. the two of you hang out often, but he rarely speaks. when he sends you home one night on his motorcycle, however, cupid shows up in his most unexpected form: siri.

a/n: finally a mydei idea that doesn't get hijacked by phainon LOL i feel like. i did not do this idea as much justice as i liked but oh well 😭😭

You wouldn’t call you and Mydeimos friends.

Your relationship — if it could even be called that — is strange. You are friends with Hyacine, he is friends with Phainon, and both of your respective friends happen to be the most socially outgoing and charismatic people on campus. So on the occasion when these two celestial bodies of extroversion decide to collide, you and Mydeimos are inevitably dragged into the same point in space-time.

You know more about him than you know him, you think. There’s a distinction between the two that feels important. It’s a collection of facts observed from a distance, compiled through circumstance rather than conversation. They are as such:

One. He is a third year student studying mechanical engineering. You learn this when Hyacine drags you to the library with her for a study session the week before finals, insisting that you’ll be “more productive with company.” Productive is not the word you’d ever use to describe the four of you together. Within ten minutes of sitting down, Hyacine and Phainon are embroiled in a passionate debate about the superiority of gel vs felt-tip highlighters. Their intensity has you warily inching your chair away. 

Meanwhile, Mydeimos silently works through a thick stack of problem questions with equations and greek letters that you cannot make head or tail of. He does not even look up, glasses perched on his nose as he sketches out graphs with a mechanical pencil. Multivariable calculus, he informs you later. You did not know he had noticed your staring.

Two. Mydeimos is on the university’s basketball team. He arrives for lunch one day in a sports jersey and a towel around his neck, longish blond hair still sticking to his temples with cooled sweat. You watch the way he slides into the booth next to Phainon with the loose limbed exhaustion of someone who’s left everything on the court, rolling his eyes as his friend pokes fun at him for being late. This time, you try not to stare too much at the tattoos curling down his biceps and forearms as he drains a bottle of water in one long go.

Three. He has somewhat of a sweet tooth, something that you’re surprised by. You notice this when he always spends a fraction too long on the desserts section when looking through the menu  but never orders any of it. You wonder whether it’s something that comes with being an athlete. “Do you like sweets, Mydeimos?” you ask him one day, when Hyacine and Phainon are at the counter debating (again) about what to order.

He looks up at you, golden eyes flickering towards the menu, before he nods slowly. “You can call me Mydei, you know,” he says after a while. "Mydeimos is too formal."

You know. That is precisely why you choose to use it.

Four. He rides a motorcycle. This fact comes in important, later.

And five. Mydeimos is kind. You feel a little guilty for assuming otherwise at first — mistaking his silence for indifference, his stoicism for coldness. But you soon learn that his consideration is quiet and slips past far too easily unless you’re paying attention. He notices the details. Like the time when you were stuck inside the booth and he offered to help you get water from the drinks bar. Or the way he wordlessly holds out his hand to take yours and Hyacine’s bags whenever you need to go to the washroom. 

He shifts his chair to give you more room when the space is tight. He slides a napkin across the table before you’ve even realized you need one. Small things, unremarkable in isolation — except for the fact that he always seems to notice before you have to ask. Platonically, it’s an attractive thing to notice. Platonically. 

Aside from that, though, you wouldn’t say that you know him all that well.

So, it’s a bit of an awkward affair when Phainon asks him to send you home.

The four of you had ended up at a late night diner after catching an action movie Phainon insisted on seeing, and ended up lingering over milkshakes and fries for longer than you’d expected. By the time you checked your phone again, the last bus was long gone and the ride-hailing apps were being painfully uncooperative. Hyacine had decided to give Phainon a lift home (like the girlboss that she is), but the two of them live on the other side of the city and…

“You’ve got a motorcycle, don’t you?” Phainon says as he slaps his friend on the shoulder. Mydeimos narrows his eyes at him, before he glances at you. An unreadable look flickers in his golden eyes before he nods with a hesitation that you’re not sure whether to interpret as reluctance.

“Alright then!” Hyacine claps her hands together, as if that settles everything. “It’s been a long night. Get home safe, you guys!”

You’re not quite sure how to feel about this. You’re grateful to have a ride home, that’s for sure, but you’ve never really… hung out with Mydeimos without Hyacine and Phainon around. And now, the two of them have already headed off, leaving just you and him in the dimly lit parking lot behind the diner.

