I'm El, I'm 28, and I mostly write and cry about fictional things. Here you'll find mostly the last of us (part 2/season 2 excluded because i don't enjoy being miserable), star wars, marvel, high potential, resident evil/leon kennedy, funny things, lil bits about me, fanfiction, and more :)
This is an 18+ blog! Pls don't engage if you're underage!
My writing/fics:
Masterlist
AO3
Take care of yourself ♡
[ other blog: @christian-reed ]
i've been largely inactive on this blog for a long time, i'm so sorry if i missed your comment on any of my fics. pls know i appreciate you! i will always try to reply if i'm around ❤️
Summary: You struggle with PMDD. It gets bad at times. Seeing your distress, Leon is ready to help.
Authors Note: PMDD fucking sucks, ya'll. I'm also well aware that this fic isn't quite my usual level of writing. That's because this is purely self indulgent and I wrote this in 20 minutes during a minor cry sesh. uuuh anyway enjoy i guess!
One Shot Masterlist
Leon knows before you tell him.
Not necessarily because he's been keeping track of your cycle, no. Your cycle is less of a cycle and more of an eldridge horror, anyway, with how irregular it is. He doesn’t know because of some date on a calendar or ping on an app.
He knows just because he knows you.
The signs are always small at first. They always have been. You start apologizing constantly, like existing takes up too much space. Your laughter gets quieter and more forced. Your eyes linger on your figure or your makeup longer, like you’re scrutinizing everything you’ve ever touched.
This morning, you apologized to him because your coffee mug was ‘in the way’ while he unloaded the dishwasher.
Three days ago, you became convinced that everyone at work secretly hated you.
And now?
Now you're sitting curled into the far corner of the couch, while a movie plays forgotten on the television. Leon has been watching you watch absolutely nothing for almost twenty minutes.
"Honey."
You flinch slightly. His heart sinks. He knows that look. That distant, exhausted expression. Like you're fighting something invisible and losing.
You force a smile. It’s so fake that it looks painful. "Yeah?"
"Talk to me."
Immediately, your eyes drop. There it is. The guilt. Always the guilt. You stare down at the blanket twisted in your lap for so long that Leon almost thinks you won't answer. Then, quietly, "I think you're getting tired of me."
The words hit him like a punch.
Leon exhales slowly through his nose.
PMDD is cruel that way. It doesn't whisper. It declares. It takes every insecurity you've ever had and presents it as objective fact. You don't feel sad. You feel certain. Certain you're annoying or difficult or stupid. Certain everyone would be happier if you just disappeared for a little while.
Leon learned that a long time ago. He learned how often your brain lies and spins tall tales.
He shifts closer. You immediately tense. Like you think you're about to inconvenience him.
The realization breaks his heart every single month.
"Honey," he says quietly.
You don't look up.
"Honey." A little firmer this time. Reluctantly, your eyes lift. They already look glassy.
Damn it.
"I need you to answer something honestly."
You sniff once. "...Okay."
"When was the last time I told you that I was tired of you?"
Your brows pull together. "What?"
"When."
You stare at him. "... I don't know…. Never?"
"Exactly." His hand reaches for yours carefully. You let him take it. "When was the last time I told you that you were too much?"
Silence.
"When was the last time I said I didn't want you around?"
Nothing. The tears start first. You hate that. Leon knows you do. Because now you're crying and getting frustrated about crying which only makes you cry harder.
A vicious cycle.
"I know," he murmurs immediately, scooting closer. "I know." His hand grips yours firmly, bringing it up to his lips. The skin is soft against his face.
Your other hand flies to your eyes, trying to cover the tears. "I hate this."
"I know."
"It feels so stupid."
"I know."
"I know it's not real and it still feels real."
That one hurts. He can hear the frustration in your voice. The awareness. The fact that part of you understands exactly what's happening while the other part is trapped underneath it.
He wraps an arm around your shoulders. You fold into him instantly. Almost desperately. Like you've been holding yourself together with duct tape all day.
Leon presses a kiss into your hair. Slow. Careful. Patient. The same way he handles every wound he can't physically fix.
"You know what I think?" he asks softly.
A weak shake of your head.
"I think your brain is being an asshole."
A startled laugh escapes you. Tiny and wet but real.
"There you are."
You bury your face against his chest. For a while, neither of you speaks. The apartment is quiet. The television continues playing something neither of you are watching. Outside, rain taps softly against the windows.
Eventually, Leon feels your breathing begin to even out. Not fixed. Not magically better. Just calmer. The storm passing enough that you can finally rest for a minute.
His hand drifts slowly through your hair. "You know…" he murmurs.
"Hm?" Your head lifts just enough to meet his gaze.
"I've fought bio-weapons that were easier to deal with than your hormones."
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. Leon smiles into the top of your head.
Mission accomplished.
He knows he can't make the PMDD disappear. He can't argue your brain into behaving. He can't fight hormones with a handgun. But he can sit here. He can hold you.
He can remind you that you're loved until your brain starts believing it again.
And if that means spending a few days every month carrying some of the weight for you?
Well.
After everything he's survived, that's probably the easiest mission he's ever had.
Trigger/content warnings: mentions of trauma, PTSD, survivors guilt, and small mention of self neglect, tiny mention of scars (from his missions). Sexual content (mdni)
Description: my personal headcanons of what it would be like dating Leon Kennedy
Notes: Gender-neutral reader. I think this works with any version of Leon above re2. Some things resonate with older Leon, some things resonate with younger Leon. Hope you enjoy ♡
First date
You two finally go on a first date
● Hear me out. He'd take you to an aquarium. I don't care what anyone says, it's peaceful. He's been surrounded by things trying to kill him constantly. Seeing something beautiful, slow, and natural would be grounding for him.
● He definitely prefers walking around, looking at things, and talking, rather than just sitting at a table and asking about each other's lives. He finds the experience more connecting. Sitting across from someone feels like an interrogation (which he's done too many times).
● He'd know nothing about fish. But when you walk past one species, he'd definitely know a really random, niche fact that no one knows about it. He’ll know the exact chemical composition of a pufferfish toxin from a survival manual, but then he’ll look at a sea turtle and just go, "wow. He's a big guy, isn't he?"
● Even on a date, he always subconsciously maps out the exits to each room you enter. He makes sure he's always as aware of them as he can be, making sure you're a tiny bit closer to them than he is.
● He always smells expensive, but understated. Maybe expensive leather and some sort of citrusy cologne. Think bergamot, sicilian lemon, black tea, leather, and a hint of vanilla. It's a scent that lingers on your clothes days after he's hugged you.
● He’d 100% buy you something stupid. A keychain or a plush shark. He’ll act like he’s doing it ironically, but he’ll be genuinely pleased if you keep it.
Everyday life
Things go well and you start dating
● His love language is definitely quality time. He finds peace in just sitting near you while you both do your own thing. You'll catch him just watching you. Not in a creepy way, just memorising all of your features.
● He's surprisingly precise about his hair. You'll catch him in the bathroom mirror for 10 minutes trying to get one specific piece to sit exactly right.
● The longer you date, the worse his puns get. He uses humour to cope. If he's had a bad week, you both sympathise with him and become full of dread because you know the jokes are about to be absolutely unbearable to hear.
● He seems like the type to sit there reading a mission report while holding your hand, not even saying a word, but his thumb is constantly stroking your knuckles.
● He has a habit that you find both endearing and persistent. He will make sure you drink enough water, eat enough, get outside at least once a day, sleep enough. He is unbelievably determined when it comes to you taking care of yourself.
● He has zero respect for what you’re actually doing when the urge to hug you hits. If you’re trying to type an email or cook dinner, he will weave himself around you anyway. He knows he gets in the way because he's a big guy, but he doesn't care.
Mornings and nights
Waking up and going to sleep with him
● He'd definitely be a bit of a night owl. You'd wake up at 2am and see him just watching TV all the time. When he can't sleep, he finds that forcing himself gets him absolutely nowhere, so he just does what he wants until he gets some sort of sleep. His job and all his PTSD has given him pretty bad insomnia.
● If he wakes up from a nightmare, he won't tell you. He’ll just gravitate toward you in his sleep, tucking his face into the crook of your neck as if to remind himself that you’re real and safe.
● He loves playing with your hair until you fall asleep every single night. It relaxes you and gives him something to do with his hands. He's not used to sitting completely still, one of the reasons why he struggles to sleep.
● If you have to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or get some water, he is instantly awake. He's not suspicious of you, it's just his active brain. He'll wait until you get back in bed for his breathing to fully even out again.
● He isn't a "jump out of bed and make pancakes" guy. He’s a "stay in bed for an extra twenty minutes staring at the ceiling and holding you" guy. He loves the quiet moments where the world hasn't started demanding things from him yet. But, he'll still make you pancakes if you want him to when he actually gets up.
● If he actually goes into a deep sleep, expect to wake up to him practically crushing you. If he's fallen into a deep sleep, he's shockingly heavy. He'll have an arm thrown over your waist that feels like a weighted blanket. And he won't let you move it.
Bad days
You both have many, bad, heavy days.
● His bad days are heavy because they're riddled with guilt. He's always had pretty bad survivors guilt. He feels like he shouldn't have made it out of Raccoon City. On his worst days, you’ll find him staring at nothing for long periods. It’s like he’s rewatching a movie of his past in his head. He gets very quiet, and his movements become mechanical.
● He might subconsciously pull away or spend the evening in another room because he feels like his "darkness" shouldn't touch you. He thinks he’s protecting you by being distant, but he really just needs to be reminded that he’s allowed to be human and that he isn't "tainted" by what he's seen.
● He is an incredible listener. If you need to vent, he will sit there with his full attention on you, never interrupting, never judging. He’s seen the worst of humanity, so nothing you say will scare him. He’ll just pull you into his lap afterward and let you hide your face against his shoulder until you feel steady again.
● During bad days, he tends to punish himself subtly by not taking care of himself. You happily cook him meals, help him bathe, maybe go on a walk with him. He's very hard on himself, and you both take care of him and try to bring him back.
● If your bad day leaves you too exhausted to take care of yourself, he will quietly take over. He’ll make sure you eat, bring you water, and gently guide you through a routine to help you get better, reciprocating the care you show him on his own difficult days.
Life when he's away
Your life when he's away on missions
● His missions are sudden. One minute he's helping you with dinner, and the next, his phone pings and his entire posture shifts. He can't give you details about where he's going or what he's doing, but he always takes a long, quiet moment to hold you at the door before he walks out.
● He deliberately leaves small, comforting pieces of himself around the living room. He might leave his favourite worn-in hoodie on the back of a chair, or "forget" to put away a specific book he was reading. He likes knowing his presence stays in the room even when he isn't there.
● Before he walks out the door, he double checks everything regarding your security. He will quietly double check the window locks, make sure the door lock works perfectly, and remind you to keep the porch light on.
● The last hug at the door is always the longest. He’ll wrap his arms around you tightly and bury his face into your shoulder or the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent to memorise it.
● On nights when the anxiety gets particularly heavy, you find comfort in the things he does when he's home. You might put on a movie he likes just for the background noise, or make sure you drink the exact amount of water he’d usually badger you about. Taking care of yourself becomes a way of honouring him while he's not there to do it for you.
● You know he's skilled and you know he can handle himself, but you can't stop lying awake at night, worried if he's alive or not. There's so much danger in his job, and he can't tell you where he's going. You don't know if it's the deadliest mission of his life or something simple.
● When he first gets home, he’s a bit of a ghost. He’ll walk into the kitchen, stare into the fridge for five minutes, and forget why he’s there. He needs to be tethered back to reality.
● For a little while, you only really have what's left of all the energy he spent on the mission, but you take care of him the same way he would you, and eventually, he comes back mentally and you’ll notice the exact moment his eyes lose that distant, survival-mode glaze and truly focus on you again.
Intimacy (NSFW)
What it's like being intimate with him
● He'd definitely talk you through it. I don't make the rules. "Don't close your eyes. Look at me. I want you to see exactly who’s doing this to you." "Yeah, say my name. I want to hear it again. I want to know you know exactly who you belong to right now." "That’s it. You’re taking it so well for me. You’re being so good." "Tell me how that feels. Does it feel good? Yeah?" I could make a list of all the things he'd say.
● He’s heavy, and he knows it. He’ll use his size to pin you down. Not to be aggressive, but because he wants to feel the maximum amount of contact and he wants you to feel him.
● He’s usually a bit self-conscious about the scars on his back and shoulders from Raccoon City and his various missions. If you touch them or kiss them, it completely undoes him. He’ll go quiet, his breath hitching, and he’ll pull you closer and hide in your neck.
● He definitely has some hard limits, like cop/criminal or interrogating role play. It feels too much like a Tuesday at work for him. He wouldn't do weapon play or anything like that. Even if it's unloaded or on safety or just for show, he’s seen too many accidental deaths and has used weapons to kill many things. For him, weapons are a tool for death, not something he'd put you around.
● He never shuts up. He'd talk to you throughout the whole thing, praising you, teasing you, and narrating exactly how you’re reacting to him until your ears are ringing as much as your head is spinning. Even when you’re breathless and trying to lose yourself in the sensation, he’s right there. When you finally go over the edge, he just pulls you closer, his voice in your ear. "That’s it. Just like that. I’ve got you." He forces you to maintain eye contact with him throughout the whole thing.
● I also think sometimes he lets you be in control if you ask to. (He says he's letting you "for now," but he actually really enjoys it). He's also vocal. He doesn't leave you guessing. If he likes what you’re doing, you’re going to hear it. He’ll groan, whimper, moan, or breathe your name like it’s a prayer. He knows that his vocal reactions are a reward for you, and he isn't shy about giving them.
● He likes leaving faint marks. Bruises on your hips from where his hands held you tightly, or a hidden bite mark on your shoulder. If you leave scratches on his back or shoulders, he wears them like a badge.
● When it comes to aftercare, he isn't passive. He is the type to immediately bring you a glass of water without you needing to ask. He appreciates the quiet task of bringing a warm towel to clean you up, treating it as a slow routine to help you both wind down. He will press slow, lazy kisses to your forehead, temples, and jawline, whispering low, gentle praises like "You did so good for me" or "I've got you, you're safe." His hands are never still. He’ll trace faint patterns on your back or play with your hair, relying on constant physical connection to anchor himself in the moment.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed ♡ I feel awful right now, I'm pretty sure it's just my period (unfortunately), so I'm sorry if this isn't the best, I feel really sick rn 😭
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader ♥︎ Rating: E ♥︎ Words: 16,756
Series Masterlist ♥︎ Read on AO3 ♥︎ My Masterlist
Warnings/tags: warnings for this part: if you have a good relationship with your mother and brother, imagine them as someone else for this part :) sq**rting, sm/ut, anxiety and panic attacks, ab*sive/dysfunctional family dynamics. def not based on a real example ...... ha
Summary: After his mission in Spain, Leon shows up at your place, with some things on his mind. Little does he know, you’ve got a lot on yours, too, and the two of you might just be about to unravel together.
Notes: this is part of a series but will make about 95% sense if you haven't read the others in the series first :) although i would def recommend starting from the beginning! enjoy! OH and ps. title and series title from Sleep Token's 'Take Aim' as always <3 (although i will eventually run out of titles from this song and move on to others lol)
Two years later — fall, 2004
Reader
In your art classroom, you fill the walls with your high school students’ work, displaying each piece with the name of it and the name of the artist, like it’s a real museum. You keep cookies under the desk for whenever anyone’s having a bad day, and a water dispenser in the corner so that no one ever goes thirsty, not even when they’re staying late to finish a project. You remember each students’ favourite music and play their CDs while everyone is creating. And every student knows that they can come to you with any problem they need help with, whether it’s art related or not.
All of this to say: your classroom is one of the most welcoming places on the entire school campus, so much so that you even have relationships with students who you don’t actually teach. At this point, you’re kind of a volunteer guidance counsellor for a lot of them. And you’re fine with that, of course; you want to be the person that you needed when you were their age. (Hell, helping them even helps you to deal with your own seemingly ever-declining mental state, although many of them have family issues not dissimilar to your own, and you can’t help but feel like there’s nothing you can do for them.)
So it’s not unusual for students to show up during your lunch break, looking anxious or upset or just in need of a quiet place they can be themselves. But what is unusual—in fact it’s never happened before—is for Leon Fucking Kennedy to walk into your classroom just as the bell rings and your students are leaving.
He moves out of the doorway to let out the last student—Amy, one of your best—who gives him a quizzical look and then throws the same expression across her shoulder at you. You, standing there completely dumbfounded, staring at Leon like he just grew a second head.
Amy disappears down the hall, and then it’s just you and Leon.
Leon. Here. In your classroom.
“What the—? Leon?”
“Sorry for barging in,” he says with a sheepish grin that doesn’t meet his eyes. What’s even weirder than his presence is what he’s wearing. Dark grey tac pants, combat boots, a maroon leather jacket with a pale fur lining, and beneath it, a dark blue tac shirt with a leather holster over his shoulders.
Even without any weapons on him, it’s clear he’s dressed for a mission. And with that intense, focused look on his face, your heart sinks just a little. It’s hard to see him like this. So tense, his brow low over his beautiful eyes, his shoulders taut.
“What’s going on? How did you get in here?”
He steps over to you and stands on the other side of the desk. “My US agent badge is like a backstage pass,” he replies, his lips quirked at one corner. Again, it doesn’t reach his eyes, no mirth or laughter behind them. Only cold, anxious focus. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay, I just…why are you here?” You observe him from head to toe again, your stomach twisting at the sight of his clothing.
“I…can’t really tell you.”
“Uh. What?”
“I mean—it’s classified. I’m not supposed to be here right now at all.”
“Leon, you’re scaring me…”
“No, you don’t—it’s okay,” he’s quick to reassure you, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. He’s wearing black, fingerless tactical gloves. The callouses on his knuckles and fingertips are worse than ever, not to mention the dark circles hanging beneath his eyes. “Just—I’m being deployed. Like, as we speak. I should already be on my way.”
“…Oh. So why are you…?”
“Let’s just say my handler owed me one,” he says wryly, resting his fingers on the surface of your desk. Then, his eyes soften just a little as he holds yours. “It’s out of country. Like, a long way out. And kinda a big deal. And I just…wanted to see you. Before I go.”
You’re instantly reminded of the phonecall from two years ago, when he told you he was going on a mission, and you knew that there was something different about this one. Then eight days later, he showed up at your door, a complete and total mess. He wouldn’t let you touch him, couldn’t even form a sentence, he even freaked out after a nightmare and pulled a knife on you. After convincing him to stay, and calming everything down, he confessed that the mission went bad. That everyone who was on it died except him and his major.
A painful knot forms in your stomach at the thought that this could be that kind of situation again. What if this time, Leon is one of the ones who doesn’t make it out? What if he doesn’t even get chance to show up at your door, broken and needing you to put him back together?
“Do you—uh. Know when you’ll be back?” you ask around the thick lump in your throat.
“Hopefully not too long, but…you know how it is. Hard to know.”
You nod. “Yeah. I guess you can’t tell me where it is you’re going, right?”
“Like I said, shouldn’t even be telling you I’m going in the first place.”
“Or be here right now.”
“Or be here right now,” he confirms. This time, his smirk is a little softer, a small spark of humour lighting his eyes. It does little to ease your anxieties, but it’s still nice to see. A little bit of Leon peeking through his carefully-crafted—and completely necessary—veneer of Agent Kennedy.
He breaks your eye contact to look around the room, taking in all the art displays, the paint covered worktops, the paintings drying on racks in the corner. His smirk turns into a soft, barely-there smile, and when he looks back at you, his eyes really are sparkling. Not unusual for when he looks at you, but unexpected, given the circumstances right now.
“It’s really cool in here,” he says fondly. “I’d love it if you told me more about it. What it’s like to do this job. I can see some art on the walls that reminds me of yours.”
“Really?” You glance to the right at the nearest display.
