☥

[lirficos]

             luo.  eighteen

          she  her         +        gf leon s. kennedy

ॱ * . list ; one shot fanfics relicary

[lirficos]

leon s. kennedy resident evil 9 requiem

batman au — age gap (leon s. kennedy forty - nine + reader early twenty-something ); power imbalance (ceo wayne / low-level employee); anonymous rough sex in a public alley that turns into an identity reveal; wall sex; creampie; dirty talk; adrenaline-fueled desperation; no protection; possessive behavior; female reader.

the alley was narrow, dark, and smelled like wet concrete and old trash. rain was falling steadily, turning the ground into slippery puddles that reflected the distant neon lights of gotham. you had been catwoman for only a few months, still figuring out how to survive the night without getting killed. tonight had been messy — a chase across rooftops, two of falcone’s men on your tail, and then batman appearing out of nowhere like a black shadow, taking them down fast and silent.

when the last thug hit the ground, both of you were breathing hard. your suit was torn in places, and his cape was wet and heavy. for a moment you just looked at each other, adrenaline still pumping through your veins. then he moved.

he pushed you back against the cold brick wall, his gloved hand gripping your waist. you didn’t pull away. instead you grabbed the edge of his cowl and pulled him down into a rough kiss. it wasn’t gentle. it was desperate — teeth clashing, tongues sliding, both of you tasting rain and blood.

his hands moved quickly, shoving the front of your catsuit aside just enough to expose you. you heard the sound of his own suit opening, and then he was lifting you, your legs wrapping around his hips. he pushed inside you in one hard thrust.

you gasped against his mouth. he was thick and hot, stretching you open with almost no warning. the burn felt good in that moment, fueled by the chase and the danger. he started fucking you against the wall — deep, rough strokes that made your back scrape against the bricks. every thrust knocked the air out of your lungs.

“fuck… so tight,” he growled, voice distorted by the modulator in his mask. one arm braced beside your head, the other held your thigh up, keeping you spread open for him. the rain kept falling, mixing with the wet sounds of your bodies coming together.

you were close already. the adrenaline, the risk, the feeling of batman inside you — it was too much. your claws dug into his shoulders as you came hard, legs shaking, a broken moan escaping your lips.

he didn’t stop. he fucked you through it, then buried himself deep and came with a low groan, pulsing hot inside you. you felt every spurt, warm and thick, filling you until it started to leak out around him.

for a few seconds you both stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily. then your fingers moved on their own. you reached up and slowly pulled his cowl off.

the mask came away.

dark hair with silver at the temples, sharp blue eyes, a small cut on his lip. it was leon wayne — the ceo of wayne enterprises. the same man whose building you worked in. you had seen him once before, when you accidentally stepped into his private elevator on the 78th floor while carrying documents. he had looked at you for a long moment but said nothing.

now he was staring at you, recognition flashing across his face.

you pulled your own mask off too, letting your hair fall free. your makeup was smudged from the rain and the fight.

leon’s eyes widened slightly. “you…” he said quietly, voice no longer distorted. “you work on floor twelve. marketing department.”

you nodded, still trying to catch your breath. “and you own the entire company.”

he let out a short, almost tired laugh and rested his forehead against yours again. his cock was still inside you, slowly softening, his cum slowly dripping down your thigh.

“my assistant handles all the hiring below the fiftieth floor,” he muttered. “i don’t even see the names of most employees.”

you gave a small, breathless laugh. the situation was ridiculous — catwoman and batman fucking in a dirty alley, only to discover he was your boss and you were just another low-level office worker.

he pulled out carefully, helped you fix your suit, and then stepped back. both of you put your masks back on in silence.

before he disappeared into the shadows, he looked at you one last time.

