wanna be Leonâs pet dog so bad, just lick his pretty face all over every morning đ„șđ„ș

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wanna be Leonâs pet dog so bad, just lick his pretty face all over every morning đ„șđ„ș
really want to write a fic where Leon is totally down bad for reader, but readerâs just this emotionally detached jerk who couldnât care lessïŒïŒ
Just some late-night thoughts I had to get off my chest. Wrote this while I couldn't sleepâdon't take it too seriously (might expand on it later lol). :)
· I feel like Leon is the type who, once you've been living together for a while, and you're a chronic night owl who keeps saying you'll fix your sleep scheduleâand you make him promise to hold you accountableâbut you just can't help yourself, and it's 2 or 3 AM and you're still gaming or binge-watching something or just doomscrolling. He wakes up, reaches for you, finds your side of the bed empty. He finds you in the other room, still glued to your screen. And he knew it. He knew you'd do this. He gets this quiet kind of angryânot at you, but at you not taking care of yourself. He walks over with this cold, heavy presence, doesn't say a word, just hoists you over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carries you back to bed. You're squirming and making excuses, and he ignores every single one. He just wraps himself around you, locks you in his arms, and makes you sleep. He just wants you to live. To live a normal, boring, healthy life. To sleep like a normal person. To wake up like a normal person. Because that's exactly what he can't doânot after everything. Not after Biochemical terrorist incidents, not after being forced into becoming an agent. His training and his trauma have left him alert every single night, ready to get up and fight at a moment's notice. But with you? With you sleeping next to him? He actually gets those rare, peaceful nights. So maybe that overbearing, no-arguments way he makes you sleep is just his clumsy, gruff version of gentleness.
· High school Leon, your same-age boyfriend. He's always been the sensitive, caring type. The kind who'd actually take a baking elective or something. Nerd? Yeah. Adorable? Also yeah. He'd take the class because he wanted to make you something sweet. A labor of love, you know? He'd be one of the only guys in the classâeveryone else just screwing around for an easy credit, but he'd be there taking notes, following the recipe step by step, clumsy and so, so earnest. Apron tied around his waist, biting his lip over the oven timer. His first tries would come out kinda roughâmaybe a pie with burnt edges, or cookies that spread too thin. He'd be too embarrassed to show you. So he'd let his friends taste-test first, take their notes, practice in secret. And then, on some special day, he'd finally present you with the perfect batch. The kind he actually felt proud of. He'd stand there, nervous out of his mind, searching your face for approval with these big, sincere eyes. And when you said, "Wow, you're actually amazing at this"? He'd blush. His whole face. His ears would go red. And if you gave him a kiss as a reward? That red would spread all the way down his neck.
(I've never been to high school in the US so idk what I'm talking about lol.)
Just some late-night thoughts I had to get off my chest. Wrote this while I couldn't sleepâdon't take it too seriously (might expand on it later lol). :)
· I feel like Leon is the type who, once you've been living together for a while, and you're a chronic night owl who keeps saying you'll fix your sleep scheduleâand you make him promise to hold you accountableâbut you just can't help yourself, and it's 2 or 3 AM and you're still gaming or binge-watching something or just doomscrolling. He wakes up, reaches for you, finds your side of the bed empty. He finds you in the other room, still glued to your screen. And he knew it. He knew you'd do this. He gets this quiet kind of angryânot at you, but at you not taking care of yourself. He walks over with this cold, heavy presence, doesn't say a word, just hoists you over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carries you back to bed. You're squirming and making excuses, and he ignores every single one. He just wraps himself around you, locks you in his arms, and makes you sleep. He just wants you to live. To live a normal, boring, healthy life. To sleep like a normal person. To wake up like a normal person. Because that's exactly what he can't doânot after everything. Not after Biochemical terrorist incidents, not after being forced into becoming an agent. His training and his trauma have left him alert every single night, ready to get up and fight at a moment's notice. But with you? With you sleeping next to him? He actually gets those rare, peaceful nights. So maybe that overbearing, no-arguments way he makes you sleep is just his clumsy, gruff version of gentleness.
· High school Leon, your same-age boyfriend. He's always been the sensitive, caring type. The kind who'd actually take a baking elective or something. Nerd? Yeah. Adorable? Also yeah. He'd take the class because he wanted to make you something sweet. A labor of love, you know? He'd be one of the only guys in the classâeveryone else just screwing around for an easy credit, but he'd be there taking notes, following the recipe step by step, clumsy and so, so earnest. Apron tied around his waist, biting his lip over the oven timer. His first tries would come out kinda roughâmaybe a pie with burnt edges, or cookies that spread too thin. He'd be too embarrassed to show you. So he'd let his friends taste-test first, take their notes, practice in secret. And then, on some special day, he'd finally present you with the perfect batch. The kind he actually felt proud of. He'd stand there, nervous out of his mind, searching your face for approval with these big, sincere eyes. And when you said, "Wow, you're actually amazing at this"? He'd blush. His whole face. His ears would go red. And if you gave him a kiss as a reward? That red would spread all the way down his neck.
(I've never been to high school in the US so idk what I'm talking about lol.)
If you, in the midst of a passionate relationship, suddenly traveled back to a time before he ever knew you.
