summary: making out in the car with re2!leon vs re9!leon. a continuation to "reporting back" if you squint
warnings: suggestive, allusions to car sex
re2:
leon was meant to be dropping you off, that was all. you had a girls date planned, and he had a night shift.
but you had kissed him goodbye and he leaned back in immediately after you pulled away. so you entertained his puppy eyes and kissed him again. and again when his lips chased yours. and again when he asked.
now, he’d asked for "one last one" thirteen kisses ago, but neither of you were in any rush to pull apart anymore. the small pecks were now forgotten for messy, half-coordinated, rushed kisses.
leon was leaned over you, his seatbelt half tangled into his torso as he ran his hands feverishly along any part he could. he'd been trying to do this since before you left.
his teeth were clattering into yours as you kissed, followed by immediate muttered apologies and a copious amount of puppy eyes in hopes of keeping you going.
"leon." you muttered into his lips, tugging his head away from yours with the hand tangled in the back of his hair. you'd done that at least four times now, his tongue stuck so far down your mouth you questioned if he was trying to reach your throat. again.
his nose bumped yours, not withdrawing from his kisses as he apologized, "sorry."
he gave you another look with wide eyes. you sighed at the biblical level of greed, kissing him back anyways.
⊱.˚── ⋅ .✧˚❀˚✧. ⋅ ──˚.⊰
re9:
leon was no one if not greedy with his kisses.
a lot of the man you once knew was gone, in differing ways. he learned patience, to take his time, he didn't hesitate, or hold back out of fear anymore. yet, the glimmer of that rookie still shone through his insatiable hunger.
pulled into a dark, secluded parking lot–because you and him both unanimously agreed the worst part of date night was the stretch of road between your reservations and your house–with one hand fixed on the back of your neck, the other cupped around your face. the location was less about fear–the risk of getting caught was part of the thrill–and more about the fact leon wanted zero chance at interruptions today.
his lips moved against yours with purpose rather than blind urgency, the hand previously on your neck now settled on the small of your back, pushing you deeper into him. you shifted into his lap, humming when leon's face winced at the movement.
"do you need help with that?" your hand lingered right atop his belt.
leon grunted in response, "later." he titled his head towards the backseats. "join me maybe?"
note: overtly freaked out on a friday tbh, i kinda wanna write a full part to both now 'cause this was so short
"leon, can you fold the towels and put them away?" you call from the sink, soap up to your elbows and a pile of not-yet-washed dishes soaking in the sudsy water.
he drops the comic he was reading and unhurriedly rises from the kitchen table, a smirk already pulling at the corners of his mouth. when you finally glance over—eyes subtly (you hope) taking in his low-hanging sweatpants and tight shirt—the shit-eating grin has spread to his whole face. his eyes twinkle at you, all unamused and soapy. you know it's coming before he even opens his mouth.
"show me a tit and we'll see what I can do," he retorts casually. then, he's gone, disappeared to retrieve the clean, warm towels from the dryer to do as you requested. you sigh, looking back down at all the white foam and bubbles with burning cheeks.
he's been so productive and helpful this week. maybe you should reward him for his hard work...?
Genre/cw: smut, somnophilia, mdni, 18+, dirty talk, language, fingering, no plot, badly written, ooc Leon, creampie
Summary : Leon just wants to make sure you feel good even in your sleep.
God — why the fuck were you so wet?
Did you fucking pee in your sleep? But no. There was no way, because you hadn't wet the bed since you were five years old.
anyways, those days were behind you -- and as soon as that thought appears you laugh roughly at the oddness of it and — a choked, breathless sound that doesn't quite clear the fog of exhaustion.
Yet even in sleep, in quiet tiredness, you could feel that trail of wetness slick hot and dripping between your thighs.
Then you hear those — low grunts of his, mumbling your name and you feel that pressure coiling between your legs, something that was pushing inside you, stretching your hole open, and you feel your cunt wrap around something thick and long, and instinctively, your legs fall open, spreading even wider, and you feel the drag of it against your sensitive core, the wet clutch of your hole which tightens around something long hard and strangely bony.
What the fuck—
Finally your eyes flutter open.
And the first thing you see was your bare tits, your nipples hard and peaking, while your t-shirt remained shoved up to your neck.
Then your gaze drifts below, on your cunt, no underwear -- and you groan, a sleepy smile appearing at the corner of your mouth as you realize who it could be, then you see him.
Leon.
Sweaty and utterly disheveled before you.
His pupils blown wide as he hovers over you already naked, his cock free and hard, jutting thick and heavy against his stomach.
His fingers are still buried deep in your cunt, and he curls them with a sly smirk. "Oh," he breathes, his voice rough with restraint as he sees your eyes open. "Pretty girl. You're awake."
"Mm, hi, what time is it, Lee—" He doesn't give you a moment to catch your breath. Instead, he pushes his digits inside until they meet with that spongy spot hidden behind your urethra.
"Leon!" you sleepily grumble, fingers clutching the sheets beneath you in a strong grip, back arching off the mattress.
He only smirks, crooking his fingers and rubbing slow, devastating circles on the roughness that spot carried, "Shh," he croons, watching you squirm. "Don't worry about the time, pretty girl. Worry about how you're gonna come on my hand again."
honestly you had told him yes for this -- when that conversation happened, weeks ago -- when he told you about his somnophilia, and you discussed about your boundaries, his desires, the twisted thing that made him ache.
You'd looked him in the eye and said yes, that he could take you, gave him permission to fuck you like this, unconscious and pliant.
because the truth was you'd agreed to be his, even in sleep, and you had be more than happy -- if he fucked you -- anytime he wanted.
His fingers curl inside you again hitting, that spot that makes your hips jerk involuntarily, and a choked sound catches in your throat, while you're still half-drowned in exhaustion.
your body heavy and uncooperative even as it responds, slicking his hand, clenching around him. "you came for me," he whispers enchantedly, watching your face with dark fascination, "you kept mumbling my name, like you knew it was me, who was finger-fucking you" he groans and withdraws his hands slowly, pushing his fingers out, then drags them through your slicked folds, spreading your wetness over your swollen slit, which makes you jump out of your skin, for a hot second.
"While you were sleeping," he continues, voice low and reverent. "Felt you clench and flutter around my fingers, your walls were spasming so hard, pretty girl."
"I came?" you ask sleepily, swallowing the lump of saliva that seems to gather in your mouth, your voice rough with disuse and lingering dreams.
"Very hard." Then he circles your clit with his thumb, pressing the engorged nub just enough to make you whimper. "Can you do it again. Please."
You gasp out a 'yes,' your back arching off the mattress as the orgasm rips through you —sharp, and absolute.
Your cunt spasms around his fingers finally, and you scream, toes curling into empty air, your walls fluttering like butterfly wings set loose in a garden: soon, something hot and binding builds and releases, pushing out of you in waves that leave you moaning, utterly satisfied. "Go back to sleep now, pretty girl," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand before giving them a clean lick and already positioning himself between your trembling thighs, guiding that thick, hard cock to your soaked entrance. "I've got you."
"Mhm.." you crooned, dazily.
Then without a warning he pushes himself in—splitting your guts open and your eyes roll back in your head.
Fuck the stretch where he is wedged between your legs burns so good, and your body yields around him as he sinks to the hilt, leaning and groaning low and guttural against your neck.
His hips settle heavy between your thighs, forcing them wider, and he stays there for a moment, pulsing inside you, feeling you flutter and adjust around his length. "Fuck, pretty girl, your cunt is so wet."
You were exhausted your conscious slipping barely at the edges then he moves now at first—dragging his cock out almost to the tip, watching your face with dark, hungry eyes, before slamming back in.
The impact shudders through you, your tits bouncing with each thrust, sensitive nipples dragging against his bare chest. He sets a rhythm, relentless and deep, angling his hips to grind against your clit with every stroke.
"Christ, you are dripping for me," he pants, while his forehead drops to yours, sweat dripping from his temples onto your cheeks. "Even asleep, you are responsive like this."
His hands find your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, while he lifts you slightly to meet his thrusts, and your eyes remains closed as you blissfully take him whole.
The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room wet, and obscene mixed with his ragged grunts and your soft, involuntary whimpers.
He snaps his hips harder pacing his cock inside you, chasing his release, and for a moment you feel him drilling endless holes straight into your gut, ripping your womb apart, and you feel every ridge of his cock dragging against your walls, that spot inside you getting pounded over and over. "Gonna fill your womb," he growls, his teeth grazing your jawline. "Fucking lord--."
With one final thrust, he buries himself so deeply that you feel the press of his cock in your belly.
For a long moment he stays there, throbbing and swelling impossibly larger around your walls, while your walls clench around them.
Then finally he spills, his hot, thick, seed flooding you whole as his whole body shudders and jerks emptying himself with a ragged groan against your lips, and your third orgasm rips through you, too, making you jolt awake, and you pant hard. "Fu...Fuck.. Leon, you are a beast."
He chuchkles darkly then his weight collapses onto you, heavy and spent, his cock still twitching inside your soaked cunt. He nuzzles your neck, breathing hard, one hand stroking your hair, "your beast," he corrects, then a soft smile appears at his face, as he didnt just fuck you awake, "close your eyes now" he grunts and presses lazy kisses to your shoulder, still buried in you, sealing his cum deep into your cunt, "I've got you."
and you do — with a satisfied smirk, you finally drift under him, full and completely used and his, while the last thing you feel, before sleep drowns you in is the warm cock of him softening inside you.
‘the girlfriend of the quietest man you know’ (leon x f!reader)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Leon Kennedy leaves a specific first impression. Battle-hardened, stoic. A little sarcastic humor if you’re lucky. But otherwise, calm and collected.
So when they meet you, you’re… unexpected.
At the annual gala, when ties start to loosen, shoes discarded and bags collecting under tablecloths, the lights dimming and the music gaining a little more bass, he’s sat at the table.
Watching you.
Hips swinging with the beat, booty circling. Silly, exaggerated, your arms twirling overhead with a carefree laugh that he couldn’t emulate if he tried.
So noticeable that another agent plops down next to him, beer in hand, his partner dancing with you, your laughter and shouted singing echoing even over the music. “Open bar got yours, too, Kennedy?”
And he huffs a laugh because he gets it, but also: “Nah, she’s stone-cold sober,” with a rare, genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “That’s all her.”
At sporting events, you could set a record for how often the camera finds you in the audience for those “dumb” jumbotron challenges. The ones you insist on participating in with the vigor of someone who believes money’s on the line. And he just sits beside you, smiling beneath his hand. Not in embarrassment, but a deep amusement that simply has no words.
The other side of the coin will sometimes have you openly frustrated in public, voice sharp and hands flailing as you lecture him before pushing against his chest with a gentle shove, stomping off for some much needed space.
He only tilts his head back, pleading to the sky like it can save him. Then he’s shaking it, unable to help his smile as he follows you, scooping you into his arms with ease, his eyes soft and knowing as he grins down at you like he can’t get enough.
his back's to you, a halo of steam above him from the pot on the stove, sweatpants hanging low on his waist, roped muscles on full display.
and his butt. just there, firm, waiting.
your hand acts of its own accord as you pass. a hefty smack, a little squeeze at the curve of his cheek.
something clatters behind you and you're already arching away, squealing. not fast enough, never fast enough, because his hand traps your wrist, his laugh echoing into the small space.
"that all you got?"
and he's pulling you toward him, flat hand up and darting behind you as you twist out of reach, laughter already pushing your abs to their limit.
unsuccessful, he hauls you up and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. too easy.
unfortunately for him, the angle's in your favor. you bury a finger into the space between his cheeks.
he clenches with a yell, hips jutting forward in an attempt to escape.
then you're sailing through the air, couch cushions caving under your back as his full weight comes down on top of you, his teeth grazing just above your collarbone, lips brushing delicate skin.
"leon!" you bat at him. "the noodles!"
he's up before you finish.
the snap of the dial, the squeak of the moving pot, and he's jogging back just as urgently, his mouth meeting yours as you pull him back home with arms around his neck.
Vendetta-Death Island!Leon x Lawyer!Reader | 17.2k
Summary: You’ve had plenty of unfortunate witnesses over the years of working for the DSO’s legal team: somehow, Leon Kennedy is the absolute worst. He listens, abides by your rules, until he knows when he can get under your skin. Leon has an exciting way of toeing the line until you break, and eventually, you figure out why.
Contents: 18+ eventual smut, second person pov, coworkers to lovers, friends to lovers, office romance, mutual pining but Leon is more pathetic about it, angst, alcoholism, romantic and sexual tension, legal inaccuracies, plot with porn, gentle romance, recovery, anxious Leon, hurt/comfort, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, Leon has a praise kink, no use of y/n
Author’s note: First published fic on here and it's SUPER not proofread so let me know if anything is wrong!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3
read on ao3
Leon S. Kennedy has to be the most infuriating witness you've ever had the displeasure of working with.
Which isn't exactly saying a lot. You haven’t been practicing for too long, almost ten years if you were counting, and you'd been offered the position with the DSO legal team five years into your career when you were thirty-two.
It had been a shock. You were still young in the legal world, too young to be taken seriously, but you were damn good at your job. You'd known that since you started law school.
The feeling only solidified as you'd worked with the DSO. You have handled cases that would've made other attorneys sweat, heavy with substance and not enough evidence to prove worthwhile. To be fair, you didn't exactly have a choice on what you took on and what you didn’t, but it was enough of a challenge to keep you sharp, tough, and prepared for the worst.
There were moments that tested you. Your least favorite part of the job was the coaching. The dealing with witnesses, directing what exactly to say and not to say, how to pull themselves together on the stand and not look guilty of whatever was being thrown against them made you want to rip your hair out strand by strand.
Most of the time, you control the reactions well. Field agents and HR employees are used to dealing with people who openly wanted them dead. Those who worked in Logistics, Operations, or Intelligence are not. They're the hardest to work into stoicism.
Usually, the agents are good. Most of them are too exhausted from the vice grip the world has on them to care about sentencing or lawsuits. The cynicism that hangs over them is second-nature. You’ve even requested witnesses from other agencies, and they listened to your extremely important, valuable legal advice.
Except Leon fucking Kennedy.
For some reason, Leon doesn't obey your very clear, stern rules you lay out about presentation and wording. Or maybe he likes being defiant. Maybe he is worn down by the world of bioterrorism in a way that bleeds into the very facet of his being that he doesn't feel any guilt about losing a case.
Maybe, more accurately, he just likes pressing your buttons.
Because he isn't disrespectful and insubordinate all the time. Just when he knows that your eye will twitch, and your chest rattles with a sigh deep enough for your pelvis to feel, and it makes him smirk.
When you first meet, it's in the hell that you call your office. Dark circles cling under your eyes, heavy enough to weigh on your limbs, too, from the countless late nights at the office over the last week.
I love my job, you remind yourself. You love the pliancy of it all. The fact that the crux of your world revolves around how well you can talk, how swift you think in the moment. How you can mold whatever you’re working with into a certain narrative.
At times like this, you really can’t forget how awful it is. How exhausting it is, carrying everything with you, unable to unentwine the concepts of home and work.
Whatever's in your hands is long forgotten as the knock reverberates through your office. You jump. The papers fall through your fingers and land on your desk in a heap.
Fuck. Of course you forgot. You emailed back and forth with an agent from downstairs, someone in the field. Agent Kennedy had returned from a mission three days ago, and he is already back in the office.
It's only ten o'clock, and you somehow felt like the floor was already falling out from under your feet.
“Come in,” you call out, loud enough to be heard but soft enough to where the words didn’t scrape your chest.
The hinges of your door creak open, slowly at first, a reminder that you need to send a request to Maintenance because it is driving you nuts. Every time an intern opens your office it sticks with you like nails on a chalkboard.
You hardly register standing up and smoothing your hands over your slacks, straightening the collar of your blouse like it’s a habit buried deep in your muscles.
He steps tentatively into the room, loafers first, and your breath falls short for just a moment.
You had known Leon Kennedy was an attractive man. You work in a government office: people gossip. Interns whisper, excited that they got a glimpse of the DSO legend, the golden boy who saved President Graham's daughter from Spanish occultists and apparently backflipped while doing it.
Murmurs go through departments, circulating like wildfire, until they reach your office through your coworker, Miles, who drops files by your desk with a small smirk and gives you details quickly, hushed, like he knows you'd be embarrassed to be tied in on office drama.
You knew Leon was hot. You did not know that, despite that fact, he looks so haunted.
The first thing you notice are his eyes. His light blue eyes are surrounded by deeply furrowed brows and lines that seem etched into his skin, echoes of ghosts that cling heavy on his conscience. You wonder for a second how he looked when he was younger. Did he look so angry? So exhausted? Or is that something that comes with the DSO's control of him?
He looks like he wrangles ghosts in the dead of night with willpower and occasionally a pistol.
Usually, this unnerves you. But strangely, Leon seems harmless.
Leon gives you a small smile that somewhat resembles a grimace. His eyebrow is held together with a butterfly stitch and a fading bruise lingers on his jaw. Obviously, he feels like shit. He shouldn't have even been cleared for desk duty yet with the way he's leaning to one side, like bearing the weight fully is too much.
You wouldn't notice if your whole job didn't revolve around attention to detail, but his shirt is slightly untucked and wrinkled, like he didn't have time or care to iron it. Or maybe he was too tired to do so.
He closes the door behind him and approaches your desk, steps unbelievably light considering his broad frame.
"You must be Leon." You hold out your hand, grasping his firmly, and avoid the rush of emotions that come to you when you realize how large he is. "How are you? Can I grab you anything? We have coffee, water, I think tea-"
"I'm fine," Leon replies quickly, convincingly, like the idea of being taken care of is embarrassing. Then, somewhat more gently, he says, "Thanks though."
You squint across the table at him and take a seat, hand reaching out towards your keyboard as you open a document. The agents are easy, you reminded yourself. They take everything in, too unbothered to care about sitting in court.
But his gaze is heavy on you across your desk as he scoots his chair in, and he rests his folded hands on your desk before clearing his throat.
Leon is interesting in a way you can't quite decipher. Your whole life is reading people.
You can't read him.
That fact…makes you sort of nervous.
"I'm sure you've been through this before with Miles so I'll try to be brief." you write down a couple of notes at the top of the document and narrow your eyes in his direction. "I'm surprised you're back so soon. You're healing from a hip injury."
Leon tries to hide his surprise. "Think I'm running them out of PTO."
"Right," you offer him a small smile that does nothing to hide your disagreement with his words. "Let's go over some things before I get too into this."
With a clinical clarity that you typically carried everywhere, but especially in your job, you prompt Leon to tell you, exactly, what happened in North Dakota months ago when he was on an assignment. Logically, you have all of the information you need. There's no way this guy isn't getting sentenced. But it matters how Leon views this case, how he remembers it, because the way he talks on the stand is important.
He recalls the events through furrowed brows, gaze burning a hole into your desk, hands never leaving their spot on the particle board. You never interrupt. You never do, not in the first go of the story, at least. Seeing the spots where he hesitates, where he ponders over his words, was crucial. Because you have to make sure he doesn't do that on the stand.
And there is something interesting about Leon that you don't see in other agents. He cannot hold eye contact, even though his words are clear and level, like he had somewhat rehearsed it, or maybe because he reduces all experiences in his life to terminology akin to a report.
When you think you've gotten a grasp on who he is, his tone shifts, a wall flies up in his mind, and you're back at square one.
"Listen, Agent Kennedy–"
"Leon," he says. "Please."
"Leon," you oblige him. "I'm going to be honest. You are one of the most difficult people to read I have ever encountered. I don't care. But a jury does," you lean forward in your chair and force him to meet your eyes. "Because if they can't read someone, how are they supposed to trust what they say?"
Leon tilts his head a bit, like he is caught off guard by your bluntness. "They probably shouldn't."