The air smells faintly of asphalt and cooking grease, and the only bright shape in the lot is what you assume to be Mydei’s motorcycle. Sleek and black, with crimson accents that catch the neon glow from the sign above the diner, it looks fast even when it’s standing still. The engine rumbles quietly, a low hum that thrums through you when he presses a button and the machine comes alive.

He hands you the only helmet. “Have you ridden a motorcycle before?” When you shake your head, his lips twist almost imperceptibly upwards. “You look a little nervous.”

“I kinda am,” you admit, turning the helmet over in your hands. “Never been on one before.”

“Oh.” You’re not quite sure what to expect from Mydeimos. Maybe a teasing remark, a laugh, something casual. But he doesn’t. Instead, with the same quiet steadiness that seems to define him, he asks, “Of anything in particular?”

You take a moment to think about it. “The… noise?” you ponder aloud, frowning slightly. That sounds kind of stupid. “The cars and the honking and the— uh, you know.” He just looks at you with those unflinching, steady eyes, and you feel a little guilty for the hold up you’re causing. “Don’t worry about it. The ride back shouldn’t be more than… fifteen minutes, I think? I can deal with it.”

Before you can put on the helmet, though, he stops you. “Here.” He holds out a pair of AirPods. “I’ll play some music. Noise-cancelling. Should help, right?”

For a second, you’re caught off guard by Mydei’s quiet thoughtfulness once again. Really, you should have learned by now, the type of man he is. You look down at the offered Airpods. The sight of them makes your heart skip a traitorous beat in your chest.

Hesitantly, you slip them into your ears. Mydeimos reaches over to take the helmet from your hands, before helping you settle it onto your head, adjusting the straps carefully beneath your chin. You try not to fidget when his fingers accidentally brush your throat, all too aware of how nerve-wracking yet strangely steadying his methodical touch feels.

When the helmet is secure, he swings a leg over the bike with practiced ease. You step up behind him, hands hovering for a moment before you place them tentatively on his waist. 

Mydei glances back over his shoulder. There’s a faint, almost amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The knowledge that it’s aimed directly at you almost makes you fall off the back. 

“You’ll need to hold on more tightly if you don’t want to fall off,” he tells you, voice low and steady. “Don’t want to arrive at your home only to realise I’ve dropped you on the highway or something. May I?”

You nod wordlessly. He takes you by the wrists and guides your arms just a little tighter around his midsection, shifting them so that you're gripping his front properly rather than just resting your fingers on his sides. The heat that bleeds through the thin tee he’s wearing is almost scalding.

The engine rumbles to life between your legs. Mydei gives the throttle a testing twist, and the machine responds with a predatory growl. You instinctively tighten your grip on his waist, fingers pressing into the firm muscle at his waist.

“Ready?” he calls over his shoulder. You nod shakily, too scared to let go, and he kicks the bike into gear. The world lurches forward.

The first few seconds feel like a sensory overload. The wind is a constant, pressing force against your body, whipping at your bare arms, your hair. The lights of the city streak past in smears of gold and white. And the cars — they’re suddenly enormous, loud, and far too close. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, arms tightening involuntarily around the only solid thing in this chaotic, rushing dark.

He must feel it, because he shifts, one hand leaving the handlebar for a moment. You barely manage to make out his voice, slightly raised but calm, cutting through the wind. “Siri, play my driving playlist—” A car honks loudly from behind, jolting you in your seat. “—on Spotify.”

“Playing ‘jogging playlist’ from Recorder…”

Instead of the expected thumping bass or strumming of an acoustic guitar, an entirely different sound floods your ears. Thump-thump-thump. It takes you a moment to figure it out, but this is the sound of someone’s shoes against the pavement. Jogging. There’s quiet, heavy breathing. And then his voice, slightly breathless, too close and melting like candy in your ears.

“—need to just… ugh. Saw her again today at the library. Third floor, near the history section, next to the window. Hyacine was talking up a storm and she was just nodding along. I think she was drawing something in the margins of her notebook. Wanted to see what it was. Wanted to go over. What would I even say though? ‘Let me see what you’re drawing’? That’s just rude. Idiot.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You stare at the back of his leather jacket, unable to string together a coherent thought for a second. This is… a voice memo. A private thought. About you.