“be careful out here,” he said, voice low and serious. “and on monday… don’t be late to your desk.”

you smirked under your mask. “yes, mr. wayne.”

he gave you one last long look — something between surprise and hunger — then vanished into the night.

you stayed there for another moment, feeling his cum still warm between your legs, the rain washing over you.

monday morning you were back at your cubicle on floor twelve, typing reports like nothing had happened.

but when the private elevator doors opened later that week and leon wayne stepped out in a perfectly tailored suit, his eyes found yours across the office for just a second longer than they should have.

he didn’t smile.

you didn’t look away.

and the city kept moving, pretending it didn’t know what the two of you had done in that rainy alley.

[lirficos]

today Leon being BRUCE WAYNE x CATWOMAN READER!!!!!

[lirficos]

leon s. kennedy resident evil 9 requiem

age gap (leon s. kennedy 49 + reader age 20s); power imbalance (older man / younger woman); public / semi-public sex (car sex in alley); rough sex; dirty talk; creampie; possessive leon; degradation mixed with praise; no condoms / breeding undertones; reader works as a waitress; implied secret / illicit dynamic; female reader.

the neon sign above the diner flickered “OPEN 24 HRS” in red and blue, same as every night. you pushed through the glass door at 2:14 a.m., apron balled in your fist, hair sticky from the fryer grease and the humid air. your sneakers squeaked on the pavement as you scanned the lot—empty except for the black Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT parked under the broken streetlight, engine idling low like a predator waiting.

leon never got out to greet you anymore. he just flicked the high beams once—short, impatient—and you walked faster, heart already kicking up.

you slid into the passenger seat. leather cool against the backs of your thighs where your skirt had ridden up during the last hour of your shift. the car smelled like him—leather, bergamot cologne, faint gun oil he never quite washed off his hands. he didn’t say hello. just reached over, hooked two fingers under your chin, and pulled you into a kiss that tasted like black coffee and whatever whiskey he’d been sipping while he waited.

“good shift?” he asked against your mouth, voice gravel from too many cigarettes and too little sleep.

“long,” you breathed. “tips were shit.”

he hummed, thumb brushing your lower lip. “let’s fix that.”

he pulled out of the lot smooth, no squealing tires, no drama. just the low growl of the twin-turbo V8 as he turned down the side streets behind the strip mall. you knew the route by heart now—the alley behind the old auto parts store, narrow, no cameras, no windows that looked out. trash bins lined one wall; the other was brick tagged with faded graffiti. no one ever came back here after midnight.

he killed the headlights, reversed into the darkest corner so the rear of the car faced the brick, then cut the engine. silence settled heavy except for your breathing.

“back seat,” he said. not a question.

you climbed over the center console—awkward, skirt riding up your ass—and dropped onto the wide leather bench. he followed slower, door shutting with a solid thunk that sealed you both in. the windows were already starting to fog from body heat.

he didn’t waste time.

hands on your hips, he flipped you onto your stomach across the seat, knees braced on the leather, ass up. your palms slapped the door panel for balance. he shoved your skirt to your waist, yanked your panties to the side—not off, just enough. you heard his zipper, the rustle of fabric, then the blunt head of him nudging your entrance.

you were wet already—had been since you saw the Porsche. he slid in slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretch you, then slammed home with a grunt.

“fuck,” he hissed. “still so tight after all this.”

he started fucking you hard—deep, punishing strokes that rocked the whole car on its suspension. the leather squeaked under your palms. your cheek pressed to the seat, mouth open on gasps and whimpers. he reached forward, wrapped one big hand around the front of your throat—not squeezing, just holding—while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.

“you like getting railed in my car after slinging coffee all night?” he rasped, hips snapping. “bent over like a little slut in the back seat where anyone could walk by?”

you moaned louder, pushing back to meet him. “yes—fuck—yes—”

he pulled your head back by the hair, arching you. “say it louder. let the alley hear how much you love getting filled by an old man’s cock.”

