20s (He/They)BLACK(Asexual Trans Guy) POC Content Consumer 🏳️⚧️♊🔞🏳️🌈 An average fan with a love for Kpop, Anime, MCU, BG3,SPN, Avatar, and Twilight. I am and always will be horny on main.
A/n: He's such a cutie, note; this of course takes place after him meeting the reader again and the blow job. I just wanted to write a fluff piece for him
Plus size!Reader • Model!Reader
The apartment was bathed in the soft glow of afternoon sunlight filtering through the half-drawn blinds. You stood in front of the full-length mirror near the closet, smoothing the fabric of your short dress with both hands. The material hugged your generous curves in all the right places, the hemline sitting just high enough to be playful without crossing into scandalous territory. It was one of those rare days off...no photoshoots, no runway fittings, just you and Peter enjoying a lazy Saturday together.
Peter was sprawled on the couch behind you, legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone with that absent-minded focus he got when he was trying not to stare. You caught his reflection in the mirror and smiled to yourself. He was terrible at pretending he wasn't watching you.
Walking over to him, you placed a kiss to the top of his head then turned to bend down, reaching for the pair of shoes you'd left on the floor, the hem of your dress riding up just enough to reveal the soft curve of your thighs. The movement was innocent enough, just you getting ready to put something away but the effect on Peter was immediate.
Smack.
The sound echoed through the apartment, sharp and unexpected. Peter's palm connected with the plush roundness of your ass in a playful slap that sent a warm tingle racing up your spine. You straightened slowly, turning to face him with raised eyebrows and a smirk already tugging at your lips.
Peter's face had gone through several shades of crimson in the span of three seconds. His eyes were wide, mouth hanging open in a perfect 'O' of horror and regret. He looked like he'd just accidentally punched the Punisher....again.
"I am so sorry... I don't know why I did that," he blurted out, voice cracking slightly on the last word. His hands flew up in surrender, phone clattering forgotten to the couch cushions. "It was...it was an accident? No, wait, that's worse. It wasn't an accident, but it wasn't on purpose either? I mean—" he started to ramble.
"Did you just slap my ass, Parker?" you teased, tilting your head as you watched him flounder. The mortification on his face was almost too precious to handle.
Peter opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking like a fish gasping for air. "I....mean yeah. I did. Oh god, I did. I'm the worst boyfriend ever. I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. Well, I was thinking, but not with my brain, and now I'm making it worse..."
You crossed the short distance between you in two steps, the soft sway of your hips drawing his eyes despite his obvious panic. Without giving him time to spiral further, you settled yourself onto his lap, your plush thighs bracketing his as you cupped his face with both hands. His skin was warm beneath your palms, and you could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips as bis heart started to beat wildly out of his chest.
"Don't go having a heart attack on me, Parker," you murmured, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. The contact was soft, reassuring, the kind of kiss that said everything was fine without needing words. When you pulled back, his eyes had softened from panic to something warmer, though the flush on his cheeks hadn't faded. "You slapped my ass. It's not the end of the world."
Peter let out a shaky laugh, his hands coming up to rest tentatively on your waist. His fingers splayed across the fabric of your dress, careful not to grip too hard, like he was still afraid he'd crossed some invisible line.
"You're not mad?" he asked, voice small. "Because I feel like I should be apologizing for at least another five minutes. Maybe ten. I could make a PowerPoint presentation about how sorry I am."
"Power point....who uses a power point anymore?" You teased as a soft laugh escaped your lips, the sound bright and genuine, as you shifted slightly on his lap to get more comfortable. The movement made his breath hitch, but he didn't look away from your face.
"I'm not mad," you assured him, brushing your thumb across his cheek. "It was kind of cute, actually. Very on-brand for you."
"On-brand?" Peter repeated, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Getting handsy with my incredibly beautiful girlfriend without warning is on-brand?"