“Mydeimos—” you start to say, but your voice is muffled by the helmet, utterly lost to the wind and the noise of the engine. He feels you move, though.

“Save it for later!” he calls over his shoulder, misinterpreting your squirming for more anxiety. “We’re almost on the highway!”

The jogging sounds continue. There’s another deep breath, then his voice comes through again, raw and unfiltered. 

“Phainon’s setting up another lunch with Hyacine tomorrow. I know he is. He thinks he’s being subtle. I should be annoyed, but I’m… not. It’s kind of pathetic, maybe. That I need a whole lunch engineered just for a chance to sit across from her for an hour and maybe say like three words. She’s just so… quiet. Not in a bad way. It’s like she has a whole other world in that head. I want to know what’s in there.”

The bike leans into a smooth curve, turning onto the ramp for the highway. The city lights open up around you, a dazzling panorama, but you can’t focus on any of it when you’re trapped in a confessional booth with his voice. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic beat completely out of sync with the steady rumble of the motorcycle.

The earbuds go quiet. For a moment, you think that the heavens have finally decided to have mercy on you when the next audio loads. A different day, different background noise, and his breathing is more laboured this time.

“Okay. Sprinted like five miles without stopping and all I could think about is the way she ties her hair when she needs to focus. Hair tie between her teeth and everything. That’s it. That’s the whole thought. Five miles for one hair tie. This is becoming a problem. This is already a problem. A good problem? I don’t know. How do you even talk to someone who makes your brain shut down? You’re afraid that you might open your mouth and say something stupid and then poof— all of your chances, gone down the drain like that. I can’t do that.”

That makes your face heat a little. It feels… wrong, to continue listening, but it’s not like you have much of a choice. The careful, quiet man who you’d thought was politely tolerating your presence… he’d wanted to talk to you. The quiet vulnerability in his voice now is unlike anything you’ve ever heard from him.

You try again. You tap his side, raise your voice as much as you dare. “Your phone!” you shout, but he just pats your hand where it’s clenched against his stomach. It’s a gesture meant to be reassuring. His long fingers practically fold over your hand. “I know, the cars are pretty loud tonight! Almost there! Just hold on!”

Another voice memo. He sounds calmer here, his pace even.

“Figured it out today. I think I’m… yeah. I’m definitely into her. It’s not a crush. I can’t believe I actually owe Phainon something for his stupid schemes… I just need to find a way to tell her. I need to… I just need to be brave. Next time. Next time, for sure.”

The memo ends. And then there’s only the hollow rush of wind, dampened by the ANC. The silence is more deafening than the roar of the engine beneath you.

The bike begins to slow, taking an exit ramp. The suburban streets are dark and quiet. You’re hyper-aware of every point of contact, your arms around his waist, your knees pressing against his thighs. The person you’re holding is no longer just Mydeimos, the mechanical engineering student, the basketball player, Phainon’s friend. This is Mydei — the man who struggles to find the right words to speak to you, who runs five miles thinking about you, whose quiet thoughts you’ve just been privy to.

Is he trying to be brave, even now?

Mydei pulls up to your curb and kills the engine. The ensuing silence is suddenly too much, ringing in your ears with the dampened chirp of the cicadas at night. He rolls his shoulders out and runs a hand through his wind tousled hair, before turning to look at you with those steady, golden eyes, completely unaware that his soul is sitting in your ears.

By the time you’ve fumbled the helmet off your head with clumsy fingers, Mydei is already standing next to the bike. He holds out a hand to help you off. “See?” His voice is reassuring when your feet touch solid ground again. “Not so bad. You survived.”

You don’t know what to say. Or to do, actually. The Airpods are still sitting in your ears and you pull them out. The world comes rushing back in its full, mundane clarity. You hold them in your palm, finding them suddenly too heavy.

Mydei’s brow furrows at your prolonged silence. “You okay? Did the ride make you nauseous? You look a little—”

“I heard it,” you blurt out. The words are too loud, echoing down the empty street.

He freezes. “Heard what?”

Your heart is beating too quickly in your chest. “Your… your voice memos. Siri played them. Instead of music.” You watch the words land, see the slow, dawning horror break over his features. The casual ease drains from his posture, just as the faint smile he’s wearing vanishes, replaced by a stark, pale shock.