"Don't say that on the stand. God, that's horrible." You reach toward your keyboard and type out a couple of notes on Leon: defiant, closed-off, cynical. After consideration, you add a fourth. Sad. "The defense will take hesitation as a lack of allegiance. I don't care if you believe in your job or not. Just don't make it sound like that."
"You…" Leon churns over the words. "You're very upfront."
"I'm good at what I do." You mentally wave his discomfort away. "Go again. From the top. Be more…I don't know. Sensitive? Look like someone a jury could sympathize with."
"Am I?"
"That's up to you."
For the next hour, you give him notes, ignoring the blush that creeps up his neck when you grimace at the tone that bleeds into his testimony at times. You prepare him to answer your questions, ones that had been polished in the dim light of your living room with a horrible reality show droning on your television.
He does well enough. You dismiss him with a, "Get some rest, Leon," and a bottle of water to take to his office downstairs.
You don't think much about Leon Kennedy until the trial comes up a couple weeks later. There was too much to do. You'd figured he'd been on the stand enough times before, with his line of work surrounding breaking federal laws and shooting things.
On the morning of the trial, you look around at your team. "Martina, you okay?" You ask one of the employees you subpoena'd from Logistics. "Hang on, I'll go grab you something. You're too pale."
For most people, the courtroom is an edifice of walnut wood and anxiety, arching doorways and columns of finely-carved mahogany. For you, it's, strangely, comfort. Here, you’re completely in your element.
You slip out of the conference room where your witnesses sit huddled around a table. Your gray pantsuit is tighter than usual, the white blouse under your vest properly pressed, and you resist the urge to undo the top button as it scratches against your neck.
When you return, it is with an armful of water bottles and pockets full of granola bars. You pass them out. When Leon Kennedy grabs one from you, his fingertips brush against yours, and he gives you a small smirk that makes you narrow your eyes suspiciously.
The cut on his eyebrow had faded into a light pink scar and there is no evidence of a bruise on his jaw. He cleaned up rather nicely, too, you notice. The dark blue suit outlines his physique nicely in all the ways that matters. Leon is a large man, no hiding that, but the silhouette of the wool makes him look small enough to seem meek.
Good.
Your eyes scan over the clock on the wall. "Okay, we're starting in fifteen. I'm gonna get out there. Any questions? No? Okay."
At the time, you don't think much of the look Leon was giving you. You probably should've.
When he is called out, he does a decent enough job of answering your questions with the tone you made him practice in your office, words calculated and level, and he actually makes an effort to hold eye contact with you and at times, the jury.
It's hard to ignore the thought that he is really handsome like this, but he is. Especially when he pushes away the harsh edges to his personality that often frighten others. From what you heard.
It is when he is called out for cross examination that you begin to regret not being harsher on him.
"Agent Kennedy- sorry, can I call you Leon?" the defense attorney asks, though he wasn't expecting an answer, which is obvious by the shock on his face when Leon interrupts him.
"No, Agent Kennedy is fine."
You don't like that. Not one bit. And Leon can tell, based on the way his eyebrow raises ever so slightly in your direction.
"Okay, Agent Kennedy, let me ask you some questions about this experience in North Dakota…"
The attorney is grasping at straws. You can tell, because you've had to do it before. There isn't much for him to do besides try to claw himself out of the hole the evidence has dug, because it is so damning. You hadn't been too nervous about the outcome of this case, until right now. Because Leon's posture changes ever so slightly. He leans back in his chair, head upturned, and an easy smirk graces his lips.
"Agent Kennedy," the attorney paces, turning towards the jury intentionally. "Do you enjoy your job?"
You suck in a breath and wait for the answer, which comes without much thought.
"Not particularly, no."
"No?"
"No."
"Why do you keep doing it?"
You stand up, fingertips pressed against the desk. "Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant."
Leon gives a small, almost imperceptible, amused smirk in your direction. This is exactly the perspective you do not want to give: the cocky agent who doesn't care about his job, how he does it, or who gets hurt.
Every detail matters. The way he is sitting matters. He knows that.
The fact that the defense is grasping at straws had been a comfort when you'd already brought in four witnesses and an expert to back the DSO up. Now that Leon is practically handing the straws to them, you start to sweat.
You are pissed.
As far as you know, Leon can absolutely tell. And he is deeply amused by it.
The judge raises an eyebrow in the defense attorney's direction.
He says, "Your Honor, trust me."
"Overruled. You may proceed."
Leon sighs and gives the jury a glance that makes you want to rip him off the stand by his ear. "I… I think that it feels good doing the right thing. There's a lot of bad in this world."
A surprisingly real answer. You adjust in your seat.
"It's also nice seeing my gym membership pay off when I'm doing the right thing."
There it is. The big thing you told him not to do. Joke around. The jury gives a couple of quiet, half-hearted laughs.
You clench your jaw. Hard. It’s enough for Leon to see your disapproval.
The questioning continues, but you don't pay much attention, sometimes offering an objection to a leading question or an answer that was a non-answer. The contempt flooding through your bloodstream drowns out the proceedings.
When the defense lawyer decides he's done, Leon is escorted off the stand. He sends you a small smile as he passes by. You didn't even give him a glance.
What an incredible first impression he's made with you. You had been nice when you were in your office, when you were in the conference room before the trial. You gave him patience.
You were not going to do that again. Because you know this isn't going to be the last time that you have the misfortune of working with Leon Kennedy.
Leon's horrible performance in the cross-examination is not enough to throw the case, thank God, and the jury finds the mercenary guilty on all counts. He is sentenced to forty years in prison.
Which is so fortunate for Leon, considering if you had lost the case, he would've lost the ability to reproduce.
The next day, you storm through the halls of the DSO, footsteps heavy enough to be felt through the floor like an earthquake. Somehow your badge lets you into Field Operations, which doesn't quite make sense and frankly feels like something someone could get in trouble for, so you don't mention it to anyone. Especially since it's fueling a good purpose for you.
It isn't too hard to find his office. The DSO doesn't have too many field agents—hence why they are so extremely overworked and difficult to reach—and the majority of them are out on assignments at any given moment
The light of his office floods into the hallway, door propped and blinds open. His office is on the east side of the building—lucky bastard—meaning that he gets the sun in his office until about noon.
Even though you can see him sitting at his desk, brows furrowed at the computer, file open in front of him, you check the name on the plaque outside of his office just to be safe.
Leon S. Kennedy.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
Your voice is loud enough to make him jump, and if you weren't so infuriated, maybe you'd tease him about his lack of vigilance for being a field agent. He probably has a sidearm in the drawer of his desk, because that is weirdly allowed for him, but he doesn't keep an ear out for those walking down the hall in his department.
Leon barely looks up at you before something like a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "What?"
"Don't what me, Leon Kennedy." You march, boldly, further into his office, standing between the two chairs opposite his desk. "You know exactly what. Do you think it's fun to not listen to me?"
"Kind of, yeah."
You sharpen on him. "I'm being serious."
"So am I." He finally leans back in his chair and gives you a proper look-over. If your blood wasn't already boiling, you'd maybe flush. "You still won. I don't know what the issue is."
"You could've completely," for some reason, you look over your shoulder to make sure no one's near, "fucked that up for me."
"Do you want me to say sorry?"
"No, Leon, I want you to be sorry."
He clicks his tongue. "No can do. It was fun."
"You can't just get on the stand and say whatever you want because it amuses you. That's not how it works."
"Says who?"
Your palms come down to bear your weight on his desk. You hope the height difference intimidates him, but it only seems to further entertain him. "Says me, you dumbass. This isn't funny. This is my career."
"You're highly argumentative."
"My entire job is arguing, Leon. I hope I'd be good at it by now."
Leon interlocks his fingers over his desk. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, which isn't something scandalous enough to tempt you as it is. He tilts his head toward you, and for a moment, remorse flashes through his eye. You think it's like seeing a part of him that's real.
"Okay, fine," he utters. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
“Thank you.”
Finally getting what you wanted, you turn on your heel, feeling Leon’s eyes on you as you begin the trek out of his office.
At the last moment, Leon calls out your name, successfully grabbing your attention. “How did you have clearance to get up here?”
You stop in your tracks. Then, you turn towards him, bracing your weight on the doorframe. “Who knows. Think someone messed up. Don’t say anything, though. I like to snoop.”
He chuckles. “Have fun, hotshot.”
You want to start the fight again. Instead, you curl your lip at him, heels echoing against the tile of the office with a distinct click-clack.
The second time you work with Leon, you think it will be different.
Granted, he shows up to your meeting in a leather jacket with a horrible black box hair dye job, so you don't know exactly what you should expect.
You give him a once-over before commenting, with an extreme lack of sensitivity, “I'm pretty sure you are actively sweating whiskey right now.”
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
"Want me to comment on the hair?"
"Please don't."
Rain splatters the window of your office, making the white room somehow ever more gloomy. You had recently hung some paintings up on the walls and stuffed a cactus in the corner by your filing cabinet, though it doesn't do much to brighten up the space.
Leon is very convincing about changing and listening. He leans into your questions, plays through the scenarios, and even asks his own questions about how to hold himself.
You're…surprised.
In hindsight, he is definitely just trying to get around you interrogating him about his drinking, the dark circles under his eyes, the considerable amount of weight he has lost since you've last seen him, or the way his shoulders slump with something heavier than exhaustion.
Because somehow he already knows that, if he acknowledges it, you will prod until he breaks. And Leon cannot handle breaking in your office.
So, he plays your game. And you play his.
When the time for him to testify comes around, you maybe start to believe that it will be different.
Until he cracks a smile and says, “I mean, I don't think it's fair to call him a criminal.”
Out of the corner of his eye, you shake your head, and a laugh fueled by annoyance leaves your lips. Leon smirks slightly like he enjoys your frustration.
Luckily for him, his testimony isn't enough to sway the jury to deliver a not-guilty verdict.
When you go to work the next day, you don't barge into his office to yell at him. Which, to him, feels worse than when you did.
The DSO headquarters have a way of making you feel like you are in some sort of purgatory.
No matter how often you repeat the I love my job mantra, the feelings creep into the edge of your being, carrying a certain type of shadow you regularly attend therapy to get rid of.
The files that accumulated at the edge of your desk in the days of your absence have been about halved in the time between when you first sit down and when you stand up to get your lunch.
You’d left D.C. for a friend's wedding in the middle of last week, which meant you had three work days away from the office. Somehow, in that time, your desk managed to collect about a dozen files with information for the six cases you were juggling.
Miles is on paternity leave, which leaves you with double the amount of work you normally handle and a horrible, aching pain in your chest at the fact that you were not yet married or pregnant.
Which, frankly, doesn't make sense, as you never particularly valued those things until you turned thirty. But everyone around you is celebrating milestones, and every time you open your phone and see a new post on Facebook, you want to crawl into a hole and die.
The day is a blur and you're running out of steam. Information bleeds together. Things that usually stuck with you like cattle branding fall through the cracks. Every so often, you get pages into a report and realize you had no idea what you’d just read.
Around three o'clock, a timer goes off on your desk, a horrible screeching sound that makes you wince.
Meeting with Leon in 10.
Fucking hell. Just when you think it can't get worse.
You reach over and grab a handful of files, a pink tab in the corner indicating which case they were for. Even when absolutely drowning in work, you have a system that makes your life functional.
The elevator in the DSO doesn't even play music as it descends. It feels sort of purposeful, like they limited the amount of life that could be had within the building, the amount of joy that could be felt. You'd take jazz over silence any day.
The doors open. You take a turn to the left, then the right, then pull your badge away from its home on your belt. With a green light and the buzz of an unlocked door, you're into Field Ops.
You don't even knock on Leon's office, which is a fact that flies past you as you open the door and shut it behind you.
The smell is what hits you first. Cologne is the strongest, a dark, woodsy scent that does little to hide the lingering stench of B.O., and whiskey that sticks to him.
When you turn around, you can't help the shocked "What the hell are you doing here?" from leaving your mouth.
Leon falters. His mouth opens and closes like he's finding the words. "Uh. This is my office?"
"No, Leon, I mean here. At work. Why are you here?"
"I'm…getting paid?"
You sharpen your gaze on him. "Obviously." The files fall against the grain of his desk. You gesture towards the bandage around his arm, at the blood that has dried on his shirt since he got back from a mission this morning. "You're hurt."
"When am I not?"
"I can try to work something out to get you some time off. God knows you probably need it."
"I'm fine," Leon responds, which pulls at a certain string in your heart you thought you'd buried years ago, and the realization that you care has you wringing your hands together. "Let's talk about the case."
Begrudgingly, you do, though you get up halfway through your coaching to yank the cords on the blinds and push a large opening into the window to get some sunlight and fresh air into the cramped space. Leon doesn't hide his grimace well.
"Head pounding, champ?" You comment before pulling your chair back in. Someone honks on the street below. Leon doesn't reply. "Good. Stay focused."
You return to the files in front of you with an impressive amount of precision. Leon smiles at you, and it's the first time you've seen him smile in months.
Leon pushes your buttons and goes off script. You win the case. You can't particularly say you hate his antics anymore.
This is the tenth time Leon has helped with one of your cases, and he's starting to feel pathetic.
He is thirty-eight years old. The black dye is fading from his hair, though Helena tells him that it's probably not going to go back to his usual blonde until it grows out. He still spends every night drinking until he falls asleep.
On days that he knows he has a meeting with you or a hearing at the courtroom, he wakes up a little easier. When he gets to see you, he goes to bed feeling lighter.
Leon Kennedy has a crush and he is pushing forty.
It's something he realized after probably case number five, though he was caught off guard by your beauty the second he met you.
Your office faces the west, meaning that you have sunlight in your office from about noon to when it sets, and you were cast in an insane ray of light that made you look heavenly when he barged into your office for the first time.
Now, he prefers when you come up to meet him and you have the sun on your face. He likes seeing your jaw tick when you're mad at him, or the smile that prods at your lips when he offers you a snack in the form of a stale granola bar from his desk.
You don't say anything when he buys a new box and the stale granola bars suddenly taste new.
Leon is pushing forty, and he asks Helena Harper that afternoon if you have a boyfriend.
It's in the breakroom and Helena has a forgotten paper cup of burnt coffee discarded to the edge of the counter as she hammers away at a report. Leon sits across from her, silent, as he pushes around whatever he brought for lunch with a fork.
When he asks it, Helena almost chokes on her own spit. "Leon Kennedy. Are you serious?"
"She's not married," he elaborates, like it helps his case. "There's no ring."
"Oh my God." She leans back in her chair. "You can't be serious."
"Embarrassed enough already, Harper."
"You like her. She complains about you all the time and you like her."
Every word is punctuated enough to feel like a punch to his ego. "Yes, Helena. Can you answer my question?"
After a couple seconds, she leans back and looks at the ceiling. "No. She does not. Hasn't for years."
Leon almost asks how she knows that part, then remembers that the two of you are somehow friends. Like, outside-of-work friends. Go-to-each-other's-houses friends. Which didn’t always make sense to him. You were too…not like Helena. Soft in ways that mattered, rigid in ways that sometimes didn’t.
"She really can't stand you, Leon."
"I know."
"So what's your plan here?"
Leon gives a small smile and his usual, cocky charmer persona slides into place. "I don't have one. That's what makes this fun."
So, Leon ends up in your office. Ever since Miles returned from paternity leave, your workload has halved, and it is apparent in the way your shoulders are straighter and the pinch to your eyebrows have somewhat eased. The top buttons of your blouse are undone, showing a tempting amount of skin and bone. The gold pendant of your necklace hanging in the hollow of your throat almost makes his jaw drop.
He thinks you look beautiful.
Which isn't a new revelation, just one he lets himself entertain before you go into work-mode, all focused words and narrowed eyes.
"Can you grab some papers I just printed?"
“Hello to you, too.”
You don’t look up. “Yes, Leon, hello. Can you please grab the papers for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He turns down the hallway back to where he came, and swiftly grabs the stack of paper off the printer. Miles is in his office with someone who definitely has never been inside of the DSO headquarters before, and when he catches Leon’s eyes his brows raise in a hey man, what’s up? gesture that Leon returns without much thought.
Leon shuts the door to your office and drops the papers onto your desk, which evidently you don't like, as you gather them up before they can flutter askew with the air. You let out a huff of breath and turn your attention to your computer.
"You mad at me or something?" Leon asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
A smile, or something close to it, pulls at the corner of your mouth. "I always am. You know that."
"Yeah, whatever."
The look he gives you across the walnut desk is impossibly soft, and you are not stupid. You shift slightly in your seat, spine tingling, and open a folder on your desk, trying desperately to pretend that Leon is not the most attractive man you've ever laid eyes on.
When the two of you first met, he was obviously going through some shit, with the horrible dye job he gave himself, the eyeliner, and the remarkable amount of weight he lost.
Something changed between then and now. He packed on weight again, and though some of his pants still look too small, you think it is unbelievably hot. The black hair is growing out into his usual dusty-blond, which brought a youthfulness to him that you really enjoy.
He doesn't come into work smelling like whisky and regret anymore.
Bottom line: Leon is doing better. And it looks good on him.
Instead, you clear your throat and say, "Should I even bother with the usual lecture?"
"Definitely not," Leon leans forward in his chair. Something is different about him, even though you can't exactly place it, which as usual, makes you a little unsettled. "Can we just go around to the questions? I don't necessarily need to jog my memory here."
"Leon, if I'm thinking correctly, it seems like you don’t want to spend time with me."
"I'm thinking that I have a hot date with my couch, a shitty movie, and a twelve pack of beer. Nothing to do with you."
"What's your movie of choice? I bet you love a rom-com."
Leon immediately flushes red. "Absolutely not."
"You probably always side with the men. Especially when the woman overreacts about it."
"Sounds like you know a lot about rom-coms."
You give him a look. "Sounds like someone is dodging the question."
"Speculation."
"Leon, you can't just throw in courtroom objections when you're losing an argument and backed into a corner."
"Are we arguing?"
You run your tongue over your teeth and ignore that he follows the movement with his eyes. "No. We're riffing. And wasting time. I had you grab some papers that are going home with you."
Leon lifts an eyebrow. He didn't even bother to look at the contents of the hefty stack when he took them from the printer. "You're giving me homework on my rom-com and booze night?"
"So you admit it's a rom-com." You narrow your eyes and a triumphant smirk stretches across your lips. Leon smiles, half knowing you snatched him in a trap, half knowing he walked in willingly. "But yes. I'm giving you homework."
You can't pinpoint when this, exactly, began. The joking. The banter, the light-hearted jokes that ate too much into your meeting times. But you don't…hate it. So you don't stop it.
You spend the next half-hour going over information and clarifying his answers. He always gets tense, like most of his life isn't about performance. You'd read the reports that you definitely did not need to acquire clearance for, but applied for access because you were curious. Evidently, they don't really know what you do in the legal department, because you haven't been rejected yet.
Leon is still an enigma to you. At times, truly seeing him is like looking through glass, so glaringly obvious it sometimes hurts your head. Most of the time, though, it's like wading through thick mud, the answers buried deep below. He smiles at you in such a charming way that it's nearly possible to forget all of the times that he pissed you off in the courtroom.
The case you're working on is a huge one, one that will result in either the sentencing or acquisition of a DSO executive with conspiracy and securities fraud. You are not usually stressed about work, but this one has you a little uneasy. Rarely are you a defense lawyer, and rarely are you unsure of whether or not your client is lying to you.
Leon makes you nervous in a way that makes you reconsider even putting him on the witness stand, but his perspective is really important. He helped found the DSO and has been working in bioterrorism for over fifteen years.
Either way, you're rolling a dice here. And hopefully Leon doesn't fuck this up for you.
When Leon leaves your office, it's with a small wink and a manilla envelope tucked under his arm. You hold off your smile and blush until he's far, far away, and Miles shakes his head at you when he catches your eye in the crack of your door.