“Yeah. Guess it’s your influence on them, huh?”
“I’m no Van Gogh.”
“No. You’re you.” Slowly, he slides his hand across the desk, stopping when his fingertips are just brushing yours. Then, holding your eyes with unbreakable intensity, “Tell me about it when I’m back?”
A little transfixed by his gaze, you nod, and swallow hard. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” You move your hand to take his properly, threading your fingers together. “Be safe.”
“I will. Promise.” He hesitates for a second, then seems to abruptly make up his mind, leaning across the desk to press a kiss to your cheek. God, it’s agonising, how much you still want him. After all this time, after all these years of knowing that he can’t be yours—that this right here, the tac pants and soon to be filled gun holster, is the reason—and all these years of dating other people, you just cannot shake how much you want Leon Kennedy.
And you’re not sure if it makes it worse or better that the feeling is obviously mutual. Just like he can’t shake the need to join every fight that comes his way, he also can’t shake that he wants you, too.
Still, he insists that the two desires are mutually exclusive. And still, you find asshole after asshole to date, and get burned every time.
Shaking yourself from the thoughts, you give Leon a reassuring smile, and squeeze his hand. “You got this. Call me when you’re back?”
“Always.” It’s true—since the mission where he showed up at your door two years ago, he’s called you after every single one to let you know he’s home safe. “See you soon.”
“Yeah. See you.”
He lingers for a few more seconds before reluctantly pulling away. The further he gets from you, the more you see of his Agent Kennedy armour, slipping across him like real metal armour. As much as it hurts to see, you’re grateful for it. It keeps him alive, after all.
***
That night, when you switch on the TV, it’s all over the news.
The president’s daughter has been fucking kidnapped. Just—gone. Taken overseas.
And you know, deep in your gut, that this is the mission Leon has been assigned to. Rescuing the president’s daughter from who the hell knows what and where? If anything is gonna be as classified as he made it out to be, it’s that.
“The White House has yet to confirm reports that the president’s only daughter, Ashley Graham, is missing, but sources close to the young college student have expressed their concern for her safety,” the news anchor says as you stand in your living room, gaping at the TV. “Due to the White House’s refusal to comment, no statement has been made about how the president’s daughter is going to be located and returned home. Our sources have suggested that the reason the president’s office will make no comment is because this kidnapping may have been an inside job, someone seeking revenge or power over the president. The global political fallout from this could be catastrophic, but we want to assure our fellow Americans that there is no evidence of a plot to control the president using the kidnapping of his daughter.
However, with concerns that this was, in fact, done by someone inside the President’s circle, it’s likely that the government will seek the help of operatives outside of his immediate circle of staff and detail to avoid any conflict of interest. This hasn’t been confirmed, but we will report with any updates as soon as they come in.”
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
***
At school the next day, it’s all anyone is talking about. Not just the students, but the staff, too. Teachers, janitors, aides, the nurse. When you walk into the teacher’s lounge in the morning, the TV is playing the news, which is exclusively covering the disappearance of the President’s daughter every minute of the day, even though there is no new information.
It really doesn’t help you carry out your usual techniques to help with your nerves about Leon being on a mission, which consist of distracting yourself with work, art, or both.
In the end, you disguise your frustration as your desire to properly teach your students, and say, “All right, guys, I get that there’s a lot going on in the world right now but can we please spend the next thirty minutes of class focusing? I promise I’ll allow ten minutes at the end to talk about the president’s daughter.”
Reluctantly, your students agree, and you manage to hold it together during those promised final ten minutes when the room is abuzz by forcing yourself to watch the paint dry.
When you get home, despite yourself, you switch on the news. It’s a bad idea, to be sure. But you do it anyway. You know Leon is out there searching for Ashley Graham, and even though reporters haven’t even received official confirmation of her disappearance yet, you still somehow hope that the news would provide you with information if anything happened to Leon. Just on the off chance. Just in case.
It doesn’t help your anxiety, though, and it’s not like you’ve been having a particularly great time mentally lately anyway, worries about Leon aside. Your house has slowly gotten to a state of disarray, so behind on chores that the idea of doing them is too intimidating to face, and the idea of not doing them feels the same, so you’ve ended up in a vicious cycle. You’re nervous constantly, jumping when the phone rings, dreading the sun setting because when any room is dark you fear it.
Safe to say, you’ve been struggling. A lot. You haven’t told anyone about it, either, too afraid they’ll call up a shrink on your behalf or send you off in a strait jacket, if they found out the things you think about. Dark thoughts, a lot, that won’t go away no matter how hard you try.
Your art has been lacking, too. You just…don’t have the drive for it, anymore. Don’t have any inspiration. Sure, shutting yourself away in your house isn’t helping the creative juices flow, but going outside and socialising just feels like too much.
You’re certain that it’s the time of year. Holiday season approaching means that contact with your family is amping up, and you’re expected to respond, to RSVP to whatever family event is being held for each holiday. You’ve been ignoring calls from your parents for a week, knowing they’re calling to discuss Thanksgiving plans. And you haven’t even stopped to consider what the hell it’ll be like around Christmas.
Since cutting your brother off, the holidays have been a nightmare of pretending to be sick so you don’t have to go, or, when that excuse was used last time, forcing yourself to sit through a dinner with the guy who abused you your entire teenage years, pretending everything is fine. Because your family pretend everything is fine. Because they think that he didn’t do anything wrong.
Sitting here now, on the edge of your sofa, your fingernails dig painfully into your palms as you watch the news. Relentless, repetitive reports about the missing girl. No new information. Not even official statement from the president. Just speculation that has your head whirring and your heart racing, and yet, you sit and watch it anyway.
Your landline rings. You rush to it without thinking, picking it up with your heart in your throat, not even checking the caller ID box, thinking it might be Leon.
“Hello?”
“Hi, sweetie, it’s me—” Your mom is cut off by you slamming the phone back down on the stand. You bring your hand up to your mouth, holding your breath in the ensuing silence. Sure enough, the phone starts to ring again.
God, you can’t fucking handle it right now.
On your phone, there’s a text from Ruby, your coworker.
> Hey r u ok? heard u missed after wrk drinks 2nite again?
Heavy, you sigh, and throw your phone onto the sofa, your body quickly following it.
—
Seventy-Two Hours Later
Leon
Somewhere between almost losing all of his free will and autonomy while pain coursed through his veins like fire, and speeding away from the exploding island on a jet ski powered by a key that Ada inexplicably put a little teddy bear charm on, Leon realised something.
Well, he realised a lot of somethings, actually, not least that this is probably the weirdest, most fucked-up mission he’s been on since Racoon City; and that somehow, despite that, he feels more satisfied with the outcome than he thought.
But mostly, he realised that he has a choice. Those people in that village? In the mines, the steelworks? They had no choice. Las Plagas descended on them and took away all their free will, their humanity, their choices. Out of nowhere they were turned into mindless slaves for a goddamn maniac, and everything they had worked so hard to build was gone.
Leon, though? Thanks to Luis—God, he never thought he’d feel any kind of gratitude towards an ex-Umbrella researcher, but he also never thought he’d see a goddamn lake monster like something out of a fairytale, so—Leon got to choose. And he gets to keep choosing.
After defeating Saddler, Leon’s first choice was…well, himself, and it came in the form of what he said to Ada.
“I think we both know this is where you and I go our separate ways,” he’d said, confident—for the first time—in the decision to separate from her. When he’d first seen her, back in the Castle, it threw him, just a little. Not enough to compromise the mission, of course. But he couldn’t help but wonder where the two of them would end up once the mission was over. There’s still some part of him that hopes she’ll make a different choice, that she’ll choose him instead of her job. Maybe there always will be that part of him. But just as she makes her own choice every time, Leon made his this time, and he made it clearly.
Because the thing is, he does care about Ada. Maybe, in another life, he could have fallen in love with her.
But here, in this life, there’s only one person his heart belongs to. It has, ever since that first night in the Silver Dove Bar.
You.
He fell hook, line, and sinker, and despite the world’s best attempts at throwing distance between you, he will always find his way back. He knows, deep down, that no one will ever come close to you.
So, he could’ve followed Ada. Or maybe even asked her to stay. Asked her to make a different choice. But it wouldn’t have been the right path for either of them, and finally, he thinks he’s starting to accept that. Finally, his experience with Ada in Racoon City feels like it can be put to rest.
Because now, he’s ready to make his most selfish choice yet.
Empowered by almost losing his ability to choose at all—and almost not making it out of that place around a dozen times—Leon can’t fucking hold himself back anymore. For so long, he’s seen the way you look at him: like you’d do anything for him, like you’d face all his darkness and the danger that comes with his life and fight it all away to be with him. And that was just the thing. He didn’t want you to do any of that. He didn’t want to rope you into his chaotic, unpredictable life, terrified that eventually it would lead you to resent him.
It has always felt selfish, the idea of asking you to be with him. To really commit to him. Because there is so much darkness, so much uncertainty, and you deserve better than that.
But now, after everything…the selfish choice might just be one he’s ready to make. And maybe, just maybe, it won’t be as selfish as he thought. You’ve been ready for him to make it all this time, and after all, isn’t that your choice, too?
“All right, Agent Kennedy, you’re cleared,” the doctor at the field hospital in Spain tells him. It’s his fourth checkup in twenty-four hours; he’s been quarantined since he wrote his report and the right officials got their hands on information about Las Plagas. Ashley has been quarantined too, he assumes, but she got whisked off fairly quickly once they were picked up and taken to the field base near the coast.
“Thank you,” Leon says, offering the doctor a smile he hopes doesn’t look too exhausted. God, he’s ready to leave this place. In the back of his mind he wishes, just a little, that he had a home to go back to; a place about which he could think fuck, I can’t wait to go home. Ashley kept saying it—Now we can go home!—assuming, naturally, that he actually had a place, too. Technically he has an apartment near the training HQ in DC, but he spends so little time there that it doesn’t feel like his.
No, instead, all he can think about is going home to you.
“Flight leaves in thirty minutes,” a mission coordinator tells him when he leaves the quarantine room. A young woman, around Leon’s age, carrying three clipboards at once and talking into a headset at the same time as walking Leon through the compound. “Do you want to make a phonecall before you leave? We’ve got a line set up for you.”
“Oh, I—yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”
She takes him to a tent filled with people and desks and room dividers, phones ringing off the hook and computer screens blaring bright blue in the darkness. She shows him to the phone set up for him, with an antenna poking up through the tent roof alongside a dozen others, the type used for international calls.
Suddenly he feels nervous and excited all at once to hear your voice. He hadn’t been able to tell you anything about his mission, but he knows you, and you know him—and he also knows that news of Ashley’s disappearance won’t have gone under the radar. There’s no way you haven’t connected the dots and worked out just where, exactly, he’s been the last three days.
He types in your number—he knows it by heart—and it only rings once before you answer.
“Hello?”
Every muscle in his entire body relaxes. A breath leaves his lungs, his eyes fluttering. “Hi, sweetheart, it’s me,” he says softly, unable to resist calling you that, because he’s shaking like a leaf all of a sudden. Everything hurts, his body so sore and stiff, and yet he feels none of it now, your voice like a balm over all of it, a warm blanket thrown across his freezing limbs.
“Leon!” you cry, sounding equally relieved, although for different reasons. “Oh my god I—are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? I’ve been watching the news just waiting but I haven’t heard anything and I’ve been worried—”
“I’m okay,” he says again, this time a little firmer, gently cutting you off. “I promise. I’m still overseas, but I’m getting on a plane home within the hour.”
You breathe out heavily. “Fuck, okay. Okay, that’s good. You sure you’re not hurt?”
“Usual bumps and bruises, but no, I’m good. Been in quarantine for twenty four hours, otherwise I’d have called you sooner.”
“What—quarantine?”
He sighs. “Yeah. I’ll explain when I see you.”
“Come straight to mine, okay?”
A smile twitches at his lips, warmth blooming in his stomach. He holds tight to the receiver, allowing himself a quick moment to just close his eyes and imagine stepping through your front door, wrapping you in his arms. Telling you I’m sorry I’ve taken so long to get my shit together, but I want to be with you, if you want to be with me too. “If that’s okay,” he says eventually, feeling his cheeks flush hot.
“Yeah, of course, you know that’s okay. What time is it over there?”
“Honestly? I got no idea.”
“That bad, huh?”
“It’s…been a lot. What time is it for you?”
“It’s midnight here.”
Shit, so it’s probably six or seven in the morning in Spain right now. “You should get some sleep, baby.”
“I will, now I know you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” He takes a deep breath, wishing he was already by your side. He glances over his shoulder and sees the same coordinator from before, tapping her watch and gesturing to the airstrip behind the tent. “I gotta go, don’t wanna miss the plane. See you soon?”
“See you soon.”
***
Fourteen Hours Later
Reader
Last night, after you’d hung up the phone, you went to bed and fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.
You hadn’t slept for the entire time Leon was on his mission, too worried about him, too unhelpfully obsessed with watching the same news reports over and over on the off chance that they would find something new. But now, you know before they do, before anyone does. You know that the mission is over, and Leon is safe.
So you sleep, and sleep, and sleep.
And only wake up ten minutes before there’s a knock at your door, leaving you zero time to clean your very messy apartment, and zero time to actually prepare yourself for seeing Leon.
But honestly, none of that matters. Because when you open the front door, and see Leon standing there, dark blue jeans and a grey T-shirt, combat boots only half-laced—fuck, that’s all that matters. He is, and always will be, the most important thing.
He smiles when you open the door. Relaxes like he’d been holding every muscle taught until the moment he laid eyes on you. And you kind of feel the same, to be honest.
“Hey,” he says, his smile so sweet and earnest, reminding you of that rookie cop you met in a bar six years ago.You can see bruises on his arms, carrying underneath his T-shirt sleeves.
“Hey,” you echo, giving him your own smile and stepping aside to let him in. You want to throw yourself at him, wrap your arms around him, check him for wounds and kiss all his bruises away. But you know how he can get about touch after a mission, so you hold yourself back, wanting him to be as comfortable as possible.
Closing the door behind him, you turn around to see him standing there, taking in the state of your living room.
“Sorry it’s a mess,” you mutter, feeling your cheeks flush red with shame. “I—I’ve been busy.”
He turns and looks at you like he knows that’s a lie, but doesn’t call it out. “You okay?” he asks instead.
“I think, given the circumstances, I should be asking you that.”
“Oh, me? I feel like a million bucks.” He puts his thumb up, gives an exaggerated fake grin.
You can’t help the laugh that comes out of your throat. His grin gets very real all of a sudden, like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “You got checked out by medical, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. A lot, actually.”
“You said you had to be in quarantine…?”
He sighs heavily, runs a hand through his freshly-washed hair. Even though it’s clean, it looks fluffy and frizzy, like wherever he showered didn’t have great shampoo, and definitely no conditioner. Given that he probably showered in a field tent somewhere, it makes sense, but still. His hair is so lovely, it deserves better.
He deserves better.
You shudder, shaking yourself from the thought, and walk over to the couch—one of the only empty surfaces in the room—and pat the seat next to you.
He sits down with another heavy sigh, slumping back against the cushions like he lives here. His legs splay wide as he puts his hands on his face and drags them down. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters to the ceiling.
“That bad?”
“You don’t even wanna know some of the shit I’ve just seen.”
“You wanna tell me?”
“Giant, sentient insects…”
“Say what now?”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. And that’s just the start.”
“Damn…so these insects, how giant are we talking?”
“Some of ’em were taller than me. See this bruise?” He points to a bruise on his forearm that is very long and thin. “One of them literally roundhouse kicked me.”
“A bug did that?”
“Yup.”
“…So. Bioweapons, huh?” You’re hesitant to say the word, knowing his history with such things. Despite the promises the government made him of helping fight bioterrorism when he was “asked” to join his current agency, he’s told you several times that he hasn’t actually got to help much with it at all in the six years he’s been there. And now that he has? You’re not sure how he’s going to deal.
“Yeah. Bioweapons. Not as I ever thought I’d see them.”
You study him for a moment. The bruises across almost every inch of him, the open wounds on his arms, two small cuts on his jaw. On his left cheekbone there’s a graze, though you can barely see it from where you’re sitting. You’re desperate to run your fingers over his face. His hands lay flat on his thighs, slowly running up and down the denim.
“Hey. I’m okay,” he says, reading your mind.
“Yeah. I know. I just…wasn’t sure how you feel about the whole bioweapons thing. I know you wanted to fight them from the start, but now…?”
“Honestly, as fucked up as it is, now I’ve done it for real, I want to do it again.”
“That is fucked up,” you agree, drawing a chuckle from him. “But I get it. It’s personal for you.”
His eyes sparkle with something unnamable when he nods in response, holding your gaze. “Yeah. Exactly. It…reminded me so much of Racoon City. It’s what I’ve been wanting to fight this whole time. Stop anything like that from happening again.”
“And you did,” you say with a soft smile.
He takes a deep breath. Tips his head against the back of the couch, closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes out, the breath going through his whole body. “Yeah, I did.”
“And now you wanna do it more.”
He opens his eyes again and looks at you. “Absolutely.”
“Maybe it’s time to start, like…I don’t know, requesting specific missions. Is that a thing you can do?”
“Not…really,” he replies with a small smirk. “But there’s this department I’ve had my eye on for a while. The DSO. Deals specifically with security with bioweapons…I don’t know. I’ve just been thinkin’ about it. They probably wouldn’t even let me transfer.”
“Leon. You just saved the president’s daughter. I think you have every right to demand whatever the fuck you want, and they know that they have to say yes.”
At first, he doesn’t reply. A grin spreads across his face, confusing you in an instant.
“What?” you ask.
“I never told you what the mission was,” he says, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Yeah, but I’m smart as hell.”
“Yes, you are. When’d you figure it out?”
“Literally as soon as I heard she’d been taken. So like, two hours after you came to my classroom.”
“Damn. Surprised it took you that long.”
“Hey!” you exclaim on a laugh. He laughs, too, and it’s so fucking beautiful you want to bottle it. “How would I have guessed before I knew she was even missing?”
“All right, all right, I’ll give you a pass for that.”
You shake your head. “Unbelievable.”
He’s smiling. It takes you by surprise when he reaches out and takes your hand, turning it so he can thread your fingers together. You gasp, eyes falling to look at them before you meet his gaze again, your mouth hanging open just a little.
He seems…different, after this mission. Different than he was after that bad op two years ago, you mean. Reaching out to touch you right away is world’s away from what he was like back then, for starters, but it’s also just…his eyes. His smile. The tension in his shoulders that is still there, probably never won’t be, but it’s just…different.
Shifting in his seat a little, he squeezes your hand, hesitates for a second. “Hey, so, uh. I wanted to—” He’s cut off by your landline ringing across the room.
You sigh, already moving to get up. “Sorry,” you say, squeezing his hand before letting it go.
Then, seeing Mom come up on the caller ID screen, you sigh again. You consider just ignoring the call, letting it go to voicemail, but then you realise—you so rarely have a legitimate excuse to tell her to call later. When you ignore her calls, she’ll try again straight away, and then keep calling every hour until you answer. But if you tell her you’ve got a friend staying for a few days and that you’ll be busy with that and work…well, maybe she’ll leave you alone for a matter of days.
“Hey, Mom,” you say when you pick up the receiver. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now, I’ve got a friend staying—”
“I’ve been trying to talk to you for days!”
“I know, but I’ve been busy with work and—”
“I understand, I won’t hold you up for long, I promise. I just need to know if you’re coming to Thanksgiving dinner next week, so I know my numbers.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. You can feel Leon’s eyes on you, burning holes in your back. Wracking your brain, you try to come up with a way to get out of having to make this decision right now. “Mom…”
“I don’t want to take up your time. Just a yes or no and I’ll hang up, promise. I’ve got my notebook in front of me with everyone’s RSVPs.”
Great. You’ve accidentally created the perfect scenario for it to be impossible not to give her a quick answer. Got a friend over and can’t talk for long? No problem, honey, just say yes or no and I’ll leave you alone!