For a long moment, Mydei just stares at you. His golden eyes are wide. You can see the frantic calculation behind them as he blinks, the rapid replay of every private, vulnerable word he’s ever recorded in his memory. The five mile runs, the lunches engineered by Phainon, his fears, his want. The colour drains from his face, before it floods back almost immediately in a swift flush that creeps up his neck.

“Oh.” It’s the most expressive sound you’ve ever heard him make.

The two of you stand there in silence. He looks down at the ground, at his bike, anywhere but you. You, on the other hand, can’t bring yourself to look anywhere but him. His jaw is clenched, fingers gripping onto the helmet you’d been wearing just minutes ago tightly. He looks utterly mortified.

“I…” he starts to say, and then stops. Swallows hard. “I am… I’m sorry. That was private. I didn’t mean to… I would never have…” He takes a half-step back, towards his motorcycle. “I’m so sorry. I should go.”

The nervous energy that has been coiling in your stomach throughout the entire ride transforms into a single, decisive bolt of courage. You step forward, curling your fingers around his sleeve, stopping him in his tracks.

“No.”

He looks up at you, startled, eyes wide with a mixture of shame and confusion. You don’t give him time to process it. Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, free hand pushing back him back by the chest until his shoulders meet the brick wall of your apartment block with a soft thud.

Mydei lets out a small sound of surprise. His entire body is rigid with tension, parted lips hovering just inches from yours. You can see the faint track of dried sweat at his temple, the bewildered flicker in those golden eyes.

“You talk too much,” you whisper, and the steadiness in your voice surprises even you. Then, you fist your hand in the soft leather of his jacket, and before he can react, pull him down until his mouth touches yours.

It’s as much of an answer as it is a kiss. The culmination of every quiet look, every accidental brush of hands, every mile he’s run thinking of you. It’s you telling him that you’ve heard every word — and that you feel the same, terrifying way.

For a heartbeat, he freezes beneath you. Then a shudder ripples through him, and one hand comes up to cradle the side of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your knees weak. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and then he finally, finally kisses you back.

The way Mydei kisses you is nothing like his quiet exterior. He’s hungry, desperate, full of the words he’s been too afraid to say aloud. He kisses you until you’re breathless, and then some more, like none of it is ever quite enough for him.

When you finally break apart, you have to take a moment to catch your breath. You glance up at him. The flustered embarrassment is gone, replaced by a dazed, wondrous shock. His lips are kiss swollen and pink, and gods, it’s a beautiful colour on him.

“You…” he starts to say, voice rough.

You smile, and your heart suddenly feels too big for your chest. “Next time, for sure,” you whisper teasingly, echoing his own promise back to him. A slow, breathtaking smile breaks his face — the first unguarded one that you’ve ever seen directed at you. It transforms him completely.

“No,” Mydei breathes, resting his forehead against yours as if even that small distance is unbearable. “No more next times.”

And then he kisses you again.

[mididoodles]

I let a thought occur in my brain and this happened

+bonus sketch cause I like how it looks, the tail was a last minute addition lmao

[korijime]

spotted u on the dash,, hru :')) <3

WHAT THE FUCK IM TWO WEEKS LATE HELLO

im good duckie b!!!!! ive been super super dead as u can see :( HOW ARE YOU.

[venusiansilk-deactivated2024072]

⋆˙⟢ in which dan heng is jealous.

dan heng is a modest man who prefers privacy in his dealings with you. he’s not one for lewd or obscene displays of affection. despite the presence of his stoic demeanor, you happen to know he’s quite gentle. you happen to know his hands are only familiar with angles of tenderness. he only holds you in softness. he kisses you the same, palms cradling cheeks over traded smiles. in front of others, you two almost appear as nothing more than collegues with an aligning mission on the astral express. if everyone weren’t explicitly aware of your relationship’s existence by your own admission, it’s unlikely anyone would be able to discern romantic affiliation at first glance. his pda is proudly in the favor he shows toward you and your ideas during missions. it’s in how he’s more agreeable with you, how he’s more willing to bend, how burdens don’t feel like burdens if at the base of them is loving you. it’s in how he meets your antics with an amused grin rather than a snarky retort about you and march 7th’s neverending parade of immaturity. but his jealousy has a peculiar expression, something more primal in nature — greedy and possessive — something seemingly unlike himself. it always starts as a soft thing: closer proximity and a loving hand pressed against your spine. 