“i love it,” you gasped. “love your cock—love when you fuck me dirty—please—”

he groaned, pace turning brutal. the car rocked harder—suspension creaking, windows fogging completely now. you could barely see the alley through the glass anymore. just shadows and the faint red glow of the diner sign far down the street.

he reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast and rough. “come on my cock, baby. soak the leather like a good girl.”

you shattered—back arching, thighs shaking, a broken cry ripping out of you as your walls clamped down hard. he fucked you through it, relentless, then buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural sound—hot pulses flooding you, so much it leaked out around his cock almost immediately.

he stayed inside you for a minute, breathing hard, hand still loosely around your throat. then he eased out slow, watching the mess drip down your thighs onto the black leather.

“messy little thing,” he muttered, almost fond.

he helped you sit up—gentler now—fixed your skirt, wiped between your legs with the napkin he kept in the center console for exactly this reason. you were still shaking, thighs slick, pussy throbbing with aftershocks.

he drove you home quiet. the Porsche purred through the suburbs, streetlights sliding over the hood. when he pulled up to the curb two houses down from your parents’ place—like always—you leaned over and kissed him slow.

“same time tomorrow?” you asked against his mouth.

he brushed hair off your face, thumb tracing your swollen bottom lip.

“if you’re good at work,” he said. “no flirting with tables for extra tips.”

you smiled, small and secret. “no promises.”

he watched you walk the rest of the way—skirt still wrinkled, legs still unsteady—until you disappeared inside the front door.

then he pulled away slow, headlights off until he hit the main road.

i missssssss leoooooon re9

[residentevilweirdo]

I'm tired of hiding it, boyfriend reveal I guess..

[lirficos]

leon s. kennedy resident evil 9 requiem

married parents with a one-year-old; quiet / silent sex to avoid waking the baby; age (leon s. kennedy forty nine + reader thirty-something); established relationship / husband & wife; raw sex / creampie; breeding undertones; soft dom leon; hand-over-mouth & pillow-biting for silence; realistic post-parenthood exhaustion & need; female reader.

the apartment was finally quiet, but the kind of quiet that still hummed with the day’s leftover chaos.

it was a little after 10:30 p.m. you stood in the kitchen rinsing the last bottle while leon walked the hallway with your daughter on his shoulder, one big hand rubbing slow circles on her back the way only he knew how to do. she was one now—still small enough to fit against his chest, big enough to fight sleep like it was a personal enemy. you heard her little fussing noises, the soft “da-da” she kept repeating even though her eyes were heavy.

you dried your hands and leaned against the counter, exhaustion settling into your bones. the day had been long: daycare drop-off, your own work from home, grocery run, dinner, bath time. leon had come home at seven, still in his tac jacket, and taken over without a word. that was his way—always had been since she was born. he never complained about the night shift with her. he just did it.

fifteen minutes later the hallway light clicked off. leon appeared in the kitchen doorway, baby monitor in one hand, the green light steady on the screen. he looked tired—silver threading heavier through his dark hair, faint lines around his eyes—but his gaze softened the second it landed on you.

“she’s out,” he murmured, voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “finally went down in her crib after the third story.”

you exhaled a small laugh. “miracle worker.”

he crossed the room, set the monitor on the counter, and pulled you into his chest. his arms were warm, solid, still carrying that faint scent of gun oil and the lavender baby wash he’d used on her. you buried your face in his shirt for a second, breathing him in.

“bed?” he asked against your hair.

you nodded. “please.”

he didn’t carry you tonight—too risky with the floorboards that creaked—but his hand stayed on your lower back the whole way down the hall, guiding you past the nursery door where the night-light glowed soft pink through the crack.

your bedroom was dark except for the small lamp on his side. you both moved quietly out of habit now: clothes peeled off in silence, folded or dropped near the hamper so nothing would clatter. you crawled under the covers first, wearing just one of his old t-shirts. leon slid in behind you, boxer-briefs gone, body heat immediate against your back.

he pressed a slow kiss to the nape of your neck. “missed this,” he whispered. “missed you.”

you reached back, fingers threading through his hair. “me too.”