“I—I can’t do this right now, Mom, I…” hot tears sting the backs of your eyes. You squeeze your nose harder, screwing your eyes shut so tight it hurts.
“Sweetie, whose time are you holding up here?” she asks with a little chuckle, seemingly unaware of the spiral she is sending you into.
You don’t want to think about Thanksgiving. You never want to think about Thanksgiving, let alone the entire upcoming holiday season. All those invites, those chances for your family to make you feel like the bad guy for cutting off your abusive brother. All those excuses you try to come up with, all the ones that can only be used once, and then all the times you have to go to these things anyway.
You have to go, and see him.
Drawing in a deep, trembling breath, you manage to keep your voice steady when you ask: “Mom, is he going to be there?”
She tuts. “You mean your brother?”
“You know that’s what I mean.”
“Is your brother going to be at a family holiday celebration?” You can almost see her roll her eyes and wave a dismissive hand. “Come on, sweetie, don’t you think it’s time to move on from all that nonsense?”
Somehow, even now, it takes you aback when she says stuff like that. You grip the phone tighter and grit your teeth. “It’s not nonsense, Mom.”
She sighs. You can tell by the sound of it that she’s about to launch into a condescending lecture, and you wish now more than ever that you’d just ignored her call. Or that you had the courage to just hang up on her now.
Better yet, maybe you should just unplug your landline and leave it that way for a while.
“Look, I—I really can’t do this right now,” you say, hoping one last time that it will get her to relent.
“We’re not doing anything, sweetie, I just need to know if you’re coming.”
“And if I say no?”
“Well, I think that would be a little immature of you…”
“Immature?”
“If I’m being frank, yes! Hon, you’re an adult now. You’re both adults. I think that you should really just let it go, don’t you? He’s different now, he’s so mature and kind, everyone loves him!”
“Mom…”
“Come to Thanksgiving and you’ll see that it’s all okay. I’m sure he would be happy to see you if you would extend an olive branch, let him know you are open to reconnecting…”
“Mom, stop.”
“Sweetie, come on—”
“Mom!” You cry, painfully aware of Leon’s eyes on you, but too goddamn upset to really care about it. A tear falls onto your cheek and you wipe it away, feeling rage and heartache and that pesky, lying guilt crawling across your skin. “If he’s different now, if he’s so perfect and wonderful and born again, then why hasn’t he apologised to me?”
The line goes quiet, save for a little indignant huff from your mom. A classic, when she doesn’t have a good enough retort.
“He abused me, mom. He abused the entire fucking family.”
“Exactly, and we’ve all found it in our hearts to forgive him! Why can’t you?”
“I was a kid!” you exclaim, throwing your hand up at your side. “I was—no, you know what, I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. Your child shouldn’t have to explain this.” Your voice is thick with tears now, and she hears it.
“Sweetie, I didn’t call to upset you.”
“Well, you’ve achieved it anyway. Maybe if you don’t want to upset me more, you should just stop talking.”
She sighs, long and lingering. Making a point. “Are you going to come to Thanksgiving or not?”
You grind your teeth so loud that you hear it. Close your eyes again, try to calm yourself down. If you say yes, you’ll have to face your brother, you’ll have to sit around a table with all your family and act like everything’s fine. Act like your panic attacks aren’t getting worse. Act like you don’t have nightmares every night about the family falling apart and it all being your fault. Act like you’re totally okay with everything that went down back then. And you’ll have to deal with him acting that way too. Except you know that he actually means it.
But if you say no? The onslaught of texts from distant family asking why you weren’t there. The disappointment in your mom’s voice. The sense of superiority that he has, when he shows up to Thanksgiving and you don’t; the golden child, the one who everyone can rely on, the one who gets away with murder. And everyone will talk about you, the one who just can’t let stuff go. Ancient history, they’ll all say, and toast to the future while they laugh.
And at Christmas, or New Year, or whatever the next family gathering is, they’ll all ask you where you’ve been.
“I—I have to go, Mom,” you manage to say, voice just barely a whisper. “I’ll talk to you later.” Before you can give her an answer, you hang up, almost slamming the receiver down on its dock. Then, after a shuddering breath pulls itself into your lungs, you lean down to the phone outlet on the wall and pull out the cord.
Your face is flushed hot and covered with tears. Each breath is starting to feel just a little too deep, a little too harsh. Thoughts in your brain rush around relentlessly, a mixture of anger and frustration and fear and guilt, about your family and also about the fact that this just happened in front of Leon, who just got back from a mission, who needs you to be strong right now and help him recover.
Beyond the pounding of your heart in your ears, you vaguely hear Leon’s voice say your name across the room. But you can feel the panic attack building, familiar enough now that you know it’ll get past the point of no return soon, and you’ll have to just hyperventilate, fall to the ground, and wait for it to pass.
He says your name again. This time he’s closer. You turn around and find him standing right behind you, his blue eyes so soft and kind and concerned, eyebrows drawn up in the middle.
“Hey, you’re okay,” he’s saying, so soothing, so muffled through the rushing of blood in your ears. Cautiously, he reaches out and presses a hand to each of your elbows. Then he starts kneeling down, carefully guiding you to go with him. “Hey, look at me. Let’s just sit down for a minute, okay?”
Shaky, you let him lead you to the floor. Your knees hit the carpet, and being close to the ground makes you feel a little less dizzy, knowing that if you do pass out, you’ve not got far to fall. You try to focus on the warmth of his hands on your arms, lock your eyes onto his and let yourself get lost in them.
“Breathe with me,” he says, then starts counting out breaths. You do as he asks, as he instructs. Staring at him like he’s all that’s anchoring you to the moment. (He sort of is).
Just an inch, you feel yourself start to relax. The panic subsides, caught in time before it reached its peak. Your breathing starts to feel more normal and less like it’s burning your lungs.
“Fuck,” you say on a heavy exhale. Leon’s hands are in yours now, sitting atop his lap where he’s kneeling in front of you.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I—yeah. Thank you.” Then, as you start to remember where you are and what’s happening, shame crawls up your spine. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Shit, I’m so sorry, Leon…”
He frowns deeply. “What? What are you sorry for?”
“I—this shouldn’t be about me right now.”
“Sweetheart…”
“You just got back from a horrific mission and I’m here having a panic attack because of a fucking phonecall. Jesus, it’s pathetic.” You laugh humourlessly, shaking your head at yourself.
“Hey.” His voice is firm now, grip on your hands tightening. “It’s not pathetic. Don’t—don’t say that.”
“But compared to what you’ve just been through…”
“No, we’re not doing that. We’re not comparing apples to oranges.”
Despite yourself, a laugh makes its way up from your lungs. A real one, this time. It catches in your throat as a snort, and you cover your mouth, trying to hold back your giggle.
“What?” Leon asks, but his face is spreading into a little bemused smile.
“Nothing.” You’ve given up trying not to laugh. “Nothing, just—something about using that metaphor right now is funny.”
He laughs, too. A soft, lovely chuckle that lights up his face. “I’m glad I amuse you.”
“You do. You’re a very funny guy, Leon.”
“Aw, shucks.”
Still smiling, you lift up your hand and playfully shove his shoulder. He grins in response. It’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous.
The tension in the air is dead and gone. All that’s left is you and him, your best friend, the one person in the world you have always known won’t hurt you, and who you know you can truly be yourself around. Even if being yourself is having a mini breakdown after a phonecall with your own mother.
“Couch?” Leon suggests, squeezing your hand.
You nod and sigh heavily. “Couch.”
Once you’re sitting down, Leon doesn’t let go of your hand, and for a while, the room falls into quiet. You’re unsure if you should be the one to talk first. After all, you’re the one he just had to talk down from a panic attack.
In the end, though, it’s Leon who breaks the silence. In an insane, perfectly tension-breaking way. “I fought, like, four giants.”
You blink. “What.”
“Yeah, I think it was four. They were more like trolls, I guess, but they were definitely giant.”
“Leon, what the fuck?”
He shrugs a shoulder, ridiculously casual. “Honestly, they weren’t even the scariest thing I faced over there. They were just big and loud.”
“I…” Your mouth opens and closes for a minute, baffled. You’re unsure whether to laugh or not. The way he’s talking about it is like it’s no big deal, like he is trying to lighten the mood by just randomly blurting out that he causally fought literal giants in Spain. But also, the fact they weren’t the scariest thing? Not exactly a laughing matter, is it?
Still, the complicated and conflicting mix of emotions is an effective distraction against thoughts of what your mother said. Which, you suppose, was probably Leon’s goal.
He’s smiling like that’s exactly right.
You shake your head at him. “That sounds terrifying, Leon.”
“Hasn’t been the best week of my life. That’s why I didn’t send a postcard.”
This time you do laugh. “Aw, you didn’t wanna send me one that said Wish you were here?”
“Definitely not. Maybe after it was all over I did wish that.”
“How long has it been over?”
He sighs a little and leans back into the couch, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I think…four days? I was in quarantine for a couple of them. Then a lot of it was debriefing and medical checks. I don’t know where they took Ashley, but I assume she had to be quarantined too. Even though I know for sure we aren’t infected.”
“…How do you know that?”
He swallows. You watch the movement in his throat. For a second, he hesitates, and it stirs anxiety in your gut, knowing that what he’s about to say is not going to be great to hear. “Because we were infected,” he says quietly. “Don’t freak out, but it was this, like…mind-controlling parasite. They infected me and Ashley. But we got it out. Purged it.”
Your mouth goes dry. You just stare at him, feeling your throat tightening with tears, your hands clench into fists in your lap. A fucking mind controlling parasite. Leon had that. Did it take control of him? What would have happened if he couldn’t get rid of it?
At your lack of response, Leon turns his head to look at you. His eyebrows draw together at what he sees on your face. “Hey.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m all right.”
“I…Leon, what…” There are no words, really. Or, there are too many, swirling around in your mind and getting tangled on your tongue.
“Really,” he insists, shuffling closer along the couch, “I’m okay. I promise. Hey—look at me.” He draws your eyes back to him. You hadn’t even realised you’d looked away and started staring into space, imagining all the ways Leon has been hurt in the last week. He holds your gaze intensely, making it impossible for you to break it. “I’m all right. Do you hear me?”
“Leon…”
“Sweetheart. C’mon, don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m gonna die.”
“It sounds like you almost did,” you say, your voice coming out as a whisper, despite your best efforts.
“But I didn’t. And I’m here, with you. Just focus on that, okay?”
Pulling your lips tight together, you nod, trying to force back the tears stinging behind your eyes. You move in closer to him so your arms are pressed together, and he lifts his head from the back of the couch, offering a small, encouraging smile. God, he’s so fucking beautiful. His eyes are so earnest. So soft. Even now, after everything he’s been through. After fighting giants and zombies and monsters beyond comprehension, his hardened edges always find a way to give way around you, to show his capacity for gentleness. To remind you who he really is, beneath his shell.
“Did you wanna talk about…the phonecall?” Leon asks gently, smoothing his thumb over the back of your hand. It’s so fucking comforting it makes you want to cry again.
You shake your head, but say, “My mom. She was asking me about coming to Thanksgiving dinner.”
“But your brother’s gonna be there?”
“Yeah.”
“And I’m guessing she wasn’t exactly as supportive as she should have been.”
You sigh, slumping back against the couch. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should just get over it.”
He frowns. “You say that like it’s so easy.”
“Yeah, she seems to think it is.”
“But she’s wrong.”
“Is she? Or am I just being dramatic? Trying to make an issue where there isn’t one?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve known you a while, and you’re not the kind of person to do that. You wouldn’t just throw around words like abuse and everything you’ve told me about him as if it means nothing.”
Feeling your bottom lip begin to tremble, you pull it into your mouth, and screw your eyes shut. Beside you, Leon shifts, and you almost startle when you feel his other hand carefully touch your shoulder. He slides it up across your neck, then eventually settles cupping your face in his palm, smoothing his thumb over your cheekbone.
“Hey,” he says softly. Taps the corner of your closed eye, coaxing you to open them.
After a second, you do, and a traitorous tear immediately falls. He doesn’t hesitate in brushing it away, and his eyebrows draw together sadly, emotion settling into his lovely blue eyes.
“You do not have to go to that dinner,” he insists, his voice so low and close to your face that you can feel his warm breath. He tries to hold your eyes again, but your heart is pounding, and you’re crying despite yourself, and it’s all you can do to dart your gaze across his face. The cuts, the bruises, the beautiful sharpness of his features, his hair. The way he looks at you like…like he… “You don’t have to go, you don’t have to pretend everything is fine. That’s not your job.”
“It’s what everyone wants me to do,” you whisper.
“Fuck them. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“No, they don’t, but there’s so much pressure, Leon. If I don’t go, it’ll just make things worse further down the line. Everyone will accuse me of stirring up shit. Of ruining perfectly nice family holidays.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I’m still sorry.”
Sadly, you smile. His hand on your face feels so, so nice. It feels right. And even though it hurts, because as always it reminds you of what you can’t have with him, right now, you just let yourself melt into the feeling. Into the warm, comforting press of his palm to your skin, his face so close you can taste his breath.
His eyes dart between both of yours, then for a split second, they find your lips. He licks his own, and his expression changes, shifts to something hesitant. “Hey, so. I don’t know if this will help or make it worse but…they’ve put me on leave for two weeks. Apparently the president insisted. So…I’m free for Thanksgiving. If you wanted to do something, just the two of us.”
Your eyes light up. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah.” He looks kind of shy now, like he’s not sure what your answer will be. As if it would be anything yes than Holy shit yes yes yes. “What do you think? It’s okay if you say no. I understand it’s complicated, but I just wanted to suggest it…”
“Leon.” You cut him off, bringing your hand to grasp his wrist. “That sounds perfect. Yes, I want to spend Thanksgiving with you.”
“Really? It won’t make things worse…?”
“Hell no. All I needed was a good excuse to not go to the family dinner. Now you’ve given me one!”
“Is it really a good enough excuse?”
“Are you kidding? My best friend is on leave for the first time ever and is actually free around a holiday? I’ll fucking take it.”
He smiles, all bright and bashful. It makes you want to kiss him. Which, yeah, okay, it doesn’t take much for you to want that. But still.
You squeeze his wrist, and he glances down at where you’re holding onto him, and then there’s that hesitance again, tugging down the corners of his lips, falling over his expression. He looks down, moves away just a little, though doesn’t take his hand from your face.
You’re about to frown and ask him if he’s sure about his offer when he says, “I…guess it would make a better excuse if I’m…more than just your friend, right? Spending Thanksgiving with…with your boyfriend?”
Your heart leaps into your throat.
You try to speak, but it really is lodged there, thumping between your tonsils.
He looks up at you from under those long eyelashes. His forehead wrinkles, and he bites his lip nervously. You half expect him to fill the silence, to say something to further explain what he’s just said, but he doesn’t. He just waits. Watches. Chews his bottom lip like his life depends on it.
“I…Leon, what—what are you saying?” you manage, voice thin and reedy.
He sighs as though frustrated, and this time he does take his hand away from you, instead using it to run through his hair. “God, I’m sorry, I thought that was gonna come out smooth. Fuck.”
“It’s okay, I just…what do you mean?”
“I’m…shit, I’m trying to tell you something, and I definitely should not have led with that, because it’s obviously more complicated than just—” He exhales sharply. Then, meeting your eyes once more, he seemingly decides to try again. “After everything that happened in Spain, I realised something. I realised I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want to—to hold back. From you—from us.” He swallows, hard and nervous. You’d watch his Adam’s apple bob if it wasn’t for how intensely his nervous blue eyes lock onto yours, his brow drawn together earnestly.
You swear your heart skips a beat, and in the back of your throat, your breath catches.
He moves in close again. Takes both of your hands in his, and holds on tight. When he says your name, it falls off his tongue like it’s a relief for him to hear himself say it, like it’s the first time he’s ever formed it in his mouth. Like he never wants to stop. “I’m not gonna bullshit around it anymore. I won’t. I love you, sweetheart.”
Oh, fuck.
“I really do, and I think I’ve always loved you, from that very first night we met.” God, he looks scared. As if he worries this is going to fuck things up. As if there’s any chance you would reject him. Before you can say anything—though your mouth has gone dry and you’re not sure how you’d get words out anyway—he continues, frantic, “I’m sorry, I know it’s complicated, I know I’ve spent so long pushing you away and we’ve both got our own shit going on, and I know I can’t give you things that you probably want, and I know that I’ve probably fucked up and done this wrong but I—”
Your body moves before your brain can catch up. It’s for the best. Jesus, it’s for the best, because the second your lips are on his, it’s like coming home.
His voice fades in your mouth. You cup his face in your hands, holding him firm to you. He melts into the kiss in an instant, doesn’t miss a beat, opens his lips against yours and slides them together with such perfect, delicious precision. Slowly, he brings his hand up to caress the side of your neck, his other finding its way to your waist. And then, he’s leading the kiss, slowing it down to that beautiful soft reverence that he so often takes when you kiss for the first time in a while. He tilts his head in the other direction so he can get better leverage against your mouth, brushes his fingertips down the curve of your neck, up behind your earlobe, into your hair.
You shiver at the feeling. Push your own hand into his hair, take a fistful of it, and revel in the breathy, broken sound that escapes his throat.
Just as you start to run your tongue along his bottom lip, he pauses, pulls away just enough that he can murmur: “We should probably talk about…I don’t wanna mess this up, I—”
“Leon,” you interrupt, tugging on his hair. “You just told me you love me for the first time. Can we think about the practicalities later?”
Breathy, he chuckles, and nods a couple times. “Yeah. Okay, yeah. C’mere, baby.” Both of his hands find the nape of your neck and use it to pull you into him again. And into him you go, melting, letting everything else fade away until all that’s left is him. The warm wetness of his mouth. The slide of his chapped lips, still so luxurious and gentle against your own, the familiar taste of him and his breath falling into your own lungs. He kisses you like he means it, like he’s committing every inch of you to his memory. Like he wants you to feel how much he loves each second of this, each touch, each brush of lips and teeth and tongue. God, it feels fucking amazing, and there’s such intense heat building deep in your belly that you can’t hold back a delicate little moan.
At the sound, he hums his approval. One of his hands slides slowly, too slowly, all the way over your neck, your shoulder, your arm, eventually falling to your waist and hips and then your thigh. He takes hold of it, gently coaxes you to lift your legs onto his lap so you’re curled right into him, his hand hooked under your bent knee, anchoring you there. You can feel his eyelashes brushing against your cheekbones. It’s so fucking perfect. He’s so fucking perfect. This is perfect.
You weren’t expecting any of this. Not the kiss, and certainly not the confession of love, and his suggestion that he wants to finally—finally—be your boyfriend. After all this time, after all this fear and hesitation that has held both of you back, something in him has snapped, and he’s finally broken that tension that has been between you for so long.
It’s all you can do to whimper when he licks the entire length of your tongue in one single, excruciatingly slow movement. It’s sexy, of course it is, but mostly it feels…reverent. He’s savouring you, and he wants you to know that’s what he’s doing.
The hand under your knee tugs just a little, and after a second he breaks away, his lips soaking wet and swollen when he murmurs in a low, throaty voice: “I wanna feel you, sweetheart.”
You’re nodding before he’s even finished talking. “Yes. Please, Leon.”
“Bed?”
“Bed.”
When he takes his shirt off, and briefly turns around to throw it on the armchair in the corner of your room, you almost burst into tears at what you see.
His entire back, from top to bottom, is cast in deep, mottled shades of purples and reds. Like he’s fallen into a tray of paint, it covers every inch of his usually pale skin, completely shadows all of his moles and scars and hairs. It’s just a big, dark sheet of agony and it breaks your fucking heart to see it.
He turns back around to face you, and his expression goes bleak at the look on your face. “Hey—hey. What’s wrong?”