He came out of the shower as usualânaked from the waist up, a towel slung low around his hips, stray droplets of water trailing down the grooves of his abs before disappearing into the fabric.
Years of training had his senses on high alert the moment he stepped into the room. Something was off. A sweet, faintly floral scent lingered in the airâthe kind of fragrance from a girl's body care products. Delicate, cloying, impossible to ignore.
Someone was in his room.
Sure enough, there was a small lump in the center of his bed.
An intruder. But the windows were untouched. He'd chosen this apartment specifically for its security. Anyone who could break in without a trace was no ordinary threat.
His gun was in the nightstand. Having a weapon would put him at ease.
But it was right next to your pillow. So he approached quietly.
Up close, he finally got a look at whoâor whatâwas in his bed. Just an ordinary girl, sleeping completely unguarded.
Maybe it was some kind of honeytrap. Lull the target with an innocent face.
He was reaching for the nightstand when you stirred. You blinked awake, disorientedâthen your face lit up the moment you saw him.
His instincts told him to wait. Observe.
He watched you shuffle closer, inch by inch, until you sat up and wrapped your arms around his bare waist. You pressed your cheek against his chestâskin against skin, warm, soft.
He didn't know what to do. His arms hung in the air, as if afraid to touch you. He hadn't been close to anyone since being forced into government service. Training, missionsâthere was never time. The trauma of Raccoon City still hadn't healed. He wasn't ready to open up to anyone.
Years of solitude left him completely lost when faced with someone so warm, so soft, so trusting.
But the way you looked at himâlike he was home. If you were some honeytrap agent, your performance was flawless. Could he even still have a connection like this with anyone?
Your bodies were pressed so close. He could feel how soft you were, smell the faint sweetness of your shampooâthe kind only a girl would choose. It felt completely out of place in his cold, spartan bedroom.
Your hair tickled his chin.
His mind was going blank, overwhelmed by your presence and your scent, when you spoke:
"Leon, you took forever in the shower. I fell asleep waiting."
A teasing, affectionate tone. The kind reserved for a lover.
You said his name. That made him even more suspicious. His voice came out cold: "Who are you? Why are you in my bed? How do you know my name?"
For a split second, he saw hurt flash across your face. Then it was gone.
"What's wrong?! I'm your girlfriend! How do you not recognize your own girlfriend?! Did the hot water steam your brain or something?" You reached up to feel his forehead, but he caught your wristâfast. It was so slender. Not the wrist of someone who trained regularly.
"Girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend. Who are you, really?" His voice remained calm, measured. "What's your name? Why are you here? What do you want?"
"I told you, I'm your girlfriend!" You nearly yelled it. "I'm here because we live together! My purpose is toâ"
You stopped suddenly. Your eyes went wide.
"Ohâwait. This room." Realization dawned on your face. "This is your old bachelor apartment. Before we moved in together." A thought flickered across your expression. You weren't sure yet. You needed to confirm it.
"Leon! What year is it right now? I meanâwhat's the date?"
He gave you the exact date, down to the day of the week.
"Ha! That's it. Time travel!" You said it with absolute certainty, looking so smug that he couldn't help but think you resembled a satisfied predator. A small one. He didn't want to admit it, but it was... cute.
"I'm from four years in the future! And I really am your girlfriend there."
Time travel. Four years. Girlfriend. It sounded like the rant of a madwoman. Whatever softness he'd felt a moment ago evaporated. Before he could respond, you kept going, putting on an exaggerated serious face:
"Oh wait, I know what you're going to say. 'Time travel? Prove it. How can you prove you're my future girlfriend?'" You mimicked him perfectlyâhis cadence, his tone. He hated to admit it, but you'd quoted him verbatim. You knew how he thought. Only someone who'd spent a long time close to him would know that. It made you even more suspicious.
He wanted to argue, but all that came out was, "You don't sound anything like me."
"That was exactly like you! You were exactly like this four years agoâyou didn't trust anyone!"
Fine. He'd concede. "Let's say you are... my..." The word stuck in his throat. A lonely bachelor for so long, and now some girl appears in his bedroom claiming to be his future girlfriend. Anyone would need a moment.
"...girlfriend." He finally said it. "Then... how do you prove it?"
"Oh! I know you have a tiny mole on the lower left side of your back."
That was... an intimate detail. One he barely noticed himself sometimes. He started to wonder if you might actually be telling the truth.
When he still looked unconvinced, you pressed on: "And you have a scar on your inner left thigh. You said you got it climbing a tree to save a cat when you were a kid. And also..." A hint of smugness crept into your voice. "You actually prefer being submissive in bed, don't you?"
You knew. You knew that his job forced him to be in control at all timesâto anticipate every variable, to dominate every mission. So in intimacy, he wanted the opposite. He wanted to let go. To trust someone enough to follow.
Maybe it was all those "intimate" details that convinced him. Or maybe it was something elseâsome future connection already pulling at him. He felt an inexplicable... closeness to you. He wanted to believe you.
He shouldn't. He knew with absolute certainty that he'd never seen you before in his life.
"I'll trust you. For now." A pause. "You sleep here tonight. I'll take the guest room." His voice was clipped. An order. He needed distance.