"The impulsive part is," you teased, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his. "The part where you immediately look like you're going to pass out from guilt? That's definitely Peter Parker behavior."
He groaned, dropping his forehead to rest against your shoulder. You could feel the smile against your neck, the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame as your fingers carded through his messy brown hair.
"I can't believe I did that," he mumbled into the fabric of your dress. "I've been trying so hard to be respectful. You're a model, for crying out loud. People stare at you all day professionally. The last thing you need is your boyfriend acting like a caveman."
"Peter." You tugged gently at his hair until he lifted his head to meet your eyes. "I like when you look at me. I like when you touch me. And I especially like when you get all flustered about it afterward. It's endearing."
His expression softened into something unbearably fond. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then the other, then the tip of his nose for good measure. "Besides, if I didn't want you touching me, I'd have said something. Or elbowed you in the ribs. Or sat on you until you apologized properly...or maybe have one of my security details shoot you."
Peter's laugh was startled out of him, bright and genuine. "Sitting on me doesn't sound like much of a punishment...shooting me on the other hand."
"That so? Well maybe we should try it out," you countered, wiggling your hips just enough to make a point. His hands tightened on your waist reflexively, and you grinned at the way his pupils dilated. "See? You're not as smooth as you think you are, Spider-Man."
"Hey, low blow," he protested, but there was no heat in it. His thumbs traced small circles against your sides through the dress fabric, a soothing, absent-minded gesture that betrayed how comfortable he was with you in his space. "I thought we agreed not to bring up the superhero thing during date night."
"This isn't date night. This is 'my boyfriend slapped my ass and had an existential crisis about it' night," you corrected, tapping his nose with one finger. "Completely different vibe."
Peter caught your hand before you could do it again, pressing a kiss to your palm before lacing your fingers together. The gesture was so sweet it made your chest ache in the best way.
"I really am sorry, though," he said, quieter now. "If I made you uncomfortable, even for a second.."
"You didn't." You squeezed his hand, using your free one to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "I promise. It was surprising, but not unwelcome. And the look on your face after? Worth it."
"I'm never going to live this down, am I?" he asked, but he was smiling as he said it.
"Absolutely not," you confirmed cheerfully. "I'm going to bring this up at the most inopportune moments. Family dinners. Strangers on the street. At my shoots. Right before you swing off to fight bad guys. 'Remember that time you slapped my ass and looked like you wanted the earth to swallow you whole?'"
Peter buried his face in your neck with a dramatic groan, but you could feel him laughing against your skin. His arms came around you properly now, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You fit together perfectly, your softness complementing the lean muscle of his frame.
"You're the worst," he said, voice muffled.
"You love me," you countered.
"I really do." He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes warm and sincere. "Even when you're threatening to humiliate me in front of your family and coworkers."
"Especially then," you agreed, leaning in for another kiss. This one lingered, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn't quite capture. When you finally parted, both of you were slightly breathless, foreheads pressed together.
"So," Peter said after a moment, voice low and teasing, "does this mean I can slap your ass on purpose now? Or do I still need to pretend it was an accident?"
You laughed, the sound echoing through the apartment like sunlight. "Ask nicely and maybe you'll find out."
Peter's grin was bright enough to power the city. "Noted. I'll start practicing my begging."
You settled more comfortably against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, the afternoon stretching out ahead of you like a promise. Outside, New York hummed with its usual chaos, but here, in this small pocket of peace, there was only the two of you, flustered apologies and gentle teasing and the kind of love that made even the most embarrassing moments feel like the start of something wonderful.
leon never says anything right away, always taking time to observe before reacting.
he watches the way you disappear into the bathroom before dates. the faint click of your makeup compacts, the hiss of the hairspray, the soft music you play while getting ready. by the time you step out, you’re smiling at him like it didn’t take you an hour deciding between two identical outfits.
but he notices.
notices the way your lipstick matches the blush on your cheeks. the special occasion earrings you wear only on dates. the perfume that lingers on his jackets, which change depending on the season (he likes the floral one best).
and, of course, the questions you always ask.