Wordless, you take a ginger hold of his shoulder, and tug lightly to get him to turn around again. He does. A gasp pulls into your throat, trembling and weak. Your shaking hand reaches out towards his shoulder blade, not daring to touch it for fear of hurting him, but wishing more than anything that you could touch it and in doing so take away all that damage, all that pain.
As if he’s just realised what’s happening, he quickly spins on his heel and turns back towards you, his brow deeply furrowed. “Hey—don’t look at that.” He takes hold of the backs of your elbows, pulls you close.
“Leon…I’ve never seen bruising like that, I…”
“I’m okay.”
You look up at him, wide-eyed, and tilt your head once like half a shake of it. “That is very, very far from okay, Leon. What happened? Who…what…did that?”
He sighs. “I…got thrown onto my back a lot,” he explains in a murmur, looking down at the ground like he’s embarrassed. In the daylight streaming through the sheer curtains over your window, you notice more bruises across his chest and ribs, a few cuts here and there that have been stitched up. “Bad guys love to do that, for some reason. Makes ’em feel big,” he adds, wry, as if trying to make you laugh.
“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, decidedly not laughing, instead delicately running your fingertips through the gaps in the bruising across his abdomen. “Leon, you must be in so much pain…”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It hurts, but I can manage.”
You shake your head. Your eyes are watering, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re crying or just that you haven’t blinked in over a minute. You’re definitely breathless, though, the sight of all his injuries rendering you that way. “Sit down,” you instruct eventually. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“What are you doing?” he asks, but sits down on the end of the bed anyway.
At first, you don’t answer, just head into the bathroom and go straight for the medicine cabinet. It takes you a minute to find what you’re looking for, right at the back of the basket of various tubes and bottles. Prescription-strength ibuprofen gel, from when you had RSI in your wrist last month (the woes of a painter).
He sighs when he sees you walk back into the bedroom with it in hand, but the sound is fond, a soft smile twitching at his lips. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Lie down. On your front.”
He smirks. “You know, I kinda like it when you’re bossy.” You don’t respond, just raise your eyebrows and point at the bed. With a playful roll of his eyes he does as you ask, crawling up the bed and then lying down on his stomach, lifting up his arms to grasp the pillow. A soft grunt leaves his throat when you carefully straddle his hips, the curve of his ass below you. “Jesus, baby, you’re killin’ me,” he mutters into the pillow.
You ignore him. “Tell me if this is too painful, okay?” He nods, so you get to work. Carefully, so carefully, you smooth a good amount of the ibuprofen gel all over his back until it makes an even covering. Then, using as little pressure as possible, you rub in circles, helping it to absorb quicker.
“Feels good,” he murmurs. You glance at him, finding his head tilted to the side, his eyes closed. You look for signs of pain or discomfort on his face and don’t find any.
“Not too cold?” you ask, focusing again on your task.
“It’s cold, but that kinda helps.”
“Did they ice all of this for you? Try to reduce the swelling?”
“Kinda. By the time I was at the field hospital it’d been a while since the bruises were there. Too late to ice.”
“It’s never too late to ice,” you point out, gingerly moving your hand down to his lower back where the bruising gets especially dark. The gel is slippery beneath your fingers, but gets less so as you work it in, as it really gets into his skin. “Do you want some now?”
He shakes his head. It messes up his hair on the pillow.
You continue to work for another few minutes until his back is just a little tacky and all the gel has soaked in as much as it ever will. While you screw the cap back on the tube, you carefully get up off of Leon, and he makes a disappointed noise in the back of his throat. You shake your head fondly, then head off into the bathroom to put the gel away and wash your hands.
When you walk back into the bedroom, Leon is on his back on the bed, head propped up on his elbow. In his pants, his dick is half hard, and he’s smirking at you as you head back to the bed. “Hey, it’s my nurse.”
You snort. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re the one who just made it smell of ibuprofen gel in here.”
Crawling up the bed, you give him a Look, then eventually settle on your side beside him. “Not like you were gonna treat those bruises yourself, was it?”
He reaches for you, muscles rippling across his chest and abs as he does so, pulling you closer into him. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to have you on top of me,” he says.
“You don’t need an excuse for that.”
“Oh? That so?” He coasts his hand down your back, slow and steady. Grins when you shudder.
You’re not quite ready to give in just yet, though. “Where else do you hurt? Have you had painkillers?”
“I could think of something that would help me forget the pain right now…”
“Leon.”
“Yes, gorgeous?”
“I’m serious.”
“Me, too,” he insists, but he’s smirking, his fingertips teasing the elastic of your pyjama pants. When you stay silent, he sighs, brushes some hair back from your face. “I don’t want my bruises to stop what was happening,” he says quietly. “I don’t want anything to stop any of it.”
You hesitate. Glance down at the bruises on his abdomen, the stitches dotted around. “Me neither, Leon, but…you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“Leon—”
“I’m fine enough,” he amends.
You raise a dubious eyebrow, and lift a hand to softly caress your fingers down his cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you, baby.”
“You couldn’t.”
“And I want to help you.”
His eyes soften. He takes hold of your hand and kisses your palm, not breaking your eye contact. When he speaks again, his voice goes breathy, just the hint of a whine tinging its edges. “I need you, sweetheart. I need to be close to you right now. That’s how you can help me.” He ducks his head and bends over a little so he can press his lips to your neck. Close-mouthed but still hot. “Please?”
A shiver runs through your body again, your skin rising into goosebumps. There’s still that pulsing, warm need between your legs, still the fizz of arousal under your skin. “I need you, too,” you breathe, and as soon as he hears it, he takes your face in his hands and pulls you in for a searing kiss.
It’s not long until you’re both completely naked, beyond desperate to be skin to skin. Leon wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to be close to you—he’s practically pressing every inch of himself against your body the second all your clothes are off. He’s on top of you, his hardness pressed into your hip, chest flush against yours. Though he holds himself up with his arms on either side of you, you can still feel the weight of him pressing down on you, and his forearms brush against your hair. There really isn’t an inch of him not touching you right now, and it’s fucking lovely.
Careful to avoid the bruising on his back, you run your hands gently up and down his arms, caressing the backs of his elbows and the curve of his biceps. He kisses you like he never wants to do anything else. Long, deep pushes and pulls of his mouth, wide-open and wet and messy. His tongue treating yours like it’s a goddamn popsicle, sucking and licking it relentlessly. It’s all you can do to grind your hips up into him, wetness already dripping down your thighs and onto the bed below you.
He hasn’t even touched you yet—not your pussy, anyway. Occasionally he’ll lift one hand and grab at your tits, but he’s mostly using his mouth for them, swirling his tongue around your nipples until you’re gasping and throwing your head back on the pillow. One hand in his hair, you pull when his teeth graze the sensitive, hard bud. He hums, somewhere between a laugh and a moan.
“Leon,” you gasp, “please, I need you…”
“Wanna take my time,” he murmurs, trailing his mouth up your chest to your collarbone. He sucks a kiss there, right where the bone meets your neck. Pleasure lights up your spine, fizzes like sparks.
“You can take your time when you’re fucking me,” you point out breathlessly, earning a soft chuckle from him. You feel it vibrating in his chest when he lies back on top of you, kissing your mouth again, slow and languid.
“Can I taste you?” he asks between kisses.
Your hips keen up into his, your back arching off the bed as much as it can with his weight pressing you down. A desperate moan escapes your throat, frustrated but also so goddamn horny. “Leon…”
“Can I?”
“Want your cock,” you whimper, scratching at his scalp with your nails.
He lifts his head then, just enough to meet your eyes. His lips are soaking wet, swollen. Pretty. So fucking pretty. “You want it that bad, huh?”
Your pussy pulses for him, clenching around nothing, desperate to feel him stretch you open. His hard cock is heavy against your hip, just inches away from where you want him.
“Please, Leon…you can taste me later, just—please. It’s been so long. I need you inside me.”
His expression softens. When his eyelashes flutter and he smiles a little, for a second, you’re reminded of that young Leon you met all those years ago in a bar. Before all the darkness came. Before you lost him and found him again. He just looks so earnest, and there’s a gorgeous, sparkling light in his blue eyes that reminds you of how he looked at you that first night. Like he’s in awe.
Like he’s in love.
I think I loved you from that first night we met, he’d said.
It suddenly hits you that you haven’t said it back yet. Holy shit, how have you not said it back? You’ve been waiting for him to tell you that since the first fucking night you met and now he has and you’ve been desperate to tell him since then too.
Taking his face in your hands, you stare into those lovely eyes for a second, letting it all fall over you. The last six years. The time you’ve spent apart. The time you’ve spent together. All the years you’ve kept each other at arms length for fear of many things, so many things you can’t even list them. All the love that you carry for him, that you’ve had to tuck away in a little box in your mind.
Until now.
“You okay?” he asks into the sudden quiet, his eyebrows drawing together. His voice is low, husky. Hoarse from desire.
Instead of answering, you gently push him off of you. He goes willingly, all pliant and loose as you guide him down onto his back, laying him down against the pillows you once laid upon. He looks a little puzzled, but that confusion is replaced by a dark lust when you straddle his thighs. As if on instinct, his calloused hands find your hips as you settle in place on top of him. His cock stands hard and red just inches from your core. All you need to do is slide forward, lift up, and you could sink down onto him.
First, you lean down, hovering just above his face. You put your hands on each of his cheeks, look deeply into his eyes, and whisper, “I love you too, by the way. My Leon. I love you.”
His mouth falls open. A soft gasp pulls into it, catching in his throat. You swear that his eyes get a little wetter, and he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “Yeah?” he manages eventually, voice trembling despite how he clearly tries to keep it steady.
You nod. Lean down, take his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. “I love you so much, Leon,” you whisper against his mouth. “I’ve loved you since that first night we met.”
He whimpers. God, you haven’t heard him make that sound since that night. Since he was a rookie cop and he had nothing but light and hope in his eyes.
His hands tighten on your hips, then slowly slide up your waist, over every part he can reach. “Baby,” he all but whines, his desperation evident in the slight wrinkle between his brow, the way his hands grip you hard.
Before he can say anything else, you shift on top of him. Take a hold of his length—to which he moans and watches you with blown-wide pupils—and stroke him a few times as you get positioned properly on top of him. Then, in one very slow motion, you sink down onto him.
Bliss falls across his face like you’ve never seen. His eyelashes flutter, like he wants to close his eyes but doesn’t want to look away from you. In fact, he’s looking at you like you hung the goddamn moon, his mouth still open slightly, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
He feels amazing, of course. Stretches you open so fucking good, your pussy welcoming him with ease. You sit there when he’s balls deep, feeling the head of his cock brushing your cervix, and holy fuck, it already feels so fucking good that you can’t help the whimper that escapes your own throat.
“Fuck, Leon,” you whisper, revelling in the spectacular feeling of him inside you. Buried to the hilt, you feel the stretch of him, bordering on painful. It’s not though. It’s good. It’s so good, to feel him, to feel how big and hard and hot he is.
“You’re amazing,” he says brokenly. “So fucking beautiful, oh my God…”
When you start to move, his eyes finally close, and you really enjoy looking at him like this. Below you, completely at your mercy, the movement of your hips delivering all his pleasure as his cock rubs against your walls. Lost in pleasure, lost in you, his hands reverently stroking your thighs and your hips, going for your tits and then brushing his fingertips across your jaw, the only part of your face he can reach.
He’s quiet again. Similar to how he was last time, and so different to how he was the first time, all those years ago. You can’t help but wonder about the sounds he would have made had you got on top back on that first night in the motel. Then you wonder if you’ll ever be able to get them from him again, get him to stop holding back so much and just let himself give in.
His eyes open again, but only slightly, his lids still hanging low. He gazes up at you through his eyelashes, filled with so much affection and adoration it makes your skin get hotter, makes your pussy clench harder. He starts to thrust up into you a little, matching each of your movements, and fuck, fuck, right there—
Hot liquid gushes from your pussy all over his dick, wetting his pelvis and his thighs.
“Oh, God…” you mutter, pleasure sparking through your core and tightening in your belly. “Fuck, Leon, you feel so fucking good.”
“Yeah…fuck…” he whispers, and you hold his gaze, staring right into his eyes as you bounce slowly up and down on his cock, circling your hips so he hits that perfect spot inside of you.
It’s when he switches up the position and lays you on your back again that you feel yourself get close. His thrusts don’t start slow; he pushes in fast and hard and keeps going like that until you’re practically screaming and frantically grabbing onto his shoulders. You know he could probably go harder, could definitely pound the head of his dick against your cervix until it hurt. You wouldn’t complain. You’d love that, actually. But it’s also really fucking sweet that he’s holding back, that he doesn’t want to hurt you; you can feel it in the tension in his shoulders, the short snap of his hips each time he thrusts in. He’s holding back. Trying to take it slow, and failing, but still making sure he’s careful.
“Can I get my clit?” you ask breathlessly, and he nods, lifting himself up enough that you can get your finger between your bodies and start to rub at the sensitive, swollen bud. “Oh, fuck, yes. Leon, that feels so good, holy shit.”
“Yeah, baby. Yeah.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Leon, fuck—fuck, just like that, just like that, right there—”
There’s that heat again, squirting from your core, all over his dick and down onto the bed. He groans, guttural and choked as though he tried to hold it back but couldn’t. He buries his face in your neck and you let your other hand find his hair, anchoring him to you as he thrusts and thrusts and you rub and rub and that gorgeous pleasure starts to coil low in your belly.
“Fuck, Leon, I think I’m gonna—”
“Yeah, come on, baby, come for me,” he pants against the shell of your ear.
You do. Fast, hard, pleasure washing over you in a wave from your head to your toes. It seizes your muscles, has you going very still underneath him as your entire body tenses and you cry out from the pleasure, gripping hard to Leon’s hair.
It’s not long after that Leon’s coming, too, pulling out just before he spurts all over your stomach. You’re on birth control, and he knows that, but he’s never come inside you before and, knowing him, he’ll probably want to ask before he does it for the first time.
So instead you just enjoy the feeling of his hot release covering your skin, the way it drips down onto the bed and between your legs. He’s panting above you, his hand going still around his cock, face hovering right above yours.
“Fuck,” he curses, low and broken. Then he kisses you. Deep. Hard. Hot. “Fuck, baby. Fuck.”
You laugh a little, still just a touch delirious with pleasure. “Yeah. So good, Leon.”
“I could stay like this for days, holy shit.” Before you can reply he’s kissing you again and you melt into him because you can. Because you always will. Because he’s Leon, and you love him, and God, he loves you too.
When you both head into the bathroom to get cleaned up, as soon as you’ve cleared your stomach of his release, you start to run a bath. There are some bath salts you got for Christmas that are meant to help ease sore muscles, so you tip some of those beneath the water flow, and the room immediately fills with the smell of them.
“You gonna take a bath?” Leon asks, throwing the washcloth he used to wipe his dick—and thighs, from where you squirted on him—into the laundry basket.
“It’s for you,” you say, putting the cap back on the bottle of salts.
He raises an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Uh-huh. Don’t think that just ’cause I put some ibuprofen gel on you I’m done taking care of you.” You reach into the cabinet under the sink and pull out a clean towel, hanging it on the hook on the back of the door. Then you spread out the bath mat beside the tub, and grab the little bath pillow you’ve never used, attaching it to the tub’s edge.
Leon goes quiet, but you can feel his eyes on you as you get things ready. He’s just standing there, watching you. Eventually you turn to him, and you find his expression looking nothing short of awed. Like this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him.
You hope that it isn’t.
“Thank you, baby. Will you join me?” he asks, his voice coming out rougher than you’d expected.
You smile. “I’d love to.”
Sinking down into the warm water feels heavenly, but not quite as heavenly as it feels to be settling in between Leon’s legs, his knees bracketing you as you lean back into his chest. He wraps his arms around you, presses a kiss to your shoulder. God, you’ve never been more thankful that this apartment came with such a good sized bathtub.
For a while, you sit there in comfortable silence, both of you just letting the heat relax you. Leon breathes against the spot behind your earlobe, occasionally brushing his lips across your neck. You lean your head back into his shoulder and close your eyes, breathing in deep, the smell of the salts relaxing.
He rubs his hands gently across your body, every part of it he can reach. He caresses you like it’s the first time he’s ever had chance, even though it’s not; he makes a point to give each inch attention and care, appreciatively squeezing at your belly and your tits and your thighs.
Despite how relaxed you are, your mind can’t help but wander. Aside from sex, this is the most intimate thing the two of you have ever done, and now that you’ve said I love you to each other, what does it mean? Does Leon finally feel ready to call this more than friendship? He used the word Boyfriend earlier, but did he mean it? Is that where this is heading?
Is that where you want this to be heading?
Well, yes, of course it is—you’ve always wanted that, deep down. But you’ve also always thought that it would never be possible. Because Leon said it wasn’t. Said his life was too fucked up, that he didn’t want to ruin what you had by fucking up being your boyfriend.
And, honestly, seeing him so injured after his latest mission has given you just the slightest bit of pause, too. He made it through this time, but what about the next mission? And the mission after that? Can you handle being the girlfriend who sits beside hospital beds and waits anxiously by the phone for the call that tells you he’s not coming back?
A shudder runs through you at the thought.
Leon notices. “Hey,” he says softly, tilting his head down to look at you. “You okay?”
Distantly, you nod, and a beat of silence passes before you speak again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“After that first time we met, if everything hadn’t gone to shit, and you’d started a normal job as a cop…what did you want to happen between us?”
Leon exhales through his nose. He’s quiet for a minute, swirling his finger in circles across the top of your thigh. “I know we only met the one time,” he starts, “but if I’m honest, I wanted to date you. Like, immediately. I wasn’t kidding when I said I fell for you that night.”
A smile spreads across your face. His warm lips press into your temple, long and lingering.
“Is that a little pathetic of me?” He smirks against your skin.
“No,” you laugh. “Not at all. It’s really sweet, actually.”
“What about you? What did you want?”
“I wanted the same,” you confess, quieter than you’d meant it. “I took that number you gave me and didn’t even wait twenty four hours to call you.”
“Good to know you were as in as I was,” he teases. Then, after a second, “Why’d you ask?”
“I…guess I just wondered what it is you want now.”
Slowly, he runs his hand down your arm, wet with bathwater and hot to the touch. He finds your hand, then threads your fingers together, holding them up in front of you. “I want to be with you,” he says lowly, his voice vibrating against your ear. “I know it’s taken me way too long to say it, but I—I wanna be your boyfriend. I wanna be yours, for real this time. I don’t—I won’t keep pushing you away.”
Your breath shakes when you breathe in deep. Relief floods through you at the sound of the words you’ve been waiting to hear for years.
“I hope I’m not too late,” he murmurs, squeezing your fingers with his. “But I understand if I am.”
Quickly you shake your head. “No, you’re not. It’s not too late. I—I want all those things too, Leon.”
You feel his smile, and the brush of breath against your skin when he laughs a little. A joyful, disbelieving sound, bubbling up from his chest. “You do?”
“Yeah. I do.” You take another breath, and let it out slowly. “But…”
“Oh, no.” His voice lilts wryly but you hear the genuine concern behind it.
“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare me,” you confess.
He hums sympathetically, squeezes your hand again when he asks, “What scares you, sweetheart?”
“All of it. Your job, those bruises, the mind controlling parasite…that’s just another day at the office for you and I…I’m scared for you. I already worry about you so much, but if I’m your girlfriend? If we want to build something together? That terrifies me even more.”
He kisses your knuckles before he releases them under the water again, instead using his hand to brush some hair back away from your neck. Then, he presses a kiss there, long and warm. “I’ll always come home,” he promises.
“I know you’re really good at your job, but you face some seriously scary shit, and I…I will always worry that one day you won’t come home. Or you’ll end up in the hospital and I’ll get a call five days later telling me you’ve been there and I didn’t know. Or you’ll go missing and the government will try to cover it up or something or—”
“Hey,” he cuts you off gently. “Breathe.”