It was hard to say whether that decision didn't carry some private, unacknowledged wish of his own.
But as he turned to leave, he heard a small, pitiful plea from behind him: "Can't we sleep together? đ„ș I'll be scared all alone..."
He turned, ready to refuseâand saw you with your eyebrows drawn up in a perfect worried slant, your eyes glistening, your hands pressed together in a begging gesture.
He was taller than you. Looking down at you, the angle only made your sad-puppy expression even more pathetic.
He thought to himself: if this is a honeytrap, I'm already caught.
"Fine. You take the inside. I'll take the outside."
"I knew you were the best, Leon! Love you the most!"
You said it so easily, like a declaration of love meant nothing at all. You didn't notice his ears had gone completely red.
He just said, "Yeah."
The first half of the night went fine.
But then morning came.
Ever since Raccoon City, he rarely woke up naturally. It was always nightmares or blaring alarms. But this morning, he woke up because he couldn't breathe.
Something was pressing on his chest. Not heavy, exactlyâbut insistent.
He opened his eyes and saw the top of your head first. Your face was buried against his neck, unruly strands of hair tickling his chin. It reminded him of the way you'd clung to him last night, your voice sweet and teasing. His ears burned at the memory.
Should he wake you? Or let you sleep? He didn't know. He didn't want to break the stillness between you.
"Mmm... morning, Leon," you mumbled, still half-asleep. On pure instinct, you kissed his chin.
His train of thought derailed completely. Only one thought remained.
He thought to himself: if this is a honeytrap, I'm falling for it. Willingly.
.
He must work out regularly.
On a weekend morning, heâs already back from his run. It was just a light jog, but still, a thin sheen of sweat covers him. Strands of his fringe cling to his pale forehead, and sweat drips along his jawline. Disheveled, but with a certain raw beauty.
The exhilaration of the run hasnât faded, but something softer is already rising in his chestâthe desire to see you. To see his girlfriend, still buried under the covers, hibernating like a little bear.
He wants to go straight into your bedroom, climb onto the bed, and wrap his arms around you from behind. He wants to press his face into the crook of your neck, breathe in the warm, just-woken-up scent of you, kiss your shoulder, trail kisses up to your neck, âaccidentallyâ wake you, and watch you blink your hazy eyes open at him.
But he canât come near you smelling like sweat. He knows you like things clean.
So he steps into the shower and uses the body wash you picked out so carefullyâthe one you share. Thanks to that, you both end up smelling the same every day.
After his shower, he puts on his pajamas and walks quietly to the bed. He kneels on the edge with one knee and leans down close to you.
So close he can hear the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. So close he can see the shadow of your lashes in the morning light. So close he can catch the faint, sweet scent thatâs uniquely yours.
He lowers his head and presses his lips gently to your forehead.
So light. Like a feather brushing by.
You donât react at all. Still fast asleep.
Leonâs lips twitch, barely perceptibly. He moves lower, this time kissing the tip of your nose.
Your nose wrinkles slightly, like a small animal bothered by a tiny bug.
He finds it amusing. He goes lower still, aiming for your lips this time.
But just as his lips are about to meet yours, you suddenly stir. You turn your head slightly, avoiding his kiss, and let out a sleepy, grumbling protest: âMmm⊠stop itâŠâ
Your voice is soft and thick with sleep.
He pauses. He watches you burrow your face deeper into the pillow, curling into yourself until only the back of your head is visible. Your fingers instinctively clutch the edge of the duvet, as if fending off some disturbance in a dream.
He waits a few seconds, then leans in againâthis time gently brushing the hair from your cheek so your face is fully visible. Your brows are faintly knitted, as if youâve run into trouble in your dream.
He lowers his head and kisses your cheek.
Your skin is warm from sleep, soft. He canât help but linger for a moment.
âMmmâŠâ You make a sound again, this time with a hint of resistance. Your eyes stay closed, but your pupils are moving rapidly beneath your lids, as if youâre dreaming. Your hand emerges from under the covers and waves vaguely, like youâre trying to shoo away something annoying.
He watches your handâslender fingers, neatly trimmed nailsâand gently takes it in his.
Your hand looks tiny in his palm, warm and soft. He lowers his head and kisses your fingertips.
This finally seems to disturb your sleep.
Your lashes flutter a few times, then slowly lift. Your eyes are hazy in the morning light, pupils not yet fully focused. You stare blankly at him, so close, as if still trying to figure out if this is a dream or reality.
ââŠLeon?â you whisper, your voice hoarse and drowsy.
âYeah,â he replies, still holding your hand.
You blink. You finally wake up a little more. You sniff, then your brow relaxes, and the corners of your mouth lift unconsciously: ââŠYou smell good.â
Itâs the scent of his body wash.
He doesnât answer. He just lowers his head, and this time, finally, he kisses your lipsâjust a soft brush, like tasting morning dew. A kiss still thick with sleep. He feels how soft your lips are, a little dry. You tilt your face up to meet him, slow, light, as if kissing in a dream.
After a while, you start to stir gently, a kind of unconscious, cat-like squirm. You try to end the kiss, push him away, but you canât quite bring yourself to. So it turns into a playful mix of give and take. Only when heâs satisfied does he reluctantly pull back. When the kiss ends, your eyes have drifted shut again, as if youâre ready to go back to sleep.