You don't see Leon again until the hearing, and he touches you for the first time in the conference room in the courthouse when his fingertips ghost against the small of your back as he passes by to use the restroom.
It lights you on fire in a humiliating way, the heat coursing through your veins in the confines of the courtroom intense enough to make you down a Gatorade from a vending machine. You don't even like Gatorade.
Once Leon is on the stand, you think you have it secured. Maybe giving him homework is good.
The confidence is short-lived, however, until prosecution cross-examines him and he begins to explain how the DSO itself has corrupt ideals that bleed into the executives, and that the government itself is concealing so many things that would make the world stop. He doesn't stop talking, even when you give him a look so intense, he can feel it in his bones.
You can't hear most of it through the rush of blood in your ears. You are going to kill him. He's not wrong, to give him a little bit of slack. Like any government agency, the DSO glosses over life-ending, horrific events with an efficiency that surprises you. The morality of it hangs with you at times.
You lose track of how many times you object. It's enough to get a scolding from the judge, and when you sit down, the floor sways under you.
For once, Leon looks apologetic on the stand. You want to strangle him.
You lose the case.
The director sits you down in his office to discuss your position, though it's not in a 'you're-getting-fired' way. Just a 'you're-being-monitored' way, which is somehow worse.
You take two weeks off and barely get out of bed.
Miles brings you food about six days in.
He didn’t call beforehand, which doesn’t surprise you. Miles has always been that kind of guy. But he knocks on your door, firm, and for half a second you’re worried it’s Leon.
When you look through the peephole, your shoulders drop an inch with relief.
“Miles,” you mutter as you open the door, wearing your Very Hungry Caterpillar t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. Your hair has… seen better days.
Miles says your name and his gaze flickers fleetingly over your appearance. For being a lawyer, he has a horrible poker face, which was one of the first things you ever said to him. It’s probably why he’s predominantly a civil court attorney and not a criminal one.
“Hey,” he finally says. When you look down at his hands, the tin-foil covered Pyrex dish steals your attention. “I told Angie what happened. She wanted to do something nice.”
Angie is Miles’s wife that he met five years ago when she rear ended him at a red light. She’s a teacher. Elementary school. They dated for two years, then got married when they hit three. You weren't a big crier, but you had to wipe some tears away at their wedding. They welcomed their first child months ago and you’ve never seen Miles happier.
They’re the textbook happy, married couple, and as happy as you are for them, you’re a tad bit resentful, too.
It’s also funny to you that Miles blames the act of kindness on Angie, when you know that he’s definitely the one who proposed the idea.
You let it pass. Embarrassed Miles is worse than Nonchalant Miles.
“Thanks,” you say, and when he passes you the dish, it’s warm under your hands. Freshly made.
You really, really don’t deserve them.
Out of courtesy, you ask, “How is she? And Liam?”
“Oh, they’re amazing.” Miles gives you a smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, comfortably, like he doesn’t mind standing on your porch when it’s eighty degrees. Somehow, he never shies away from intimacy. “Liam’s sitting on his own now. It’s great.”
“That is great,” you say, and even though it is, you still sound far away.
Miles’s gaze hardens slightly and he tilts his head. He’s five years your junior, and you never really think about it until he looks so young. “How’ve you been?”
You swallow hard. “Fine. I think I’ve watched half of Pretty Little Liars.”
“Oof,” Miles winces. “It’s been six days. That’s…gotta be a record.”
“Whatever. I’m depressed. I deserve it.”
Miles raises his eyebrows in a sure gesture, then his shoulders stiffen slightly. “He’s been asking me about you.”
Suddenly, you regret having this conversation on the porch. You feel so exposed. But having Miles inside of your house is much, much worse than standing in the heat.
You don’t have to ask who. “What’ve you been saying?”
“That you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
“The three thousand hours of shitty T.V. says otherwise.”
You can’t argue against it being shitty. “Whatever.”
Miles pops the joint of his ankle and you barely even register it before he sighs and says, “He’s worried.”
“I think you’re worried.”
Your coworker looks like he wants to walk off the porch. “Yes, I’m worried. It’s not bad that people care about you. Even if it’s me and Leon Kennedy.”
The words hit deep. The casserole dish is making your arms ache, but that’s not primarily what wants to get you off of this porch and back in the solace of your bed. It’s the panic rising in your chest, a familiar sensation that would have your hands shaking if not for the Pyrex.
One of Miles’s hands reaches out and grazes the fabric of your Hungry Caterpillar shirt before his hand locks onto your shoulder with an unyielding strength. “Just keep me updated, okay? Once in the morning and once at night. To let me know you’re fine. But if you’re not, send me the word apricot. I’ll be here.”
You would be crying if your body wasn’t entirely depleted of its water intake. This is pathetic. You’re almost forty pouting on your porch while your younger coworker comforts you.
Either way, you nod in compliance. Miles gives you a big hug like he’s used to it (which is really weird, considering you don’t exactly hug much) and then retreats back into his car.
The casserole Angie made you is the best you’ve ever had. You fall asleep with the dish on your nightstand and the light from Pretty Little Liars bleeding into the stillness of the night.
When you return to work, there's a bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase on your desk with a note attached to them.
You don't have to look at the card in the bouquet to know who they're from. They're mostly lilies, reds and whites, which is a strangely accurate piece of information that he couldn't have just guessed. It makes you think that one of your friends is a mole who somehow has a soft spot for Leon Kennedy.
With a huff, you push the vase to the corner of your desk and pull your folders out of the briefcase you house them in, diving into your work in the only way you know how: head-first.
It only takes an hour into the day for Leon to show up to your office. He knocks on the door, soft, tentative, so much like the first time you met him that it makes your chest clench with deja-vu.
You don't invite him in, though he opens the door anyway.
"I don't want to talk to you." The words leave your mouth before you can find a way to sugarcoat them a bit. Usually, you try not to be so harsh with him. He can be sensitive. Your family used to tell you that it's very good for the world that you didn't become a therapist.
Leon doesn't listen to your words, and instead closes the door behind him and pulls out the chair across from you.
"Leon. I'm serious. I do not want to talk to you."
He says your name like a plea, and for a moment, you forgive him. Then, the anger rushes through you like water breaking through a dam, and the walls fly back up. His eyes are so blue in your office and it takes a great deal of effort to not look at them. "Please. I'm sorry."
You scoff at the papers you're marking up with a red pen. "I've heard that one before."
"I mean it this time."
"You didn't mean it all the other times?"
Leon's getting frustrated. You can see it in the way his neck turns pink and his hands grow restless. In the large chair he's sat in, he looks impossibly small. "I did. I do. You know that."
"Do I?"
He clears his throat. "I know you're mad—"
"That is the understatement of the century."
"I know I fucked up, and that I pushed it too far, and that—" his head tips down to see your eyes that are burning holes into the paperwork. "—can you please look at me?"
You do, and the sight almost breaks your composure. In the years you've known Leon, he has never looked at you like this. You can't place it. His brows are pinched together and his eyes are pleading with you in such a gentle way.
"I'm so, so sorry. I hate that I did this to you. You don't deserve it, you never have. And I…I feel so bad that I put your career on the line."
The words are so genuine and imperfect and so him that it finally breaks you. With a breath, tears blossom on your waterline and you look up at the ceiling to try to keep them at bay. Leon, for once, looks like he does not know what to do.
"Close the blinds," you order through the thick emotion in your voice, something tired and humiliated at the fact that he's seeing you cry. "Don't want the interns having more to gossip about."
"Oh, no, we can't have that."
Leon gets up and yanks at the cord of the blinds, pulling both sets shut before he scoots his chair around to your side of the desk. He takes care to not let the legs scrape against the cheap laminate. Somehow, he knows that bothers you.
You open a drawer to your desk and snatch a tissue out of a box and dab at the tears before they can fall. "Leon, I know you don't always get it because this is such a small part of your job. The courtrooms, and testimonies, all of it. But this is my life. And I know it's fun for you to fuck with me but…" you swallow hard. "I am damn good at what I do. And it's so unfair that you did this to me."
Leon wants to reach out and touch you. His finger twitches with the urge, but he doesn't act on it. Instead, he lets you cry. Somehow, you still have tears left after the last two weeks. Not a lot, but enough to make Leon's chest clench.
His elbows rest on his knees and he looks up at you like a sinner being forgiven. He's not, not yet, at least, but this is a good start. You'd truly forgive him once he started listening to you.
You don't know when your relationship with Leon changed from that first time in the courtroom. You still didn't really get along with him all the time, but between now and then, he seems to understand you a little better. Which, to be honest, is a little ridiculous. The most time you've spent together is hour-long meetings in the restrictions of your walnut-clad offices with stale air.
It's the most seen you've felt by anyone in a long time.
You don't realize you've been sitting in silence until he says your name, delicately, like he can't bring himself to do it any other way. "I'm sorry. I really am."
For the first time, you believe his apology. But it's too much, too overwhelming, having Leon in your office, inches away from you, looking at you like that when you were so fucking mad at him.
The words are heavy as they leave you. "I think I want you to leave, Leon. Thanks."
Leon has not felt guilt like this since he was twenty-one.
It feels stupid to admit, but it's true. At least he thinks it is. The game he played with you was fun when you always came out on top, and he looked a little dumb. But it's not the case now. Now that your eyes are red and you've tracked tears into your makeup, he feels like the most awful person on the planet.
He doesn't drink, though. No, he knows you don't approve of that. You'd been hungover before one of your meetings, just once, and something tells him you aren't a big drinker. That, coupled with all of the comments you make in passing when you can tell he had a rough night. Somehow, you can always tell.
He likes that you're so perceptive. He supposes you should be used to it by now, but it still manages to catch him off guard when he meets your eye and feels stripped bare.
Leon cries to Helena over dinner once before you return to work. She laughs at him and calls him stupid.
The next case Leon is subpoena'd for is a petty sentencing for someone he'd brought into custody months ago. Well, petty might not be the right word. Insensitive. But it happens a lot, and most of the assignments blend together.
It's almost summertime, and the window in his office is cracked open enough to get some fresh air in the room. He never used to do that before…well, before you.
On the way to his office, you stop into Helena Harper's, and you giggle loud enough that Leon can hear it from his ergonomic desk chair.
If he could bottle sound, this is one he'd like to keep. Your laugh.
So, this is salvageable, he thinks.
You don't knock. To be fair, you never do. It doesn't really matter, since the door is open, but you walk in, hurried, like you own the place.
As a matter of fact, you do this everywhere you go. Fill up space. You have quite a presence.
It’s one of Leon’s favorite things about you.
You drop your files on his desk and pull out your computer. For once, you have your glasses on—a couple of months ago you told him the computer screens gave you headaches. They frame your face nicely. It’s his first time seeing you with them, and it makes Leon feel probably too turned on.
You sit down without even looking at him.
“Hi,” Leon offers, gently.
“Yes, hi, Leon.” you hit some keys on your laptop. “You’re staring.”
"Hard not to."
Finally, you look at him, thoroughly unimpressed, though he has a proud smirk and a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Ha ha. Can we talk about work?"
Leon tilts his head back. "Ah. My least favorite subject."
"Leon, I need you to listen to me this time." You lean forward in your seat, enough to try to grasp his attention from the spot on the ceiling. "Look at me. My job might be on the line. I can't…I can't do that again."
Leon meets your eyes with a look that is sort of foreign to you. At least on him. You've seen it before in bars, clubs, in law school whilst buried in books at a library, but not ever in the DSO headquarters. It's…soft. Longing, maybe, if you read into it.
"I have a proposal," he says, and the way he laces his fingers together on his desk makes your hands itch towards your papers, the keyboard, anything. "I'll be good."
Your stomach twists. "Oh, God. There's a but. Or an if."
"If," he emphasizes like you did, "you let me take you out on a date."
There is no fucking way. You know Leon is cocky. You've worked with him long enough to hear it firsthand. This is next-level douchebag behavior that you hadn't expected from him.
But when you look at him, it doesn't look like he's trying to be a dick. Or just trying to get in your pants. His eyes are too soft, his brows too relaxed. He seems… genuine. It makes heat flash through you.
You sigh. "Leon, I'm being serious."
Leon smirks in a way that reminds you of the first time you met him, when he was a little more broken, more desperate for connection. Maybe more earnest, too. "So am I."
"I could report you to HR."
He doubles down. "You could. Or you could let me make it up to you."
You want to argue. One of your major rules about working in an office is to never, under any circumstances, date your coworkers. There are (somehow) too many people with too much time on their hands, who want nothing more than to stir up drama. Miles is embarrassingly one of them. Weirdly, a lot of ladies in Intelligence, too.
You want to say no. Your brain is hardwired for logic, and there's no way to avoid that the majority of the paths Leon and you could go down would not end well. Nothing sounds worse than having to sit in this office with him if things fall through.
But a part of you manages to come in through the noise of what's reasonable to say, but maybe this could be nice.
Leon is an extremely good man. He's kind, too, if you avoid the times he borderline commits perjury to get a rise out of you. And something in you likes that he waited to do this until he was…better. Until he didn't roll out of bed and throw on his clothes, still reeking of vomit and alcohol from whatever hour he stopped drinking. If he stopped drinking. For some reason, you appreciate that.
You haven't had a nice date in awhile. Or a nice man in your life.
And you like Leon. God, you really do like him. It's possible that's why you were so upset over losing that case, because you felt so betrayed by him. As much as he gets under your skin, and is annoying and insubordinate and borderline rude, you feel a stupid sort of affection towards him, because you have a slight feeling that you understand him better than anyone else.
So, you ignore every instinct in your body that has your skin prickling, and say, "Fine."
He seems to celebrate a little bit, by the way his hands reach back into his lap to twiddle with his thumbs, like he always does when he is a little bit nervous, but a bit giddy, too.
"But," you interject. "I plan. You pay. I'm picky about my dates."
"Deal," he responds without hesitation. It makes your stomach flutter.
Leon reaches a hand across the walnut desk and waits for you to shake. Your palms connect, and his is a little bit clammy. You smile at him, a real, excited smile.
"We're doing lunch. Casual. I'm going to wear jeans and a t-shirt, because I'm tired of dressing up every day. We'll go to some pub with awful, greasy American food that will most definitely sit in my stomach wrong and I'll complain about it the whole time. No movies. Something… I don't know. Fun. Exciting."
"All of your requests are completely doable."
"I know. I don't fight for things out of reach."
"You do that all the time," he reminds you. "In court."
"Well, I always reach them, don't I?"
He tries to smother a smile. "Yes. Yes, you do. Saturday sounds okay?"
"Fine. I'm half doing this because I want to, half because I know the DSO will take your side if I refuse and report you to HR."
Leon gives you a deadpan look. "You would never. Bethany intimidates you."
"Bethany should intimidate everyone," you whisper, on the fact that the blinds are still open and these offices are absolutely not soundproof. At least, yours isn't. Maybe Agent Kennedy is an exception to the cheap government infrastructure. "She has the eyes of the devil. I swear."
"Whatever." The words are squeezed out through his teeth as Leon gives you a big smile. "Let's talk about the case. Gotta have time tonight to draft an itinerary tonight."
"Have you ever drafted an itinerary, Leon?"
"No." He shrugs. "But you have. Plenty of times, I'm sure."
You roll your eyes and open a document on your computer, pretending like the excitement swimming in your bloodstream doesn't make you feel twenty years old again.
You get a text around eight o'clock from an unknown number. You're in bed, pajama-clad, with a facemask drying and a Diet Coke in your hand. You sip it from a straw.
Hey. It's Leon. Got your number from your file in HR.
You grin at the screen and write out a text in record time. I see we're just violating employee code of conduct left and right.
The bubble takes way too long to disappear before you get the next message. Leon is not tech-savvy, and it sometimes makes you snicker at him.
Technically, I pulled some strings. Ingrid is especially helpful.
I don't see how this isn't proving my point. You could've just asked Helena. You two are close. You just wanted an excuse to see that photo of me from when I was thirty.
You can imagine the look on Leon's face and it brings a stupid amount of warmth to your chest. Dumbfounded Leon might be your favorite Leon. But maybe Date Leon will take the cake soon.
You aren't sure when this happened. The contentment with Leon. At first, you had been annoyed by him asking you out, even though he was long forgiven. But you were far from dumb—it was painfully obvious Leon has liked you for a long time. He’s not good at hiding it.
You also can’t exactly pinpoint when he became so transparent to you. The first few times you met, he was painfully closed-off.
Finally, Leon replies. Yeah, whatever. I need your address to pick you up on Saturday.
You didn't pull that from my file while you were snooping around in there, too?
Can only do so much with what limited connections I have here.
The idea that Leon S. Kennedy has “limited connections” anywhere makes you roll your eyes. I'm a little concerned about your lack of thoroughness for being a world-renowned fed, Kennedy.
This bubble comes faster. I hate that you just called me a fed.
The laugh tears out of your throat before you can stop it. It's probably the first time your house has heard your laugh in months, and it echoes off the wall and almost scares you. Your cat, Barty, jumps up next to you, looking slightly concerned at the sound, before letting out a comfortable chirp and curling up next to you.
You ARE a fed, you reply, and your thumbs move in circles above your keypad as you think out the next one.
Leon beats you to it. FED sounds so gross. I'm an agent.
That sounds worse. Like you're James Bond. Which you're not. They dropped you in Spain with a full magazine and a dream. I'm surprised you had enough gusteau to backflip.
Leon's reply takes a second. You hope it's because of your use of the word "gusteau." How do you know that?
You hope he can feel your smile through the screen. I get the office gossip too, Leon. I know all your dirty secrets.
For some reason, you snap a picture of Barty, belly-up, against the green fabric of your comforter, and press send.
Sorry to cut the party short but Barty and I must retire to our chambers. I'll see you on Saturday. Don’t be a stranger.
You send him your address and turn your phone on silent, not letting yourself see his response, or else you'll be up all night, grinning like a teenager.
Leon is pushing forty, and he thinks he’s going to throw up.
Earlier in the week, he had sent back: Barty is a horrible name for a cat. What’s his full name? Barthes? Bartholemew?
He didn’t think much about asking you out until it happened. For being a government agent, he sure does have a lot of anxiety issues. Shannon, his appointed therapist, talked him off of a ledge yesterday when he wanted to cancel from sheer panic. He’s almost forty, and he hasn’t been on a real date in well over ten years. Which…is kind of sad. But he wasn’t the type of man to date back then. He wasn't someone who could be a partner.
You make him want to be different. Which, for the most part, is why he stopped drinking.
Well. He mostly stopped drinking.
He’s not a liar.
You, on the other hand, never seem nervous about a thing. The only signs he picks up on when you’re uneasy is the muscle in your jaw and the way your fingers twitch, like they’re itching for something to grab.
Leon’s dabbing away sweat from his forehead with a towel in his bathroom and holding an ice cube in his hand when you call.
It’s a sudden sound, one so jarring he almost jumps out of his skin. Humiliating for a government field agent, but whatever. His phone almost vibrates off the table before he grabs it and answers before he can compose himself.
“Hello?” He asks shakily.
“Hey,” your voice crackles through the speaker of his iPhone 4 like it’s a casual Tuesday. “Need your input. Is this a graphic band-tee occasion or a…something else.”
Leon pulls himself together to crack a small smile. “I cannot believe you own a graphic tee.”
“It’s practically the entirety of my closet besides my work clothes.”
He’s surprised by this for a second, until he’s not. He guesses it makes sense. Under your hard-ass exterior, you probably feel very passionately about your hatred of synth music.
“Wear a band tee. I’ll be in linen.”
“Oh, you are so annoying. I’ll be in an Alicia Keys tee shirt and you’re wearing linen?”
He blinks. “I don’t see the issue.”