You do. It shudders with the sudden onset of tears stinging at your eyes. “It’s not that I don’t already worry. But being your girlfriend just makes it all seem so much more…I don’t know. It’s just different.”
“Yeah, it is. I understand. And…I’m sorry it can’t be any other way.”
“Don’t apologise. I know you feel passionate about your job, which I guess is why I’m also wondering…what changed? You’ve been telling me for years we can’t be together because of the job, the way it takes over your life. What’s different now?”
He exhales, tipping his head back against the bath pillow for a minute. His hold on you doesn’t falter, his hands solid on your thighs and belly. “When that parasite almost took away everything about me, almost took all my choices…I realised how lucky I was to have choices in the first place. And how close I came to losing my free will also meant I came close to losing you.”
“Oh, Leon…”
“I can’t promise you that I’m gonna be good at this,” he continues, tightening his arms around you just a little. “My job is still gonna keep me away from you most of the time, and—and things won’t be easy. I’ll be gone, I’ll go on missions, I’ll come back hurt. It’s always gonna be like that.”
“I’ve always known that, Leon.”
He nods. “I know. I know, and I think I finally realised that, during this last mission. That in pushing you away, I was also taking away your choice, too. Or—making it for you, I guess. Told myself it was safer for you to not choose me.”
You run your hand over his thigh, up to his knee where it crests the surface of the water. “Maybe I do choose you,” you say, quiet. “Maybe I always have.”
He breathes in sharp, deep, then a broken sound escapes his throat, close to a whimper. “Baby.” His lips press firm and hot against the spot beneath your earlobe. Then your neck. Then your shoulder. Each time, a certain and impassioned suck that is sure to leave a mark. You tip your head back onto his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed as he keeps kissing and sucking along every part of your skin he can get to. “You really mean it?” he asks, a nervous vibration against you.
“I mean it, Leon,” you breathe, lifting your hand to reach up and stroke his cheek.
“Even though it won’t be easy? I’m gonna be away so much, and you deserve better than someone who’s just—who’s throwing himself into danger all the time. You deserve someone who can give you everything—”
“Leon,” you cut him off, lifting your head and turning slightly in his arms so you can meet his eyes. When you look at him, he’s frowning, that earnest crease pulled between his brows again as he stares with such gentle fear back into your eyes. You caress his face softly, your palm wet against his cheek. “I accept you with all of it, you know that, right?”
“But…but you just said you’re scared, and I get it, I really get it…”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t still want this. You. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.”
“I want to try, too,” he says quickly, bringing his hand up to brush his thumb across your cheekbone, leaving a wet trail in its wake. “I’m probably gonna fuck it up a million times, but I’ll always try. I want to. I can’t—I can’t pretend I don’t feel how I feel anymore.”
You smile. Warmth blooms in your chest. “We can work through it together,” you say softly. “Take it one step at a time. I’m not under any illusions that our relationship is gonna look like anyone else’s our age.”
He huffs a laugh, genuine even though his eyes remain serious. “Yeah, no kidding.” His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and he glances down at yours, then back to your eyes. For a minute he keeps doing that, looking between them, like he wants to kiss you but also wants to look at you just as badly. You sit and stroke his cheek, happy just to be here, in his arms, feelings finally laid out between you.
“Hey,” he says eventually into the quiet, “Bath’s gettin’ kinda cold, huh?”
“Not really,” you reply, then suspiciously narrow your eyes at the look on his face.
“I just—remember earlier you said I could taste you later?”
Immediately you feel your pulse between your legs, the stirring of arousal. “Yeah. I did say that, didn’t I?”
He nods, his pupils blown wide again. “I still really wanna,” he breathes out. His hand slowly slides across your thigh, around onto the inside of it, then even slower it crawls up towards your pussy, stopping before it gets there. “Can we get out so that I can?”
Already breathless, you nod, and it’s all the confirmation he needs before he’s essentially hauling you out of the bath, wrapping you in a towel, and taking you straight back to bed.
***
It’s still almost dark outside when you stir. The clock by your bed reads 06:12. It takes you a second to realise why things feel off, why the bed feels cold; you lean back a little, carefully reaching back with your arm to feel for Leon, but when you find his side of the bed empty, you panic.
He’s gone. He’s left in the middle of the night. Did he mean what he said last night? Did he have a nightmare and get freaked out? Did he—
You quickly roll over, and find a piece of paper on his pillow, lying neatly in the little dip his head left. His handwriting is messier than usual, as if he wrote it in the dark.
Woke up really early, decided to go the store to get some stuff for breakfast. I’ll be back ASAP, hopefully before you wake up.
Love, Leon x
A sleepy smile spreads across your face as you relax back into bed, relief falling over you. It’s adorable that he felt the need to sign the note, as if it could be from anyone else, but funnily enough, it does actually help you feel even more reassured.
With the note loosely held in one hand, the backs of your fingers brushing against Leon’s pillow, you easily slip back into sleep.
Next time you wake, your pillow is decidedly warm, and there’s a comforting weight around your shoulders, pressed into your waist. Your eyelids flicker open into the dim light coming through your curtains, and you realise that the pillow is actually Leon’s shoulder, and you’re tucked into his side, his arm wrapped snugly around you.
His held tilts down towards you when he feels you stir. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
You can’t help but smile. Still sleepy and bleary-eyed, you lift your head to look at him. He’s dressed, wearing the clothes he came here in yesterday, minus the shoes. His hair is a little messy, like he didn’t think to neaten it before he went out to the store. He looks…relaxed. Handsome. It’s so fucking lovely. “Morning,” you say, reaching up to rub your eyes. “I got your note.”
“Yeah. I didn’t wanna worry you if you woke up before I got back. Which…you obviously did.”
“Thanks. I’ll admit I did panic a little before I saw the note.”
He brushes some hair back from your face. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises softly. “You know that, right?”
Tilting your head to kiss his palm, you let your eyes flutter closed again, drawing in a deep breath. “Yeah. I know.”
“I thought I’d make pancakes for breakfast?”
Your eyes open into his again. “I’d love that, but I’m cooking for you, Mister just-got-back-from-a-mission.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nope. But I’m gonna.” You pause a second, idly noticing the paper grocery bag sitting by the bed. On the front of the bag, there’s a graphic of a pumpkin sitting in a pile of autumn leaves. Your stomach twists anxiously at the thought of Thanksgiving, but then eases, when you remember that you’re spending it with Leon. Speaking of… “Hey, so, Thanksgiving…”
His finger brushes down your cheek over and over, absent, like he’s only half aware he’s doing it. “Yeah?”
“You’re staying until then, right? Like, here? With me?”
“I mean…if you want. I don’t have to. I can get a motel or something—”
You roll your eyes. “Leon, I want you here. In fact, I’m glad you’re staying, ’cause then the looking-after-you thing can keep going.”
His cheeks turn a little pink when he looks away and raises a diffident shoulder. “Sweetheart, you don’t—”
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t have to, I know. But I want to. You need to rest, and you need to heal.”
For a long moment, he just stares at you. His blue eyes sparkle, affection shining from them, his hand soft against your face. It looks like maybe he’s trying to figure out what to say, but can’t quite decide, or even come up with words in the first place. Instead, he leans in, and places a chaste but long kiss on your lips. Warm, familiar, lovely.
“Mm. Good morning to you too,” you murmur as he pulls away, mirroring his smile.
“I, uh. I got something extra at the grocery store that I wanted to…well, can I show you?”
You nod, and watch as he gets up from bed and grabs the grocery bag with the pumpkin on it. He turns it upside down and pours out the contents onto the bed, consisting of—uh…about a dozen cell phones? Ranging from newer, fancy models to older, cheaper ones, they scatter across the mattress, all switched off but taken out of their original packaging.
With raised eyebrows, you glance between the pile of phones and Leon. “Uh…Leon? Are you trying to tell me you’re becoming a criminal, or…?”
Leon chuckles, shaking his head. “They’re not burner phones. Well—they kinda are, but not in a suspicious way. I just…I wanted you to always have a way to reach me, now that we’re together. But I’m always forgetting to leave my cell phone at the damn base, and I take it with me on missions…”
“…And then it gets fucked up,” you finish for him, to which he laughs again, pushing aside the phones so he can perch on the edge of the mattress.
“Exactly,” he confirms. “But I figure, if I use this fancier one as my main cell phone”—he holds up a shiny silver flip phone, one of those new Razr ones that all the rich kids at school are flaunting lately—“It’ll remind me to take better care of it. But in case I forget, I’ve got all these other ones as backups. I’ll keep one in different places. So that I’m always there if you need me.”
An unexpected wave of emotion hits your chest like a goddamn truck. A hard lump forms in your throat, affection overwhelming you, pushing at your chest from the inside. You stare at the phones, then at him. He looks anxious, chewing at his bottom lip, the tips of his ears still flushed red.
In your silence, he only grows more fidgety, fiddling with the sheets between his fingers. “Uh…is this weird? Shit, this is really weird, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I just wanted to—”
“It’s not weird,” you manage to say past the thickness in your throat. “Well, I mean, it is. But it’s not like your life is normal anyway, so it’s kinda not weird, in context.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s…good? I think?”
“It’s really cute, actually.”
“It is?” he replies, dubious. “I kinda just feel like a weirdo. There’s like, twelve phones here, babe.”
You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, that is a lot of cellphones. Did the person at the store look at you like you were crazy?”
“Oh, I’ve been put on a list, for sure.”
Still laughing, you reach out and grab a hold of his T-shirt, using it to pull him in for a kiss. He makes a surprised noise, and he’s grinning when you pull back enough to look at his face again. “You’re adorable, you know that?”
“Hm, no, wasn’t aware.”
“Well, now you are.”
“I think you win the prize for most adorable, honey.”
“Absolutely not. That one’s always gone to you. It’s an annual thing.”
Chuckling, he gives you one last kiss before leaning away. Then he picks up the silver flip phone and absently flips it open and closed again. “I’ve got all their numbers written down, so we can add them to your phonebook,” he says. “And I’ve also got a number to give you that’s…well, in case you ever really need to reach me when I’m at work, and for whatever reason you can’t, there’s a number for agents’ family members. If you call them, tell them it’s an emergency and who you’re calling for, they’ll do their best to contact me, even if I’m deployed.”
There’s that swell of affection again, pushing against your ribs, constricting your lungs. Like, seriously, it steals your breath, makes it catch in your throat.
He’s really serious about this, isn’t he? Serious about you?
It’s not that you didn’t believe him before. You know he always says what he means and means what he says. It’s more like it’s all felt a little too good to be true. But right now, seeing the lengths he’s going to to really make you a part of his life in a new way—to make you an official ‘family member’ that has access to that secure line—well, it’s all just become very real, very fast.
He’s yours, now. And he’s making sure you know that.
“Hey, you okay?” Leon asks, his brow drawing together as he leans in closer.
You hadn’t even noticed your eyes getting wetter. “Yeah, I—I’m good. Just—this means a lot to me, you know?”
He softens. This time when he gets closer, he actually climbs further onto the bed, pushes the phones all the way to the bottom of the mattress so he can kneel beside you. He takes your face in his hands, looks you right in the eyes for a long, drawn-out minute. Then, slowly, like he has all the time in the world, he kisses you. So languid and delicious, all wet lips and gentle, teasing swipes of his tongue along your bottom lip.
You hold onto his T-shirt in your fist, slide your other hand into his hair. He makes a contented noise in the back of his throat, then gently pushes you backwards, laying you down against the pillows.
Pancakes, and transferring phone numbers, can wait.
notes: i seriously cannot thank you enough for all the incredible comments y'all have left on this series so far. every single one makes me so motivated to keep writing this. i'm so sorry this one took a while - i actually had a deadline for an original work that i had to stick to so i didn't let myself write ANY fanfic for basically the entire month of May LOL
but that work is finished now and i am FREE!
hope you enjoyed this part just as much as you have the others, and that it lived up to your hopes and expectations! please do let me know if it did! also let me know if there's anything specific u are hoping to see covered in this series...i can't guarantee that i will include it as a lot of it is already planned, but i'd still love to hear your thoughts if u have any!
i'm so grateful for you, can't wait to bring you the next part!! love u love u love u xoxoxo
“Why don’t you use ai” idk man beyond the obvious environmental and “this machine causes psychosis and encourages people to kill themselves” thing I think asking the equivalent of a solid D student who is also a pathological liar if they can answer my question/do the work for me seems pretty fucking stupid
A/N: so listen...I ain't great at writing smut. I'm much better and more comfortable at writing drawn out emotional angst, but I did my best. Hope y'all enjoy it. Hope it's not too disappointing after part one. Tried to keep it true to Leon.
Link to part one
Words: 4.1k
@millersdjarin
CW: I mean this is mostly sex. It's pretty vanilla but there are elements that can read slightly dub con if you squint (he doesn't want to pressure just because he's infected. Wants it to be real. But oh boy, he wants it)
The two of you were alone in the room.
Leon was still shirtless and panting.
Still fighting it.
"Leon."
His eyes squeezed shut. Jesus Christ. Your voice.
It felt like the infection had reached into his skull and turned every sound you made into something impossible to ignore.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk."
You stared at him.
Despite yourself, you laughed. A short, disbelieving sound.
Leon looked down to your mouth. Parted, smiling, and kiss-swollen.
He captured you again, pressing so hard against your mouth that you were forced backward.
When your back was pressed against the wall, Leon lunged away from you.
He looked genuinely pained.
"Not helping."
"I'm trying to help."
His laugh came out strained. "You are the problem."
“I'll stop talking, just help me get your pants off.”
Leon's hands worked at the buckle, whining at every gesture.
They fell around his ankles.
His boxers were tented.
You stared for a second too long.
“Fuck, can smell–” he started.
“Sorry, sorry,” you rushed.
You stopped toward him and his body locked.
“Don't have to move, I'll do it,” you told him.
Your hands come to the hem of his boxers.
His hands grab yours forcefully.
He's so strong, you nearly wince.
You try to control it.
He sees anyway.
He lets go immediately.
“Can't control, sorry–”
You shut him up by pressing closer, your lips meeting his.
His control slips immediately.
It's tongues and teeth and flesh.
His hands are in your hair, down your chest, ripping up your shirt.
Then his hands are on your bare skin.
Warm.
You moan.
He bites on your lip harshly.
His hands grip you rough enough to bruise.
“You can't–” he starts.
“Have to,” you respond. “when it feels good.”
Your hands come to his skin again, slowly.
Your fingers carefully inch down his abdomen until they’re at the hem of his underwear.
They slip under.
He hisses.
You grab him fully and pump once.
His frantic kissing immediately stops.
His hands go rigid and his forehead falls against your shoulder.
“If I move,” he warns.
You shake your head.
“Just sit.”
You guide him to the floor slowly.
He watches you the entire way, eyes glued to you like his life depended on your instructions.
“Don't need to move anymore. I’ll take care of it.”.
Your hand pumps him again while your other starts tugging his boxers down his legs.
His precum is oozing into your hand.
“So much,” you mutter.
Your finger comes to the tip and spreads it around.
His pretty red tip twitches.
“Sorry,” he grunts.
“Stop being sorry. About any of it.”
You pump him again.
His head falls back.
He tries to speak but can't find the words.
You speak instead.
“You can smell it, can't you? That I want to be here. That I'm enjoying it.”
He drags his head forward.
Focuses his eyes on her.
His hands are clenched so tight at his sides that his knuckles are white.
“You coul-”
“Answer me.”
He licks his lips.
His hands almost move.
They stay put.
“Yeah, I can smell it,” he said strained.
He takes in a long inhale. His eyelids flutter at the scent.
And that does it.
With a rough, raw grunt, his cock twitches in your fist until sticky ropes of cum shoot out.
Enough to drench your hand.
When he opens his eyes again, they're half-lidded and he looks drunk.
“God,” he panted. “The way you smell, it's incredible. I need to know–” he said, trying to push himself forward, to claim you.
You push him back so that he's still sitting.
“Stay still, Leon,” you say.
He tries to move again.
You don't think he can control himself.
You grab his cock firmly, right on the border of hard.
He hisses but he doesn't pull away.
Doesn't chastise you.
“Fuck–.”
“You need many orgasms,” you remind him.
You begin pumping again, using both hands.
“Enough to satiate you.”
“Never be satiated with you. Want more and more and more. Want it all.”
He was just talking, head half-cocked back, eyes unfocused.
You're not even sure he knew what he was saying, but it made you wetter and spurred you on.
You pulled one hand away, fiddling with your own pants until the button popped open.
He heard the sound and his eyes popped open.
“Leave those on or I won't be able to stop.”
You pull them down your legs.
“Not only are we past the point of stopping, but I don't want to. Can I keep touching this pretty cock?”
His eyes stare at your mouth.
“Please?” you ask.
He nods.
Can't manage any more, not if he's supposed to stay in control of himself.
“I've been dying to get you in my mouth pretty much since I met you,” you were interrupted by his choked groan, “but this is an emergency.”
You step over him, looping a leg over his waist to straddle him.
His hands immediately come to the soft parts of your thighs and squeeze hard enough to bruise.
“Really thought about that?” he asked, barely holding on.
“Still think about it,” you said, pulling your panties to the side. “Think about it all the time.”
You sink down on him so that the tip disappears.
He snaps his gaze to it so that he doesn't miss it.
His grip becomes even tighter.
“Every time we train, I think about how salty it would be. How good it would taste. How you'd smell.”
You sink down fully, flesh flush against flesh.
You feel him twitch at your cervix.
You're panting hard, adjusting internally, trying to stay in control of yourself.
“Oh fuck,” you whine. “Havta make you cum over and over so this isn't the time to get cock-drunk, but yours is perfect. Don't we fit just right?”
To emphasize your point, you rotate your hips while he's stuffed inside you.
Just to give him a sense of how you fit together.
His head drops back, his arms locking.
“Don't–do–” he breathes.
He pulls himself together.
“You don't know what it's like. Gonna cum if you do that.”
“That's the point,” you tell him and roll your hips again.
His hips snap up into you involuntarily.
“Don’t – if you move…gonna cum–”
You moved, swirling your hips around him again.
His mouth shuts so quickly his teeth clack together.
His hands come to your hipbones and shove you down into his cock harder.
You're filled with warmth as he cums into you.
It feels so good you have to bite back moans as you coax him through his orgasm, petting his hair, whispering in his ear what a good job he was doing.
When he seemed calm, you rotated your hips again.
He groaned.
“More?” you asked.
He nodded frantically.
When you weren't going fast enough, his hands on your hips guided you.
“Hoped to enjoy…when this happened. Don't want it to end so soon.”
You rolled your hips again. And again. And again.
“Oh, you knew this would happen?” you asked.
He tried to pay attention.
Tried to focus.
Couldn't.
“Hoped,” he gasped, his voice raw.
You captured his face in your hands.
Leaned down.
Pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.
His kiss immediately became frantic.
His hips snapped up into yours mercilessly.
His hands pinned your hips down so you could do nothing but take it, even as you gasped and panted and whined.
Leon spilled expletives as he continued fucking up into you.
His face was buried between your breasts.
“Why isn't your shirt off? Wanna see ‘em. I know they're gorgeous. Been dying to get my hands on them,” he admitted like a madman, not even knowing what he was saying.
“Didn't have time,” you responded, each word said on a different thrust.
He felt you stiffen.
You went rigid in his arms.
Your walls tightened around him in pulses.
“Good?” he asked.
“Gonna…gonna–fuck, Leon, gonna–”
You didn't need to tell him.
He could feel your orgasm on his cock.
It milked him of his own.
His pace was brutal and unrelenting through your orgasm as he spilled more inside you.
When you finally came down, he was still snapping his hips at an ungodly pace.
“Fuck, Leon…sensitive.”
“Close…please–can I?” he asked, but it was too late.
He was spilling into you again, a broken groan ripping through the air.
You panted heavily, feeling what would certainly be bruises tomorrow.
He was still.
Eyes closed, face flushed, chest rising and falling heavily with every breath.
You pressed a hand to his forehead.