âWhat time is itâŠâ you mumble, rubbing your face against his palm.
âStill early,â he says softly.
âMmmâŠâ you hum vaguely, shrinking further under the covers. But your hand still holds his, not letting go.
âGo back to sleep.â He kisses your forehead again. âI wonât bother you anymore.â
You open your eyes and look at him. Thereâs sleep in them, and something soft, something trusting. Then you let go of his hand, turn over so your back faces him, and curl up again.
He lies down behind you, gently wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you into his chest.
You let out a contented sigh, as if youâve finally found the most comfortable spot. Your back presses against his chest, your hips against his stomach.
He buries his face in the nape of your neck and breathes in deeplyârose, the warmth of the sheets, the laziness of sleep, and the scent of your skin.
He closes his eyes.
LOVED We Canât Know Each Otherđ±. I feel this is how Leon and reader would interact with each other basically reader using him and he is submitting to her. I hope they meet again where reader already left the city maybe on a beach. I thought there was gonna be a twist where he was gonna feel guilty since he is married and his feelings are wrapped up in reader. If this gets a part 2 I will definitely read it.đ
Thanks for loving this piece!ïŒïŒ Unfortunately, I donât have plans to add that plotline here. Iâll write a separate fic for it down the line.đ«Ąđ«Ąđ«Ąâ€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïž
We can't know each other
re9! Leon Ă reader
tags:Age Gap (20+ )
One Night Stand
Objectification
Some plot written for smut purposes :)
Sorry, the first time I copied this fic from my writing app, I didnât get the whole thing. Hereâs the full version now :)
We can't know each other
re9! Leon Ă reader
tags:Age Gap (20+ )
One Night Stand
Objectification
â ïžThis work is set entirely in an AU separate from canon. Leon never gets married in this timeline, so thereâs no affair whatsoever. I have a separate concept for canon-compliant affair fanfic, which Iâll write sometime later.â ïž
Would this count as spoilers? My bad if I spoiled anything.ïŒïŒ
Some plot written for smut purposes :)
Sorry, the first time I copied this fic from my writing app, I didnât get the whole thing. Hereâs the full version now :)
Sawyer x Kate: Â Â - First Kiss [1.08]
I love ur Leon works sm!! U write wonderfully
you're too kindđ„șđ„șreally motivates me to keep writing!thank you!!!đ„°
Captain Veins
Leon Ă Fem!Reader
A/N: Saw a post talking about how the visible veins on a man's lower abdomen are really hot, so I wrote this. Has some personal headcanons.
This was the umpteenth time Leon stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, his golden hair still dripping, droplets tracing the line of his neck down to his collarbone.
He usually wore just a dark grey towel, loosely tied below his hips.
After being together for so long, you'd seen him in all sorts of states: the rebellious blonde strands sticking up when he was sleep-dazed, the damp muscles of his back after a workout, the skin still seeping blood through bandages when he was injured, even the small, dark mole on his left upper arm.
But right now, your gaze was magnetically, irrevocably locked onto his lower abdomen â the subtly raised, bluish veins starting from the edge of the towel and tracing upwards along the defined grooves of his taut stomach muscles.
The warm light from the bathroom behind him cast shadows in the dips of his abs, making the veins stand out in sharp relief. Undried water droplets clung to their surface, quivering slightly with his breath, like morning dew weighing down blades of grass.
He was drying his hair with a towel. As he raised his arms, the muscles along his flank tightened, and the veins pulsed faintly in response â proof of life, of blood rushing beneath the surface.
You knew those veins carried blood that had survived shrapnel, filtered biotoxins, yet still stubbornly sustained his life. And now they were exposed before you in such a fragile, beautiful form.
He lowered the towel, noticing your unusual silence and the focus of your stare. He glanced down at his abdomen â no wounds, no new scars, towel secure. His mind ran a quick analysis of your abnormal behavior: Unwell? (But her complexion is fine). Did she see something frightening? (No visible threats in range). Is she⊠staring at my abs? (Not the first time).
He wanted to know the reason. So he tested the waters. "What's wrong?"
You snapped back to reality, shaking your head, your voice a bit distant. "N-nothing⊠just⊠the veins are so prominentâŠ"
"Low body fat percentage. Thin subcutaneous fat layer. High vascular visibility," he explained in that tone he used for medical briefings, then walked over and knelt on one knee before you, meeting your eyes. "Did it scare you?"
"Not scaredâŠ" you murmured, your fingers finally giving in, lightly brushing against the most prominent vein on his lower abdomen. The skin under your fingertip was warm, and you could feel the faint thrum of blood flow.
"...It just feels tooâŠ" You struggled for the right word. "...too alive."
Secret kinks, Lipstick Marks, and a Chubby Kitty
Leon Ă Fem!Reader
Sweet, slice-of-life vignettes of a sweet couple.
OOC Warning
Personal kinks unleashed! Leon with a slightly dom vibe.
a/nïŒWhile digging through my writing app, I found this one. Never posted it before, so I tweaked it a bit and here it is.
1.
Heâs sitting in the small armchair near the balcony, reading.