openly touching. it’s all for him to say, this is mine to hold.

true to his draconic nature, he treats your adorations as his greatest treasure. your smile is a trove of shimmering jewels and gold that he keeps hidden away only for himself to know. so of course, when a stranger stumbles into his den only to discover you, his crowning achievement, his priceless pearl, and indulges in your precious beauty without his consent, he feels proprietorial. so of course, he regards them with flaring nostrils and smoking intent.

this is mine to hold.

it’s one of the researcher’s on the express, given their conforming attire, standing at your side with a smile so wide it’s bursting with fondness, but it’s you that makes frustration take shape and lurch in his gut. your eyes sparkling in delight, he knows that look on you so well. you’re fascinated by his words, whatever they be. the wonder in your eyes makes his sternum screech with anxiety. the attention you so devoutly expend to focus on this stranger, this intruder. it’s noticing how close he stands to you that sends him crossing the span of the room with urgency. it’s noticinng the way your arms nearly brush that makes him nearly snarl.

“sweetheart,” dan heng’s voice sings sweetly as he approaches you, something dulcet and warm in nature, something calm and lulling that masks the depth of his unease. to your surprise, you receive a soft kiss on the cheek and a palm placed delicately on the small of your back. the lilt in his voice perplexes you, his gentle smile a catalyst for your round of unanswered questions. the next kiss to your forehead makes your eyes widen. his adoring smile and yearning gaze sends a flurry of butterflies fluttering. “dan heng?” you ask softly. “i…hi?” “hi, my love. did you have a good day today? where’ve you been? i was waiting.” he chuckles at the bashful exprerssion you make. your voice feathery, you murmur, “what’s gotten into you?” “i…should get back to work.” the researcher says, clearing his throat. he looks at you with a warm smile. “it was nice to talk to you.” a pleasant smile, one that makes dan heng feel like honey inside but also makes him want to take you and hide you away for safekeeping. only he’s allowed to know where you rest. only he’s blessed with your blossoming laughter and steady breaths. he wants all your curious glances reserved for him, the awestricken part of your supple lips for only his sights. he never acknowledges the extra; it would be an insult to the gentle claim he’s currently staking.

this is mine to hold.

“and just what was all that?” you ask in a hushed voice, perplexed brows bunching. he straightens himself, no longer moved to perform the extremity of his devotion to you in public now that he’s cleared himself of the threat to his most prized possession. “it was nothing. i’m allowed to address my partner as i please.” you huff a laugh before asking, “are all dragons petty and possessive like you?” shameless in even the worst parts of his nature, dan heng offers a single, curt nod. “i imagine others are much less tame with strangers who get too close to what’s theirs.” “well aren’t i lucky i got the dragon with such obvious self-control?” you snort. dan heng’s lips quirk. “yes, you are. you’re welcome,”

© 2024 elusivemoon. all rights reserved.

[neuvistar]

Biker! Dan heng, Sunday and aventurine?

Sfw and NSFW

Like I'm brain dead for them

DREAM RIDE. biker! honkai star rail men part one

— featuring ┊aventurine, sunday, (il) dan heng x fem!reader (all separate)

— warnings / content warnings ┊all consensual! sfw + nsfw, feminine terms used (she, girl, etc), cunniligus (aventurine #1 pussy eater strikes again), orgasm denial (sunday), jus a tad bit of subby dan heng, semi-public s3x? (sunday), blowjob (dan heng), use of vibrators (sunday), riding (dan heng) use of nicknames, multiple orgasms, bath s3x (aventurine), sunday is a MENACE here, reader implied 2 be a lil smaller than them, v4ginal fingering (aventurine), more tba! | 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

— a/n ┊NOT PROOFREAD ! might correct tmr if i’m not sleepy! <3 anyways hi guys writers block stopped biting my ass anyways guys i’m SOOO attracted 2 aventurine it’s acc insane he needs to be jailed from how majestic he is.. erm! whoever keeps sending asks abt biker! hsr men god bless u and ur entire family

⊹ 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄

sfw.

⊹ BIKER!AVENTURINE who would take you out for late night rides! he’s a total drama queen, let’s get that out of the way. he loves you, yes, but he’d get so pouty whenever you turn him down for your daily night rides with him, he sulks and sulks.. clinging onto your figure until you finally say yes! jokes aside, aventurine really does enjoy your company, he really does value quality time as he would go as far to even take you out to see the stars, feel the breeze and have some fresh air, or just have a midnight snack!