Warm from exertion but no longer fevering.
“You ok?”
He nodded weakly.
“More?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Feelin more like myself,” he said weakly.
“Can you walk?”
He sighed.
“Maybe in a minute,” he said.
When you tried to pull off of him, his hands came to your hips again and pushed you back down.
“Just…stay.”
You hesitated.
Then relaxed.
You cuddled down onto him, his cock still inside you, and laid your head on his chest.
Whatever came after could wait.
What you had right now – Leon safe, satiated, and on the mend – was enough.
The bullpen was loud.
Phones ringing. Keyboards clattering. Agents arguing over reports they should have finished three days ago.
For everyone else, it blended into background noise. For Leon, it was a thousand separate conversations fighting for space inside his skull.
He'd learned to manage it.
Mostly.
Your voice helped.
"So we're all agreeing this suspect is an idiot, right?" you asked.
Across the table, Chris looked up from the case file.
"Professionally speaking?"
"Obviously."
"Yes."
You nodded. "Good."
Chris pointed at a photograph. "The guy stole a truck."
"Right."
"Drove it directly to his own residence."
"Did he?."
"And parked it in his assigned spot."
You stared at the picture. Then at Chris. Then at Leon.
You shrugged.
"Maybe he wanted to get caught."
Chris rubbed his forehead.
"That's the only explanation that lets me sleep at night."
Leon listened to both of you talk. The rhythm of your speech. The little pauses before a joke. The slight change in your voice when you were trying not to laugh.
Months later, the infection still hadn't released its grip.
Doctors called it stable. Manageable.
Permanent was the word nobody wanted to use.
A phone rang somewhere across the room. Leon ignored it.
Someone dropped a stack of folders. Ignored.
A supervisor started yelling about paperwork. Ignored.
You laughed while standing up from your desk.
Every other sound disappeared.
Chris caught him looking.
Again.
The older man sighed.
"Jesus Christ."
Leon didn't look away.
"What?"
Chris pointed directly at him. "That."
"What?"
"That thing you do."
Leon finally glanced over.
Chris looked exhausted.
"You know she's walking to the coffee machine, right?"
You hadn't moved yet, but you were gathering papers. Preparing to stand.
Leon sighed.
"...Yeah, I know."
Chris groaned. Before he could continue, your phone buzzed.
You checked the screen.
"Damn."
"What?" Chris asked.
"I've got to go upstairs."
"You abandoning us?"
"Apparently."
You grabbed your folder.
Leon felt the shift immediately. His senses tracked your movement automatically.
The scrape of your chair.
The sound of your footsteps.
The faint scent of your shampoo as you passed behind him.
Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
And impossible to stop.
"I'll be back," you said.
Chris waved you off. "Don't get promoted while you're gone."
"No promises."
Then you disappeared into the sea of cubicles.
Leon watched until he couldn't see you anymore. A familiar tension settled under his skin, like a radio station fading slightly out of range.
Chris saw it happen.
"You need therapy."
“I need a cure.”
"Nah, what you've got, you've got it bad."
"Chris."
"I'm serious."
Leon was about to reply when another conversation caught his attention.
Not because he wanted to hear it, but because he couldn't help hearing it.
Two agents. Three rows over.
Speaking quietly.
Or so they thought.
The infection made "quiet" a meaningless concept.
"That's them."
"Kennedy and her?"
"Yeah."
A laugh. The ugly kind. The kind that immediately changed the air in Leon's lungs.
"I heard the rumors."
"What rumors?"
"Come on."
More laughter.
"They say if she stops paying attention to him he goes feral."
"Seriously?"
"Apparently she has to keep him happy."
Another laugh. Crueler this time.
"Must be exhausting."
The second man smirked. Leon could hear it in his voice.
"I heard she just gives him whatever he wants. Gotta drop her pants whenever he asks or he loses his super powers, and the DSO can't have that."
The first agent barked out a laugh.
"Occupational requirement?"
"Guess so."
The world became very quiet. Every sound suddenly narrowed into a single point.
Chris noticed immediately because he'd seen that expression before.
In combat. On missions. Right before something very unfortunate happened to whoever was on the receiving end.
"Leon."
No response.
The agents kept talking, oblivious.
"Honestly, I'd take the assignment if it meant I got free access."
More laughter.
Chris stood.
"Leon."
Still nothing.
The chair creaked as Leon rose to his feet.
The agents noticed him approaching.
One of them smiled. Then saw his face.
The smile vanished.
Leon stopped in front of their desks.
The nearest agent swallowed.
Agent Kennedy was famous. The stories about his infection were everywhere. Everyone knew he was stronger now. Faster. More dangerous.
Nobody expected to be standing three feet away when he looked genuinely angry.
"You got something to say?"
The room seemed to pause.
The agent shifted uncomfortably.
"It was a joke."
"No."
Leon's voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm.
"It wasn't."
Neither man answered.
Leon leaned one hand onto the edge of the desk. The metal frame groaned.
Chris arrived a second later, positioning himself nearby.
Since Leon came back, Chris hasn't been able to read him right. He wasn't entirely sure Leon could control himself.
The infection had changed a lot of things, but one fact remained constant. Nobody in the building mattered to Leon the way you did.
And hearing people reduce you to office gossip had struck a nerve.
A deep one.
Leon's gaze remained fixed on the two agents.
"You talk about her again," he said, then he stopped.
He took a deep breath.
“Don't talk about her again.”
The first man looked ready to disappear into the floor.
The second couldn't meet his eyes.
"Keep her name out of your conversations."
The words weren't loud, which made them worse.
Then Leon straightened.
The desk remained slightly bent beneath his hand.
A visible reminder. A warning.
For a long moment nobody moved.
Then Leon turned away.
Across the bullpen, through several walls and dozens of conversations, he could hear your footsteps returning.
The tension immediately eased from his shoulders.
Chris watched it happen.
Watched the transformation. Watched Leon's attention shift toward the sound of you approaching.
And muttered to himself, "Yeah, definitely needs therapy.”
“I can hear you,” Leon said as he turned away, headed back where you'd be waiting.
“You hear everything, you freak.”
Leon flipped him off and sat back down.
The two agents Leon had confronted were suddenly very interested in their paperwork.
Chris was pretending nothing had happened.
Everything appeared normal.
Until you say down and looked at him. The moment you sat down and a gust of air that smelled like you hit him, he went rigid.
"What's wrong?" you asked.
Chris glanced up. "What?"
You were already staring at Leon.
His jaw tightened.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
Chris looked between the two of you.
Your attention remained fixed on Leon. Something was off, subtle, but there.
The color had drained slightly from his face. A sheen of sweat had appeared along his hairline. And there was a familiar tension in his shoulders.
The kind that had become second nature to recognize over the last few months.
"Leon."
"I'm fine."
"You are sweating."
"It's warm."
Chris barked out a laugh.
The bullpen was aggressively air-conditioned. Everyone knew it.
You leaned forward.
His eyes immediately flicked toward you, then away.
Too fast. Too sharp.
Your stomach dropped. "Oh no."
Chris looked between you. "What?"
Neither answered.
The infection had settled into something manageable most days. Predictable.
Then occasionally it would flare.
And it was happening now.
Leon could feel it. The first warning sign was always sensory. The room seemed louder. Brighter.
He stared at the case file in front of him. Tried focusing on the words.
Failed completely.
Because suddenly he could smell your shampoo again.
Not just smell it. Every note of it. Every trace, like somebody had turned the volume up on a single signal and left everything else untouched.
Damn it.
He closed his eyes briefly. Not now.
Across the table, you noticed immediately.
"Leon."
His fingers tightened around a pen. The plastic snapped.
Chris looked down. Then back up.
Then slowly pushed his chair away from the table.
"Ah."
"Chris."
"I'm just gonna leave."
"Sit down."
"Nope."
Chris pointed at Leon. "You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look like you're about to either pass out or kill somebody."
"Am not."
"You absolutely are."
You ignored both of them. Your focus remained entirely on Leon.
The sweat was worse now. A bead rolled down his temple.
"How bad?"
His expression darkened. That answer told you enough.
Bad. Very bad.
You lowered your voice. "Do we need medical?"
"No."
You leaned closer.
Leon immediately regretted existing.
The scent hit him like a physical force.
Not perfume. Not anything artificial. Just you. Close.
Far too close.
Every instinct sharpened. Every sense narrowed.
The bullpen faded. The conversations disappeared. The phones vanished.
There was only you.
Jesus Christ.
"Okay," you said slowly. "That bad."
Leon laughed once. A strained sound.
"Yeah."
Your expression softened. The concern in your face somehow made everything worse.
His breathing slowed deliberately, the same way he'd controlled pain.
You watched him do it. Watched him fight for composure. Watched the effort it took.
And something in your chest tightened because nobody else would have noticed.
Nobody else would have realized that Agent Leon Kennedy, legend, super soldier, walking nightmare to bioweapons everywhere, was hanging on by sheer discipline.
But you did.
His eyes opened again. Found yours immediately, like they always did.
The tension eased slightly, enough that the color returned to his face. Enough that his shoulders lowered a fraction.
Chris, still hovering nearby, looked between the two of you then sighed.
"I hate this."
Neither of you looked away from each other.
"What?" you asked.
Chris threw both hands into the air.
"Nothing."
He hesitated.
"Just once I'd like to be someone's weird biological emotional support animal."
For the first time all afternoon, a genuine smile pulled at the corner of Leon's mouth. The pressure in his head eased just a little.
You, however, frowned.
“Well, you're not. So why don't you just fuck off for a minute,” you said.
He raised his hands in surrender.
“Don't want to be around you guys when you're like this anyway.”
When he was gone, you leaned in to Leon.
His posture went rigid and his face went blank.
It took a lot of effort to look like that. Like you weren't pulling him apart by not being in his lap. Not having your taste on his tongue.
“Leon,” you said, then paused.
He heard your heart accelerate.
He watched the blood climb onto your cheeks. The tips of your ears. Your lips.
He stared for a long time at your lips.
“Do you need…”
You knew what you wanted to ask. Didn't know how to phrase it.
“Is it time?” you ended up asking instead.
Leon took the time to heave in a long inhale.
“No.”
You squinted at him suspiciously.
“Liar,” you said. “You're sweating and looking at me like you hate me. That means it's time.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. When you became certain he wouldn't respond, you sighed.
I'm not kidding when i say i'm fucking obsessed with this ok. super soldier leon whose powers come from a TORTUROUS sex pollen infection that has his love for reader amplified beyond belief and causes him actual distress??????? WHAT DARK MAGIC IS THIS??? BECAUSE THAT IS THE MOST INCREDIBLE COMBINATION I'VE EVER WITNESSED AND YOU ARE SOME KIND OF SORCERER.
i love the way it's so angsty but so hot at the same time. i love the idea of him having this forever and learning to manage it. becoming an absolute force of nature and having literal super senses and shit AND he's a man crazed by his love?? his horniness? his affection? his care???
the way chris reacts to it as well is so FUNNY and i LOVE THEM SO MUCH
i love how it makes leon more scary and intimidating but also more soft and vulnerable and angsty at the same time. his desperation to not let it affect him is TANGIBLE and it's so fucking delicious
i would fucking LOVE if you wrote more in this universe you've created, though i totally understand if this is all you intend to write for it, and it is already a satisfying conclusion!!!! but GAWD i would just read the fuck out of so many Scenarios that this could lend itself to 😭 the way my mind is just filled with Situations to put him (and reader) in now i am beside mysellfffffff
also the fact you're not used to writing smut was not obvious here, you did such a good job. in fact i'd venture to say that your affinity for writing long angst made the smut even BETTER !! because that combo is sooooo *chefs kiss*
A/N: so listen...I ain't great at writing smut. I'm much better and more comfortable at writing drawn out emotional angst, but I did my best. Hope y'all enjoy it. Hope it's not too disappointing after part one. Tried to keep it true to Leon.
Link to part one
Words: 4.1k
@millersdjarin
CW: I mean this is mostly sex. It's pretty vanilla but there are elements that can read slightly dub con if you squint (he doesn't want to pressure just because he's infected. Wants it to be real. But oh boy, he wants it)
The two of you were alone in the room.
Leon was still shirtless and panting.
Still fighting it.
"Leon."
His eyes squeezed shut. Jesus Christ. Your voice.
It felt like the infection had reached into his skull and turned every sound you made into something impossible to ignore.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk."
You stared at him.
Despite yourself, you laughed. A short, disbelieving sound.
Leon looked down to your mouth. Parted, smiling, and kiss-swollen.
He captured you again, pressing so hard against your mouth that you were forced backward.
When your back was pressed against the wall, Leon lunged away from you.
He looked genuinely pained.
"Not helping."
"I'm trying to help."
His laugh came out strained. "You are the problem."
“I'll stop talking, just help me get your pants off.”
Leon's hands worked at the buckle, whining at every gesture.
They fell around his ankles.
His boxers were tented.
You stared for a second too long.
“Fuck, can smell–” he started.
“Sorry, sorry,” you rushed.
You stopped toward him and his body locked.
“Don't have to move, I'll do it,” you told him.
Your hands come to the hem of his boxers.
His hands grab yours forcefully.
He's so strong, you nearly wince.
You try to control it.
He sees anyway.
He lets go immediately.
“Can't control, sorry–”
You shut him up by pressing closer, your lips meeting his.
His control slips immediately.
It's tongues and teeth and flesh.
His hands are in your hair, down your chest, ripping up your shirt.
Then his hands are on your bare skin.
Warm.
You moan.
He bites on your lip harshly.
His hands grip you rough enough to bruise.
“You can't–” he starts.
“Have to,” you respond. “when it feels good.”
Your hands come to his skin again, slowly.
Your fingers carefully inch down his abdomen until they’re at the hem of his underwear.
They slip under.
He hisses.
You grab him fully and pump once.
His frantic kissing immediately stops.
His hands go rigid and his forehead falls against your shoulder.
“If I move,” he warns.
You shake your head.
“Just sit.”
You guide him to the floor slowly.
He watches you the entire way, eyes glued to you like his life depended on your instructions.
“Don't need to move anymore. I’ll take care of it.”.
Your hand pumps him again while your other starts tugging his boxers down his legs.
His precum is oozing into your hand.
“So much,” you mutter.
Your finger comes to the tip and spreads it around.
His pretty red tip twitches.
“Sorry,” he grunts.
“Stop being sorry. About any of it.”
You pump him again.
His head falls back.
He tries to speak but can't find the words.
You speak instead.
“You can smell it, can't you? That I want to be here. That I'm enjoying it.”
He drags his head forward.
Focuses his eyes on her.
His hands are clenched so tight at his sides that his knuckles are white.
“You coul-”
“Answer me.”
He licks his lips.
His hands almost move.
They stay put.
“Yeah, I can smell it,” he said strained.
He takes in a long inhale. His eyelids flutter at the scent.
And that does it.
With a rough, raw grunt, his cock twitches in your fist until sticky ropes of cum shoot out.
Enough to drench your hand.
When he opens his eyes again, they're half-lidded and he looks drunk.
“God,” he panted. “The way you smell, it's incredible. I need to know–” he said, trying to push himself forward, to claim you.
You push him back so that he's still sitting.
“Stay still, Leon,” you say.
He tries to move again.
You don't think he can control himself.
You grab his cock firmly, right on the border of hard.
He hisses but he doesn't pull away.
Doesn't chastise you.
“Fuck–.”
“You need many orgasms,” you remind him.
You begin pumping again, using both hands.
“Enough to satiate you.”
“Never be satiated with you. Want more and more and more. Want it all.”
He was just talking, head half-cocked back, eyes unfocused.
You're not even sure he knew what he was saying, but it made you wetter and spurred you on.
You pulled one hand away, fiddling with your own pants until the button popped open.
He heard the sound and his eyes popped open.
“Leave those on or I won't be able to stop.”
You pull them down your legs.
“Not only are we past the point of stopping, but I don't want to. Can I keep touching this pretty cock?”
His eyes stare at your mouth.
“Please?” you ask.
He nods.
Can't manage any more, not if he's supposed to stay in control of himself.
“I've been dying to get you in my mouth pretty much since I met you,” you were interrupted by his choked groan, “but this is an emergency.”
You step over him, looping a leg over his waist to straddle him.
His hands immediately come to the soft parts of your thighs and squeeze hard enough to bruise.
“Really thought about that?” he asked, barely holding on.
“Still think about it,” you said, pulling your panties to the side. “Think about it all the time.”
You sink down on him so that the tip disappears.
He snaps his gaze to it so that he doesn't miss it.
His grip becomes even tighter.
“Every time we train, I think about how salty it would be. How good it would taste. How you'd smell.”
You sink down fully, flesh flush against flesh.
You feel him twitch at your cervix.
You're panting hard, adjusting internally, trying to stay in control of yourself.
“Oh fuck,” you whine. “Havta make you cum over and over so this isn't the time to get cock-drunk, but yours is perfect. Don't we fit just right?”
To emphasize your point, you rotate your hips while he's stuffed inside you.
Just to give him a sense of how you fit together.
His head drops back, his arms locking.
“Don't–do–” he breathes.
He pulls himself together.
“You don't know what it's like. Gonna cum if you do that.”
“That's the point,” you tell him and roll your hips again.
His hips snap up into you involuntarily.
“Don’t – if you move…gonna cum–”
You moved, swirling your hips around him again.
His mouth shuts so quickly his teeth clack together.
His hands come to your hipbones and shove you down into his cock harder.
You're filled with warmth as he cums into you.
It feels so good you have to bite back moans as you coax him through his orgasm, petting his hair, whispering in his ear what a good job he was doing.
When he seemed calm, you rotated your hips again.
He groaned.
“More?” you asked.
He nodded frantically.
When you weren't going fast enough, his hands on your hips guided you.
“Hoped to enjoy…when this happened. Don't want it to end so soon.”
You rolled your hips again. And again. And again.
“Oh, you knew this would happen?” you asked.
He tried to pay attention.
Tried to focus.
Couldn't.
“Hoped,” he gasped, his voice raw.
You captured his face in your hands.
Leaned down.
Pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.
His kiss immediately became frantic.
His hips snapped up into yours mercilessly.
His hands pinned your hips down so you could do nothing but take it, even as you gasped and panted and whined.
Leon spilled expletives as he continued fucking up into you.
His face was buried between your breasts.
“Why isn't your shirt off? Wanna see ‘em. I know they're gorgeous. Been dying to get my hands on them,” he admitted like a madman, not even knowing what he was saying.
“Didn't have time,” you responded, each word said on a different thrust.
He felt you stiffen.
You went rigid in his arms.
Your walls tightened around him in pulses.
“Good?” he asked.
“Gonna…gonna–fuck, Leon, gonna–”
You didn't need to tell him.
He could feel your orgasm on his cock.
It milked him of his own.
His pace was brutal and unrelenting through your orgasm as he spilled more inside you.
When you finally came down, he was still snapping his hips at an ungodly pace.
“Fuck, Leon…sensitive.”
“Close…please–can I?” he asked, but it was too late.
He was spilling into you again, a broken groan ripping through the air.
You panted heavily, feeling what would certainly be bruises tomorrow.
He was still.
Eyes closed, face flushed, chest rising and falling heavily with every breath.
You pressed a hand to his forehead.
Warm from exertion but no longer fevering.
“You ok?”
He nodded weakly.
“More?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Feelin more like myself,” he said weakly.
“Can you walk?”
He sighed.
“Maybe in a minute,” he said.
When you tried to pull off of him, his hands came to your hips again and pushed you back down.
“Just…stay.”
You hesitated.
Then relaxed.
You cuddled down onto him, his cock still inside you, and laid your head on his chest.
Whatever came after could wait.
What you had right now – Leon safe, satiated, and on the mend – was enough.
The bullpen was loud.
Phones ringing. Keyboards clattering. Agents arguing over reports they should have finished three days ago.
For everyone else, it blended into background noise. For Leon, it was a thousand separate conversations fighting for space inside his skull.