“Leon, you are already extremely out of my league. You can’t look better than me.”
“I guarantee that I never look better than you. Plus, we’re getting burgers. It’s not like we’re meeting the Queen.”
Leon doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, and it’s especially true right now. In what world is he more attractive than you?
“Whatever,” you concede, obviously getting flustered, but Leon can only tell because he knows your voice too well. “What’s your sitrep? I can be ready in 15.”
“First of all: I can’t believe you just used sitrep semi-correctly. Second of all: I’m about to leave.”
Leon absolutely is not. He is trying not to hyperventilate in his bathroom, with his perfectly steamed shirt hanging behind him, waiting to be put on. The ice cube has successfully turned his hand numb and is fully melting through his vice grip.
“Just text me when you’re on the way,” you say, and then lower your voice gently. “And Leon? You don’t have to be nervous. This isn’t make-or-break. We’re good.”
It’s the first time you’ve said we’re good since he lost you that case. The words feel like sun on his face, warm and forgiving, and the cage around his chest loosens enough to get a good breath in.
“Okay. I’ll be there soon. Text you when I’m on the way.”
“Bye, Leon.”
He hangs up and dries his hands. When he turns around, he considers what you said about his blue linen shirt, but disregards it. Hastily, he buttons it up, fingers somehow no longer shaking, and when he gives himself one last glance in the mirror, he feels okay.
Better than okay. Good. Excited.
You throw open the door when Leon knocks and promptly turn the other direction, leaving him to utter, "Uh. Hi?"
"Come in!" you call behind you, and he tentatively steps into your foyer. "Gimme a sec. I just need…" your voice fades away as you duck into a room.
Leon is abandoned in your home. He tries not to stray far away from the spot he's been invited into. Your place feels… comforting. It’s clean, but lived-in, and there’s that lingering scent of jasmine that usually follows you around prevalent in the air.
Something chirps underneath his feet, and when he looks down, there's a small, grey cat twisting around and rubbing against his calves. Barty, he remembers.
"Hey, buddy." Leon crouches and lets Barty sniff his fingers, his voice going an octave higher. "How are you?"
Barty meows and thrusts his head into Leon's palm. With a gentleness Leon didn't know he had, he scratches Barty under the chin and behind the ears.
"I see the terrorist of the household has you fooled," you say as you shove an earring into your ear, evidently what you were looking for. "He's evil."
"You're his lawyer. Whose side are you on?"
When Leon finally looks up at you and away from your cat, surprise flashes through his eyes. You're wearing, as promised, your Alicia Keys Song in A-Minor t-shirt, which is french tucked into your jeans.
It's the most casual you've ever been around him. And, Leon thinks, the most beautiful. Relaxed.
He wants to say something. You’d be stupid to not realize.
"This is not my client," you deny, though you have a grin on your face. You reach out and grab your purse from the console table by the front door. "Okay, let's go. Stop coming onto him, Barty. He doesn't want you."
Leon hides a smile at that and smoothes his hands over his jeans once he stands. A habit.
You lock the front door behind you once you manage to pry Leon away from your cat. You hate that he's in linen, but God, he does look really good. He always does, which isn't fair, but something about seeing him in jeans and a shirt fit for Grecian sunsets is enough to have you… considering things.
You are almost forty years old. You’re not admitting that Leon’s turning you on just by existing.
You land eyes on his car. “Leon.”
“Hm?”
“This is your car?”
He smirks. “I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”
“You are a federal agent. You make probably triple what I do. You drive a Buick from 2002?”
Leon opens the passenger side door for you and gestures for you to sit down. “I know what I like. And I like this Buick.”
You really, truly, severely misjudged Leon Kennedy.
And you are still trying to be a stick in the mud about this date. But in all honesty, you were really looking forward to it. Your friends joke that you’re married to work, with how often you take cases home to mull over with a glass of wine. It’s nice to… be normal.
That, and the fact that Leon’s stupid smirk makes your stomach flip, is making it hard to act annoyed.
You duck into the sedan and Leon makes sure you're secured before he closes the door. On the inside, the car is polished clean and looks recently vacuumed. Part of you wonders if Leon keeps it like this, or if he cleaned it up for you.
Leon hands you his phone. "Play whatever you want."
You stare at the device in your hand. "This is powerful."
"That is a phone with my Apple Music open."
"An unlocked phone has power. Plenty of evidence."
"You're a lawyer. Everything is evidence to you."
He's not wrong, so you shrug, and he puts the car in reverse. "Fair." You go to the search bar and say, "You must trust me a lot."
Leon's lip upturns slightly. "Something like that, yeah."
You click on a playlist and hit shuffle. Leon's face contorts in an approving look, and he rests his arm atop the center console.
This should feel weird. Awkward. You've never seen each other outside of work, let alone like this, and you're managing to act pretty normal considering it's a date.
And Leon’s obviously freaking the fuck out. But it’s not inhibiting your mood. If anything, it’s making you like him a little bit more, if it’s even possible.
“You look like a scared dog at the shelter," you comment teasingly, eyes slightly squinted in a smile that only feels slightly out of place.
"I absolutely do not."
"Leon Kennedy, DSO golden boy, national superhero, is shaking in his boots at going on a date with an overworked, exhausted, cynical attorney. I don't know whether to be flattered or a little upset."
Leon rolls his eyes at you and his fingers tap along with the song you've played from his phone. "I'm used to handling explosives and shooting things and breaking bones."
There's an unspoken thing here that this is foreign to him, and the thought warms your chest a little bit. You'd read files upon files, mostly full of little black rectangles redacting information that you did not need, or necessarily want, to know, but there was enough substance in them for you to read between the lines.
You had a grasp on who Leon was when you first started working together. Over time, that shifted, and the Leon you know now isn't the Leon you had any clue about years ago.
"And you should be flattered," he adds, quieter this time. "Very flattered."
"I hate to say this," you cross your ankles, "but I am. And you should be, too. I don't… I haven't gone on a date in years, I think."
Leon cracks a smile, so different from the shy blush he had before, and it reminds you of the Leon that first charmed you. "So, you must like me."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"When did that change?"
You pause. "Hm?"
"When did you stop hating me?"
You want to laugh, and a small huff escapes your nose, amused, before you can stop it. "Leon, I never hated you. No matter what Helena said. You piss me off, yes, but you're too cute to stay mad at."
After that, the ride is full of teasing comments and flirting that would've made sixteen-year-old you proud. At one point, your stomach growls so loudly Leon cannot hide the laugh that escapes him. He pulls into the shitty brewery you requested, and before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt, he's yanking the key out of the ignition and jogging to your side of the car.
God, he looks good. The sunlight catches in his hair, the blonde peeking out through the strands of brunette, and you have to remind yourself to swallow.
He is stupidly good at this dating thing, you realize as he opens the door and gives you a hand to pull yourself out of his low-rider.
“You’re suspiciously good at this,” you say as you place your hand in his and grab your purse with the other. “Makes me think you practiced or something.”
“You’ve given me homework before. Is it so bad that I studied, too?”
You narrow your eyes and let him lead you into the pub, hand still grasping yours, which makes you smile slightly. You have to slap his arm when he goes to pull out your barstool, and you don’t miss the way his lower lip extends in a pout.
“You’re ridiculous. This is casual. Let me do it.”
He retreats to the other side of the table. The waitress comes over and you order two sodas. Before long, you’re stuffing a burger into your mouth, successfully smearing sauce all over your face.
“I got a question.” Leon looks up in contemplation, burger in one hand.
“Well, that's never good."
“What made you want to be an attorney?”
Instinctively, you get defensive. “What made you want to be a field agent?”
Leon senses the mood change. Then, with a breath, like it hurts him to be vulnerable, “I didn’t want to be a government agent. I just wanted to be a cop. But I ended up in Raccoon City and… Y’know.”
You do know, and immediately, you feel bad for the tone you used. You pause. “My brother was a cop.”
“Yeah?”
You wipe at the corner of your mouth with a napkin. Then, feigning casualty, you say, “Yeah, he died when I was… Eighteen? Jesus. Twenty years ago.” You clear your throat and get back on track. “And the guy who killed him got off on a very generous plea deal that I would never offer. It was my first year of college, and I was so upset, I changed my major to political science the day after the trial. It’s cheesy-“
“It’s not.” Leon’s voice is firm, eyes conveying his sincerity. “Really. It’s not cheesy.”
“Thanks. I guess I just didn’t want any families to feel how I felt about my brother. He was only twenty-two.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Been a long time.”
Leon catches your eyes in an expression soft enough to tug at your heart. “Doesn’t mean it’s any easier.”
He’s got you beat, so you shrug and make a face that’s not decipherable to him, ignoring the twisting of nerves in your chest. His hands wipe against his napkin. “My parents died in a car crash when I was young. The cop that first showed up saved my life. And I feel cheesy, too.”
“You shouldn’t. That’s important.”
“Exactly.”
Now that you’ve made it weird with the dead-brother talk, you take a moment to bask in your shame before bringing another fry to your mouth.
If you ignore the discomfort of being normal (as in, not filtering your words with legal terms and courtroom jargon) and borderline vulnerable with Leon, the date is going really well. It's not like the two of you are strangers by any means. You've known each other for, what? Three years at this point? And for some reason, you feel most comfortable with Leon at any given time.
He gives you space. He's too present. He annoys you. He makes you laugh. The most turned on you've been in years was at the feeling of his fingertips ghosting over your back. You think he might understand you better than any of your friends do. This… sticks with you.
“Wish I begged to see the itinerary,” you say through a mouth of food. “Should’ve made you get a gold star from me first.”
Leon chuckles and the sound makes you smile in an embarrassing way. “Isn’t the surprise half the fun?”
“No, Leon. Surprises are what catch me off guard and make me scramble in the courtroom.”
“We aren’t in the courtroom, sweetheart,” Leon drawls, and if he realizes the pet name he just called you, he doesn’t act embarrassed, even though you almost choke on your food. “It’s just us. And I think I did a pretty good job.”
“You always think you do a pretty good job.”
Leon gives you a look. “That’s not true.”
You take a sip of your beer and shrug. He’s right. “Yeah, whatever. I just like to push you around a bit.”
When the waitress comes back around to check on you two, Leon slides her his card, and you clock the black metal almost immediately. A teasing smirk stretches across your face. Of course Leon has a black card. He’s a government field agent.
“Don’t comment on the card,” he says, giving you a knowing look.
“Wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Those are two different accusations, Leon.”
He smiles. The waitress returns with the clipboard of paperwork for him, and Leon quickly scribbles down a number and a signature and escorts you out of the restaurant.
When he opens the door to his Buick, you collapse into the passenger seat. He turns the key in the ignition and when he looks over at you, the fondness in his eyes is enough to melt you. Just a little bit.
The heat coursing through your veins, pooling in your abdomen, starts when Leon pulls you out of the car and wraps an arm around your waist as he guides you into the second brewery of the day. It comes off as casual, though you can sort of feel his heartbeat (or maybe it's yours) and you know that it's anything but.
“So, I'm confused," you say, at the fact that you just left a brewery.
"Shh," Leon's fingertips shift against your waist. "I'll explain once we're inside."
You're a little nervous, though you're used to suppressing it over the years of uncertainty behind a desk. Leon opens the door and steers you inside with a hand to the small of your back. Your eyes narrow as you examine the bar.
"Leon."
"Hm?"
"Is this what I think it is?"
Leon's cheeks are flushed, and for a moment, you think about kissing him. He says, "If you're thinking this is trivia, then you are correct."
Your first thought is: He is such a nerd. But then you realize that he wouldn't have brought you here if he didn't think you were a nerd. And admittedly, you love trivia. Probably too much.
"How'd you know I love this?"
"Because," he leads you to a table, "I know you."
Truthfully, you think he talked to Helena, or maybe Miles. But either way, he truly hit the nail on the head, and you are stupidly excited. You feel somewhat laid bare in front of him as you let the joy wash over you. Usually, you'd take a moment to feel embarrassed. But this is Leon. You've seen all shades of him. What do you have to be nervous about?
You sit down and stick on a nametag. It's just you and Leon on your team, but when you look around, it does seem to majorly be couples, so it's not like you're at a disadvantage.
Leon leans back and rests his arm against the back of your chair, leaning closer to talk to you over the music. It makes your stomach lurch in an embarrassing way. "You excited?"
You nod, and an unguarded smile washes over you.
Leon's eyebrows furrow. "I did good?"
The words are light, but you notice the serious undertones. Leon, shockingly, is a rather nervous guy. Probably because his cortisol levels are shot from the twenty years of government work and near-death experiences. You don't fully know what goes on in the field, but you've gathered enough to understand why Leon is the way he is.
"Yes, honey. You did good."
Leon flushes bright red and immediately takes a sip of the waters he grabbed you at some point. You giggle at him being flustered and a man's voice is broadcasted over the speakers, explaining the rules. You don't listen to much, as you're far too focused on Leon's arm behind you and the feeling of certainty in your chest that says, yes, this was a good idea.
As you expected, you and Leon blow trivia out of the water.
He did a great job with the geography and travel categories, which made sense, given that he is regularly deployed to other countries. You nailed history and literature, and sometimes Leon would say, “How the fuck do you know that?” when you’d scribble out an answer without much thought.
Combined, you’re a great team.
When it's announced that the two of you win, you let out a squeal and Leon picks you up in a hug.
You think, I am so fucked.
“You’ve read King Lear?” Leon says incredulously, one hand on the steering wheel and the other suspiciously close to your thigh.
“I took a lot of Shakespeare in college,” you explain and swallow the lump in your throat. “I’ve forgotten most of it by now. But some stuff sticks.”
Leon makes an impressed face. “I forget sometimes that you went to college and weren’t just born like this.”
“What does that mean?”
“No, no not like that,” Leon backtracks and it makes you smile. “You just seem so naturally smart. Sharp. I’ve always really liked that about you.”
Something in you flutters. “I have a question.”
“Hm?”
“How long… have you wanted to do this?”
It’s the first time you’ve asked him a question without your lawyer voice bleeding into your tone, and it kind of makes your head spin.
“What? Go on a date with you?”
“Mhm.”
“Uhh,” Leon pretends to consider your question. You can tell the motion of it is fake. “Since that first time in your office. When you noticed my hip.”
You think back to that day and what you wrote in your notes about Leon. Sad. Cynical. Defiant. Closed-off. You’d make some revisions now. Hopeful. Lost. Maybe one more: Loving.
Leon has so much love in his heart. You can see that from miles away. The issue is that everyone he’s ever trusted has betrayed him or thought poorly of him because of his addiction. You never did that, and you still don’t.
You make a noise in the back of your throat. “So, this is more than a case to you?”
What you mean is unspoken, and in that moment you realize why you misread Leon at first: because you saw parts of yourself in the reflection of him. Cynical. Closed-off. Sad. And you haven’t exactly been feeling like that since you came back to work.
Leon huffs, humored and breathless. “It’s always been more than the case. Over the years.” He glances away from the road and looks at you for a long second. “But I think you know that.”
You nod. “I know.”
Leon swallows and you follow the bob of his Adam’s apple with your eyes. “Is this… more to you, too?”
He is almost forty, just like you are, but with this look in your eyes that he’s giving you, he looks about ten years younger. A smile stretches at the corner of your lips before you can truly process it, and you’re laughing slightly.
“Yes, Leon. I would’ve said no if not.” You settle your hand against his arm that’s resting against the center console, and gently pull his hand to splay against your thigh. “You’re shaking again.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Whatever.”
“Do I make you nervous, Leon?”
He makes a choking sound deep in his throat. “God, you’re upfront.”
“You’ve told me that before, yes.” You bat your eyelashes and keep your same expecting stare on him. When he glances over at you, you can visibly see the restraint pulling him back. “So?”
“Yes,” he relents with a sigh. “You make me nervous.”
You chuckle, though it sounds light of humor. The rest of the drive home is full of comments about trivia that are half paid attention to from both of you, considering Leon’s fingertips are lightly brushing against your denim jeans and sending bolts of anticipation through you. Sometimes, you get so lost in it that you realize you didn’t listen to a word he said.
This feels so natural. Too natural. It’s a bit unnerving, to be honest, but you don’t necessarily care. It’s been… a long time since you’ve gotten laid. Not that that’s what’s going on. Obviously.
When he pulls into your driveway, you move to gather your purse that has found a home at your feet. Leon puts the car in park and gives you a soft smile, like he's a little optimistic that this isn't it.
You look at him for a moment. Your facade falls. Then, you say, "Do you want to come inside?"
His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and he quickly intakes a breath. "Do you want that?"
Your face contorts into something sly, and it obviously affects Leon with how he looks away from you. "Yes. I do."
When you reach over to undo your seatbelt, Leon kills the engine and undoes his seatbelt like he's getting shot at. You climb out of his Buick and shut your door, pretending not to notice him adjusting his pants before trailing behind you to your front door.
You pull your keys out of your purse and unlock the door with a steady hand that sort of surprises you, considering you have enough anxiety to permanently fry your nervous system.
Once you swing the door open and successfully herd Leon inside, his hands are on your hips.
"This is crazy," he pants. With one step, your back is flush against the door, and his head hangs close to your neck.
"And highly unethical. Fucking your lawyer."
"Jesus Christ. Don't say it like that." His body betrays him at that, though, because his grip tightens at the idea of fucking you.
"What do you want me to say, then?" Your voice has a cheeky edge to it that feels soft enough to hold, and it's a certain type of gentleness you didn't know you still had. With one hand, you brush away the hair that has fallen into his face.
Leon smiles, then gets a little serious, because of course he does. "I don't want you to think this is a weightless thing. I've wanted this for a while, and I'm trying to be the person you deserve to have."
The honesty strips you raw, and your eyebrows "Do I have you, Leon?"
"Yes," he confesses, and it makes you feel weightless. "Always have."
You tilt his head with a hand on his jaw, and when you pull him down and your lips connect, you think, this is incredible.
At first, the kiss is gentle; tentative and soft. Something you've dreamed about while watching movies and reading books. Before long, though, he's untucking your shirt with impatience and splaying his palm flat against your back, tugging you closer into him and moaning into your mouth. Each move sends waves of want through you and you yank him closer to you via his shoulders.
You move in tandem, each chasing the feeling of the other like you need it to live. He licks a stripe against the crease of your lips, and immediately you're opening up and letting him deepen the kiss into something more.
When you finally reach down and yank his shirt up to feel his abdomen, he pulls away from you, breathless with swollen lips. "This is okay?"
"I'm actively throwing myself at you, Leon. Yes, it's okay."
He dips down to press a kiss against your neck, open-mouthed and desperate, and you let out a whine when his teeth grazes the vertex of your neck and shoulder. Leon's hips buck, and you arch into him when you feel the imprint of his cock.
He pulls back far enough to look you in the eyes. "Where's your bedroom?"
"Last door on the right." You point with your hand, and before you can look back at him, his hands are locking under your thighs and lifting you up into his arms. You yelp. "Leon!"
"What?" He grins at you. "I won't break anything."
Sometimes you forget that Leon is an absolute unit of a human being, built of years of government training and field exercises that have successfully hardened his muscles beyond human perception. When he does shit like this, though, it's impossible to ignore.
His lips are on you again, wet and hot and everything you imagined it to be, and he kicks the door shut behind him before laying you flat on your back on the comforter. Down the hall comes a disgruntled mrrp from your cat, who is obviously very upset about getting his spot taken.
Leon's hands come up to push your shirt away from your abdomen, revealing your skin inch by inch. "Can I—"
"Please," you manage to breathe out, and you sit up slightly as Leon pulls the fabric over your head, leaving you in your red lacy bra. You tug at the hem of his shirt, too, and he undoes the top two buttons enough to yank it over his head. At the sight of his skin, you sigh. "Jesus."