“does this look okay?
“is this shirt too bright?...or not bright enough?”
“will these heels match your shoes?”
leon thought it was ridiculous at first. as if there could ever be a version of you he wouldn’t look at like you hung the stars yourself.
it finally clicked one day while he was waiting outside your apartment. you were running late which was a rare occasion. when you finally appeared in front of him, you had an embarrassed smile while apologizing about redoing your makeup.
that night at dinner, he caught himself staring. you looked gorgeous, you always did. but he saw how clean your eyeliner was, how smooth your cheeks were, and how kissable your lips looked despite the plate of pasta you devoured.
the thought of you taking the time and effort to be so beautiful, just for him? that settled in his chest and followed him home.
the next morning, rather than just putting on the first shirt he sees, he pauses. his hand lingers over an old, loose academy shirt before reaching for a black fitted one instead. he remembers the way you gawked at him the first time he wore it, the memory making him chuckle.
he spends more time fixing his hair, but grows frustrated that it doesn’t move with his fingers dipped in water. that afternoon, he bought a new hair serum. one of the best, at least, that’s what the sales lady said.
he starts using moisturizer before bed and sunscreen in the morning.
he’s more generous with the cologne that made you bury your face in his neck for a second longer than usual.
even his workouts change. he still trains because he has to, but maybe he adds one more set. maybe he holds the plank a little longer. maaaaybe he does pushups before he comes to see you. you don’t seem to mind when the sleeves of his shirts began to fit tighter around his arms than they used to.
leon thought it was only fair, and he doesn’t mention any of it.
it wasn’t until one evening when you’re standing behind him in his kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist while he’s washing dishes. your fingers squeezed the taut muscle of his abdomen.
“have you been working out more?”
leon glances over his shoulder, pretending to think about it. “...maybe.”
“maybe?” you giggle, feeling his arms. “your shirts didn’t used to fit like this.”
he dries his hands before turning around to face you. he leans against the counter, pulling you close.
“you spend a lot of time getting pretty before you see me,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “figured I should put in some work too.”
you blinked. “for me?”
he could feel his ears heating up. “didn’t seem right letting you be the only one trying.”
the look on your face (and the kisses you smothered him in) made everything worth it.
BONUS
chris stared at leon from the bathroom doorway, watching as he dripped something onto his hand before combing his fingers through his hair.
“is that…hair oil?
leon didn’t even look up. “hair serum,” he corrected.
“alright, pretty boy, what’s next? face masks? cucumber slices over your eyes?”
“why? you wanna do some? I’ve got a few,” leon said, holding up a variety of sheet masks.
chris blinked. “...why do you have so many?”
“they’re moisturizing,” he shrugged. “my girl took all the brightening ones.”
leon said it so casually that chris had to stare at him for a second before breaking into a grin. leon gave him an annoyed look through the mirror. “what?” he scoffed.
“hair serum. moisturizer. lip balm,” chris pointed at the lineup on the bathroom counter. all the bottles were on a rotating caddy, courtesy of you, of course. he plucked a bottle from the shelf, squinting at the label. “cuticle oil? since when do you care about your cuticles?”
“since someone told me to take better care of my hands,” leon snatched the bottle away from him.
chris barked out a laugh. “ain’t no way.”
“you don’t have room to talk,” leon said, organizing his caddy.
chris frowned. “what does that mean?”
leon turned around, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. he eyed chris up and down.
“my hair’s healthier. my hands are softer,” he smirked. “and I dress better than you.”
chris looked at himself in the mirror. “this shirt’s fine,” he said firmly.
“shirt from ten years ago?”
“it’s cotton.”
leon chuckled beneath his breath.
“you know…jill might like it if you put in a little effort.”
that caught chris’s attention. “...you think so?”