He'd learned to manage it.
Mostly.
Your voice helped.
"So we're all agreeing this suspect is an idiot, right?" you asked.
Across the table, Chris looked up from the case file.
"Professionally speaking?"
"Obviously."
"Yes."
You nodded. "Good."
Chris pointed at a photograph. "The guy stole a truck."
"Right."
"Drove it directly to his own residence."
"Did he?."
"And parked it in his assigned spot."
You stared at the picture. Then at Chris. Then at Leon.
You shrugged.
"Maybe he wanted to get caught."
Chris rubbed his forehead.
"That's the only explanation that lets me sleep at night."
Leon listened to both of you talk. The rhythm of your speech. The little pauses before a joke. The slight change in your voice when you were trying not to laugh.
Months later, the infection still hadn't released its grip.
Doctors called it stable. Manageable.
Permanent was the word nobody wanted to use.
A phone rang somewhere across the room. Leon ignored it.
Someone dropped a stack of folders. Ignored.
A supervisor started yelling about paperwork. Ignored.
You laughed while standing up from your desk.
Every other sound disappeared.
Chris caught him looking.
Again.
The older man sighed.
"Jesus Christ."
Leon didn't look away.
"What?"
Chris pointed directly at him. "That."
"What?"
"That thing you do."
Leon finally glanced over.
Chris looked exhausted.
"You know she's walking to the coffee machine, right?"
You hadn't moved yet, but you were gathering papers. Preparing to stand.
Leon sighed.
"...Yeah, I know."
Chris groaned. Before he could continue, your phone buzzed.
You checked the screen.
"Damn."
"What?" Chris asked.
"I've got to go upstairs."
"You abandoning us?"
"Apparently."
You grabbed your folder.
Leon felt the shift immediately. His senses tracked your movement automatically.
The scrape of your chair.
The sound of your footsteps.
The faint scent of your shampoo as you passed behind him.
Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
And impossible to stop.
"I'll be back," you said.
Chris waved you off. "Don't get promoted while you're gone."
"No promises."
Then you disappeared into the sea of cubicles.
Leon watched until he couldn't see you anymore. A familiar tension settled under his skin, like a radio station fading slightly out of range.
Chris saw it happen.
"You need therapy."
“I need a cure.”
"Nah, what you've got, you've got it bad."
"Chris."
"I'm serious."
Leon was about to reply when another conversation caught his attention.
Not because he wanted to hear it, but because he couldn't help hearing it.
Two agents. Three rows over.
Speaking quietly.
Or so they thought.
The infection made "quiet" a meaningless concept.
"That's them."
"Kennedy and her?"
"Yeah."
A laugh. The ugly kind. The kind that immediately changed the air in Leon's lungs.
"I heard the rumors."
"What rumors?"
"Come on."
More laughter.
"They say if she stops paying attention to him he goes feral."
"Seriously?"
"Apparently she has to keep him happy."
Another laugh. Crueler this time.
"Must be exhausting."
The second man smirked. Leon could hear it in his voice.
"I heard she just gives him whatever he wants. Gotta drop her pants whenever he asks or he loses his super powers, and the DSO can't have that."
The first agent barked out a laugh.
"Occupational requirement?"
"Guess so."
The world became very quiet. Every sound suddenly narrowed into a single point.
Chris noticed immediately because he'd seen that expression before.
In combat. On missions. Right before something very unfortunate happened to whoever was on the receiving end.
"Leon."
No response.
The agents kept talking, oblivious.
"Honestly, I'd take the assignment if it meant I got free access."
More laughter.
Chris stood.
"Leon."
Still nothing.
The chair creaked as Leon rose to his feet.
The agents noticed him approaching.
One of them smiled. Then saw his face.
The smile vanished.
Leon stopped in front of their desks.
The nearest agent swallowed.
Agent Kennedy was famous. The stories about his infection were everywhere. Everyone knew he was stronger now. Faster. More dangerous.
Nobody expected to be standing three feet away when he looked genuinely angry.
"You got something to say?"
The room seemed to pause.
The agent shifted uncomfortably.
"It was a joke."
"No."
Leon's voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm.
"It wasn't."
Neither man answered.
Leon leaned one hand onto the edge of the desk. The metal frame groaned.
Chris arrived a second later, positioning himself nearby.
Since Leon came back, Chris hasn't been able to read him right. He wasn't entirely sure Leon could control himself.
The infection had changed a lot of things, but one fact remained constant. Nobody in the building mattered to Leon the way you did.
And hearing people reduce you to office gossip had struck a nerve.
A deep one.
Leon's gaze remained fixed on the two agents.
"You talk about her again," he said, then he stopped.
He took a deep breath.
“Don't talk about her again.”
The first man looked ready to disappear into the floor.
The second couldn't meet his eyes.
"Keep her name out of your conversations."
The words weren't loud, which made them worse.
Then Leon straightened.
The desk remained slightly bent beneath his hand.
A visible reminder. A warning.
For a long moment nobody moved.
Then Leon turned away.
Across the bullpen, through several walls and dozens of conversations, he could hear your footsteps returning.
The tension immediately eased from his shoulders.
Chris watched it happen.
Watched the transformation. Watched Leon's attention shift toward the sound of you approaching.
And muttered to himself, "Yeah, definitely needs therapy.”
“I can hear you,” Leon said as he turned away, headed back where you'd be waiting.
“You hear everything, you freak.”
Leon flipped him off and sat back down.
The two agents Leon had confronted were suddenly very interested in their paperwork.
Chris was pretending nothing had happened.
Everything appeared normal.
Until you say down and looked at him. The moment you sat down and a gust of air that smelled like you hit him, he went rigid.
"What's wrong?" you asked.
Chris glanced up. "What?"
You were already staring at Leon.
His jaw tightened.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
Chris looked between the two of you.
Your attention remained fixed on Leon. Something was off, subtle, but there.
The color had drained slightly from his face. A sheen of sweat had appeared along his hairline. And there was a familiar tension in his shoulders.
The kind that had become second nature to recognize over the last few months.
"Leon."
"I'm fine."
"You are sweating."
"It's warm."
Chris barked out a laugh.
The bullpen was aggressively air-conditioned. Everyone knew it.
You leaned forward.
His eyes immediately flicked toward you, then away.
Too fast. Too sharp.
Your stomach dropped. "Oh no."
Chris looked between you. "What?"
Neither answered.
The infection had settled into something manageable most days. Predictable.
Then occasionally it would flare.
And it was happening now.
Leon could feel it. The first warning sign was always sensory. The room seemed louder. Brighter.
He stared at the case file in front of him. Tried focusing on the words.
Failed completely.
Because suddenly he could smell your shampoo again.
Not just smell it. Every note of it. Every trace, like somebody had turned the volume up on a single signal and left everything else untouched.
Damn it.
He closed his eyes briefly. Not now.
Across the table, you noticed immediately.
"Leon."
His fingers tightened around a pen. The plastic snapped.
Chris looked down. Then back up.
Then slowly pushed his chair away from the table.
"Ah."
"Chris."
"I'm just gonna leave."
"Sit down."
"Nope."
Chris pointed at Leon. "You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look like you're about to either pass out or kill somebody."
"Am not."
"You absolutely are."
You ignored both of them. Your focus remained entirely on Leon.
The sweat was worse now. A bead rolled down his temple.
"How bad?"
His expression darkened. That answer told you enough.
Bad. Very bad.
You lowered your voice. "Do we need medical?"
"No."
You leaned closer.
Leon immediately regretted existing.
The scent hit him like a physical force.
Not perfume. Not anything artificial. Just you. Close.
Far too close.
Every instinct sharpened. Every sense narrowed.
The bullpen faded. The conversations disappeared. The phones vanished.
There was only you.
Jesus Christ.
"Okay," you said slowly. "That bad."
Leon laughed once. A strained sound.
"Yeah."
Your expression softened. The concern in your face somehow made everything worse.
His breathing slowed deliberately, the same way he'd controlled pain.
You watched him do it. Watched him fight for composure. Watched the effort it took.
And something in your chest tightened because nobody else would have noticed.
Nobody else would have realized that Agent Leon Kennedy, legend, super soldier, walking nightmare to bioweapons everywhere, was hanging on by sheer discipline.
But you did.
His eyes opened again. Found yours immediately, like they always did.
The tension eased slightly, enough that the color returned to his face. Enough that his shoulders lowered a fraction.
Chris, still hovering nearby, looked between the two of you then sighed.
"I hate this."
Neither of you looked away from each other.
"What?" you asked.
Chris threw both hands into the air.
"Nothing."
He hesitated.
"Just once I'd like to be someone's weird biological emotional support animal."
For the first time all afternoon, a genuine smile pulled at the corner of Leon's mouth. The pressure in his head eased just a little.
You, however, frowned.
“Well, you're not. So why don't you just fuck off for a minute,” you said.
He raised his hands in surrender.
“Don't want to be around you guys when you're like this anyway.”
When he was gone, you leaned in to Leon.
His posture went rigid and his face went blank.
It took a lot of effort to look like that. Like you weren't pulling him apart by not being in his lap. Not having your taste on his tongue.
“Leon,” you said, then paused.
He heard your heart accelerate.
He watched the blood climb onto your cheeks. The tips of your ears. Your lips.
He stared for a long time at your lips.
“Do you need…”
You knew what you wanted to ask. Didn't know how to phrase it.
“Is it time?” you ended up asking instead.
Leon took the time to heave in a long inhale.
“No.”
You squinted at him suspiciously.
“Liar,” you said. “You're sweating and looking at me like you hate me. That means it's time.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. When you became certain he wouldn't respond, you sighed.
summary. longtime partners finally give in to years of tension with a steamy encounter in the back of leon's porsche.
warning. (18+) NSFW, sexual content, established relationship/friends-to-lovers dynamics, car sex, mature themes
word count. 3.7k
a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me! this is my second time writing smut, so please be kind. <3
The late afternoon sun bled across the horizon in strokes of amber and violet, painting the desolate stretch of highway in hues that felt almost theatrical. You'd been on the road for six hours already, and the GPS insisted there were still four more to go before you'd reach the safehouse outside of Denver. But time had a way of stretching when you were trapped in close quarters with Leon S. Kennedy — and when you'd spent eight years pretending you didn't notice the way his shirts pulled across his shoulders or the particular shade of blue his eyes turned when he was thinking about something he shouldn't.
The Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT purred beneath you, its engine a low, satisfied growl that vibrated through the leather seats. It was an obscene vehicle for a government agent—matte black, tinted windows, custom suspension that ate up the cracked asphalt like it was fresh pavement. Leon drove with one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the carbon fiber. You'd seen those hands do a lot of things over the years — fire weapons, pick locks, bandage wounds — but you'd be lying if you said you hadn't imagined them doing other things. Things that had no place in a professional partnership.
He looked different than he had when you'd first met, fresh out of training and assigned as his backup on a routine extraction in Eastern Europe. That had been eight years ago. Now there were silver threads weaving through his honey-brown hair, catching the sunset like molten metal, and the lines around his eyes had deepened into permanent fixtures. The scar on his jaw — acquired in a basement in Bucharest three years back, when you'd been too slow and he'd taken the blade meant for you — was white against his tan. It should have made him look rougher, but instead it just added to the whole package, the thing you'd been trying not to think about for nearly a decade.
"See something you like, partner?" His voice had that gravel in it now, the kind that came from too many cigarettes and shouting over gunfire. It hadn't been there eight years ago, and now it did things to you that you absolutely refused to acknowledge.
"Just wondering when you're finally going to admit that you're overcompensating," you deflected, turning to watch the scrubland roll past your window. It was an old game between you, this deflection, this pretense that you hadn't noticed the way his gaze sometimes lingered or the way the air between you got thick enough to choke on.
"Overcompensating?" He arched a brow, glancing at you with amusement. "For what?"
"For something. Nobody buys a Porsche Cayenne unless they're trying to prove something." You let your gaze drift over the custom interior, the carbon fiber trim, the way the leather smelled expensive. "Let me guess. Midlife crisis? Finally realized you're mortal and decided to blow your retirement fund?"
His laugh was genuine, warm and rumbling. "Hardly. I earned this, thank you very much."
"You earned a ninety-thousand-dollar SUV? On a government salary?"
"Actually," he said, his tone shifting to something more serious, "after Spain, after everything... they paid me. Properly. Back pay for years of hazardous duty, hazard pay that got 'misplaced,' compensation for injuries sustained in the line of duty, the whole bureaucratic nightmare." He shrugged, but you could see the satisfaction behind it. "Turns out when you save the President's daughter and prevent a global bioterrorist outbreak, the government suddenly remembers they owe you money. Lots of it."
You looked at him, really looked at him. "They finally paid you."
"With interest," he confirmed. "Enough that I could buy this ridiculous car, pay off my debts, and still have enough left over to pretend I'm a functional adult." He glanced at you, checking for your reaction. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. After years of eating ramen in safehouses and patching my own gear, it's nice to have something... nice. Something that's mine."
"You could have bought something practical," you pointed out, though your voice had taken on a teasing edge. "A Honda. A Toyota. Something that doesn't scream 'look at me, I have unresolved trauma and a large bank account.'"
"Where's the fun in that?" His grin turned wicked, familiar, the one that had gotten you both out of more trouble than it had any right to. "Besides, I've spent my entire adult life being practical. Being careful. Being the good soldier." He downshifted smoothly as the road began to climb, the engine's pitch rising to a hungry whine. "I figured I was allowed one ridiculous purchase before the next apocalypse hits."
"And yet, here you are," you said. "Still driving into danger. Still answering the phone when it rings."
"Some habits die hard." His hand moved from the gear shift to adjust the air conditioning, and his knuckles brushed your knee — not for the first time on this trip, and probably not accidental. His pinky finger lingered, tracing a lazy pattern against your jeans, and you felt the touch everywhere. "Besides, if I retired, who'd watch your back?"
"I could find someone."
"You could," he agreed, his voice dropping into that register that did things to your stomach. "But you won't. Because years ago, you decided I was worth keeping around. And you're too stubborn to trade up."
"Trade up?" You laughed, shifting in your seat to face him more fully. The leather creaked beneath you. "You think you're the best I can do?"
"I think," he said, his eyes leaving the road just long enough to rake over you, slow and deliberate, "that you know exactly what you're doing when you wear those jeans on long car rides. And I think you've been watching me watch you for the last six hours, and you haven't called me out on it once."
Your breath caught, but you kept your voice light. "Maybe I just enjoy the view."
"Do you?" His hand settled more firmly on your knee, thumb pressing in just enough to be felt through the denim. "Because from where I'm sitting, the view is pretty spectacular."
"Leon-"
"Just making an observation." But he didn't move his hand, and you didn't pull away. The touch was warm, grounding, sending heat pooling in your belly that had nothing to do with the car's climate control. "Eight years, (Y/N). Eight years of this. Of you wearing shirts that fit just right. Of you stretching in the morning when you think I'm not looking. Of me trying to remember all the reasons why bending you over the nearest surface would be a terrible idea."
"Name one reason."
"We're partners."
"That's never stopped you from flirting."
"That's different. Flirting is..." He searched for the word, his thumb tracing circles on your knee that were maddening in their innocence. "Flirting is safe. Flirting is 'maybe someday' and 'what if' and all the space in between. Flirting is looking but not touching."
"And touching?"
His grip tightened slightly, his fingers curling around the inside of your knee. "Touching is dangerous. Touching is 'I can't stop' and 'I don't want to' and 'fuck the consequences.' Touching is the point of no return."
"Maybe," you said, your voice coming out lower than you intended, "I'm tired of safe. Maybe I've been tired of safe for years."
His jaw tightened, muscle jumping beneath the skin. "Don't say things like that if you don't mean them."
"Who says I don't mean them?"
The car went quiet except for the engine and the wind. Leon's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, then relaxed, then tightened again. When he spoke, his voice was rough, controlled. "You're playing with fire, rookie."
"I'm not a rookie. Haven't been for seven years."
"No," he agreed, his gaze flicking to you again, hot and heavy. "You're definitely not a rookie anymore."
The teasing had always been there, simmering beneath the surface of your partnership. The comments that walked the line, the looks that lasted a second too long, the casual touches that felt anything but casual. You'd both gotten good at pretending, at maintaining the fiction that there was nothing between you but professional respect and friendship. But eight years of buildup had a way of eroding fiction, and somewhere around the Nevada border, you'd both stopped pretending quite so hard.
"So," he said, turning his attention back to the road, though his hand remained on your knee. "Tell me something. Since we've apparently got four more hours of this."
"Something like what?"
"Something I've never asked before." His thumb traced higher, just an inch, but enough to make your breath hitch. "Something I've wondered about. In the dark. When I couldn't sleep."
"That sounds ominous."
"Or interesting." His voice dropped, becoming something intimate, conspiratorial. "Depends on your perspective."
You shifted in your seat, crossing your legs, and his hand had to move or get trapped. He chose to move it, but not far — just to your thigh, resting there like it belonged, his fingers spreading wide enough to be felt through your jeans. "Ask."
"That night in Madrid," he said, and you knew exactly which night he meant. "Three years ago. You opened your door and you stood there, and you looked at me like-" He stopped, swallowed. "Like you wanted me to come in. Why didn't you say something?"
"Why didn't you?"
"I was scared," he admitted, and the honesty of it surprised you. "Not of the job. Not of the mission. Of you. Of what wanting you would mean."
"And now?"
His hand squeezed your thigh, just enough to be felt. "Now I'm too tired to be scared. Now I've spent six hours in this car with you smelling like that shampoo you use and wearing those jeans that fit like they were made specifically to torture me, and I'm starting to think the consequences might be worth it."
"Starting to?"
"Fine." His laugh was short, humourless. "I've thought they were worth it for years. I'm just finally admitting it out loud."
"About time."
His head turned sharply, his eyes meeting yours, and the heat in them made your mouth go dry. "Careful, (Y/N). I might start thinking you actually want this."
"Maybe I do."
"Maybe?" His hand slid higher, just an inch, testing. "Say it. Say you want this."
"I want this," you said, and the words felt like release, like finally exhaling after holding your breath for years. "I want you. I've wanted you for years. I just got tired of waiting for you to catch up."
"Christ," he breathed, and his hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to bruise. "You can't just- you can't say things like that and expect me to keep driving."
"Then don't keep driving."
"(Y/N)-"
"Pull over, Leon."
He didn't need to be told twice. His foot found the brake before you'd finished speaking, the Cayenne slowing with a purr of protest as he guided it onto the shoulder, gravel crunching beneath the tires. He found a turnout, secluded, hidden from the highway by a stand of scrub pine, and killed the engine.
The sudden silence was shocking, broken only by the wind and the ticking of cooling metal and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.
"Now what?" he asked, his voice rough, his hand still on your thigh.
"Now you stop thinking," you said, and unbuckled your seatbelt, climbing over the center console into his lap before he could react.
The steering wheel dug into your back, and his hands came up automatically to steady you, settling on your hips, and you could feel him beneath you, hard and interested, and the knowledge sent a thrill through you that made you dizzy.
"Eight years," he murmured, his eyes searching yours, his hands flexing on your waist. "Eight years of wanting this. Of imagining this."
"Stop imagining," you said, and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It couldn't be, not with years of tension snapping like a wire pulled too tight. He met you with equal force, his mouth opening under yours, his tongue sliding against yours with a confidence that made you moan. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you down against him, and you felt him everywhere, the hard planes of his chest, the strength of his thighs, the evidence of his desire pressing against you through too many layers of clothing.
"Fuck," he breathed against your mouth, his teeth grazing your lower lip hard enough to sting. "You taste like-"
"Like what?"
"Like everything I shouldn't want but do anyway."
You laughed, breathless, and rolled your hips against him, feeling him groan into your mouth. "Shouldn't?"
"Shouldn't," he confirmed, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, eliminating what little space remained between you. "Professional ethics. Partnership boundaries. All the reasons this is a terrible idea."
"Terrible ideas are kind of our specialty."
