leon’s an avid shower sex enjoyer. he admittedly gets carried away washing your hair and likes the warm water on his back when he’s kissing down yours. for what it’s worth he says it’s not unsafe if he’s the one holding you up (seems antithetical)
the most he’ll do for a long time is pet your hair when you find yourself on your knees in front of him. he’s somewhat fundamentally averse to being taken care of on an intimate level that a part of him feels like it’s degrading to you. it’d take remarkable persuasion
leon is an unintentional manhandler. don’t make him hold your thighs apart or your hips down unless you want to feel a little insatiable at the feeling of firm muscle. forget it if you’re ovulating
leon holds your heels in reverse cowgirl. it’s a weird habit. he likes to feel close to you but it tickles just a little
he pulls the “so you like me?” shit with a taunting smile when you’re on top of him and telling him he’s so good. what he really wants is your fingers in his mouth to shut him up, who said that??
he has a penchant for making eye contact when he has, in his own words, quote ‘missed you s’bad’, that makes it so hard to keep your hips flat when his face is between your thighs and his hands are pushing up your shirt
leon’s trademark is whispering beside you and asking you to ‘please breathe’ even when he himself is rationing what little remains of his control to not move cause you got a tendency to hold your breath when he’s stretching you out
he always hated getting his scars called cool but he doesn’t mind it when you trace them with your fingertips in missionary. you’d never scratch over the angry abrasions but he feels a little more admired rather than mauled. that being said he secretly wishes you would but that reflects his own odd masochistic proclivities
i have a little bit of disdain for leon's inventory space in re9
Chris finds an interesting picture in your and Leon's bedroom...
based on this request
Chris rings the doorbell, met by the twinkling sound of giddy children, scales of laughter that thumb against the window panes. Then, he hears your voice, calling out for Leon to wrangle up the kids while you get the door. A whole other life happening on the other side of that plank of wood.
The first thing he notices when you open the door is that you’re pregnant…again.
“Hi, Chris,” you cheer with a wide, toothy smile, rising to your tippy toes to wrap a warm pair of arms around his neck, pulling him into as much of a hug as you’re able to give. “It’s been so long. Feels like we haven’t seen you in ages.”
Apparently.
You have always been a beautiful woman. Intelligent, brave, strong. A hell of a soldier from what he can remember. So, it doesn’t surprise him that Leon can’t seem to keep his hands off of you. But to Chris, there’s something borderline abusive about keeping a woman knocked up all the time.
“Hey there.” He says with a weak smile, in turn giving you a kiss on the cheek once you pull away. “Good to see you.”
“Come on in.”
With a wave, you step further into the house, kicking toy trucks and crooked-limbed dolls from your path. “Don’t mind the mess,” you call out from over your shoulder, padding down the hallway as you lead him to the living room. “I swear we cleaned before you came, but these days, it feels like no matter what we do, there’s gonna be a toy to trip on somewhere.”
He chuckles, nearly tripping over one himself. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Leon,” you sing as you round the corner into the kitchen. “Look who’s here.”
Leon’s sitting on a chair, cradling a sleeping toddler in his arms. The baby can’t be more than two years old. Chris does the mental math. Seriously abusive.
“Hey man,” he says at Chris, attempting to wave with the hand that’s cradling the baby’s back. “Let me go put her to bed and we can get this party started.”
There’s a family portrait above the fireplace. One plus two plus two more plus one plus one plus one on the way…
You and Leon do realize that you don’t have to supply working hands for the farm anymore, right? This isn’t the nineteenth century where people had kids because they couldn’t afford workers and seeds had to be sown. Chris shakes those thoughts out of his head, or maybe they’re thrown out by the two children that latch themselves onto his lower legs like monkeys on a branch.
“Woah, hey there.”
“Boys,” you call out with a clap, pointing to the stairs. “I’ve fed you, I’ve washed you. You can get yourselves to bed. Hop to it.”
The boys stumble over their own feet to trek up the stairs.
He turns to you. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Of course,” you say, giving him the directions to the upstairs bathroom, the one connected to your room because it has the highest chances of being clean compared to the ones the children use. Apparently one of the girls is a real Picasso and took to scribbling on the bathroom wall with “washable” markers.
Chris steps into the bedroom, and a wide dresser opposite the bed catches his eye. It’s adored with a drape of picture frames, the entire surface crowded by a purposeful arrangement of memories.
One of them depicts you and Leon on your wedding day. A black and white still of the two of you sitting at the head table, clinking champagne flutes and smiling with all teeth.
Then, an image of you holding your first child. A couple photos of extended family. Grandparents. Cousins. Your college friends. School photos of your children, all dressed and groomed to the nines.
And, in the corner of another wedding photo, tucked in the gilded frame is a polaroid, the edges darkened around a glowing figure. Chris can’t help the way his jaw falls slack and he peels the sticky photo from the frame’s glass pane, taking it in his fingers to inspect closer.
It’s you, reclined on your front, ass in the air, back arched to show off the elegant length of your spine. You’re clothed in a strappy black set–something entirely wicked in the way you grin at the camera. Low lidded bedroom eyes that belong on the cover of a magazine.
“Like what you see?” Leon’s standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame, unable to ignore the strange sensation of pride blooming across his chest.
“Holy shit,” Chris says, keeping his fingers on the photo as he lets out a chuckle. He pivots, showing Leon the polaroid. His friend just laughs, a genuine, rumbling sound straight from the belly. “I get it now, man.”
...with that awful habit of bracing one hand above your head when he leans in to talk to you, not even trying to be seductive, just naturally boxing you in by virtue of being broad and unfair
And you have to look up at him through your eyelashes
And he smells like expensive cologne and gun oil
And maybe it's not an established relationship, so you can't just reach out and touch him...
...but you really want to....
And when you look at his lips like that...he really wants you to
The problem with being low support needs is that people mentally autocorrect that to “no support needs” and then proceed to give you absolutely nothing and then get surprised when you implode after six months.