his hand slid under the hem of the shirt, palm warm on your stomach, then lower. he found you already wet—had been since he walked in the door, honestly—and he let out a quiet breath against your shoulder. two fingers circled your clit slow, gentle, the way he knew would make you melt without making a sound. you bit your lip, hips rocking back into him.

when he finally pushed inside you it was careful, one smooth glide until he was buried to the hilt. you both froze for a second, breathing through the stretch, listening. the baby monitor stayed silent. good.

he started moving—slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. no slapping skin, no headboard banging. just the wet, quiet sound of him sliding in and out and the soft rustle of sheets. his arm wrapped around your chest, hand gently covering your mouth—not pressing hard, just there in case you needed it.

“quiet, baby,” he breathed against your ear, voice rough but tender. “can’t wake her.”

you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and turned your face into the pillow when the pleasure started climbing too fast. he fucked you like that for long minutes—steady, relentless, one hand between your legs rubbing your clit in tight circles while the other stayed over your mouth. every time you moaned he tightened his palm just enough to muffle it, kissing the side of your neck in apology and reward.

you came first—shaking, thighs trembling, a broken whimper caught behind his fingers. he followed right after, hips pressing deep, spilling inside you with a low, strangled groan he buried in your hair. you felt every pulse, hot and thick, and the way his body shuddered against yours like he’d been holding it in for weeks.

he stayed inside you after, softening slowly, arms wrapped tight around your middle. the baby monitor stayed green and silent. you both caught your breath in the dark, sweat cooling on your skin, hearts slowing.

leon kissed your shoulder. “love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

you reached back, found his hand, laced your fingers. “love you too.”

he eventually eased out, grabbed the warm cloth he always kept on the nightstand now, and cleaned you both gently. then he pulled you back against his chest, t-shirt tugged back down, his arm draped heavy over your waist.

outside the door, the hallway stayed quiet.

inside, the two of you breathed together, tangled and warm, the faint ache between your legs and the steady green light on the monitor the only proof the night had happened at all.

a little domestic for leon

[3racha-agustd]

[lirficos]

we need more re4 remake fics pls !

soonnn

[lirficos]

I’ve reached 404 era.

[lirficos]

leon s. kennedy resident evil: remake 4

emotional hurt — comfort; long-distance relationship strain; soft & gentle sex; praise; creampie; almost the same age ( leon s. kennedy twenty seven + reader twenty six ) female reader.

the apartment was too quiet at 1:47 a.m.

you’d left the bedside lamp on low, the one with the amber shade that made everything look softer, because the dark felt heavier when leon wasn’t here. three weeks and four days since he’d kissed your forehead at the airport gate and said “i’ll be back before you know it.” you knew better than to believe the timeline. he never gave dates. just “classified” when you asked where, “soon” when you asked when. you’d stopped asking after the second week; the answers hurt more than the silence.

you were curled on your side, facing his empty pillow, wearing his old gray t-shirt that still smelled faintly of his soap and gun oil no matter how many times you washed it. the sheets were cold on his side. you’d tried to sleep facing the door at first—hoping the sound of keys would wake you—but exhaustion won. now you were half-under, dreams blurring the edges of reality, when the lock clicked.

metal scraped. door creaked. boots paused in the hallway.

you didn’t move. part of you wanted to pretend you were still asleep, let the anger simmer instead of spilling out. another part—the tired, aching part—wanted to cry the second you heard his voice.

the bedroom door opened slowly. hallway light cut a stripe across the floor. you kept your eyes closed, breathing even, but your chest tightened.

he didn’t turn on the overhead. just stood there a second, probably taking in the shape of you under the covers, the lamp still on like you’d left it for him. you heard the soft thud of his duffel hitting the floor, the rustle of his jacket coming off, the quiet clink of his holster being set on the dresser.

then the mattress dipped.

he sat on the edge, careful not to jostle you too much. you felt the heat of him even through the blanket—solid, real, finally here.