“yeah,” leon shrugged. “my girl gives me something to look at, I might as well do the same.”
chris rubbed the back of his neck. “pass me the serum,” he said.
Leon wanting you to get your nails done and you think he's gonna drop you off at the salon but he ends up walking in with you bcuz he likes the fancy pedicures where they wrap wax around his legs
it's when people assume something is "fetish art" because it's weird... and the weirdness is literally just drawing a disability
like drawing someone with a disability is likened to 'deviantart tier bizarre fetish art' because any disability that doesn't look "normal" and "acceptable" is too weird to ever portray just for the sake of it
Ghost who's been working himself half to death in the gym on base for hours, right?
Not the usual insane ghost workout that makes newbies cringe, but the kind that has him spilling blood onto the mats underneath the punching bags. Knuckles raw and red, face turned into a deep scowl.
Stood of to the side in the doorway, you sip a coffee. Gaz finally tilts his head after staring, having watched ghost push himself too far on the weights "he okay?"
"Yep. He just needs to get it out of his system." You huff, mostly here to babysit your boyfriend. A younger you would have begged him to stop, but you know there's really no avoiding when he gets like...this. "give him a bit to even out."
"What happened?" Kyle tears open a bag of crisps, hands you one.
"He dropped me while we were fucking against the wall." Your ass still hurts like hell from it. Gaz splutters and chokes next to you, doubles over to cough on his just eaten snack. "I told him it was fine, but he hates seeing me hurt."
"Christ— seriously?" Across the room, ghost returns back to the weights. You smile knowing you'll get to massage his biceps tonight. "I didn't think the guy could get it up."
"Oh he doesn't struggle with that, I promise." You chuckle, cast a glance at gaz.
He's light enough, you're sure. You know ghost better than he knows himself, and you explicitly remember how he and gaz spar on weekends. "hey, you ever been fucked against a wall? I'm sure si' would want to practice without hurting me."
"WHAT—" gaz flusters, more embarrassed than you've seen him...ever, really.
"I wouldn't mind it!" Ghost calls from across the empty gym, rough and low and more growl than anything else. "Cute ass, I've been dreamin' aboot it!"
Gaz makes a very significant squeak in his haste to retreat. You'll pick him up for the night next week.
Summary: An attack during an attack leaves Leon injured and increasingly delirious. After extraction, he’s whisked away, and nobody’s fucking telling you what’s going on.
Finally, you get a phone call.
It changes everything.
WC: ~5k
CW: NSFW, like REALLY NSFW, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, Leon is injured, fuck or die, sex pollen, sex venom, shaky safety practices, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, first time (together), friends to lovers, technically coworkers to lovers, handjob, unprotected p in v, creampies, multiple orgasms (Leon), he's a hopeless romantic at heart, happy ending
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You say you saw the suits.”
“Yeah, in passing.”
“You didn’t think they were important?”
“It’s a fucking lab. Labs are rife with hazmat suits. We’ve never had to equip them before.”
“There were warnings posted all over the exit.”
“There were zombies all up on our ass.”
The splattering offspray from Leon’s last-minute shot paints your back like a gory Jackson Pollock. The infected hits the floor, tripping two more.
It would be more helpful if there weren’t about a thousand of them closing in.
You’re running side by side with Leon, shoes eating up the sterile white floors, trying to divine an exit through the branching arteries of the lab. He has to veto a turn into a side hall when more shambling figures lunge forward; he grabs your arm to tug you away with him, but it’s an unnecessary precaution. You’ve already matched his footwork.
He glances behind as you run.
“Where the fuck are they coming from?”
You’d like to fucking know.
“And why are they all runners?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.
These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.
You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.
“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.
“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.
This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.
You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.
EXIT
It’s a final sprint.
You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.
‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.
“Fuck! Force it!”
You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.
With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.
“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.
There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.
“There’s no power!”
“You’re armed!”
Oh, right.
BANG T-SHUNK
Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.
Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.
“Say something?”
“Something.”
“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”
"You only look like it.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He’s flipping you off.
You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.
He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.
“Wait.”
You’re in a greenhouse.
Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.
No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.
The plants are rustling lightly.
Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.
“What’s the sitrep on the door?”
It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.
“Fucked.”
“Other doors?”
It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.
“Negative.”
“How long can you hold your breath?”
“I don’t think that’s the concern.”
You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.
Bite-proof.
“Fuck.”
“So you tried to bypass it underground.”
“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”
The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.
The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.
“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”
“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”
The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.
He shines his flashlight forward.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”
His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.
“Ugh,” you agree.
Roots.
Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.
Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.
“Hey. Look.”
He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.
You come closer with the flashlight.
The dark color is red.
“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.
The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.
Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.
“God. Which way do you think they run?”
He glances at you. “Three guesses.”
“Plants don’t bleed red.”
“Not typically.”
You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.
You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.
You check your pistol's chamber and follow.
“A line of tanks.”
“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”
“Which way were the tubes running?”
“Both ways.”
“So…”
“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”
“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”
There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.
Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.
Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.
“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.
“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”
“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”
“Yeah.”
Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.
The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.
He steps back, jaw tight.
“Dare I even ask?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”
You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.
“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.
“Twist my arm.”
“You didn't see it?”
“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”
“You didn't hear it?”
“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.
Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.
Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.
It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.
This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.
Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—
That’s when the other thing strikes.
Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.
“Leon!”
It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.
The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.
A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.
The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.
Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.
“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.
“Let me see. Leon.”
You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.
His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.
“What the fuck.”
The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.
At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.
Pink with blood.
“Shit. Hey.”
Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.
It takes him a moment to focus on you.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.
You’re trying not to panic.
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.
“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.
You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.
“What did the labs say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What did Medical say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”
“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.
“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”
“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”
“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”
You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.
“I wanna see him.”
“He’s in precautionary isolation.”
“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”
“You weren't bitten.”
“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”
Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.
“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.
Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. You are free to go.”
Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.
“We were told you might try that.”
Fucking debrief.
So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.
Assholes.
You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.
You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.
You call the labs.
Some poor idiot actually picks up.
“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.
“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”
“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.
You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call
Leonnedy
You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.
“Leon! Are you okay?”
Immediately you can tell he’s not.
“I need help,” he says. Croaks.
Cold sweat breaks on your skin.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.
You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.
“Leon, where are you.”
“Home.”
“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”
“They said I could take care of it.”
“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“
He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.
“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.
“Leon.”
“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.
“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”
“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”
“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”
“What?”
“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”
You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.
“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.
That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.
“Why’d you call me?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.
Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.
"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”
You’re partners.
No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–
“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.
You wrench the door open.
Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.
You’re still not prepared.
As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.
This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.
Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.
Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.
His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.
His chest is heaving, his hips restless.
His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.
“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.
He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.
“I’m here. What do you–“
“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”
And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.
The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.
You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.
You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.
He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.
It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.
Six goddamn hours.
You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.
His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.
He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.
Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.
You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.
And why couldn’t he get there himself?
What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?
What a fucking epitaph that would be.
No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.
You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.
“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”
His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.
His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.
He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.
You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.
“A little pent up?”
He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.
His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.
There’s a very noticeable issue.
He’s still incredibly hard.
When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.
“Do you feel any different?”
“Fuck. Barely.”
"What if you're stuck like this?"
“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.
"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"
He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.
You grab his hips and force them down.
“Leon.”
He bucks hard against you, bratty.
"You think I know?”
“Don’t give me an attitude.”
“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.
You move fast.
A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.
His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.
“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”
He’s not moving, trapped under you.
You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.
“What do you say?”
“Fuck.”
“Leon.”
“I love you.”
It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.
It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.
“That’s not fair,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.
He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.
He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.
“Shit.”
“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.
It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.
He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.
God, you’re aching.