"You're one to talk," Leon mutters before lurching toward you again, lips connecting with the skin of your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
Instinctively, your hands reach towards his head, threading through his hair and tugging at it gently. Leon groans against your skin and presses down into you, eager to relieve the tension in his pants.
"Take them off," you order as seriously as you can, but your breath betrays you and you let out a moan when Leon's lips graze your breast. "Leon."
"Be patient," he muses, and the teasing tone makes you throb. "I've waited long enough."
"I thought you were making it up to me," you comment, lips close to his ear. Your breath fans his skin, making goosebumps rise, and you can immediately tell his resolve is crumbling fast. "Or are you not?"
"I am," he says, bordering on a whine. "Please."
"Thought you wanted to be good for me," you coo, and his head drops against your stomach. With one hand, you reach behind you and unclasp your bra, removing it swiftly and exposing your breasts to the cold air of your own bedroom. "Don't you want to be good?"
Once again, Leon's tone is insistent, "I am."
"Then prove it to me," your finger traces the skin under his chin, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his lower lip extended in a pout. "Take them off."
He sighs something broken and quiet, before lifting himself off of you and unbuttoning his jeans. You follow suit, undoing yours and kicking them down your legs, revealing your matching lingerie set. Your eyes never leave him.
God, he's beautiful. Something straight out of Ancient Rome, you think as he shoves his jeans and briefs down his legs in one go. Carved marble, or an oil painting, something delicate and hand-made and breathtaking. You've never let yourself think about him like this—so raw and passionately and unguarded. It undoes something in you.
"Leon, you're perfect," you gush before you can stop yourself, and you're too horny to be embarrassed about it.
Leon cracks a smile and climbs back on top of you. "Couldn't hold a candle to you, honey."
You roll your eyes. "You're stupid."
"You love it."
You recoil at the word for a moment, before letting it settle over you. You do love it. And you love Leon, in some naive way. So, he's not wrong, and you let yourself be right.
"'M gonna take care of you, okay?" Leon runs a hand down the side of your head tenderly, brushing your hair away from your face. "Just tell me to stop and I will."
"I trust you," you respond, borderline eager.
"You do?"
You smile. "Yes, Leon. Against my better judgement, I trust you. Get to work."
He does without much thought, kissing chastely down your stomach towards the apex of your thighs, only stopping to breathe every couple kisses. Slyly, he hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down in one swift motion, and the feeling of the air on your core makes you clench, desperate and impatient. A chuckle escapes him, low and humorless, and you groan in anticipation.
Finally, he settles between your legs and draws your thighs over his arms. You're trapped underneath him, his grip on your hips tight, but you can't complain. No, you're exactly where you want to be.
He starts slowly, kisses and kitten licks to your folds, easing into you like he can't tell you're drenched. You mewl something obscene, and when you arch, Leon takes it as an invitation to dive in. He takes one hand away from your hip and pulls it under him.
Leon attacks your clit like a man starved. He learns, quickly, and a spike of jealousy flashes up in your mind when you think about where, exactly, he got this information from. But a hard suck has your head thrown back against the mattress, erasing any thoughts from your mind.
When you reach down and grasp his head, pulling him firmer into you, he lets out a groan, and it's then you realize that he is grinding into the mattress and seeking some release, too.
"God, Leon, you're doing so good."
Leon's whine is high pitched against your cunt, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through you. Before long, you're shamelessly grinding against his face, seeking an orgasm you didn't know you were capable of having so fast.
"I'm—fuck, Leon. Please."
He uses the opportunity to finally slide two fingers into you. Your toes curl at the sensation, and without much warning, you're tipping over the edge, moaning and groaning and saying words, you realize at some point. They're unintelligible to you through the rush of blood in your ears, but they really do a lot to Leon, you realize, who is whining against you as you ride out your orgasm.
When he pulls away, you crack a smile, still gasping and experiencing the aftershocks. He wipes his face off with the back of his hand and crawls back up to you.
Leon's eyes pinch together in a pleading way, and when you realize what he wants, you giggle. "That was stupidly good, Leon. Thank you."
He grins and dips his head down to kiss you, slow and passionate. Words bleed into it, unspoken but still understood, and you nearly want to cry at the meaning and vulnerability of it all.
"Can I fuck you?" Leon asks. His eyes bounce between yours, looking for a doubtful look or a flash of remorse. He finds none, apparently, and you nod eagerly. "Do you have…"
"I'm safe," you sputter out. "On birth control, I mean."
Leon exhales. "You're sure this is okay?"
"Leon, if you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to take matters into my own hands."
He grins and wraps a hand around his cock, pumping a few times to get fully stiff. He groans at the contact. "Who says I won't like that?"
"We both know you would." You lean up to kiss his cheek. "But I think I deserve to lay back. Don't you?"
Leon makes a shuddering, broken sound at your tone, and lines himself up with your entrance. Every time he seems to get lost in his own pleasure, he remembers yours. You note this mentally. "If it hurts—"
"I know, sweetheart. It's okay."
He rolls his eyes at your impatience, but begins to press into you. The stretch is immediate—Leon is big, and you knew that since you started kissing—and you gasp with each inch he pushes into you. He's whispering, too, comforting you with every move he makes. He kisses your neck; you turn to catch his lips with your own.
His hips lurch and he's bottomed out, tip kissing your cervix. You feel so full. Of him, of life, of love. It’s everything. It’s too much, but not enough. At the sensation, you moan, and when he begins moving, the sound itself is so lewd you're somehow close again.
"Christ," he chokes out. "You feel good."
"Fuck." You press your face into Leon's shoulder. You're still sensitive from your first orgasm, and every drag of his cock inside of you has another fire lit in your abdomen. "This is so worth it."
Leon is breathless. "Yeah?"
“Yes,” you insist. “God. Leon—“
“I know. I know. I’m here.”
Leon snakes a hand under you to wrap around the back of your neck, not hard, just enough to secure you to him. It gives him a new vantage to thrust harder into you experimentally. You yelp out a moan but grab at him, pressing your thumbs appreciatively into his shoulders.
Obviously, Leon had tried to stay focused to bring you over the edge again, but his breathing was hurting shallow, and short moans escaped him, some bordering on whimpers.
His grip on your neck tightens and it has the coil in your belly wound completely tight. “Please, Leon, I—“
“Come on, sweetheart. I can take it. I’m right here.”
“Leon—“
“I know. It’s okay. I’m here.”
He keeps murmuring in your ear, and he’s so trusting and gentle, when you tip over the edge once again and fall head first into your orgasm, he kisses your neck and keeps talking you through it. Your body is pulled taut, a live wire coursing through you, as Leon slows his pace slightly.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “I’m—“
“Flip me over,” you command, somehow able to talk through the aftershocks.
Leon whines your name. “Please. I’m close. I—“
“Leon.” You grab his chin in your hand. He looks destroyed when you catch his gaze. “You wanted to be good for me, right? You took care of me. Let me help you. Be my good boy I know you are.”
He shudders at the words, blood running hot in his veins. Somehow, he has the energy to grab onto you and roll over, scooting up until his upper back hits the headboard.
You’re still secure on top of him, his cock buried deep inside of you, and you press a kiss to his forehead. His eyes follow your every movement, and when they land on your face, he thinks he’s seeing an angel.
Leon has scars that you know you may never get the story to. There’s one on his shoulder, the left one, that’s deep and sensitive to the touch, you notice. That one’s the most prominent. But God, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man more beautiful than him.
You give an experimental roll of your hips since Leon has adjusted to the new position. He looks up at you like you’re something to be worshipped, and when your hips move again, his hands land on your hips. They grip hard enough to bruise.
“Thank you,” he grits out. “I— Please, I—“
“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.”
And you do. Leon wants you so bad it hurts, which feels ironic, considering he’s inside of you. But this isn’t all there is to you. He wants everything. The rough nights, the late hours at the office, the arguments over taking out the trash and watching horrible movies together. He was worried this would feel like the end.
No, it’s just the beginning.
You find a rhythm, hard and unrelenting, and it doesn’t take Leon long to reach his own climax with how you’re grinding against him, uttering encouragement in his ears like second nature. Your hands naturally explore. They run from his shoulders, down his pecs, then trace his abs lightly, over and over again, as you bounce and grind on him.
Logically, you could cum again. But this was better, you think, watching Agent Kennedy absolutely fall apart under you. Your tone is slightly mocking. “Leon, I’m doing all this for you. Don’t you want to cum?”
“Shit. Fuck, baby, I’m—“
“Yeah?”
He whimpers. “Please. Yeah, pl—“
The words die in his mouth as he spills into you, lips parted. You have to remind him to breathe. His hands grab at you, your hips, boobs, shoulders, before finally one hand grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls you in close. Leon groans something primal and you nip at his earlobe.
You two lay there for a moment, absolutely spent, and Leon’s neck is bright red, either with lust or embarrassment or something else entirely.
Against your biological wishes, you lift slightly off of him, his softening cock falling flat against his abdomen. Your combined juices leak out of you, but you can’t be bothered as you drip all over him.
Leon kisses the junction of your neck and shoulder lightly before rolling you over, laying you flat against your sheets. You aren’t sure when the comforter got pushed down.
Whatever.
“Where’s your bathroom?” Leon whispers and the tenderness of the moment is not lost on you.
You point with one hand. “Over there. I think I’m gonna die now.”
“Could I be charged with murder if that happened?”
You huff out a laugh. “Manslaughter at the most. Negligence, maybe.”
“You’re too smart for me.” He calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to your bathroom. When he opens the bedroom door, Barty comes trotting in, rubbing up against Leon’s ankles. “Hi, buddy. Yeah. Let’s…go out here.”
Leon leads your cat away from you and you hear the rustling of a cabinet before the tap starts to run. Before long, Leon’s returning to you, and you realize he left to get a washcloth for you.
The intimacy of it all brings a tear to your eye. You sniffle as Leon parts your legs, this time with a gentleness you didn’t know he had, and he caresses the towel between your folds and over your legs. When you whimper, he utters, “I know. I’m sorry.”
He wipes himself down and collapses next to you. When he pulls you into him, you're pliant, like putty, under his touch, and tuck into his side without any argument.
“You okay?” Leon whispers into your hairline, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
You nod. “I’m great, Leon. You’re great.”
You want to tease him on the whole praise stuff, but you like it. So you swallow your words and let yourself melt into Leon. It’s the safest you’ve felt in years.
Leon pulls the covers over you. “Did I make it up to you?”
You snicker. “Leon, you were forgiven a long time ago. You know that.”
“I know,” he murmurs. He swallows thickly. “Are we…”
“Yes, Leon. You can call us together now. I’d like that.”
“Really?”
You give him a look. “Yes. Really. Stop arguing with me and let me take a little nap here. You’re warm.”
Leon gives out a noise of contentment, and when he settles beneath you, his heartbeat is steady. “I meant what I said.”
“Hm?”
“About wanting to be better for you. I hated the way you looked at me back then. I wanted to be the kind of man you deserved.”
The confession makes you tilt your head up to him, catching his eyes in an honest trap. You press a kiss to the stubble on his jawline and pretend the tear leaking from the corner of your eye is from yawning, which Leon doesn’t believe for a second.
“I know, Leon. You’re amazing.”
Just when you’re drifting off to sleep, four little paws climb over your back, settling on Leon’s chest. Barty has found a home here, and admittedly, you have, too.
Bodyguard!Leon x First Daughter!Reader Enemies to Lovers
Chapter 3
❌18+ MDNI❌
new chapter and uploading this in a hurry im sorry if it looks weird okay ily bye
Chapters: 1, 2, 3
shoutout @sammimi19 @12soap34 @theebladestar for proofreading ✨
The sun outside is blazing hot as you come out of the pool dressing room in your floral cover up, marching into the backyard. Maya hasn't arrived yet, but you're not alone nonetheless since your newly assigned agent is waiting for you right on the shaded patio.
This is already getting old.
He lifts his gaze when you come into view, feeling his eyes trace your form briefly before turning them to the pool. He can't see your own behind your dark sunglasses, the shades helping you put on a mask of confidence. You readjust the thin fabric of your mini dress in self-consciousness, hyper aware of the sheerness that shows a glimpse of your bikini clad body.
This is the kind of feeling you never really had to worry about with the other agents, most of them at least twice your age. But with a younger man, and one you attempted to flirt with at that, you can't help but feel particularly self-aware.
“Aren't you hot in that suit?” you mutter as you walk past him to sit on a lounge chair, crisscrossing your legs.
“Resisting harsh weather is part of the job,” he answers from his spot, his stare now intently focused on the water. Maybe you're not the only one feeling awkward.
“How old are you again?” you ask suddenly in feigned nonchalance.
He chuckles softly, still not looking at you as he answers. “Twenty-seven, ma’am.”
Swallowing down the irritation that flares every time he calls you that, you observe his side profile illuminated by the bright sky. With his pretty, yet masculine features, he looks like someone you would see on a magazine cover rather than with an earpiece. It makes you all the more curious about how he ended up here, especially at his young age.
“So what agency are you under?” you raise an inquisitive brow. “You apparently specialize in BOWs… Which one handles that?”
A small smile etches onto his lips as he turns to you, finally facing you again through the barrier of your shades. “I work under your father. That's all I can say, I’m afraid.”
“Okay,” you nearly scoff. Of course his position has to be confidential and leave you in the dark. It feels so debilitating having your life managed by people who know far more about you than you ever will about them. “But have you ever done this whole bodyguard thing before?” your tone drips in barely concealed judgement.
The question seems to catch him off-guard, a slight air of insecurity flashing across his features. “No,” he answers simply.
A cocky smirk spreads on your cheeks at that, and you lay down on your reclined seat with newfound smugness. “Hm, that's what I thought.”
If he looked unsure before, now his mood has shifted into indignation. “Are you implying my performance isn't satisfactory, ma’am?”
You don't let his stern demeanor destabilize you as you place your hands behind your head in the picture of relaxation. “You hover too much,” you explain matter-of-factly. “And you stare.”
“Pardon?” he sputters, taking a half step closer with a deep frown.
“The Secret Service’s job is to protect as seamlessly as possible. Instead, you're roaming around me while I’m trying to relax by the pool.”
His eyes go comically wide—the first look of real emotion on his face for the first time since you met him. “You—” his words cut-off, clearly flustered by your pointed comment as defensiveness oozes from him. “You were asking me questions and I answered. I wasn't gonna do that from twenty feet away.”
“You were standing close before that,” you retort with a bored expression. “You know, if this is the distance you're keeping while we’re inside the literal White House, then I don't even want to know how overbearing it'll get at campus.”
Silence stretches after your words linger in the hot, humid air. He looks like he wants to say many things, but instead settles on a clipped response. “Fine,” he mutters in clear annoyance, then turns to walk away and give you space.
His brooding nearly makes you laugh. “Great. Now you're sulking.”
The man stops abruptly in his steps, turning to you with a locked jaw and icy eyes nearly reminiscent of your father’s. “With all due respect, ma’am, I don't sulk—I do my job. And in case it wasn't clear, I am forced to be here just as much as you are.”
With that, he turns again, then strides away until he stands by the wall directly under the scorching sun. He then pulls out dark sunglasses as well that he puts on without a word, before clasping his hands at his front in a rigid stance.
It’s only after seeing his blonde hair appear nearly platinum under the blistering heat that you realize the reason he may have stayed close before was to stay in the shade. A sudden sense of guilt creeps inside you, and you consider making amends by inviting him back under the large umbrella, but you feel awkward. One minute berating him and the next wanting to coddle his pouty face—it’s ridiculous.
Before you can make a decision, Maya makes an appearance into the yard, escorted by two agents. She hurries to your side with an excited squeal of your name that you return with a tight hug once you stand up.
“Oh my God, it's so freaking hot today I feel like I’m melting,” she groans as she sets her bag down—one that was undoubtedly thoroughly searched.
“Yeah, and they’re saying it’s one of the coolest summers D.C.’s ever had—it sure as hell doesn't feel like it.”
“It’s the goddamn humidity. I can't stop sweating,” she huffs as she shrugs her top and shorts, slipping out of her sandals in the process. “Thank God for pools. Come on, I can't wait anymore.”
“Alright,” you chuckle at her eagerness, then quickly slip out of your cover up.
Deep inside, you almost hope the agent by the wall appreciates the sight, but the idea is quickly overshadowed by insecurity. The mean voice in your head laughs at your wishful thinking, reminding you that he’s not fond of you and that Maya has a nicer body he’d probably prefer to look at anyway.
A sudden splash of water jolts you out of your thoughts when the brunette dives in the water without waiting, sending a wet dash right onto you.
“Come on, loser! You’re gonna get a heatstroke!”
You shake your head with a grin, then finally move to sink into the blue basin with careful steps down the ladder.
She scoffs at your slow approach. “Please tell me you're allowed to cannonball and it's not some forbidden rule to ensure maximum protection from the evils of muscle cramps?”
“Shut up,” you laugh, splashing her in return. “I’m trying not to get my hair wet.”
“Lame!” she snickers and you both laugh.
Mid giggling, your eyes land on Agent Kennedy again who is still unmoving in his corner. You’d think he’s turned into a statue if not for the sweat beading at his temples. God, you can't even imagine standing in the multiple layers of a suit under the hot sun in the middle of July—the sight of him makes you uncomfortable.
It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that he, along with other staff around the administration, are simply meant to serve you without complaint. Sure, they're here out of their own volition, but it doesn't change the fact there is an inherent unfairness to this man-made hierarchy.
You, raised in privilege by a well-off couple, and them, forced into career choices that put them in uncomfortable positions. It's one of the many reasons why your father’s presidency still tastes sour on your tongue.
By the time the sun starts setting, your palms and soles have pruned from the water. You spent most of the pool hangout chatting with Maya, occasionally playing childish games you're both too old to partake in. And the entire time, Agent Kennedy stayed perfectly still, only shifting his weight from one foot to the other intermittently.
Wrapping yourself in a towel as soon as you're out of the wet surface, you sit on the lounge chair and eye the snacks that have already been laid out for you on the table by staff.
“I’m so hungry,” Maya exclaims across from you, reaching for a croissant with her still damp hand. As she bites into the flaky pastry, she suddenly pauses mid chew when she spots something behind you that has her eyes widening. “Oh, my God, girl… Why the hell does the guy over there look like the one that talked to you at the bar?”
“Oh, you just noticed…” you mutter knowingly, embarrassment flaring in your chest.
“What do you mean? Wait, is it actually him?” she gasps loudly and you gesture for her to quiet down.
“Yes, yes! Just don't be so loud, my God… Apparently he's taking Davis’s position for a while—dad says it's necessary.”
Blinking, she frowns deeper. “I am so confused.”
“Trust me, so am I. He’s like this special agent or something? I don't know, they won't tell me shit.” Frustration seeps from your tone.
“But why was he at the bar? Was he watching you then?”
That makes you pause for a moment. You never got to talk enough to ask him about that, especially with the rude attitude he's been displaying.
“I didn't even ask… He pisses me off.”
Maya laughs, wiggling her eyebrows playfully. “Well, at least he's a sight for sore eyes.”
That makes you groan in annoyance. If only she understood how much he gets on your nerves—no amount of pretty blue eyes are worth the headache. “You wouldn't be saying that if he kept calling you ‘ma’am’ with this annoying, smug little smirk he makes.”
“I don't know,” she tilts her head in contemplation, eyeing him up and down past your shoulder. “I think it's kinda hot for a guy to call me ‘ma’am.’ Like in a ‘he knows his place’ kind of way.”
“Yeah, except I’m the one being put in my place getting babysat by a dude barely older than me.”
She chuckles again, finding amusement in your irritation, before her voice morphs into something more sympathetic. “Poor guy, though. He’s been standing there the whole time, he must be sweating like a pig.”
That once again has that same sense of guilt from earlier tug on your heartstrings, and you finally concede to your inner voice with a grunt.