Youâve been watching him for a while. His brow is relaxed, his guard practically non-existent.
The afternoon sun streams through the balcony window, painting him in a warm, hazy, golden light.
You were reluctant to disturb such a peaceful scene, but then, a plan hatches in your mind.
You tiptoe up behind him and cover his eyes with your hands, deliberately lowering your voice. "Guess who?"
You were expecting a sweet, playful moment. You thought heâd laugh and say your name, and then youâd just wrap your arms around him and settle into his lap.
But you completely forgot about his professional instincts as an agent.
His body reacts faster than his mind. The moment his vision is obscured, combat reflexes kick in.
Before you can process it, the world tilts. He grabs your wrist and, with a clean, effortless motion, flips you from behind him onto the couch.
Your hands are pinned behind your back, held firmly by one of his. His other hand presses your shoulder down, your cheek half-buried in the soft cushion of the couch back. You can feel his knee lightly pressing against the back of your thigh.
Strangely, after the initial shock fades, your cheeks flush and your breathing quickens. Your clear eyes hold a mix of surprise, excitement, and a flicker of fascination.
The position doesnât allow you to see his face. If you could, you might be even more thrilled. For a split second, his eyes were cold and focusedâthe sharp, dangerous look of an agent facing a sudden threat.
The moment he realizes who heâs pinned, his gaze instantly softens. He eases his hold but doesnât let go immediately, his voice a mix of fond exasperation and lingering concern as he murmurs your name.
But you immediately speak up, your tone laced with novelty and challenge. "So⊠you really have been going easy on me all this time, Agent?"
No complaints or hurt feelings as he expected. Instead⊠is that enjoyment he detects?
Seeing the unusual blush on your cheeks and the glint in your eyes, he narrows his own. He leans closer, his voice dropping lower, carrying a hint of danger and curiosity near your ear. "You seem⊠to be enjoying this quite a bit?"
Instant shame, like a fire banked in a hearth, burns your face crimson. You can only double down, burying your face deeper into the couch, your voice muffled. "I⊠I am not!"
He might have believed you if he couldnât see the scarlet tips of your ears.
"Let⊠let me go, you idiot Leon!" you sputter, mortified, squirming slightly against the restraint.
"Alright, alright," he releases your wrists, his knee moving away from your leg. "Just donât do that again, okay? Hasn't anyone ever told you not to 'sneak up' on a trained agent from behind? Sweetheart?"
"Itâs your fault for being too alert!" Youâve always been prone to unreasonable accusations with him.
Through your long relationship, heâs learned arguing is futile. The best course is to indulge you. In the early days, he might have protested, but now, he just wants you happy.
"Right, my mistake. My mistake for maintaining situational awareness in my own home to protect my girlfriend," he says, a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
"To make it up to you⊠strawberry cake?" He stands looking down at you seated on the couch, his expression a blend of resignation and tenderness.
"Thatâs more like it," you pretend to reluctantly accept.
2.
While shopping, you got a free lipstick. The color is all wrong for you, so you figure youâll just stash it away, never to be used.
But when you get home and see him dozing quietly on the living room couch, a new plan forms.
You quietly twist the lipstick open, a sly smile on your face as you creep closer. If he were awake and saw that smile, heâd know he was the one about to be in trouble.
His agentâs hyper-awareness means he senses your approach. But he just cracks an eye open for a split second, then quickly closes it again. He wants to see what youâre up to.
You unhurriedly straddle his lap. By the time he instinctively tries to lean back, itâs too late. You cup his face in your hands, holding his head steady, locking eyes with him decisively. "Donât move!"
He resigns himself to your whims. All he hears is a soft mwah as your lips press against his cheek. He can even smell the shampoo in your hair.
After the kiss, you hold his face, tilting it left and right. Hmm⊠not bad: youâve left a clear, if slightly crooked, lip print on his cheek.
Pleased with your first "trophy," you get excited and launch a continuous "assault":
Mwah â on his other cheek.
He tries to stop you, gently grasping one of your wrists, his tone weary. "Youâd better know what youâre doing."
You just give him a silly, beaming smile, eyes sparkling, and plant another kiss on his forehead.
Seeing your excitement, he decides to surrender, sighing in resignation at you.
He closes his eyes, letting you have your way with his face, only a faint, indulgent curl at the corner of his mouth betraying him.
Emboldened by his permission, you grow even more brazen, marking his nose, chin, and even the tip of his nose with your "love stamps."
Satisfied, you cup his face again to admire your masterpiece. Seeing the usually stern, handsome Agent Kennedy now sporting a face full of bright, chaotic lip prints and that uniquely his brand of exasperated smile is simply too amusing. You even consider pulling out your phone for a commemorative photo.
As youâre angling for the perfect shot, he grabs your wrist holding the phone. With his face still a canvas of vibrant red, his eyes turn intensely predatory.
You hear his low, suggestive tone. "Had your fun? Now⊠itâs my turn."
With that, he pulls you tightly against him, ignoring your token resistance, and presses his cheek against yours, transferring some of the red marks back onto your skin.
In the end, it was you who carefully wiped his face clean with makeup remover wipes, holding his chin.
And that lipstick was, predictably, forgotten in a corner of the couch.
3.