“hey,” he whispered. voice rough from disuse or smoke or whatever hell he’d been in. “baby, i’m home.”

your throat closed. you squeezed your eyes tighter, but a tear slipped anyway, hot against your cheek.

he noticed. of course he did.

“shit,” he breathed. his hand found your shoulder—gentle, thumb rubbing small circles over the t-shirt. “hey… come here.”

you turned then, fast, and the sob broke free before you could stop it. you buried your face in his chest, arms wrapping around his waist like you could keep him from leaving again. he smelled like airplane, rain, and the faint copper of old blood. his arms came around you immediately—strong, steady—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow up and down your spine.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “i’m so fucking sorry.”

you cried harder—quiet, hiccuping sobs that shook your shoulders. “you didn’t call,” you managed. “not even once.”

“i couldn’t.” his voice cracked a little. “i wanted to. every day.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him. his face was shadowed, stubble darker than usual, a fresh bruise blooming under his left eye. he looked tired—bone-deep tired—but his eyes were soft, guilty, fixed on yours.

“i missed you,” you whispered.

he kissed your forehead, then your wet cheeks, then your mouth—slow, careful, like he was afraid you’d break. “i missed you more.”

the kiss deepened. not hungry, not desperate—just aching. tongues sliding slow, tasting salt from your tears, hands roaming gentle. he tugged the hem of his t-shirt up; you lifted your arms so he could peel it off. your skin met his—warm against cool from the night air—and you both exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for weeks.

he laid you back against the pillows, mouth trailing down your neck, your collarbone, soft open kisses that made you shiver. when he reached your breasts he took his time—tongue circling one nipple, then the other, sucking gently until you arched with a small sound. his hand slid between your thighs—finding you already wet, already ready—and he groaned against your skin.

“fuck, baby… you’re soaked.”

“missed you,” you breathed again, fingers in his hair.

he kissed lower—stomach, hip bones—then settled between your legs. licked a slow stripe up your slit, tongue flat, savoring. you whimpered, hips lifting. he held you down gently, one arm across your waist, and ate you like he was making up for lost time—slow circles on your clit, tongue dipping inside, humming low when you moaned his name.

you came soft—shuddering, thighs trembling around his head, a quiet “leon—” spilling from your lips. he kissed back up your body, mouth wet with you, and you pulled him down for another kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.

he shed the rest of his clothes—jeans, boxers—cock hard and leaking against your thigh. no condom. you hadn’t used them in months; the risk had become part of the trust.

he lined up slow, nudged inside—inch by inch—watching your face the whole time. “okay?” he whispered.

you nodded, nails digging into his shoulders. “yeah… don’t stop.”

he bottomed out with a low groan, stayed there a second—forehead pressed to yours—then started moving. long, gentle rolls of his hips, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. you wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper.

“i love you,” he murmured against your mouth. “fuck—i love you so much.”

you kissed him through the next thrust, tears slipping again—not sad this time, just overwhelmed. “love you too,” you breathed. “don’t leave again. not yet.”

he didn’t promise—he couldn’t—but he fucked you slow and deep, like he was trying to carve the feeling into both of you. when you started tightening around him he slipped a hand between you, thumb circling your clit in time with his thrusts.

“come with me,” he whispered. “please, baby—let me feel you.”

you did—quiet, intense, walls fluttering around him as the pleasure rolled through you in waves. he followed right after—hips stuttering, burying deep, coming inside you with a broken groan, spilling hot and thick until it leaked out around where he was still seated.

he didn’t pull out right away.

stayed there, softening slowly, kissing you lazy and deep while his hand rested low on your stomach—possessive, gentle. you felt the mess between your thighs, warm and sticky, and didn’t care.

after a while he eased out, grabbed a warm cloth from the bathroom, cleaned you carefully. then he climbed back in, pulled you against his chest—your head tucked under his chin, leg thrown over his hip, his arm locked around your waist.