“come on, baby.. 2am is nothing! just come and ride with me for a bit, i promise i’ll have you back til 3?”

⊹ BIKER!AVENTURINE who always finds himself buying you gifts before visiting you and such! sometimes he’d just be riding around on the road and all of the sudden his hands are full of bags and gifts just for you before he gets to your place! he’s a huge gift giver, spoiling you to the brim.

“would [name] like this one.. no no, maybe this one. hm.. maybe both.”

⊹ BIKER!AVENTURINE who can be insecure at times, sometimes he thinks about whether he’s truly right for you or not. like, usually he wouldn’t give in to these thoughts but there are times where he’s just riding around at night n he suddenly stops n goes.. “what if [name] is bored of me?” even though he might not show it, poor thing needs A LOT and i mean A LOT of reassurance from you, please tell him he’s good enough for you!

“my darling.. are you sure i’m right for you? i mean, you know. i’ve just been.. thinking. you’re not gonna leave, are you.. hm? ‘gonna stay with me, right?”

nsfw.

⊹ BIKER!AVENTURINE absolutely loves having sex while you both take bubble baths, i mean.. it’s essential to have good hygiene, isn’t it? aventurine pumped his fingers within your pussy, circling his thumb over your clit as he licked his lips, nuzzling close against your neck. “mmh.. you like that?” his voice, husky and low as his fingers reached the deepest parts of your cunt, a sharp gasp caught in your throat as he held you firmly against him. watching you struggle to stifle your moans made him feel a combination of pride and surprise. aventurine gripped your waist lightly, offering support and reassurance. "damn, sweetheart.. are my fingers that good?" he murmured, his voice low and steady.

aventurine growled softly, pleasure coursing through him at your reaction. his fingers deeply thrusted in and out of you, feeling your tight walls spasm around his digits. with a lick of his lips, he added another finger within your drenched pussy.. the sound of water splashing against his fingers, his speed rising more and more.. stretching you delicately. "missed this," he groaned, adding more speed to his rhythm. "missed the way your body responds to me, my darling girl..” his eyes locked onto yours, seeing the desire mirrored back at him. he wanted to make you cum, that was his goal for the night.. to hear you scream his name again. the roughness of his fingers grew, the sounds of water splashing against his hand was enough to embarrass you, aeons.. he was going fast alright. “c’mon, sweetheart.. it’s been ages since i made you squirt. mmh.. these fingers are good enough to make you squirt, right?”

⊹ BIKER!AVENTURINE who would eat you out almost all the time, whether it’s on his motorcycle seat while he holds your body, or maybe his table filled with tools, or just a plain old bed. aventurine is willing to eat you out literally anywhere, his tongue piercing made it even better. aventurine savoured every second of this, allowing his senses to be consumed by your intoxicating flavour. your body trembled above him, carefully laid on the seat of his motorcycle as he chuckled against your pussy.. your hands buried in his hair as he delved deeper into your depths. the blonde’s tongue danced expertly, exploring every hidden crevice while his fingers played with your swollen bud. “you taste divine," he murmured against your sex, causing you to arch your back sharply. "just like the finest wine, only better." his words hung heavy in the air between them, fuelling your rising passion.

aventurine attacked your cunt hungrily, devouring your folds with complete vigor. aeons, he was obsessed with your pussy, and your taste. the way your wetness spilled out onto his tongue, mixing with the warm atmosphere surrounding the both of you drove him crazy. his large hands held you firmly against the seat of his motorcycle, hands roamed freely over your body, tweaking one of your nipples roughly while diving deeper inside your drenched pussy. your boyfriend groaned into your folds, feeling your walls tremble around him. “good darling.. such a good girl taking my tongue so well.” “.. ‘turine.. you’re gonna make me fall on here.. j—just eat me out on the desk..” you murmured, wincing when you felt a slap on your pussy. “whoops, sorry angel,” ugh.. this tease. “mm.. no-can-do, sweetheart. i like seeing you like this. just imagine, my cum leaking out of your pussy and right onto my bike.” he licked a single stripe on your cunt, chuckling when he noticed your legs quivering. “oh how fascinating would that be.”

⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘

sfw.