“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.
“That wasn’t on the invitation.”
“Aren’t you a saint.”
“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”
“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”
Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.
Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.
He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.
He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.
"Oh my god, Leon."
He comes.
Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.
He’s still looking directly at you.
You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.
“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”
“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.
“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.
“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.
You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.
His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.
The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.
You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.
He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.
“Leon.”
“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”
You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.
“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”
“God, Leon.”
Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.
It almost does you in.
Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.
His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.
He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.
A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.
He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.
He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.
You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.
He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.
“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”
“I’m not the medical concern.”
He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.
He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.
“There you are.”
Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.
“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.
“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”
You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.
“Come on, cowboy– ah!”
He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.
“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”
“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.
“I told you–“
His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.
You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.
The third time, it seems, is the charm.
When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.
“Leon.”
“Mm.”
“Your phone.”
“Mmph.”
You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.
You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.
The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.
Five seconds later, it starts up again.
“Fuck.”
You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.
“Huh. Medical,” he says.
“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.
He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.
“Kennedy.”
He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.
“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”
You start giggling.
“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”
It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.
“What?”
“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”
He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.
It was an emergency.
“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.
“There’d be a demand.”
His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.
“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”
“How selfish.”
He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"
"What I said?"
"Don't be obtuse.”
He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.
"I've never lied to you," he says.
"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."
He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.
"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."
You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.
"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you.
"Yeah. I love you," he says, and maybe it's a little gruff. "And isn't that just a shitload of complications."
"A metric fuckton," you agree, stroking his cheek. His stubble rasps against your fingertips.
His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.
“But maybe it helps that I love you, too,” you murmur.
It's not a kiss this gets you. He's been dishing out all manner of kisses tonight, their significance has shifted. No.
Instead, he nuzzles his face against your neck, wraps his arms around you, and holds you. Holds you like he intends to for a very long time, like you're the only thing that matters, like your beating hearts need to carry out a close and personal conversation.
Good. They can work out the details. You're just gonna lay here and pet the hair of the man you trust most – the man you can finally admit that you love – glowingly content in his arms.
On AO3
This now has a Part II! -> Complications
Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🩷
Leon Kennedy x Reader x Chris Redfield AKA my new obsession
In which you innocently call both of them "my boys"
Words: 415
You were sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs while Leon and Chris argued over dinner.
Not a real argument. The kind they always had.
"You're being stubborn," Leon said. “It doesn't need more seasoning.”
“I think a better word to describe him is ‘determined’.”
Chris smiled triumphantly. “Yeah,” he said as he dumped more Cajun seasoning into the pot. “Determined to give you guys a five star culinary experience.”
Leon sighed. “That's the same thing, she's just too polite to call you a stubborn son of a bitch.”
“I don't know how you think you're qualified to throw that word around. I’ve seen you refuse medical treatment because you wanted to get home faster.”
Leon's eyes found you before he could stop them. Then, realizing you'd noticed, he immediately looked away.
“I had someone waiting for me.”
“What you had was a literal bullet wound.”
“What do you want me to sa–”
Then you laughed.
You rocked back against the counter, face becoming pure delight, crinkled eyes taking in the two of them.
“That's my boys,” you said through another laugh. “My two stubborn sons of bitches.”
Chris stopped stirring.
Leon stopped reaching for the cabinet.
You looked up.
Chris cleared his throat.
Leon turned away, suddenly very interested in the contents of the cabinet he had just opened.
Your laughter died gradually but your smile still remained.
“So how's dinner coming?” you asked, then looked down and started fiddling with your nails.
The boiling pot splashed.
Chris hissed.
You immediately leaned forward. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." Too quick. “I actually think I need a bandage. Leon, help your captain out?”
“Fine, but you better mark this on my time sheet.”
Leon closed the cabinet.
And then they both left.
You sat there, completely confused. "Okay?"
From the hallway, Leon's voice came quietly.