“i’m here,” he murmured into your hair. “i’m not going anywhere tonight.”

you pressed your lips to the bruise on his collarbone. “stay tomorrow too.”

he exhaled slow. “i’ll try.”

you fell asleep like that—tangled, warm, his heartbeat steady under your cheek.

the lamp stayed on.

the apartment wasn’t quiet anymore.

I just miss my husband :(

[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 :)

[lirficos]

I’m still like a fool reading this once a day

[lirficos]

you can send your requests if you want 🪭

[lirficos]

having the first day of college and not wanting to go

[lirficos]

leon s. kennedy ada wong resident evil: requiem 9

threesome ; age gap (leon s. kennedy forty nine & ada wong fifty to fifty—two + reader early thirty-something); established couple (leon s. kennedy — ada wong) + reader; boss/assistant/secretary power imbalance; dom/sub dynamics (leon & ada both doms, reader sub); office sex; voyeurism undertones; praise & degradation mix; oral (f & m receiving); double penetration; creampie; no minors; 18+ only; read at your own risk.

the interview had been short. too short.

you sat across from leon kennedy in a conference room that smelled faintly of leather and fresh coffee, your resume printed on thick paper you’d spent twenty minutes aligning in the printer at home. he didn’t smile much—just watched you answer his questions about scheduling conflicts, confidentiality, and how you handled high-pressure deadlines. ada wong sat to his right the entire time, legs crossed, pen tapping slowly against her tablet. she asked one question: “how do you feel about late nights?” you said you were used to them. she exchanged a glance with leon—quick, private—and that was it. offer letter arrived forty-eight hours later.

first week felt normal enough. you learned the rhythm fast: leon’s calendar was a minefield of redacted meetings and international calls at odd hours; ada handled the filtering, the polite deflections, the quiet “he’s unavailable” that carried weight. they worked in sync like people who’d spent years finishing each other’s sentences. you caught fragments—her hand brushing his when she passed him a file, his fingers lingering on her wrist when he thanked her for something small. professional, you told yourself. long-term colleagues. nothing more.

but the glances started creeping in.

leon’s eyes on you when you leaned across your desk to hand him a report, lingering on the line of your throat when you swallowed. ada watching from the doorway while you typed, head tilted, like she was deciding something. you felt it like static on your skin—subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

week three, the pattern solidified.

monday: leon asked you to stay late to review a contract. ada was there when you arrived, already pouring three glasses of scotch. “relax,” she said when you hesitated. “it’s just paperwork.” you drank. they asked questions that felt less like work and more like testing boundaries—favorite cities, worst dates, how late you were willing to stay. you answered honestly. they listened like every word mattered.

wednesday: a “team dinner” that was just the three of you at a quiet italian place two blocks from the office. leon sat across from you, ada beside him. conversation drifted from work to personal—your move to the city, their years in “consulting.” ada’s foot brushed yours under the table once. you thought it was accidental. then it happened again. leon’s gaze darkened when he noticed.

friday: the office cleared early. you were finishing emails when leon’s door opened. “come in,” he said. voice low.

you stepped inside. ada was already there—leaning against his desk, sleeves rolled up, hair loose for once. leon closed the door behind you. locked it.

“sit,” ada said.

you took the chair across from her. knees pressed together. heart loud enough you were sure they could hear it.

leon stayed standing. circled slow until he was behind your chair. “you’ve been here a month,” he said. “you’re good at the job. discreet. observant.” his hands settled on your shoulders—not heavy, just there. “and you’ve noticed us.”

your mouth went dry. “i—”

ada leaned forward. “don’t deny it. we’ve noticed you noticing.”

leon’s thumbs traced small circles on your collarbone through your blouse. “we’ve been talking about you,” he said quietly. “a lot.”

ada stood. walked around the desk. stopped in front of you. tilted your chin up with one finger. “you’re pretty when you’re trying not to blush.”

the room felt smaller. hotter.

they didn’t rush.

ada kissed you first—slow, exploratory, tasting of the scotch from earlier. her tongue slid against yours, patient, until you parted your lips wider. leon watched, breathing steady, until ada pulled back and looked at him. “your turn.”

he kissed you harder—controlled hunger, one hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head. ada’s fingers worked your blouse open—button by button—until it fell to your elbows. she pushed your bra cups down, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened. you gasped into leon’s mouth.