“Fuck, fine.”
“What? I didn't even say anything,” Maya laughs in confusion.
You ignore her as you twist to look behind you, raising your sunglasses to rest on your crown now that you don't need them anymore. “Kennedy?” you call out in as neutral of a tone as you can muster.
You can’t make out any emotion on his poker face, though you do notice the flush of his cheeks and nose from the sun, the color making him oddly endearing despite his intimidating aura. He walks closer, stopping once he can talk to you without shouting.
“Yes?” His voice is completely detached.
Unsure of what to say, you fiddle with the twisted fringes of the towel draped on your frame like a shy teenager, all traces of smugness gone. “Um, are you hungry?”
“No,” he deadpans.
“Thirsty?”
“Neither.”
“Okay…”
Awkwardness fills the air to a painful degree, but thankfully your best friend is there to save the day as she extends a hand with batting eyelashes. “Mr. Kennedy, is it? I’m Amaya Salem, but you can call me Maya.”
“Pleasure.”
Accepting her handshake with a brief, professional one, the agent goes right back to his usual stance as soon as he can, his back as straight as a board.
Another bout of silence, and you suddenly can't handle the overwhelming discomfort anymore. You stand abruptly to your feet, gathering your things into your arms haphazardly.
“Well, um, we’re gonna go back inside,” you announce without meeting his shaded eyes. “So you can go take a break, right?”
“Affirmative.”
Maya barely holds a snicker at the scene, joining you in collecting her bag, though she does so with much less urgency than you. “See you around, Mr. Kennedy,” she giggles as you pull her away, the agent responding with a single curt nod of his impassive face.
The lock clicks open, slow, heavy footsteps resounding against floorboards as the man makes his way inside the apartment. He shuts the door and lets out a deep sigh, closing his eyes as he leans his weight against the wood.
Leon is a man of stamina. And yet, despite training in fields, fighting bioweapons, and performing tedious drills, he’s coming home utterly exhausted today. Oh, and with a ridiculous tan… All because of you.
He kicks off his shoes and loosens his tie, his mind tired yet still running a thousand miles an hour. It keeps going in loops, replaying the way you so cleverly pointed out his lack of professionalism. It makes him want to bang his head against the wall.
He’s supposed to be good at what he does. He doesn't have anything else going on in his life for him not to be. Training and working have become the center of his days, ever since he was 'offered’ the position of an agent six years ago.
And he is good. Or at least, that's what his stern superiors occasionally let slip whenever he performs particularly well on a mission. He has grown more and more confident in his skills as he got better with every year. That is until you came along with your snarky little mouth and put him in his place. God, he can't stand spoiled, rich kids, and you fit the bill for that exact type.
He opens the fridge with slumped shoulders, his eyes tracing over containers of leftovers and a row of canned soda—no alcohol in sight. He’s usually proud of himself for not keeping any in easy access, forcing himself to go outside whenever the drinking itch arises. But this time he wishes he had a bottle of beer to wind down after an afternoon under the blazing sun. He settles on a ginger ale, bringing the cool can to the sunburned apples of his cheeks with a low groan.
He already hates this assignment. Hell, he doesn't even fully understand why he was picked for it. Sure, he's one of the most experienced people with BOWs—a still very new threat that not even military personnel are familiar with. But playing babysitter for the president’s daughter? That's a recipe for a headache.
Leon is a soldier, a special agent, maybe even a spy when the time calls for it. He’s not a bodyguard, and was never trained to be one. All he ever knew about protecting assets was ensuring their safety during critical extractions. But this is no extraction, this is a full time job the president ordered him into to protect his little princess. One that is already giving him a hard time and he’s barely started.
Shrugging off his jacket and pants to throw them on the armrest of the couch, he slumps onto the cushions in nothing but his button up and boxer briefs. Then, he opens the can with a hiss-crack-pop, bringing it to his lips for a much needed refresher. Unfortunately, his tired mind is still stuck at work even when at home, something he hasn't managed to deal with despite his best efforts. Compartmentalizing is hard when lives are on the line.
‘She’s your highest priority,’ the head of state had said. It made Leon internally wince at the prospects of failing, already dreading the repercussions. The ones involving his career would be bad enough, but it's the guilt that constantly gives him nightmares, ever since that godforsaken September night that forever changed his life. He now has to safeguard you through your fall semester, maybe longer if the president calls for it, and he cannot fuck this up no matter what.
His thoughts drift to you again, recalling that outing at the bar. It had been pure coincidence finding you there, since it was the night before his first shift as Detail Lead. He went for drinks to loosen his nerves over the task he felt unprepared for, only to spot you in that mini dress, giggling at your booth without a care. He wondered how you could act so clueless with a target on your head—it was only during the meeting with the president he figured out you were left in the dark.
Still, you sat next to him, talked to him, flirted, when he could have been someone very dangerous. He is dangerous. He just plays for the good guys. Or at least that's what he tells himself whenever the shame over being the government’s lapdog becomes too crushing. It’s not like he chose this path anyways. If not for the precious life of a little girl, he would have left gun-wielding ways behind for a calmer lifestyle, with lots, and lots of therapy. But he had to protect Sherry, so he’s here now.
Another sip of the ginger drink, and this time it's to cool down wayward thoughts at the memory of your little bikini. Thank God for sunglasses, because he couldn't stop his eyes from roaming over you whenever he let his mind drift. It was like your ass was a goddamn magnet, and the weather only made it worse, making him feel like the heat was frying his head just as hot as the sight of your body.
Leon is not a man who stares. He does not ogle unless in settings where his gawking is welcome. So to have to fight the sweat clinging to his skin as well as the urge to look only made him more irritated. He never even paid much attention to tabloids or articles about you before. Not that you appeared in many with your limited public appearances. But he simply never paused to form an opinion of you prior, and now that has certainly changed.
Stubborn, that one’s for sure, seemingly reckless from that bar outing, and spoiled with the way you acted earlier. Like you owned the place—owned him—telling him how to do his job when he’s nervous shitless about messing up.
He felt put on the spot when you made him out to be some kind of weirdo hovering too close. What made it worse, however, is that he was already feeling like one from the sheer way his mind short circuited at the sight of you in that cover up. Then the feeling got exponentially stronger when you shrugged it off and the sun hit your body just right. Infuriatingly enticing in swimwear—he’s adding that one too.
He has to admit, though, your later attempt at offering food and water was unexpectedly considerate. But in the end, he chalks it up to your friend convincing you to do so, since she seemed a lot more amiable than you. He just wishes you did the same from the start, it would save him the headache of handling your disagreement with his presence. He also remembers how you had mentioned Agent Davis’s demotion in disappointment. He wanted to say he never wanted to take anyone’s place, but how was going to do that in front of the man that gave the order himself?
As he sits half dressed on his sofa, condensation from the ginger ale collecting on his fingers, he suddenly realizes how ridiculous he’s being. For whatever reason, he’s letting you—a college kid, of all people—affect him enough to sour his mood and nearly hurt his feelings. Since when does he get so worked up over an off-handed comment? He was called just about every name under the sun during his training, words should not be affecting him anymore.
Sloppy, pitiful, embarrassing, disappointment… The insults of his now deceased mentor ring in his ears like echoes from the cruel past. But he never held it at heart, not even when Krauser called him a dumbass, which made him internally laugh more than anything. And then, you show up and make a single comment about him hovering, and suddenly his insecurities flare?
Bullshit. He needs to get his head in the game.
No more teasing, no more chitchat—you clearly don't like him, and he's not about to force you to. Whatever attempts he had made at being laid back and friendly clearly backfired when you kept taking them as grade A offenses. But whatever. It’s fine. He doesn't like you either anyways, so it doesn't matter.
From now on, he’ll do his job, be professional, and push through this ridiculous assignment until it's done. Then, he can go back to his lonesome missions and ruthless training and leave babysitting behind. Zombies don't make him question himself like you do.
Next chapter coming soon.
gang im uploading this on my phone mid travel please forgive any goofy formatting
(to be honest, this might be trash. Tbh, I have been feeling super overwhelmed with the requests and it's led to serious lack of motivation this weekend. I've been wanting to write all day long but I just haven't been able to put words together idk. maybe I just need to sleep lol. either way, I apologize if I didn't quite bring this request to life the way I could have ily all and I hope tomorrow if a better day for my creativity. needless to say, this isn't edited very thoroughly. I hope it's not impossible to get through haha)
“Leon,” you groan. “Stop that.”
“What? I’m cold.” The mirth in his voice is thick as he coos in your ear.
You glance over your shoulder, rolling your eyes. “You’re never cold, Leon,” you retort, having slept with the human radiator, himself, every night for the past few years. There have been many occasions on which you’d wake up at midnight, sweat gluing your back to his chest as he held you tight against him, snoring like a baby in your ear while you searched for an icy patch of sheet beneath your pillow to cool yourself down.
“Looking at the snow makes me cold, baby,” he says, tightening his hold around you, one forearm around your waist, the other under your neck, his hand on your shoulder. You glance out the window, and sure enough, fat clumps of snow fall from the night sky, coating the backyard in a blanket of white.
Snow has always calmed you, especially when it happens at night, the streets silent except for the crunch under your boot, the lamps reflecting amber onto the cast of glittering flakes. It was your favorite part about moving out of the city, the peace that falls over town in the middle of the night, unbroken by the roaring engines of cars, the unignorable clammer of the streets.
Leon nuzzles into the crook of your neck, even his breath humid on your skin. His hips continue their gyrations against your ass, rutting into you as though they belong to a dog in heat, not your forty-nine-year-old-husband whose sex drive should be declining right about now but has done quite the opposite.
“Leon,” you warn once more. “I thought we were trying to go to bed early tonight.” If he keeps this up, he’ll eventually want more, and the two of you will be up all night fucking like rabbits.
“We are in bed.”
You move your arm back to swat playfully at him, but you can’t quite find the right angle to land your palm.
“Come on,” he goads, hand falling to slide beneath the hem of your t-shirt, immediately finding your breasts, kneading and squeezing. You have to bite back a moan when he pinches your nipple, arousal shooting straight through you beneath the sensation. “Just a quickie.”
“It’s never ‘just a quickie’, and you know that.”
“Then just let me put it in.”
You part your lips to argue back, wanting to cite that early morning he has, which will be made even earlier as he will have to shovel the driveway before he can even think about beginning his commute. It’s futile. His fingers are already hooked around the band of your panties, and you lift your hips to help him slide them down your thighs, a gesture of silent permission.
“Fine,” you verbalize, shifting your hips back against his freed cock, feeling his skin against the now-bare flesh of your buttocks, tossing a leg over his hip. “No sex, though. I don’t want to have to get out of bed to pee.”
You’re far too comfy beneath the warm blankets, the flannel sheets, your head resting on the pillow you fluffed and teased to get just right. Perhaps you’d risk a UTI just to stay warm and cozy in this cocoon. On second thought, perhaps not. “No sex,” you repeat.
“Yes ma’am,” he grunts, kissing the nape of your neck as he aligns himself with your entrance, slipping just the head inside at first. The stretch makes you whimper, the sound harmonized by Leon’s own low growl.
Then, the whole thing. You never realize how much you love being filled by him until he’s back inside you after you’ve gotten used to his absence. With his entire length now sunk into your pussy, Leon wraps his arms back around your waist, pulling you back into his grasp, lips returning to your neck.
“This is nice, huh?” he whispers into your ear, teeth nibbling the lobe.
“Mhm,” you hum, jutting your ass back, cheeks meeting his hips. It’s instinct at this point, growing harder to ignore the longer he’s inside you, unmoving. He clicks his tongue, telling you to relax.
“Just watch the snow, baby, and go to sleep. We have an early morning tomorrow.”
(to be honest, this might be trash. Tbh, I have been feeling super overwhelmed with the requests and it's led to serious lack of motivation this weekend. I've been wanting to write all day long but I just haven't been able to put words together idk. maybe I just need to sleep lol. either way, I apologize if I didn't quite bring this request to life the way I could have ily all and I hope tomorrow if a better day for my creativity. needless to say, this isn't edited very thoroughly. I hope it's not impossible to get through haha)
“Leon,” you groan. “Stop that.”
“What? I’m cold.” The mirth in his voice is thick as he coos in your ear.
You glance over your shoulder, rolling your eyes. “You’re never cold, Leon,” you retort, having slept with the human radiator, himself, every night for the past few years. There have been many occasions on which you’d wake up at midnight, sweat gluing your back to his chest as he held you tight against him, snoring like a baby in your ear while you searched for an icy patch of sheet beneath your pillow to cool yourself down.
“Looking at the snow makes me cold, baby,” he says, tightening his hold around you, one forearm around your waist, the other under your neck, his hand on your shoulder. You glance out the window, and sure enough, fat clumps of snow fall from the night sky, coating the backyard in a blanket of white.
Snow has always calmed you, especially when it happens at night, the streets silent except for the crunch under your boot, the lamps reflecting amber onto the cast of glittering flakes. It was your favorite part about moving out of the city, the peace that falls over town in the middle of the night, unbroken by the roaring engines of cars, the unignorable clammer of the streets.
Leon nuzzles into the crook of your neck, even his breath humid on your skin. His hips continue their gyrations against your ass, rutting into you as though they belong to a dog in heat, not your forty-nine-year-old-husband whose sex drive should be declining right about now but has done quite the opposite.
“Leon,” you warn once more. “I thought we were trying to go to bed early tonight.” If he keeps this up, he’ll eventually want more, and the two of you will be up all night fucking like rabbits.
“We are in bed.”
You move your arm back to swat playfully at him, but you can’t quite find the right angle to land your palm.
“Come on,” he goads, hand falling to slide beneath the hem of your t-shirt, immediately finding your breasts, kneading and squeezing. You have to bite back a moan when he pinches your nipple, arousal shooting straight through you beneath the sensation. “Just a quickie.”
“It’s never ‘just a quickie’, and you know that.”
“Then just let me put it in.”
You part your lips to argue back, wanting to cite that early morning he has, which will be made even earlier as he will have to shovel the driveway before he can even think about beginning his commute. It’s futile. His fingers are already hooked around the band of your panties, and you lift your hips to help him slide them down your thighs, a gesture of silent permission.
“Fine,” you verbalize, shifting your hips back against his freed cock, feeling his skin against the now-bare flesh of your buttocks, tossing a leg over his hip. “No sex, though. I don’t want to have to get out of bed to pee.”
You’re far too comfy beneath the warm blankets, the flannel sheets, your head resting on the pillow you fluffed and teased to get just right. Perhaps you’d risk a UTI just to stay warm and cozy in this cocoon. On second thought, perhaps not. “No sex,” you repeat.
“Yes ma’am,” he grunts, kissing the nape of your neck as he aligns himself with your entrance, slipping just the head inside at first. The stretch makes you whimper, the sound harmonized by Leon’s own low growl.
Then, the whole thing. You never realize how much you love being filled by him until he’s back inside you after you’ve gotten used to his absence. With his entire length now sunk into your pussy, Leon wraps his arms back around your waist, pulling you back into his grasp, lips returning to your neck.
“This is nice, huh?” he whispers into your ear, teeth nibbling the lobe.
“Mhm,” you hum, jutting your ass back, cheeks meeting his hips. It’s instinct at this point, growing harder to ignore the longer he’s inside you, unmoving. He clicks his tongue, telling you to relax.
“Just watch the snow, baby, and go to sleep. We have an early morning tomorrow.”
ngl I hate this I'm sorry I might just be in a mood but it didn't come out the way I wanted it to. I rewrote it three times, not satisfied with the way I wrote the plot around the scene, but I hope it's still enjoyable to read and ily all, thank you for your continued support.
It didn’t take long for the idea to settle in your systems, the thought of experiencing something so celebrated, so obviously enthralling–and together, for the first time. Neither of you were able to repress it any longer.
And so a decision was made. Leon’s parents were leaving town for the long weekend, and though their number one rule for leaving him home by himself was to have any girls over, unchaperoned, the two of you immediately made plans to do exactly that. It was too simple.
There was no real foreplay involved–you ringing the doorbell, Leon inviting you inside to quickly usher you to his bedroom, locking the door purely out of habit. Like the two of you have done a million times. No lengthy conversation about class, what homework is due when, who is going to which party. No movie. No cuddling that leads to something more. It was clinically planned, and though that might not be the most romantic approach, the anticipation was exhilarating.
His room was clean except for the dirty sock not quite inside the laundry hamper, and a collection of half-drunk plastic water bottles on his desk. Everything was one shade of blue or another: the walls, the bedding, the long rug atop beige carpet. The bed was unmade but not messy, the sheets and comforter pulled back as if he was preparing to climb beneath the covers.
“Hi,” he says with a shaky breath, wiping a pair of clammy palms on his shirt. The two of you are standing, just standing, still fully clothed.
Apparently Leon has lost his command of the English language.
“Hi again,” you retort with a smile, already having done the song and dance before, twice in the little amount of time it took to walk into the house, up the staircase, down the hall, and into his bedroom.
“So, can I kiss you now?” He asks, taking the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, swiping across the flesh, taking a bit of strawberry lip gloss with him. He’s never asked before, save for your first kiss, and many more have happened since then, the only permission granted being a lunge or a tilt of your face. Perhaps it’s the gravity of the kiss, the spring of lust finally bubbling. The fact that it will be the first step toward something neither of you can come back from.
All you can do is nod, the suspense gnawing at your gut all morning finally fiending for dessert.
The hand that isn’t on your face comes to the curve of your middle, settling just above your hip, his fingers splayed across your back to gently caress your skin. It’s so gentle a gesture, you lean into it, pulled one step closer to his body.
He bows down to take your lips into a soft, reserved union, pulling back almost instantly. You have kissed Leon before, obviously, the act always sloppy and wet, tongues sliding around your mouth like it’s a slip-n-slide on muddy ground. But this one is different. The moment his lips meet yours, a tiny spark ignites behind your sternum, a warm glow of light spreading across your chest. You rise, tilting your chin up to catch his lips once more, this marriage much deeper and more determined.
It arouses a sort of need deep in your belly, between your shaky legs, until all you can think of is what he’s hiding beneath his pants, and how it will feel inside you. You’ve taken his dick on your tongue, in your hand, but this is something altogether more desirable.
Your hands quickly fumble for the hem of his t-shirt, the button of his jeans, your fingers teasingly grazing beneath the band of his boxers. In turn, he yanks off your top and bra, taking a moment to knead your breasts, sucking on your nipples, moaning as he does, the vibration sending a chill down your spine.
The rest of your clothes are quickly discarded to the floor until both of you are bare as the day you were born, taking a moment to drink in the other’s form one last time before sliding under the covers.
Leon continues to kiss you, exploring your body one patch of skin at a time, until the pressure is too deep to ignore and he can no longer keep himself from your pussy. He licks and laps at your clit, his fingers sliding into your cunt, knuckles bending as the pads search for that button he’s heard about.
It always takes forever when Leon goes down on you, his head between your thighs for what feels like hours, and you’re not willing to wait for your own pleasure this time around. The truth is, you’re far too impatient, needing to feel him expand your walls, the sensation of being filled by the boy you love. Maybe you’ll regret rushing when it hurts and you bleed, but your brain is too clouded with the fog of lust to think rationally.
You tap his shoulder. “Put it inside, Leon,” you say. He looks up at you, his eyes as wide as saucers, his cheeks already flushed pink. “I need it now.”
“Are you sure?” He asks sweetly, brushing the line of your jaw with a knuckle.
“Yes.” And then, he reaches over you to tug at the drawer of his night stand, pulling out an accordion of blue squares. “Sure are prepared,” you say with a giggle, watching as he tears one package off of the long snake of plastic, ripping it open with his teeth.