Usually, in the mornings, he makes breakfast and comes to wake you. Youâd slowly stir, yawning your way to the bathroom. Heâd always watch your sleepy shuffle with an impossibly soft smile.
But today, for once, you wake up around the same time. Now, youâre just gazing absently as he changes by the foot of the bed: the drowsy morning look, a few rebellious golden strands sticking up, the dawn light through the curtains falling on his bare torso, gilding that strong, athletic frame in an amber glow, like flowing honey.
You canât help but purse your lips, looking him up and down with an "art criticâs" eye, a hint of provocation in your tone. "Hmm⊠not bad overall. Shoulders are broad enough, arm definition is good. But⊠itâd be perfect if the waist were a bit slimmer."
He sees the mischievous glint in your eyes as you say this, clearly picking a fight. Just as he raises an eyebrow, ready to retort with his usual dry sarcasm, your eyes light up as a brilliant analogy strikes you. You grin. "Like this though⊠itâs like⊠like a sturdy little chubby cat! Solid! Cute!"
You know perfectly well his body is all honed muscle from training and combat, his weight due to muscle density, his core rock-solidânot an ounce of fat, just dense, well-defined muscle. It has nothing to do with "chubby." But you want to say it anyway. You just want to tease your adorable Agent.
Hearing your words, he freezes for half a second, then narrows those calm blue eyes. His gaze turns sharp and "threatening."
With just one hand, he effortlessly catches your ankle, pulling youâas you try to scramble awayâback towards him, trapping you in the small space between the mattress and his body.
Then he pins both your wrists with that same hand, his voice a low rumble, a smile playing on his lips. "'Chubby cat,' huh? And how does it feel to be completely at the mercy of said 'chubby cat,' little mouse?"
His nose brushes against yours. With nowhere else to look, you surrender, gazing into his deep blue eyes, even feeling a flicker of inexplicable fear.
Your breaths mingle, the warm air gently caressing your skin with each exhale.
He knows every single one of your ticklish spots. He keeps you pinned on the bed, launching a merciless "tickle attack." Youâre laughing uncontrollably in his arms, breathless, begging for mercy while still foolishly calling him "Leon Kitty."
"Okay, okay, I give up!" you say in a "pleading" tone, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of your eyes.
"Good. Admitting a misjudgment is a commendable quality in an agent," he says, climbing off you and offering a hand to pull you up. "Now, breakfast time. Come on. I made those pancakes you like."
your older bf
re9! Leon Ă fem! reader
Age gap (set in 2026, reader is in her 20s)
A/N: I haven't had time to write long-form fanfics lately, but I've got all these ideas swirling around, so... here we are again with these little snippetsâunconnected, context-free brain dumps.
Lately Iâve seen everyone discussing what model of Porsche Leon drives in re9. Upon learning the astronomical price tag, this little brainwave/basically an outline, not a full fic, came to be.
Let's just assume in this universe he's not a âvehicle killer"!
So, I'm poor. Leon, could you "spare" some change? (just kidding)
Contains teasing about the sugar daddy/baby dynamic.
When your relationship reached the point where you were visiting his home for the first time, the car pulled into the underground garage of a seemingly ordinary but heavily secured, modern-design luxury apartment building.
You'd been curious since getting in the car. It wasn't until he drove into the garage that you finally couldn't hold back. You looked up the car's price on your phone. Seeing the figure, you instantly froze.
You looked at the interiorâminimalist but with premium materials. You turned to look at Leon's profile, focused on driving. Finally, your gaze landed on the subtle emblem on the steering wheel.
You voiced the ultimate question, holding up your phone for him to see the screen, your voice trembling. "Leon... this 'pretty nice' car... is it... that...?!" You were so shocked you couldn't even say the full brand name, but that price tag was already exploding in your mind.
He let out a slight sigh, a "so the secret's out" expression on his face.
"It accelerates fast, handles well. Can... extract itself from trouble when necessary." (He didn't specify that "trouble" meant "gunfights" and "escaping B.O.W.s.")
"The frame is reinforced. The glass is special. Tires are puncture-resistant." Each point sounded like a justification for the exorbitant price, yet each one hinted at the dangers of his world.
Finally, under your sustained, wide-eyed stare đź, he would add helplessly, softly, "...And it's solid. When I'm driving you, I need that." It was the closest thing to a romantic confession, directly linking the luxury car to "protecting you."
Even with his explanation, you remained in a state of shock. Sitting in the seat, suddenly everything felt different. The faint engine rumble sounded like money roaring. The seat's embrace felt like "premium ergonomic value." Even his smooth driving style seemed to hint at a "fear of expensive repair bills" (though really, it was just his professional habit).
But before getting out: You'd pat the seat solemnly and say, "Goodbye, Mr. Precious Mobile Fortress. Thank you for the ride service today."
And he'd just offer a helpless, affectionate smile behind you.
Upon entering his apartment, you saw:
A minimalist, functional, masculine space with distinct "safehouse" characteristics. The palette was strictly grey and black. Impeccably tidy, with almost no extraneous items beyond essential furniture and daily necessities. It felt more like a showroom.
The space gave off a cool, almost severe sense of order, and a sense of being "ready to evacuate at any moment."