“on your knees,” he said. calm. certain.

you sank down. carpet rough against your stockings.

ada knelt behind you, chest pressed to your back, hands roaming—cupping your breasts, pinching lightly, then sliding down to push your skirt up. leon undid his belt. his cock was thick, hard, veins standing out. ada reached around, stroked him slow. “look at him,” she murmured against your ear. “see how much he wants you?”

you leaned forward. took him in your mouth—tentative at first, then deeper when he groaned low. ada kissed your neck, fingers slipping between your thighs, finding you soaked through your panties. she pushed them aside, circled your clit slow. “good girl,” she whispered. “already dripping for us.”

they traded places—leon fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts, ada guiding your head between her legs. she tasted clean, aroused, clit swollen. she came with a quiet sigh—thighs trembling, fingers tight in your hair—then kissed you deep, tasting herself.

leon pulled you up. bent you over the desk. skirt bunched at your waist, panties shoved down. he slid in slow—inch by inch—groaning at the heat, the grip. “fuck—so tight,” he rasped. ada sat on the desk edge, legs spread, watching as he fucked you—deep, measured strokes that rocked your body forward. her fingers found your clit again, rubbing fast.

“come for us,” she said. “let him feel how much you like it.”

you shattered—walls pulsing, cry muffled against your forearm. leon followed—hips grinding deep, spilling inside you with a rough sound.

they didn’t stop.

ada pulled you to the couch—your back to her chest, legs hooked over hers, spread wide. leon knelt between them, licked you clean—tongue dragging through his own cum mixed with yours, slow and thorough. you whimpered, oversensitive, hips jerking. ada held you open. “shh, baby. let him taste how messy you are.”

when he was hard again he pushed back in—slower this time, letting you feel every ridge. ada’s fingers circled your clit in time with his thrusts. “again,” she ordered softly. “come again. show us.”

you did—harder, shaking, tears slipping down your cheeks. leon pulled out, stroked himself twice, came across your stomach—thick, warm ropes ada smeared with her fingers, bringing them to your lips. you sucked them clean without hesitation.

after, they were careful.

ada fetched a warm cloth from the bathroom, wiped between your thighs gently. leon “you okay?” he asked—voice softer now, thumb brushing your cheek.

you nodded, still trembling. “yeah.”

ada smiled—small, genuine. “good. because this isn’t a one-time thing.”

leon helped you stand, steadying you when your knees wobbled. “go home. rest. we’ll see you monday.”

you left the office on shaky legs—blouse rebuttoned, skirt smoothed, hair mussed. the hallway was empty.

monday morning you walked in like always.

leon handed you a coffee—black, two sugars, exactly how you liked it—fingers brushing yours.

ada’s heel nudged yours under the conference table during the team meeting.

those two make me feel so many things that hurt.

[lirficos]

Hello!

Maybe a oneshot where Leon loves being behind the reader, like arms around their waist when they're cooking or just standing so he can balance his chin on their head or the crook of their neck, and kiss their neck and shoulders (or their shoulder blades). Loves it when the reader lays on top of him after they have sex (or just in general) and runs his fingers through their hair while they rest their head on his chest.

Very gentle giant kinda vibes with RE9 Leon and a same-age reader :D

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 0 · leon s. kennedy resident evil 9 requiem age-appropriate relationship ( leon s. kennedy forty—nine + reader same age ); s

I hope you like it, although I really liked doing it ♥️

[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 :)

[lirficos]

you can send your requests if you want 🪭