“Better safe than sorry.” He removes the condom, reaching down to roll it on his dick, so pretty and pink and deliciously long. It riles a blossoming warmth in your belly, and you spread your legs for him to line the head with your seam. “Ready?”
You nod, his baby blue eyes meeting yours, irises awash with a glittering sparkle. “Just relax,” he adds, though you’re not sure if he was saying it to assure you or himself. “Breathe.” Again, who that was truly directed at, you’re not certain. But, with your hands up by your head, pinned to the mattress, clasped with his own, Leon enters you, one inch at a time.
“Holy shit.” Leon grunts, his face contorting. He instantly melts into you, his body collapsing against yours, his heart thrashing in his chest, thumping a thousand beats a minute like a battle drum.
The stretch burns, not quite the ooey-gooey instant rush of all-encompasing pleasure you were expecting, and you whimper, screwing your eyes shut as you breathe sharply through the pain.
“Are you alright?” He asks, looking down at you, the heads of his dark brows furrowed in genuine concern as he halts all movement.
“Yes, yes,” you huff out. “Keep going.”
You can feel yourself growing wetter, the friction becoming more lubricated as you give into the feeling, letting your brain accept the pleasure of becoming one with him. Your hips begin to soften, melding with the mattress. Even your legs open wider for him, granting his movement a new angle that has him spitting out a slur of incoherent mumbles and swears.
His trusts are uncoordinated, however, the rhythm dissonant, his pace wavering the closer he gets to his climax.
“I really don’t wanna come so fast,” he admits through a heaving breath, hanging his head. “But I ca–it feels really good. You feel really good.” The tips of his blonde strands tickle your face as he looks down between your bodies to watch his dick plunge in and out of you. The sting has subsided, and you’re able to understand how this could feel good–why people are so obsessed with it.
His curve slides against your front wall, the tip hitting a spot beneath your abdomen that has your body tensing, and the way his girth stretches you is so perfectly sweet.
“It’s okay,” you assure, squeezing his hands. “I want you to.”
“Really?”
“Really. I want to feel it. I want to watch you.”
His face burns bright red, his eyes brightening in a newfound mania. “Okay, fuck. Yeah, okay.” And he picks up the speed of his movements, pistoning into you for a few more seconds before his entire body is seizing, his face tied into a wince, a slurry of growls and groans leaving his shuddering chest.
Something primal rushes through you. Something about hearing the evidence of his attraction to you–the way your body made him feel, figuratively bringing him to his knees, making him a slobbery, stuttering mess. It has you completely enthralled, your clit throbbing, that bubbly warmth returning to your gut. Perhaps it’s wrong to be so aroused by what looks utterly painful.
Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you see, out of the corner of your eye, a man standing in the doorway of your bedroom. He’s just a black blur of shadow at first, but once you spin around on your heel, your pupils adjust and the details fall into place. Blonde hair. Broad shoulders. A face that doesn’t belong on earth, specially crafted for myths and epics of old.
“Woah.”
“Shit, Leon,” you spit. “You scared me.”
With a palm placed over your heart, you begin to feel the beat slow as you catch your breath, reminding yourself that you’re safe, even safer now with him home. He lingers in the doorway, dress shoes planted on the threshold as he leans against the wooden frame, just watching, his eyes flickering over your form.
“What’s all this?”
His gaze cuts to the bed, where a few formal gowns are tossed across the comforter, bags and tissue paper scattered along the floor. He crosses the room, stepping toward the edge of the mattress, fingers grazing the assortment of textures and colors.
“My cousin’s wedding is next week. I’m a bridesmaid, remember?”
“Ah,” he says, mouth falling open. “I thought you all had to match each other–like the same color or something.”
He plays with the skirt of one of the dresses, a chartreuse chiffon fabric–a color that is very popular this year à la the saleswoman who helped you pick it out. You’re not convinced.
“Not anymore. Apparently it’s all the rage these days to have a mis-matched bridal party. Something about pinterest, I don’t know.” Your voice trails off as you head back to the standing mirror in the corner of the room, taking another look at the gown meeting your curves. It’s hot pink, the color an immaculate complement to your complexion, yet the shape is a little matronly.
“You look beautiful,” he says, contacting your eyes in the reflection. “I like it.”
Oh, Leon, you think. “It’s a little frumpy.” You smooth the fabric over your hips, officially signing the veto order. “Help me unzip?”
He nods, approaching from behind, hands immediately finding the zipper between your shoulder blades. Instant relief courses through you as the fabric releases from your skin. A knuckle brushes up and down your spine before Leon helps guide the sleeves down your arms.
“Try on another one,” he commands softly at your ear, hands returning to the balls of your shoulders to squeeze.
You pull off the pink dress entirely, putting it back on the hanger and in its respective garment bag and into the ‘no’ pile. Leon paces back and forth around the bed, surveying the array of gowns, eventually deciding on which one he wants to see you in next, pointing to a shimmery gold dress with thick straps and a bandage-style body that is sure to hug your every curve. There’s no surprise why he picked that one.
He helps you slip into the gown, crouching by your feet, holding the skirt open for you to step into, gliding it up your calves, your thighs, your middle, aiding you in pulling on the straps.
“Gorgeous,” he says with a smile, spinning you around, dipping you back to plant a long, savored kiss on your lips. “But I don’t think this is the one.”
He lets you back up, and you glance at him from beneath cinched brows. “Why not?” You turn your head to the side to catch your figure in the mirror across the room, taking in the way the fabric conforms to the slope of your hips, the length of your waist. A strong contender. “I think it looks great. Really great.”
With you still caught in his arms, Leon holds you close, his hands sneaking down your back, landing on your ass, squeezing. “Yeah, but isn’t the number one rule of weddings not to outshine the bride?”
Hello! Love your work 🩵 feel free to not write but so I had this crack/cute idea of where you and Leon are partners but you butt heads despite having feelings for each other that everyone but y’all two see. Now during a mission, somehow y’all went into the future and came across your future selves. When working together to try to get back to your own time, you two start to see your future dynamic and realize that they’re married, making y’all double think about each other.
Heyo! So, I didn't write exactly this, but I did write something heavily inspired by it! I really hope that's okay <3
Summary: A trip through the house of memories.
Memories, Where'd You Go? - Leon Kennedy x Reader
The scrapbook is smooth compared to his calloused palms.
Leon was never one to take photos. He always thought that it was a waste of time. That there was no point in taking a picture, when memory served just fine. But, now that years have passed, he can finally say that maybe, just maybe, pictures are useful after all.
If it wasn’t for Hunnigan and Sherry, none of these images would have been taken at all. His finger traces over the edge of a particular photo. He was younger back then, about 27. It was his first time meeting you, his new mission partner. The photo shows you two sneering at each other. He can’t quite remember what the issue was, but he knows one thing: You two despised each other back then.
“We fucking hated each other, didn’t we?” Your voice chimes in beside him, your own hand joining his. The wedding ring on your finger catches his eye, and he smiles when he sees it. It’s still the best damn decision he’s ever made.
He flips the page. “We did, yeah.”
Another photo. This one, he’s in the DSO office, typing up a report. You’re behind him, about to smack his arm for some kind of prank he had played on you. Sherry had been the one to take that photo. He had been 37 at the time, he thinks. Funnily enough, you and him had gone out on a date only a week after.
“You were kind of a jerk, I hope you know.” Your finger gestures to the image on the bottom left corner. You were in a hospital after a mission, your arm getting bandaged up after a bad scuffle. Leon is beside you, sneaking a swig of his flask.
“I was an alcoholic, not a jerk. Big difference.”
You shrug. “Two things can be true, you know.” Your finger taps the flash in the image, “And how the hell did you even get that into a hospital?”
He crosses over his heart dramatically. “I’ll never tell.”
The page gets turned again. This time, it's one of his favorite photos. The wedding day. You’re in a stunning dress, him in a tux that he was only a little reluctant to wear. There’s a tiny bit of your lipstick on his collar, which he had only realized was there after the day was over and the pictures were taken. At the time, he had been embarrassed. Now, it makes him smile.
“You looked so beautiful.” He whispers, and your hand lightly smacks his arm.
You roll your eyes. “That dress was so tight, I couldn’t breathe properly.”
“And you looked beautiful, even if you couldn’t breathe.”
In a flash, your lips go to his cheek, and it leaves him reeling. “How did I ever convince you to date me?”
A giggle. It’s so light and happy that he feels a little dizzy. “You offered me a nice dinner, and promised to stop stealing my lunch from the office fridge. That was a good enough deal for me.”
“In my defence,” He laughs, “Your lunches tasted better than mine.”
“Because your lunches were nothing, Leon.”
His hands raise above his head, eyes rolling. “They weren’t nothing!”
“A can of diet coke and a protein bar aren’t lunch. It’s a depression meal.”
His body leans closer to yours. You’re warm against him, smelling like your sweet perfume. It swirls around his head, relaxing his soul. “Mm. And now, I have your lunches forever.”
ꫂ᭪݁ summary : four years of built up tension between you and leon kennedy finally snaps during a mission in an abandoned russian sanatorium and after a reckless argument you both had at the DSO HQ, his restraint breaks , leaving both of you with far more damage than either of you know how to name.
⚠︎ warnings : implied age gap (reader is in her mid 20s,leon is 49) , creampie, rough sex, hate sex/angry sex, semi-public sex, unsafe location, risky sex during active mission, dub con if you squint ,superior/subordinate dynamic, power imbalance, arguing, emotional tension, explicit content, manhandling, spanking, hair pulling, choking, knife intimidation, degradation, dirty talk,a tiny bit of praise, overstimulation, unprotected sex, emotional neglect after sex, angst, unresolved feelings, mean leon, not proofread
ꫂ᭪݁ a/n: please take note that this was originally a chapter from a very long fanfic i wrote for my oc and leon which is why he's like this lmao, i promise i'll make him kinder in the part 2 if i will finish it.i had re9 leon in my mind for this but re4 could also work out
the first thing you noticed was the cold air around you.
it was not the dramatic, merciful kind of cold that announced itself all at once and then faded into numbness. it was quieter than that. meaner. it seeped beneath the cuffs of your jacket, slid under the tight leather of your gloves, and settled deep into your bones with a slow, deliberate cruelty.
the tires of his porsche churned viciously through the frozen mud, the engine emitting a low, rhythmic rattle that only served to deepen the crushing silence inside the foggy forest. outside the reinforced windows, the Russian twilight was bleeding into a dense, oppressive black, swallowing the pines and suffocating the isolated atmosphere. the fog rolled over the hood of the car in thick, ghostly waves, illuminated only by the sharp, cutting glare of the headlights.
you stared out the passenger window, your pale reflection ghosting over the frosted glass. your black jacket was zipped tight to your throat, the rigid collar pressing uncomfortably against the soft fabric of your black turtleneck. you kept your hands shoved deep into your pockets, your knuckles white, fingers curled into tight fists to hide the faint, betraying tremor of leftover adrenaline and the creeping cold.
beneath your skirt, the thick black tights offered little protection against the chill that seemed to seep directly through the floorboards and into your bones.
and to your left, Leon held the steering wheel with a loose, practiced grip that betrayed nothing of the violence coiled beneath his skin. his profile was carved from the stark shadows of the dashboard’s faint illumination, his jaw set in a hard, unyielding line, a muscle ticking faintly just beneath his ear. he was driving, his eyes fixed on the treacherous path ahead, utterly detached from the suffocating tension occupying the space between you.
the two of you hadn't really spoken since hunnigan gave you the details for this mission.
the argument at the DSO office days prior had been loud enough to shake the dust from the rafters. it had been a complete mess of explicit words about protocols you ignored, a breached perimeter , and the undeniable fact that you had chosen to follow your own medical instincts over his orders.
and he had been furious ever since.
It wasn't the explosive anger of a lesser man, his voice had dropped into that terrifying, deadened register that usually meant someone was about to get court-martialed or maybe even worse.
you hadn't bothered to apologise at all. not then, and not now either. instead, you had met his cold gaze with a silent, defensive deflection, locking your jaw and refusing to give him an inch of the submission he demanded as your superior.
now, four agonizing hours later, the silence between you was no longer just an absence of sound. It was a physical weight, thick with four years of built-up tension, near-misses, and an unacknowledged, suffocating attraction that tasted more like iron and blood than the romance you initially imagined of and hoped for. every time the car hit a rut, jolting your shoulders mere inches from touching, the air in the cabin seemed to thin, making it harder to breathe.
Leon slowed the vehicle, the gears shifting with a harsh, mechanical grind. the headlights swept across a rusted, iron gate hanging precariously off its shattered stone hinges. beyond it sat the sanatorium.
the stone facade was grand but utterly ruined, a decaying, brutalist monument of the old Soviet concrete overgrown with dead, creeping ivy and stained with decades of black rot. its windows were shattered, empty black maws staring back at them like dead eyes. It looked entirely abandoned, swallowed whole by the merciless silence of the forest.
the engine cut out.
the sudden, absolute absence of noise made the interior of the car feel instantly smaller, the walls pressing in tight. the ticking of the cooling engine block sounded like a countdown.
"check your comms," Leon commanded.
his voice was clipped, completely devoid of any warmth or familiarity.
you didn't turn to look at him. instead, you stubbornly kept your eyes on the decaying building, your breath catching slightly in your throat before reaching up. you adjusted the earpiece hidden beneath the thick strands of your dark hair, the freezing fingers brushing the hard plastic.
"comms are green."
"we move quick, we stay on line, and you stay behind me," he said, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the dark, gaping entrance of the main building. he didn't turn his head. he didn't seek your acknowledgment. but in the silence, the thick leather of his tactical gloves creaked as his fingers tightened imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "if I tell you to halt, you don't step. am I clear?"
you let out a short breathy exhale, not quite a laugh, but mocking enough to fracture the quiet. the sound was sharp in the cold, contained space. you finally turned your head, dark eyes tracing the broa line of his shoulder, the tactical vest that bulked his frame, up to the sharp angle of his cheekbone.
"you're always clear, Leon," you murmured, your voice steady, refusing to rise to his bait. "it's the flexibility you lack."
leon's head turned around slowly. his blue eyes were icy, catching the dim, fading light of the dashboard and pinning you in place. there was no mirth in his expression, no soft exasperation. there was only a dark, fraying patience that looked entirely too close to snapping.
"this isn't Washington," he said, his voice dropping an octave, the vibration of it settling low in your stomach. "you break line out here, and I leave you in the dirt. don't test my patience tonight."
you held his stare. your chin tilted upward a fraction of an inch. nor did you didn't offer a verbal agreement. knowing exactly how to challenge him, how to drag that suffocating control of his into the light just enough to see the cracks.
you wanted that reaction of his.
you needed the silent proof that beneath the ice, you could still disrupt him.
then, you broke the eye contact first, pushing your heavy door open before he could approve the movement. the biting, subzero russian air rushed into the cabin, hitting your face like a physical blow. you stepped out, your heavy boots crunching violently into the frozen gravel.
a moment later, the heavy slam of the driver’s side door echoed through the courtyard. leon was there, his boots hitting the ground with a deliberate force. he didn't look at you as he slung his assault rifle over his shoulder, the metal clasps clinking in the quiet.
as he passed you to take the lead, he didn't offer a lot of space. his arm brushed hard against yours, a brief, unnecessarily rough contact. it wasn't accidental though .it was a physical assertion of space, and the friction sent a sharp jolt of unwanted, pooling heat straight through you, settling deep in your core. you swallowed hard, your jaw tight, and fell into step exactly three paces behind him.
both of you entered through a shattered side door, the flashlights cutting through the thick, stagnant air of the sanatorium.
the interior was a sprawling wasteland of rusted iron, shattered tile, and damp decay. the smell was atrocious, a mix of wet concrete, black mold, and the metallic tang of old, dried blood that never quite left these places. water dripped from the ceiling somewhere deep in the pitch-black corridors, a slow, maddening clock ticking away in the dark.
you followed him silently, your eyes naturally tracking the broad, unyielding span of his shoulders beneath his gear.
for four years. four years of patching him up in sterile medical bays. four years of stitching his torn skin, pulling shrapnel from his flesh, of watching him bleed out and then return to the field like a machine devoid of a nervous system. you knew the topography of his body better than anyone else at in the DSO, every scar on his torso, the exact, shallow rhythm of his breathing when he was trying to hide his pain. but you had never been allowed past the psychological ice. the uncertainty of what he actually felt, if he felt anything at all beyond a simmering, professional irritation toward your stubbornness, was an old, chronic ache. and tonight, in the freezing dark, that ache had turned volatile.
leon stopped at a four-way intersection, his boot coming down softly. his flashlight beam swept across a collapsed ceiling in the northern corridor, illuminating a mountain of jagged concrete and exposed rebar.
"come on,to the left." he muttered, his voice barely carrying over the sound of dripping water.
you stepped up, closing the distance between you until you were entirely out of his designated formation. you stood beside him, your own light sweeping down the eastern corridor toward a row of heavy, reinforced iron doors.
"the medical wing should be there though" you said, your tone clinical, refusing to acknowledge his command. "if there's any remaining sample from the old research, it’ll be in the sub-basement labs. left takes us to the patient housing."
"we secure the ground floor first" leon said.
his hand shot out, catching your jacket sleeve before you could take another step. he pulled you back half a step. the movement wasn't gentle. his grip was tight, his thick, leather-clad fingers digging sharply through the heavy material of your coat and into the muscle of your upper arm.
"I said stay behind me."
you tensed, your breath flaring white in the freezing air. you yanked your arm out of his grasp with a sharp, violent jerk, your dark eyes flashing in the peripheral backscatter of your flashlights.
you didn't raise your voice, but your words were laced with venom. "I'm not a child, leon. i know how to navigate a clear corridor. the structural integrity to the east looks stable enough to cross."
leon turned fully toward you. he didn't speak immediately. he took a slow, deliberate step into your personal space, towering over you until his chest was nearly brushing the zipper of your jacket. he angled his body, forcing you to look up at him. the ambient smell of the rotting building faded, entirely overpowered by the scent of him, the cold air, rich leather, gun oil, and that deep, familiar musk of his skin. it dizzying, heavy, and intoxicating, despite the crushing harshness of his posture.
"i don't give a damn what it looks like to you," he hissed, the words vibrating with a suppressed rage. "you don't command this unit. i do. you follow the protocol I set, or you sit in the vehicle and wait for extraction."
you held your ground, refusing to lean back.
"the protocol that puts us an hour behind schedule?" you challenged, your voice dropping into a low, cutting whisper. you could feel the heat radiating off his body, contrasting violently with the sub-zero air of the hallway. your chest rose and fell with ragged, uneven breaths. "you're letting your anger from earlier cloud your judgment. it's inefficient, and you know it."
leon’s eyes darkened at your comment, the blue shifting into something entirely black and volatile in the shadows. he stared down at you, his jaw clenching so hard you could hear the faint grind of his teeth. for a long, agonizing second, the silence between you was deafening. the air grew impossibly thick, weighed down by an unwanted, heavy heat that had nothing to do with the freezing temperature of the decaying hospital. his broad chest heaved against his tactical rig, his legendary restraint visibly fraying, snapping at the edges under your continued defiance.
he didn't argue,nor did he didn't defend his tactics. he simply leaned in a fraction closer, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.
"i said left." he repeated. It was a guttural growl that vibrated deep in his chest. "move, now."
the two of you walked in silence down the eastern wing, the rotted wooden floorboards groaning in protest beneath your combined weight.
you deliberately, stubbornly kept your pace just slightly out of sync with his. dragging your boots a fraction of a second too late, stepping a little too heavy. it was a petty, silent defiance, but you knew he could hear it. every time your heel clicked against a stray piece of broken tile, you felt his presence shift ahead of you. you could feel his focus narrowing, his attention heavy and watching, tracking your every movement through the gloom even with his back turned.