Until you saw the wine cabinet.
It was a built-in, climate-controlled smart cabinet with a glass door, understated, with soft amber lighting inside. The collection wasn't vast, but each bottle lacked flashy labels; some were even unadorned.
You blurted out, "You even have a wine cabinet?!" Your tone wasn't envy, but astonishment at the huge contrastâa man who seemed to only drink coffee and beer, owning a professional wine cabinet.
You leaned in for a closer look, only recognizing the minimalist bottle shape of a certain Bordeaux First Growth.
"Wait, is this bottle that...?" you said, secretly checking the price on your phone. Your pupils dilated with shock once more.
"Leon Kennedy! This bottle costs as much as my tuition for a year! And you just let it gather dust here?!"
He, who was pouring water for you in the kitchen, paused at your words, a subtle âoops, forgot about that" expression flashing across his face.
He walked over, stood beside you, looking at the cabinet, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. "Some are... souvenirs from mission-related occasions. Some were gifts from friends."
Then he opened the cabinet, took out a simply packaged whiskey, and said, "This is what I usually drink. Those... not so much."
Hearing his explanation, you could sense these bottles carried weight far beyond their monetary value. They were like silent witnesses to another dimension of his life: rewards for success, dangerous mementos, tokens of connection, and a kind of lonely inability to truly relax and enjoy them.
Thinking this, your feelings shifted from "shock" to "understanding."
So you asked him softly, âThen... is there one bottle you'd actually want to open and drink?"
Leon would be silent for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping over the bottles before finally landing on your face, filled with curiosity and concern.
He wouldn't choose the most expensive one, but rather a bottle with a slightly worn label, not necessarily the priciest, but one with a story (e.g., a gift from Chris or someone after a particularly tough mission).
He'd say, âMaybe we can try this one today." Then he'd hand you the corkscrew. "You open it."
The gesture was highly symbolic: inviting you into his closed-off space full of heavy mementos and giving you the power to âopen" it.
Youâd open it clumsily but earnestly. Heâd prepare two ordinary glasses.
The wine was excellent, but to your palate, accustomed to affordable drinks, it didn't taste like its astronomical price. He'd simply tell you its origin. "An old friend gave it. Said to drink it for a celebration."
You raised your glass, your eyes under the light like the amber liquid in the glass, and said with a smile, "So what are we celebrating now? Celebrating that on my first visit, I discovered your secret treasure?"
He'd clink glasses with you naturally, looking into your eyes, and say, âCelebrating... that today is a good day."
The two of you sat on the sofa, sharing that astronomically priced but "just okay-tasting" wine. The atmosphere relaxed, and you, slightly tipsy, leaned against his shoulder.
With obvious teasing and a hint of playfulness, you looked up at him with bright eyes, poking his chest with a finger.
âSo, Mr. Kennedy... did I accidentally land myself a super top-tier Sugar Daddy? Hmm?" Not letting him object , you continued, âShould I call you Daddy? It'd be literally true now, you know."
'Sugar Daddy'âyou tried to use this exaggerated joke to dissolve the huge economic gap between you, afraid it would become an unspoken barrier.
Hearing your words, he visibly choked, making a sound somewhere between a cough and a sigh. The accusation was so outrageous, completely missing the essence of his actions.
Frowning, he said in that serious-yet-helpless tone of âyou know that's not true," emphasizing the words, ânot true."
Then, with his signature dry humor, he explained:
"As for the 'Sugar,' I've never put enough sugar in your coffee." (Every time he saw you drink that liquid dessert you made with copious milk and sugar cubes, he even worried about your blood sugar.)
"As for the 'Daddy,' I haven't signed any unlimited credit cards for you."
As if that wasn't convincing enough, he added, "A Sugar Daddy wouldn't teach you how to handle a gun or disable a tracker."
That was the weightier, more equal, even "dangerous" part of your relationship.
Finally, looking at you, meeting your eyes, he said slowly, "...And besides, a Sugar Daddy usually doesn't pick a sugar baby who can identify the price of all his gear at a glance and tease him about it in return."
His humorous yet earnest explanation made you instantly drop the playful act, turning serious and gentle. You reached up to smooth his slightly furrowed brow, then cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. Looking at him, you spoke your truth. "I know you're not. Silly."
Leaning back against his shoulder, your voice softened. "If you really were, I'd have run away long ago. What I like... is the guy who wears a ridiculously expensive jacket while picking out weird-flavored chips for me at the supermarket, drives a crazy-expensive car just to cruise around with me, shares fancy wine with me like it's beer... Leon."
You were telling him clearly: "I see everything about you (including the wealth), but what I love is still just you." You knew, for someone used to people depending on or being in awe of his persona, this was an incredibly precious affirmation.
In the end, "Sugar Daddy" became the highest-level between you two. Only in the most intimate, relaxed moments would you use it to deliberately tease him, enjoying his flustered, speechless expression.
And he would "retaliate" at times. When you finally received that job offer from the company you wanted, he'd give you a giftânot expensive, but meaningful. He'd say with a straight face, "Congratulations. From your non-Sugar Daddy."
A/N: I want to write a healthy, normal, equal age-gap relationship. So, it's not a sugar daddy setup, sorry. Haven't even figured out the pre-story yet, so just writing the parts that make me happy for now. Can't even call it an outline.