⊹ BIKER!SUNDAY who has a habit of grabbing onto your waist, or just snaking his arm around it! i mean, he does this for many reasons.. one, to show you’re taken, and two, mm.. he just feels like it! sunday would do it on random occasions, whether he’s talking with his biker friends, at the cashier, anywhere! he loves grabbing your waist and he makes that very clear, maybe if he’s in the mood.. he’d slide his hand beneath your shirt as well wink wink

sunday glanced at your form, a small smile forming on his face when he saw you examining your surroundings. he snaked an arm around your waist, pulling your body firmly against his.

⊹ BIKER!SUNDAY who’s jealousy is intense. sunday would get angry at you, give you the silent treatment, or just bluntly ignore you if you were found talking and laughing with another guy other than him. he refuses to believe that you can be happy with other guys other than him. he would glare at other people he catches staring at what’s his, he was.. possessive. and whenever you catch sight of it, he would try and manipulate you to thinking he’s doing it for your own good! because all those men that were staring at you were bad! (wow, he’s a bastard) saying this, he’s a huge manipulator.. it can be a handful dating him.

“trust me, my love. can’t you see how those men were staring at you?” his voice was soft, dangerously soft. the malicious glint in his eyes didn’t hide anything. “they’re after you, angel. they’re after what’s mine. i’m only trying to protect you. why are you so doubtful of me, hm? do you not love me anymore? are you perhaps.. bored of me?”

⊹ BIKER!SUNDAY who loves being in control, this can be taken in a sexual or non sexual sense <3 sunday is assertive, and he knows what’s right for you. (most of the time!) he can be a bit controlling at times, but he means no harm! he just wants to keep you safe, promise! sometimes sunday would give you that look whenever you would try n defy him, he means business.. trust me. because of this, he can be cold and stubborn towards you at times without even knowing, geez.. he really needs to work on that.

nsfw.

⊹ BIKER!SUNDAY loves being in control, as i’ve mentioned.. but especially in bed. besides that, he’s so damn mean.. he doesn’t let you cum unless he tells you to, kissing your tears away with his lips. “ah ah ah, darling.. what did i say about cumming?” his eyes devoured your small frame, taking in every curve and angle of your body. sunday couldn't help but feel a surge of dominance and control over you, chuckling lowly. you was his, every fiber of your being was his, and he'd take care of you properly. his thrusts were hard to take in, his size and speed.. aeons. the way his cock slides in so easily had him biting his lip, he’s so mean and strict whenever you both make love, spanking you a few times whenever he sees you dozing off!

his eyes never left yours, even when he would immediately pull out when you were on the verge of orgasming, earning a sweet whine from your lips. “please.. please let me cum! sunday, baby please.. i can’t hold it anymore!” oh, how if only you knew how much he loves it when you beg. “oh baby.. i love it when you beg like that.” sunday groaned deeply from pleasure, landing another smack to your ass.. grinning at the sight of you swirling beneath him, “it only makes me wanna do this more.. it makes me wanna keep you here, stop you from cumming all over my cock. do you want that?” “n—no please.. please let me cum, sunday.. i need it—“ “keep begging, my angel. maybe i’ll let you cum if you keep begging and whining for me. come now, speak up.”

⊹ BIKER!SUNDAY who absolutely loves using vibrators on you whenever you both go out together, it’s amusing to him! (stupid bastard) he would increase it’s speed at random times to catch you off guard.. for his own amusement. listen, you really love your boyfriend but sometimes you just wanna slap that stupid smile off his face. you were casually picking out some candy in the candy aisle, a soft smile on your face before you felt that same old sensation within you.. causing a gasp to leave your pretty lips. “mm.. what are you looking at here, my love?” sunday murmured softly, chuckling at your vulnerable state. “sunday.. lower the speed please..” you begged, aeons! you were stupid to even think he’d decrease it’s speed!

your boyfriend smirked, the vibrator’s speed only grew more by the second as you could feel the wetness of your pussy seep through your panties, filling you with humiliation and embarrassment as you could barely walk, holding your hand over your mouth. “fuck.. sunday please..” you knew begging wasn’t gonna get you anywhere.. you knew you would have to have that stupid thing inside you for hours on end, overstimulating your pussy and entire body while your boyfriend watched and held you with pure amusement. to your bewilderment, there were times where sunday would go as far to fingering you by a nearby alleyway, his hands drenched in your juices. this man.. you wanted to be mad at him but you couldn’t bring yourself to be. sunday’s pretty fingers dug deep into your drenched pussy, knuckles deep while he had that same stupid sadistic smile on his face. “i should put that thing in you more.. look how wet your pussy is. it’s practically drooling for me, angel.”