Afterwards,both of you reached the end of the hall, pushing through a set of swinging doors that hung limply on rusted hinges.
the room beyond was massive, a circular, cavernous space that looked like an old, brutalist operating theater. in the center of the room sat a long, heavy metal surgical table, pitted with dark rust and stained with decades of stagnant water. high above, a shattered glass dome let in the faint, anemic light of the moon, casting long, twisted shadows across the cracked tiles.
the air here was significantly colder. It bit at any exposed skin, your breaths escaping in thick, white plumes that hung in the air before dissipating into the dark.
you stepped away from him, approaching a tall metal cabinet sagging in the corner. the flashlight beam reflected off a row of shattered glass apothecary jars and the dull gray of ruined gauze.
"nothing here," you murmured, your voice flat, devoid of the earlier heat. you ran a gloved finger over the rim of a broken jar. "just old surgical tools. It’s a dead end."
"step away from the center of the room," leon said.
he was standing near the doorway, his rifle lowered but ready, his flashlight scanning the high, vaulted ceiling above the surgical table. the beam illuminated deep fissures running through the concrete.
you heard him very clear. his tone was authoritative. but the urge to push him, to find out exactly where his breaking point lay after hours of silent torture, was a sudden, blinding fever in your blood. you turned away from the cabinet, deliberately ignoring the command, and stepped closer to the rusted metal table in the dead center of the room to inspect a tray of degraded instruments.
you didn't even look at him.
"the ceiling is fine, Leon. you're being paranoid. we need to check the structural base of this table to see if there's a sub-floor—"
a loud, sharp crack echoed like a gunshot from the impenetrable shadows above.
before you could process the sound, before you could even tilt your head up, a massive, heavy chunk of concrete and rotting plaster rained down from the dome. it plummeted through the darkness and shattered violently against the very edge of the metal table, just inches from where your hand rested. a cloud of toxic, choking dust and iron rust exploded into the air, blinding you instantly.
you gasped, stumbling backward, but before you could find your footing, a massive weight slammed into you from the side.
leon's body hit yours with the force of a freight train. his momentum threw you violently backward, your spine colliding hard against the solid, unforgiving edge of the rusted metal table. his heavy rifle clattered deafeningly against the concrete floor as his large, gloved hands shot out, pinning your shoulders down with brutal force. his entire frame crushed you against the freezing steel, knocking the breath from your lungs in a sharp, painful, wheezing gasp.
"are you out of your mind?" Leon rasped.
the sound of his voice tearing through the dust was terrifying. his face was mere inches from yours. one of the flashlights had fallen to the floor, rolling wildly until it came to a halt against a wall, casting long, chaotic, upward shadows that illuminated the raw, unchecked fury in his features.
the controlled agent was entirely gone. his ash-blonde hair was messy, falling across his forehead, and his breathing was heavy, ragged, and hot against your cold skin. his eyes were wide, feral, and utterly terrifying.
you struggled against his crushing weight instinctively. your hands flew up, your palms pressing against the rigid plates of his tactical vest to push him away, but he didn't budge a single inch. it was like pushing against a stone wall.
"let... go!" you choked out, fighting to pull air back into your lungs. your stubbornness still flared through the adrenaline and shock, your jaw setting in a hard line. "it was just plaster, I would have—"
"shut up!" he snarled, his voice cracking with a violent intensity.
his fingers tightened around your shoulders with bruising force, pinning you so hard against the edge of the table that the rusted metal groaned loudly beneath you. "just shut the hell up for fuck's sake."
the silence that immediately followed his outburst was suffocating. dust continued to rain down softly around you, settling on your shoulders, but neither of you moved.
his broad chest was heaving against your breasts, rising and falling in an erratic, angry rhythm. his thick thighs had slotted seamlessly against yours, locking your legs completely into place against the heavy base of the surgical table.
you were entirely trapped.
you looked up at him. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you thought it might shatter them. your own breathing matched his, shallow, fast, erratic. your stared into his face, watching the muscles in his jaw bunch and release.
you could see it happening in real-time. could see the exact, terrifying moment his restraint snapped.
the years of hushed arguments in medical tents, the lingering, hidden glances across briefing rooms, the volatile, unspoken tension of your dynamic, it was all collapsing right here, in the dark, narrowing into a singular, dangerous focus.
"do you think this shit is a fucking game?" Leon whispered.
his voice had dropped entirely, slipping into a low, raspy register that made a heavy, involuntary shiver run straight down your spine. his hands suddenly released your shoulders, sliding up your neck with a rough, calloused touch to grip your jaw. his thick, leather-gloved fingers squeezed the sides of your face, forcing your head up, making it impossible for you to look anywhere but directly into the dark, churning depths of his eyes.
"you think you can push me," he continued, his thumb pressing hard against your cheekbone, "ignore my direct orders, and just walk away because you're the doctor?"
swallowing hard, your pulse frantic against his palm. "Leon—"
"I told you to step back." leon interrupted, his thumb sliding down to press brutally hard into the corner of your bottom lip, cutting off your words, parting your mouth slightly. hus blue eyes were pitch black in the shadows, entirely consumed by blown-out pupils. "you wanted a reaction? wanted to see exactly how far you could stretch my patience?"
you didn't pull away. it's not like you couldn't, but you also didn't try. despite the punishing harshness of his grip, a familiar, heavy ache flared to life deep between your thighs, hot and immediate.
you met his furious gaze, chest rising against his. with no intention to want him to let go.
you didn't want the soft, safe boundaries of your professional, distant roles. you wanted the suffocating roughness of his anger. yoi wanted the undeniable truth of his heavy weight holding you down in the dark.
you kept your voice low, deliberately steady, despite the tremor in your hands.
"I know you won't do anything" you whispered against the leather of his glove. It was a blatant provocation, sharp and reckless. "you're too much of a professional."
leon's eyes flared wide at your words. the air in the room seemed to combust. with a terrifying, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"you really are a fucking brat."
the speed at which he moved was blinding. before you could take a breath, his hand shifted from your jaw to the heavy metal zipper at the front of your jacket. he gripped it and yanked it down violently in one sharp, continuous motion. the sound of the zipper tearing open echoed loudly. he didn't pause to pull the jacket off your shoulders, his large, caloused hands reached directly under the thick, woolen hem of your black turtleneck.
his freezing, leather-clad fingers gripped the bare skin of your waist with a brutal strength that you knew would leave bruises by morning.
you let out a sharp, involuntary whine, your fingers immediately clutching blindly at the heavy fabric of his tactical vest as he manhandled you. with a raw, effortless display of physical dominance, he turned your body around, twisting you forcefully until your stomach and chest slammed flat against the cold surface of the metal surgical table.
the shock of the freezing steel through your clothes made you gasp loudly.
"Leon, wait—"
"you don't get to tell me to wait," he growled directly into your ear. his breath was scorching hot against the sensitive, freezing skin of your neck, raising goosebumps along your spine.
he leaned forward, pinning your lower back down with the crushing weight of his heavy forearm. his body weight flattened you completely against the steel, leaving you utterly immobile.
with his free hand, he reached down, gripping the thick fabric of your black skirt.
he shoved it up past your thighs, bunching it roughly around your waist. your breath hitched in a panicked, thrilled gasp as the absolute zero air of the dead theater hit the back of your legs, which were protected only by the thin mesh of your black tights. you instinctively tried to pull your leg forward, trying to find some leverage on the slick, rusted metal, but leon immediately drove his thigh directly between your knees. he forced your legs wide apart, locking you in a position of a humiliating vulnerability.
"you've been begging for this for months," leon muttered. his tone was rough, stripped of any pretense or decency. his large hand hooked aggressively into the tight waistband of your tights and underwear simultaneously. with a rough downward tug that made the synthetic fabric rip slightly at the seam, he pulled them down past your thighs, leaving the soft, pale skin of your ass entirely exposed to the biting cold.
"one argument after another," he ground out, his voice thick with a dark, bitter arousal. "every time you talked back in front of the unit. standing there, thinking you won't face the consequences because you wear a white coat."
"i wanted you to listen to me—" you gasped out. your face was pressed sideways against the icy metal of the table. your fingers were clawing desperately at the rusted, pitted edges, trying to find an anchor in the storm of his aggression.
"I'm listening now," he said.
slap.
the sound of his heavy, leather-clad palm striking your bare flesh echoed violently through the empty, cavernous operating theater. it sounded exactly like a gunshot in the dark.
you squealed, your spine arching upward off the metal involuntarily. eyes squeezed shut as a blinding heat bloomed violently across your right cheek. the pain was immediate, a stinging fire that spread fast in the freezing room. but beneath the agonizing sting, heavy pulse throbbed between your thighs. your pussy flooded with a violent, sudden, shameful wetness.
"that's for breaking the safety perimeter at the safehouse," leon stated. his voice wasn't yelling anymore. it was entirely controlled, flat, and utterly terrifying.
slap.
he struck you again, his palm landing in the exact same spot with brutal precision.
your hips jerked upward, bucking wildly against his hold. a choked, desperate cry escaped your throat, your nails scraping against the steel. "leon, damn you—"
"and that's for the ceiling," he interrupted coldly. his heavy hand came down a third time, significantly harder. the sheer impact of the strike rattled your entire frame against the heavy table.
slap.
"you don't get to talk back out here," he rasped, his breathing finally starting to heavily alter, growing thick and ragged.
"you don't get to decide which orders matter and which ones don't."
the spankings continued in a steady, punishing, rhythm. leon didn't rush it. he didn't lose himself. he delivered each deliberate slap with a heavy force that had you sobbing brokenly into the metal table.
your cheeks were flushed hot,your entire body shaking uncontrollably from the overwhelming combination of the freezing air and the red-hot, blistering pain radiating from your backside. your flesh was burning, the skin turning a deep, angry crimson beneath his unforgiving hands.
"are you going to look at me when I speak to you?" leon demanded.
his hand paused mid-air before coming down to rest,heavy , and rough, against your throbbing, sensitized flesh. the heat of his palm seeping into your stung skin was a torment of its own.
you dragged your face across the rusted metal, forcing yourself to turn your head. your dark hair was tangled wildly across your face. eyes slightly open, wet with hot tears of shock, pain, and overwhelming arousal. you tried to look at him through the gloom, your chest heaving.
"i'm looking," you panted. Your voice was broken, trembling violently, but your jaw was still set, that core of stubborn defiance refusing to die. "is this... is this all you've got, Mr.Kennedy?"
leon stared down at you, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. a faint chuckle slipped from the back of his throat.
"not even close."
he released you back for a fraction of a second, reaching down to the heavy tactical belt at his waist. you heard the distinct, chilling, metallic slide of his tactical combat knife being drawn smoothly from its Kydex sheath.
a cold spike of genuine, primal fear shot through your chest, instantly mixing with the heavy lust going through your veins.
he didn't touch your skin with the sharp edge of the blade, but you felt the flat, freezing steel of the heavy weapon slide slowly, deliberately along the black tights,right across where your exposed underwear was.
"you think you're safe because we work together?" leon whispered.
he leaned down, pressing his chest heavily over your back until his lips brushed against the cold shell of your ear. his hand pressed the flat of the freezing blade gently, warningly, against the delicate skin at the small of your back.
"i could leave you tied to this table," he breathed, your voice a dark, velvet threat.
"no one knows we're in this wing of the sanatorium."
"you wouldn't—" you talked back. heart hammering so hard you could literally feel the pulse beating in your throat. even though you were slightly terrified, you were dripping wet of slick.
"don't test my boundaries tonight when you already ruined yours," he said. his voice dropped into a cruel, mocking tone that offered absolutely no comfort.
he slid the heavy knife back into its sheath. the loud click of the lock engaging sounded like a final, damning judgment in the empty room.
he didn't give you a second to recover from the threat. his fingers hooked violently into the thick hair at the base of your skull, curling into a fist. pulling your head back roughly, then forcing your spine to arch so you were staring blindly up at the pitch-black shadows of the ruined ceiling. with his other hand, he reached roughly between your thighs from behind.
you gasped, your mouth falling open as his rough, gloved fingers found your swollen folds. you were slick, dripping with your own uncontrollable arousal. he didn't stroke you though. didn't soothe the ache. without a word of warning, he slid two thick fingers directly inside you with a sudden and rough, upward thrust.
you cried out loudly, a sharp, broken sound. the thick leather of his tactical glove stretched your tight, wet walls uncomfortably, the friction intense and borderline abrasive.
"look at how wet you are for me," Leon murmured sneeringly, his hot breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.
he began to fuck you with his fingers in a fast, degrading rhythm. his thumb pressed down hard, grinding relentlessly against your swollen clit without an ounce of mercy or tenderness.
"you think this makes you brave?" he mocked, pumping his fingers deeper into your tight core, scraping the sensitive walls.
"getting fucked on a rusted table in the middle of a dead zone because you couldn't follow basic protocol?"
"shut up... please, just..." you sobbed, your words breaking apart.
you couldn't finish the sentence. your highly educated, rational smartass was entirely dissolving into a chaotic haze of shame, pain and overwhelming pleasure.
the friction of the wet leather inside you was incredibly intense, riding the razor-thin line between pain and ecstasy, but it was exactly what you had starved for. you lost your fight. you pushed your hips back eagerly against his hand, chasing the rough thrusts, begging silently for the depth of his touch even as hot tears leaked continuously from the corners of your tightly shut eyes.
"you like being put like this, huh? like knowing how easily I can fuck you senseless?" leon rasped.
his own breathing had finally lost its iron control, becoming desperate, and loud in the quiet room. he pulled his dripping fingers out of you with a wet, obscene snap, leaving you instantly empty and shivering violently.
before you could form a word of protest, you heard the sound of his tactical gear shifting. the metal click of his belt buckled, the heavy slide of his heavy trousers being unzipped and shoved down.
a second later, the thick, length of his cock brushed deliberately against the aching flesh of your exposed cunt. he was huge, radiating a blistering heat in the freezing air, and completely unyielding.
"leon—" you whispered.
a sudden, terrifying wave of absolute vulnerability hit you. the reality of what was about to happen, here, like this, under these conditions, crashed over you.
"leon, look at me—"
he didn't look.
he grabbed your hips with both of his large hands, his fingers digging brutally into your delicate hip bones with a force that would absolutely leave blooming bruises the next day. he aligned himself, gripped you tight, and drove his cock deep inside you from behind in one violent, punishing thrust.
you screamed into the empty, cavernous room. The sound was immediately swallowed by the dark, dead stone walls.
the stretch was immense, a sharp, burning, suffocating fullness that felt like it was tearing through all of your remaining physical and mental defenses. he filled you completely, stretching you to your absolute limit.
stopping didn't even cross his mind in this moment,knowing exactly it was what you were desperate for. he didn't give you a moment to adjust to his massive size or the agonizing stretch. just instantly began to fuck you with a brutal, angry, relentless rhythm. his heavy hips slammed violently against your pussy with a wetsmacking sound that echoed obscenely, filling the silent theater.
the scene was entirely devoid of romance. this was no gentle lovemaking, no soft words of devotion. it was dark, it was freezing cold, and it was frantic. it was the violent release of four years of suffocating frustration and unwanted, denied desire and mutual feelings, finally snapping in the worst possible place, at the worst possible time.
leon's hands on your hips were relentless, with a grip so immovable.
his deep grunts of physical exertion sounded rough in your ear as he drove himself deeper and deeper into your wet core.
"you're fucked out here," he growled, his pace quickening into a blur. his cock hit your cervix with a blunt, bruising force that made you see starts and left you entirely dizzy. "say it. say you're my subordinate."
"god , leon— I'm.. yours," you sobbed openly now.
your fingers were slipping uselessly on the rusted metal as you tried to hold your upper body up. you were completely broken open, entirely at his mercy. "fuck... please..."
"that's my good girl," he muttered. the words weren't a comfort,instead they sounded bitter, almost cruel, laced with a twisted satisfaction on his tongue.
he reached around your back with his right hand. thick fingers wrapped securely around the front of your throat from behind, squeezing firmly. he didn't crush your windpipe, but he apply just enough steady pressure to restrict your frantic breath, forcing you into a state of choked, lightheaded compliance as he delivered the final, devastatingly thrusts.
your world entirely narrowed down to the gray concrete floor beneath you, the freezing steel biting into your chest, the painful grip on your throat, and the blinding, white-hot explosion of your orgasm. It ripped violently through your lower body, a devastating release that made you cry out into his hand as your vaginal walls clamped down agonizingly tight around his thick cock.
leon let out a low, guttural snarl.
his massive body tensed completely, every muscle pulling taut as steel. he drove his hips forward one last, brutal time, pinning you utterly flat against the rusted table as he spent himself deep, hot, and heavy within you. he held himself buried to the hilt, his chest heaving heavily against your back, his grip still tight around your throat.
for a long, heavy minute, the only sound in the massive, decaying room was your ragged, echoing breath, loud in the dark.
then reality crept back in. the adrenaline began to recede, and the freezing cold rushed back with a vengeance.
leon released your throat the next second. he pulled out of you without a single word of warning.
the sudden absence of his burning heat and filling weight made you shiver violently. you collapsed forward, staying face down on the freezing metal table. your entire body was trembling uncontrollably.your skin was sticky with a mixture of cold sweat and thick fluids that were already turning freezing against your bare thighs in the damp subzero air.
then you closed your eyes softly and waited.
you waited for a warm hand on your back. you waited for him to reach down and gently pull you up, to turn you around and finally look at you. waited for him to say something, anything, that would soften the bleeding edges of what had just occurred between you. a word of comfort. a acknowledgment that it meant something.it should?shouldn't it?
but instead, the only sound that cut through the silence was the sharp, metallic zip of his trousers. the rustle of his tactical gear being adjusted, the clinking of buckles and straps being pulled back into perfect, impenetrable order.
you slowly pushed yourself up, limbs feeling incredibly weak and shaking violently. you reached down, pulling your torn underwear and black tights back up over your thighs. freezing, numb hands fumbling awkwardly with the ruined fabric.
then your black skirt followed back into place, hiding the deep, angry red handprints that burned on your skin.
you turned around slowly, leaning against the rusted edge of the surgical table for support. looking up at him.
although, leon was already standing three feet away.
his blonde hair had been pushed back aggressively from his forehead. the impassive mask of the agent had returned, and the ice was thicker and more impenetrable than it had ever been before. at least that is what he wanted you to think.
he picked up his assault rifle from the dust covered floor, checking the chamber and the safety with efficiency.
he didn't look at your face in this agonizing. didn't meet your eyes. he just stared blankly at a spot somewhere near your collarbone, voice entirely flat and dead.
"fix your jacket. we have twenty minutes before the extraction window changes."
you froze at that. your heart didn't just break, it dropped into a cold, bottomless, void in your chest.
the silence between you was no longer volatile. it was no longer charged with heat or tension that built up until now. it was completely empty. beyond gut-wrenching. the brutal act hadn't cleared whether that he loved you or he hated your guts. it hadn't cleared the suffocating tension or broken the barrier between you. it had only violently snapped the one fragile line of connection you had left, leaving the emotional damage entirely, irreparably unresolved.you could only hope for any affection left deep down his hardened heart.
"leon—" you whispered, your voice cracking painfully in the quiet.
"i said move out," he cut you off, his voice void of any human emotion. "it's the last time I'll say it."
he didn't wait for a response. he turned his broad back to you, the flashlight beam on his shoulder cutting a harsh white path through the dust, and began walking toward the northern corridor.
you stood entirely alone in the center of the ruined operating theater. the freezing air bit viciously at your tear stained skin. you stared at his retreating back, realizing with a dull, suffocating, and incredibly heavy ache that you had wanted to break him, and in doing so, you had thought that everything was now infinitely, permanently worse.
or was it?
with shaking, numb fingers, you slowly pulled the zipper of your jacket back up to your throat, burying your chin in the collar, and stepped away from the table to follow him into the dark.