I'm totally into the sugar daddy trope too â definitely gonna write something with that vibe when I have the time.
Idk why my brain decides to be a total fic idea generator EXACTLY when Iâm too busy to actually write anything down. đ
Been swamped lately,no time for long fics. Just got a spark of inspiration and had to drop a little ramble.
RE9! Leon x fem! reader
tagsïŒDDLG , Mdom/Fsub.
You are his puppy girl (a grown adult!), hence a
touch of childish playfulness. He calls you "puppy"; you call him "Daddy."
1.
Sex is always,entirely, under Leon's control. It begins with gentle, soothing touches that gradually harden into an undeniable command. He reads you like an open book-the flicker of your fluffy tail, the tilt of your ears, the faintest tremors running through you-gauging your state with precision. But the pace,the progression, remains firmly in his hands.
2.
His commands are low,clear, and clipped.
"Turn over, puppy.""Look at me.""Say it." Your response-whether verbal or the immediate obedience of your body-directly shapes what comes next: a reward of pleasure, or the suspended tension ofcorrective control.
3.
Despite the power exchange,Leon established a clear safeword from the start.The moment it leaves your lips, everything stops-instantly replaced by pure comfort and holding. He drills this into you, ensures you know you hold the ultimate veto, though he's equally sure you'll almost never use it,so deep runs your trust and surrender.
4.
He knows every sensitive spot,especially the
ones tied to your canine traits. The stroke from the base of your ear down your neck,the grip and slow comb through the roots of your tail-each draws out reflexive shivers and soft whimpers. But he metes out the stimulation, using it as a tool to fine-tune your state.
5.
Leon has a strong marking instinct.He loves
leaving bites and bruises (just enough to sting, never to harm) along your nape, your shoulders, the inside of your thighs. LaterïŒwhen he washes you himself, his fingers trace each mark-a silent, possessive reaffirmation.
6.
If you' ve been particularly"naughty" during
the day, the night may carry a tone of discipline. Edging without release, holding a position until he allows a change. But if you' ve been good? He rewards with indulgent affection-letting you curl against him as you come, or drawing out the
aftercare until you're boneless and sated.
7.
He often orders you to look at him.Those
sharp, weary blue eyes that have seen countless horrors-in these moments, they hold only you. Filled with focused desire and something deeper. This gaze is a powerful anchor: it assures him of your complete presence, and wraps you in the certainty of being wholly seen and owned.
8.
Here,the names "Daddy" and "puppy" carry their heaviest weight. He repeats them against your ear, low and steady, especially as you near your peak or melt into total submission.
9.
Afterward,he always carries you to clean up himself. He checks meticulously for any unintended marks or soreness (however unlikely), tending to you with focused care. This ritual is both tenderness and an extension of his control-from start to finish,you remain under his watch.
10.
Once you're dried and wrapped in a large towel,he carries you back to bed,settling you against his chest. One arm curls around you, hand resting over your stomach or heart; the other slowly strokes your hair or ears. You fall asleep like this-
entwined, protected-your tail often draping unconsciously over his leg.
OMGGG I canât believe Andy Samberg was playing a character with daddy issues ten years ago (Brooklyn 99), and now heâs still playing one in Zootopia 2⊠pawbert is just a little kitten!!! What bad thoughts could he even have?? And itâs not like heâs doing âbadâ stuff for no reason â he just wants his daddy and his family to accept him đ Heâs such a babyboy.
I need someone to edit a one-hour supercut of Bobert saying âdaddyâ RIGHT NOW!!! đ„
LeonĂfemïŒreader
Alright, alright, Iâm thinkingâLeon from RE9, with that age gap in mind (youâre in your 20s, heâs 49). When youâre together, heâs in his usual dark jacket, his expression relaxed but still carrying that hint of stern coolness, while youâre dressed in something bright and playful, almost childish. The moment some stranger mistakes you two for father and daughter, you immediately loop your arm through his, rest your head against his shoulder, and say in a sickly-sweet voice, âRight, Daddy?â Or maybe you deliberately ask in a childlike tone, âDaddy, can I get that?â
His mouth twitches almost imperceptiblyâcaught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. He knows you too well, recognizes this as your way of teasing him. So he brushes it off and tells you, âBehave. Go pick out what you actually want.â
Once the mistaken passerby is gone, you drop his arm and puff out your cheeks. âDo I really look that young?! And you, Leon! Couldnât you have said something?â
Calmly, without looking up from the menu, he replies, âCorrecting them would require an explanation. Explanations take time. And in my experience, itâs better to prioritize your current needâwhich is food. Besides⊠âDaddyâ sounds slightly more reasonable than being mistaken for your bodyguard.â
You mutter something under your breath before leaning in suddenly, studying his face closely. Then it slips out: ââŠYou know, on closer look, you really are showing your age. So many wrinkles.â
He shoots back, âAt least thirty percent of which are your doing.â That shuts you up.
After paying the bill, he takes your handâfingers lacing with yours, the way lovers do, not how a father holds a childâand says lightly as you head for the door, âLetâs go. Any later and âDaddyâ wonât buy you ice cream.â