"True." He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and sliding beneath, his calloused palms against your skin making you arch into him. "God, you're soft. I imagined… you're softer than I imagined."
"You imagined this?"
"Every night for eight years," he admitted against your throat, his mouth finding your pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "Every time you wore that tank top in the summer. Every time you stretched after a mission. Every time you smiled at me like you knew exactly what I was thinking."
"Maybe I did," you gasped, your head falling back as his mouth moved lower, finding the hollow of your collarbone, the top of your breast. "Maybe I was imagining it too."
"Yeah?" His hand found your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple, making you whimper. "What did you imagine? Tell me."
"Your hands," you managed, rolling your hips against him again, feeling him twitch beneath you. "Your mouth. This. Exactly this."
"Not exactly this," he corrected, his voice rough with desire. "Because in my imagination, we had more room. A bed. Time."
"We have time," you said, though your voice was breathless, desperate. "We have now."
"Now," he repeated, and kissed you again, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand sliding down to the button of your jeans.
The car was too small, the angle was awkward, and you didn't care. You helped him, your fingers fumbling with your own button, with his, trying to find skin, contact, anything to ease the ache that had been building for years. He laughed against your mouth, the sound warm and real, and shifted you, maneuvering you into the back seat with a grace that spoke of years of tactical training.
The leather was cool against your back, and then he was there, following you, caging you in with his arms, his body a warm weight that you welcomed. The tinted windows turned the starlight into something private, something just for you, and the world outside ceased to exist.
"Better?" he asked, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot against your skin.
"Better," you confirmed, and pulled him down, your hands tangling in his hair, your legs wrapping around his waist.
He settled between your thighs, and you could feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against you through the layers that suddenly felt like too much, like an insult to the years of waiting. You arched up, seeking friction, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"Slow," he managed, his voice strained. "We should go slow-"
"I don't want slow," you interrupted, your hands finding his belt, his button, the zipper that was digging into you. "I want you. Now. Fast. However I can get you."
"Christ, (Y/N)-"
"Leon." You said his name like a prayer, like a demand, like the only word that mattered. "Stop thinking. Stop waiting. Just-" You pulled him down, kissed him hard, your teeth catching his lower lip. "Just take me."
He made a sound in his throat, half-growl, half-surrender, and then his hands were moving, efficient and desperate, stripping away barriers, finding skin. His mouth followed his hands, hot and wet and devastating, tracing a path down your throat, your chest, your stomach, and you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there.
"You're beautiful," he murmured against your hip, his breath hot against sensitive skin. "I should have told you. Should have said it every day for eight years."
"Tell me later," you managed, tugging at his hair, needing him closer, needing him now. "Show me now."
He showed you. His mouth found you, and you cried out, your back arching off the leather seat, the sound echoing in the enclosed space. He was thorough, dedicated, devastatingly effective — the same focus he applied to everything, now turned entirely on you, on your pleasure, on making you fall apart. His tongue was wicked, his fingers clever, and you were already so wound up, so ready, that it didn't take long.
"Leon," you gasped, warning, begging, and he doubled his efforts, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open, holding you there, and you broke apart with a cry that was probably too loud, too desperate, and you didn't care, couldn't care, because it was him, finally him, and it was better than any fantasy, any imagination, any dream.
He crawled back up your body, his mouth finding yours, and you could taste yourself on his lips, and the intimacy of it sent another wave of heat through you. He was still dressed, mostly, and you were a mess beneath him, and you had never felt more wanted, more seen, more desired.
"That was-" he started, his voice rough.
"Not enough," you finished, and reached between you, finding him, hard and heavy and hot through his briefs, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours.
"(Y/N)-"
"I want you inside me," you said, your voice steady despite the trembling in your hands. "I want to feel you. All of you. Now."
"Condom," he managed, though his hips were already rocking into your touch, seeking friction. "Wallet. Back pocket."
"Get it."
He moved, fumbling, his usual grace abandoned in favor of speed, of need. You watched him, propped up on your elbows, your shirt rucked up, your jeans discarded somewhere in the front seat, and you had never seen anything more beautiful than Leon Kennedy desperate for you.
He found it, tore the packet with his teeth, and you helped him, your hands working together to remove the last barriers between you. And then he was there, hot and hard and perfect, and you guided him, and he pushed in, slow, so slow, and you both groaned, the sound harmonizing in the darkened cabin.
"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closed, his jaw tight with control. "You're- this is-"
"Move," you demanded, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping tight around his waist. "Please, Leon, move."
He moved. He set a pace that was neither slow nor fast but exactly right, exactly what you needed, his hips snapping against yours, the leather creaking beneath you, the car rocking slightly with the rhythm of your bodies. His mouth found yours, swallowing your moans, his hands finding your hips, your breasts, everywhere, touching you like he couldn't get enough, like years of waiting had built an appetite that one night couldn't satisfy.
You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving together like they'd been made for this, like all the years of partnership had been practice for this moment, this joining. The tension built again, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel him getting close, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your neck.
"Come with me," he managed, his hand sliding between you, finding you, pressing just right. "Please, (Y/N), come with me."
You did. You fell apart together, your bodies shaking, your voices mingling in the dark, your names on each other's lips like promises, like prayers, like the only words that mattered.
After, you lay tangled together, sweat cooling on your skin, the leather seats creaking softly as you shifted to find a more comfortable position. Leon's arm was beneath your head, his other hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare hip, and you could feel his heart still beating fast against your back, a steady rhythm that matched your own.
"We should go," you murmured, though you made no move to leave.
"Five more minutes."
"The mission-"
"Fuck the mission." But he said it gently, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Five minutes. Please."
You turned in his arms to face him, studying him in the dim light. He looked younger, the years of tension erased from his face, replaced by a satisfaction you'd rarely seen. The scar on his jaw stood out, white against his skin, and you leaned in to press your lips to it, feeling him shudder beneath you.
"Hey," you said softly.
"Hey."
"That was worth eight years of waiting."
He laughed, the sound warm and rumbling. "High praise."
"You know what I mean." You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "I wasn't sure it would live up to the fantasy."
"And?"
"Reality's better."
He smiled, slow and wicked and satisfied. "Give me twenty minutes and I'll prove it again."
"Twenty minutes? Confident."
"Determined," he corrected, and kissed you, slow and thorough, a promise of more.
They dressed eventually, reluctantly, trading touches and smiles that felt like secrets. Leon climbed back into the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror, and you slid in beside him, reaching immediately for his hand. He took it without hesitation, threading his fingers through yours, and pulled back onto the highway with the ease of long practice.
The miles stretched ahead, dark and full of unknowns. But for the first time in eight years, the tension between you had finally snapped, leaving something warm and satisfied in its place.
And as the stars wheeled overhead and Leon's thumb traced circles on your palm, you thought that maybe the next safehouse could wait. Maybe you'd find another secluded spot. Maybe you'd spend the whole drive finding new ways to make up for lost time.
The road unwound before you, endless and dark, and you drove toward the dawn together, two partners who had finally stopped pretending, and started taking what they wanted.
I do love how Shadow Lord is actually engaging with Maul as a disabled character. His protheses need regular, painful maintenance, and they react painfully to water. What would’ve been a surface burn that he could’ve shrugged off if he had his old legs turns into a massive problem that unexpectedly causes him to collapse and lose control of his legs. He’s actually disabled by the whole not having legs thing, it’s great
ok guys i have finally finished my novel that needed to be done before i worked on anything else. which means !!! i am FREE to write all the fanfic i want!!!!! which MEANS !!!!!!! MORE LEON FICS! AN UPDATE TO TAKE AIM (leon kennedy x reader)! and perhaps even a cheeky maul x reader fic in there heheh
You’ve grown used to the stinging sensation by now. Perhaps it’s the only semblance of reassurance that you are still alive.
Bleeding, broken, but still alive. Somehow.
cw + notes: self-harm (implied/referenced relapse & history of it), implied dissociation, hurt/comfort ft. leon’s corny ass jokes, emotional constipation, reader-insert is bad at feelings lol, gender-neutral reader + no pronouns used. written with death island leon in mind, but can also be infinite darkness leon <3 + wc: 2.5k
a/n: please check out nightly’s cover of iris! that and the acoustic version by the goo goo dolls was what i had on loop as i was writing this (❁´◡`❁)
— originally posted on ao3!
THE BLOOD IN YOUR HANDS SEEMS TO TREMBLE WITH YOU. You have no idea how long you’ve been in this cramped space of a bathroom, but there is this dull ache that follows you around like a persistent, stitched shadow when your limbs attempt to move. It is sluggish, painfully so, especially with the dread of something pursuing you. It is right behind you—though, when you turn your head to look, it is never there. The dread continues to churn within you, akin to the sensation in the stomach when one shoves their fingers down their throat.
Cold water hits the surface of disturbed skin. You’ve grown used to the stinging sensation by now. Perhaps it’s the only semblance of reassurance that you are still alive.
Bleeding, broken, but still alive. Somehow.
The ringing barely fades from your ears, and your entire frame feels simultaneously heavy and light—perhaps guilt for the former, and fatigue for the latter—when you turn to slip back into your dimly lit bedroom. As you flick off the light switch and blindly search for the edge of your bed (ignoring the thought of the darkness swallowing you whole), another flicks on.
Leon stares at you from the bed, a drowsy look in his gaze as he rubs his eyes tiredly. Despite the sleep lingering in his eyes, it seemed as though something had been keeping him awake for a while.
It’s at that moment you realize he’s been staring at your arms.
You’re all too familiar with that look by now, and frankly, it doesn’t suit him. He has this expression, as his gaze shift from your eyes, to your limbs, then back up to keep the contact—worry, perhaps. Or guilt. Confusion. Maybe a bit of hopefulness, which you found odd. It’s slightly different from the usual look people give you, but a hint of annoyance still bubbles up from your chest at the thought of others pitying you in the past. You barely manage to keep your emotions in check, reminding yourself to avoid adrenaline from taking the reins, yet the bitterness from being belittled still stays in your throat.
“Everything okay?”
Seeing you not give an immediate response, Leon slightly winced at his choice of words. “Do you want to talk about it?” He corrects himself.
The tension in his shoulders dissipated when you slid back into bed with him, sitting there for a while in silence. He could accept this much; at least you hadn’t shut him out entirely. His fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out, but he held back. He isn’t as stingy when it comes to showing his concern, though; his voice stays gentle, but there’s a firmness underneath that you recognize as his refusal to let this slide easily.
Still, Leon’s had his suspicions for a while now.
“Will you show me?” He asks quietly. “Your arms.”
“My… arms.” You glance up at him, slowly, your head still feeling heavy on your shoulders. “What for?”
“Because I miss seeing them.” A weak attempt at a smile tugs at his lips, but the worry in his eyes betrays him. “You always hide them now. Even when it’s hot as hell outside.” He swallows hard before continuing, softer. “…I just want to know you’re okay.”
He hesitates for a second before finally reaching out—slow and careful, mindful that you may retreat like a delicate, wounded animal—and rests his hand lightly on your covered forearm. His touch is warm through the fabric. “If something’s wrong, I wanna help.” He exhales sharply through his nose, brows knit together in an obvious display of courage amidst a vulnerable moment. “You don’t have to keep it to yourself, carry it alone. You know that, right?”
His thumb brushes absently over your sleeve, then he meets your eyes again, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “Please.”
I don’t want to be a bother, was your go-to phrase. You never wanted to be an inconvenience to anyone, never wanted to make it about you. Never wanted to face the inevitable barrage of questions, or the way people would be overly-cautious around you to the point of childishness. It was exhausting. As the sentence falls from your lips, Leon’s eyebrows shoot up in immediate disbelief.
“A bother?” He looks almost angry, but his eyes are pained. He calls out your name, achingly gentle with it, like he always is. “You can’t be a bother. That’s… that’s not how it works. I’ll help you because I want to. I want to.”
Your fatigue creeps in, and you realize it far too late.
You’re so, so… tired.
Once people have had their fill of you, they easily discard you like crumpled paper. But Leon’s thumb apologetically brushes against your wrist, and your attention is drawn back to his face. His words come out fierce and urgent, releasing your sleeve before he grips it a bit too tight from his emotions and accidentally hurts you.
“Look, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “I’m worried about you, baby. All this sudden hiding and you… you can’t even change in front of me anymore. It… it makes me think it’s something serious. I just want to know what I’m dealing with, sweetheart—I need to know.”
He’s visibly frustrated, and your thoughts back you into a seemingly inescapable corner. “Don’t be mad.”
Leon blinks, taken aback. He shakes his head, a bit of the frustration in his expression fading as he speaks. “I’m not mad. I could never be mad at you.” He sighs, gently moving closer and resting his hand on your arm again, thumb absentmindedly rubbing back and forth soothingly. “Just… not having any idea what’s going on is killing me.” He searches your eyes with that same pleading look from earlier, and you relent.
Leon’s breath hitches. For a second, he just stares—eyes tracing over the marks with this stillness that makes your heart sink with regret. Then his fingers twitch toward your bare arm again, like he wants to touch them but can’t, settling to hover over them. You could see him trembling, and it’s taking quite the effort for him to hide it. An apology immediately slips from your lips, but he effectively stops you with a soft shush.
“Don’t apologize.” He isn’t angry, he isn’t disgusted. The confirmation almost feels cathartic, in a bittersweet way. You’ve opened up enough for him to know what was going on, after all. “I’m just worried. I’m really…” he trails off, rubbing a hand over his face again, before shifting in the bed and taking both of your hands in his. He’s trying to act calm, to keep his voice steady, and your heart clenches.
“I’m not upset, okay?” He reassures with a tender squeeze to your hands, looking you in the eye again. “But you have to be honest with me. How long?”
Leon listens, never interrupting you once. It’s one of the many things you adored about him, especially in times like these. He knows all you needed was a listening ear right now, and he’d go through hell, back, and hell again to help with that weight on your shoulders. His thumb traces your knuckles, rubbing along them comfortingly. His gaze is locked on yours, eyes filled with nothing but concern and care. Maybe a bit of gratitude and relief, too. He knows what kind of battle you’ve been fighting now.
“When did it happen?” He reaches up to rest the back of his hand against your cheek, the quiver in his fingers easing as he feels your skin. “The relapse.”
“Just… earlier.” You settle vaguely. You weren’t sure what time it was yet, but it was still dark outside, and the chilly air gives you the hint that it might be past midnight already.
The last word hangs in the air for a moment, and you can practically see the thoughts running through Leon’s head. He shifts closer, sheets rustling beneath him, before pulling you into his arms—tight, but careful of your injury.
Leon pulls back just enough to look at you again, one hand cradling the side of your face. “I’m not leaving you alone with this again,” he says firmly, with no room for argument. “We’re getting through tonight together, okay?”
At your not, he lets out a small breath of relief, tracing his thumb along your cheek before pressing a light kiss to your forehead. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in relief, but he’s still cautious. He traces along the shell of your ear, smoothing along the trail of hair behind your ear.
He settles beside you properly, one arm around you in case you needed an anchor or wanted to lean further into him. “Is that better? Anything I can do right now?”
“Just… hold me, please.”
Leon doesn’t hesitate at that. He pulls you closer, tucking you comfortably against the solid warmth of his chest. He rests his chin atop your head and exhales, tension slowly draining from both your bodies as you laid there. “Of course,” he murmurs into your hair. His fingers trail absently up and down your back, reminding you of his presence without ever having to say it aloud. “Anything for you.”
After a moment of quiet, he shifts slightly to press another kiss atop your head, before settling back down again with a contented sigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A wave of worry suddenly washes over you. “Is this… going to change things?”
Leon pulls back to gaze at you, “Yeah.” The way it comes out is certain, but soft-spoken, especially with how your breath hitches. “Because now I know, so I can help.”
Brushing a thumb under your eye where tears might have gathered, his gaze softened. “That’s the only thing changing. Not how I see you. Not how much I love you. Alright?”
Upon noticing the words have stuck with you, a small smirk tugs at his lips—cocky but tender. “You’re stuck with me being extra annoying now about checking in, alright?”
You chuckle weakly. “I’d rather have that, yeah.”
He smiles alongside you in amusement. You’ll be alright, if he’s managing to make you smile with his stupid jokes again. His grip feels almost desperate when he pulls you back into his chest again. “I know you like your space, baby, but I’m gonna be up your ass the second you’re having an off day.” He pokes the tip of your nose. “You can’t escape me.”
When your chuckle flourishes into a bigger laugh, something in Leon’s chest unclenches in relief. He grins against the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair before pulling back to see the art that was your face.
“There it is,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. He looks proud and relieved all at once. “I missed that laugh so much.”
A beat passes where he just looks at you, soaking in the moment before shifting slightly to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth with an exaggerated mwah!, lightening things up on purpose. “I’ll be just as annoying tomorrow, don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
His cheeks have started to hurt from grinning so much, and he doesn’t even realize the pain immediately, not when you’re chuckling more against him. He leans back against the headboard with you still tucked against him, running his fingers through your hair in a soothing motion. “Knew I’d be able to get a genuine laugh out of you by tonight.” He says, smug, but keeping his tone light.
After a moment, he presses a firm kiss to your temple before relaxing again.
“Feeling up to letting me dress those cuts soon, sweetheart?”
He bribes you with snacks when he sees you contemplate on it, and you can’t help but feel the ache that came with being cared for, for once. As he notices you’re getting teary-eyed again, he reaches up to cup your face in his hands, thumb brushing away a tear that’s fallen.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, voice gentle, “it’s okay, my love, it’s gonna be okay.” He traces the curve of your jaw with his knuckle, giving you a small but warm smile. “I’m not mad at you, okay? I never was.”
After a final stroke against your cheek, he presses one more kiss to your forehead before shifting out from behind you. He slides off the bed, grabbing his first aid kit from the bathroom—a huge DSO moment, he thinks to himself, noticing how it’s way too stocked for normal people. When he returns, he settles cross-legged in front of you on the mattress, popping it open with a click.
“Alright,” he snaps on a glove with practiced ease, his touch feather-light as he gently takes your arm, “tell me if it hurts, okay?” He dabs antiseptic onto a gauze pad, hesitating just briefly before meeting your eyes again.
“I’m proud of you for saying yes to this. You know that, right?”
You scoff, looking away to stop unshed tears from resurfacing. “Don’t make me cry even more.”
“Can’t make any guarantees, baby,” he teases, gently cleaning the cuts and pausing whenever you winced. He’s being careful—keeping an eye on your expression and the way you wince from time to time. “You’re kind of a cute crier, too. Just a fact.”
After a moment, he pauses his movements to meet your eyes again. “Besides, I don’t mind. You can let it all out.” He’s serious this time, though he’s still smiling warmly. “You feeling okay so far?”
You nod, muttering a soft word of gratitude. Leon nods back, the corner of his mouth twitching upward again before returning to cleaning your wounds. He works silently at first, focusing on disinfecting them properly—he’s got plenty of experience patching up both himself and others. He’ll never let on that it gets to him seeing you hurt, though. Not while he’s taking on the role of an annoying caregiver, at least.
After several minutes, he’s already finishing up dressing the cuts, securing the last piece of gauze tape with a gentle swipe of his thumb and a precise snip. When he’s done, his hand lingers on your arm, almost too gentle of a touch.
“…Feeling a bit better after getting those bandaged up, sweetheart?”
“Mm-hmm.” You smile softly.
He can’t help smiling back when you do, fingers reaching out to trace along your jaw again, trailing up until they linger in your hair. “I’d kiss them, but they’re fresh. It’d be unsanitary.” He remarks, and you’re unable to hold back the surprised laugh at his bluntness.
He still hates knowing what you went through alone, for who knows how long, still hates that he didn’t notice it earlier, but the fact that you’re smiling—because of him, no less—is the best relief he could ever ask for.
additional end notes + liked what you just read? show your support with a like/reblog or kudos on ao3! (❁´◡`❁)
would've, could've, should've @millersdjarin - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