⊹ 𝐈𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐆

sfw.

⊹ BIKER!DANHENG who is more of a private relationship typa guy, he prefers to keep his relationships private! despite this, he still shows his love for you in many other ways, it’s easy to say that some people are even surprised he was dating you, because of how reserved he is when it came to personal matters <3 he values his and yours’ privacy, you can trust me on that!

⊹ BIKER!DANHENG who struggles putting on his helmet because of his horns (lol), you find it really cute! whenever he leaves your house, sometimes he takes 10 minutes trying to figure out how to wear a helmet because of his horns. he found this so annoying to the point he probably had a custom helmet made for him and his horns!

you nearly let out a giggle when you gazed at him, struggling to wear his helmet over his head. dan heng’s tail swished against his leg, glancing up at you with a slight frown. “[name], it’s not funny.”

⊹ BIKER!DANHENG who would teach you how to ride a motorcycle so you and him can ride around together, i mean.. you can’t blame him! he doesn’t show it much, but he really does hope to spend more time with you, and he thinks this is effective and efficient! dan heng would guide you through it slowly, keeping his hands on your waist while he helped your practice with the brakes and all you needed to know! to be honest, this was really just an excuse to touch you, but can you blame him? his large hands would brush against your hips, helping you adjust and sit properly, it’s a good thing these things take awhile to learn!

“mhm, i got you.” his thumb rubbed circles on your hips, humming. “you’re a fast learner, [name]. you never fail to surprise me.”

nsfw.

⊹ BIKER!DANHENG who just loves having your pretty mouth wrapped around his cock after an exhausting day of biking all day and night. who just loves having your pretty mouth wrapped around his cock after an exhausting day of biking all day and night. soft gasps and whimpers left his lips as he showed a completely different side of him that night, full of pure desperation and need. “am i.. doing this right?” your voice was muffled against his dick, sending vibrations to his nerves as his hand was carefully placed atop of your head, body aching for release. “yes.. keep sucking me off like that..” with a grunt, he closed his eyes briefly while savouring the warmth of your tongue tracing circles around the sensitive slit.

"more please, baby..“ dan heng begged, arching his back slightly as your warm, wet tongue caressed the head of his cock, teasing him mercilessly before sliding down its veiny shaft. the sensation was foreign yet familiar, sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body. unable to resist any longer, he reached down, gripping your hair tightly as he thrusts his hips upward, pushing deeper into your waiting mouth.his breathing became heavier, the sound of each labored gasp echoing in the otherwise silent room, punctuated by the sloppy sounds of your mouth working him over. your tongue swirls around the base of his cock, teasing the sensitive area underneath his balls before returning to suck and stroke him feverishly. “you’re so good to me.. s.. so good to me..”

⊹ BIKER!DANHENG who would let you ride him just like how he lets you ride his motorcycles! he just wants to put your pleasure first, really. dan heng’s mind raced as he watched you ride him. he was going to lose it, he knew it very well. the sight of you bouncing on his cock, your pussy coating his cock with pure white juices, the sound of your gasps, and the feeling of your breasts against his chest created a whirlwind of emotions. he watched you struggle to stifle your moans while gripping your waist lightly, offering support and reassurance. "you’re doing great, love. fuck.. take your time and do what feels good," he encouraged, his voice low and steady.

he hoped his presence provided comfort, guiding his precious girlfriend to enjoy the sensations without feeling pressure to perform. their bodies moved in harmony together, lust fuelled by the thrill of victory as dan heng’s breaths grew ragged. his face flushed at the sight of your breasts bouncing, biting his lip at how overwhelming this was.. the sound of skin slapping against each other was all that came through, their moans punctuated the intensity of their shared moment. your hands grabbed everywhere.. his biceps, his chest, and oh.. even his horns. he was absolutely losing it. “sh—shit.. use my cock, use my cock for your own pleasure, beloved.. you’re doing so well..”

@ NEUVISTAR. do not plagiarize, claim my work as your own, translate or share my posts on any platform outside of tumblr.