“You need to pull yourself together, man.”
Chris scoffed.
“Don't think I didn't see my best agent just blush back there.”
Leon sighed.
“Pull yourself together,” he repeated. “I'll buy you some time.”
you heard his footsteps get closer.
“Leon, wait!”
“What?”
“Don't over boil the pasta. It has to be ten minutes, exactly.”
“I’m literally Italian, Chris. Don't lecture me about pasta.”
You smiled to yourself.
These two fought monsters. They saved cities. They'd stared down death countless times.
But right now, calling them your boys was enough to make them need a private moment.
The Third Variable: File 1 "Mutually Acknowledged Jealousy"
Leon Kennedy x Reader x Chris redfield
Blasphemy?? Maybe. But I actually love this idea. I am a whore for these two men and stick with me here at the SAME TIME
Anywho, this is a short 450 word drabble in which Chris AND Leon are jealous at the bar. Inspired by this fanart I found on facebook by Sardine
You were across the bar.
Leon and Chris were watching you.
They told themselves it was because you'd all come together, and keeping an eye on each other was what you guys did.
That was the excuse.
The truth was simpler: you had become the person they looked for the moment they walked into a room.
The man talking to you leaned a little too close.
You laughed.
Both men noticed immediately.
It was the polite laugh.
The one you gave strangers when you didn't want to hurt their feelings. The one that said I'm being nice, but I don't actually want to be here.
Chris sighed into his drink.
“Came out to have fun,” he said quietly. “You having fun?”
Leon glanced over.
“No.” A sip of whiskey. “Not yet.”
Chris looked at him. “We could go over there.”
Leon was quiet for a moment. “Probably break his jaw.”
“Yeah.” Chris nodded. “I was thinking more his hand.”
Leon looked at him.
Chris shrugged. “Don't like him touching her.”
And there it was. The closest either of them had ever gotten to saying it out loud.
“You think she likes him?” Chris asked.
Leon didn't answer right away.
“No.”
Chris looked over. “You sure?”
Leon watched you carefully. “She'd look at him differently.”
“How?” Chris frowned. “How would she look at someone she wanted?”
The question came out quieter than he meant it to. Almost hopeful. Almost desperate.
Leon almost responded, then stopped.
Because you looked over.
Your eyes moved through the bar, searching.
And then you found them.
Your boys.
The change was immediate. Your shoulders dropped. Your expression softened. The tension left your face like someone had turned off a switch. And then you smiled.
Not the polite smile. Not the one you gave strangers.
The real one.
Your dimples appeared. Your eyes warmed. For just a second, you looked almost reverent, like you'd found something you hadn't realized you were searching for.
Neither man moved.
Because somehow, despite everything, you had been looking for them too.
And the worst part?
You had no idea what that meant. Not in the way they did.
“That's how,” Leon said quietly, sounding almost like he wasn't talking about the guy at the bar anymore.
Chris stared into his glass. “I feel like I'm gonna throw up.”
Leon laughed under his breath. “Man up, soldier.”
You noticed them watching and gave them a small, embarrassed wave.
Leon straightened. “Looks like our girl needs backup.”
Chris was already halfway across the bar.
Leon grabbed his drink and followed.
Deep sigh
It seems as though I am plagued by thoughts of this relationship. I have been ✨ transformed ✨
This will have to become a series because I refuse to learn self control. So buckle up for more Leon x Reader x Chris
Cowboy Leon Kennedy wins you a stuffed animal because you refused to lose the ring toss
Cowboy Leon pt 2
Link to part one here
Words: 477
"It’s rigged," you laugh as the ring bounces uselessly off another bottle.
Leon squints at the booth. "Dunno. I'm thinking maybe you just aren't a good shot."
You turn over your shoulder. Look at him. Him and those damn broad shoulders are all lit up multicolored from the carnival lights. Makes his smile seem deeper. Makes it impossible to read just what that expression means.
You turn back to the ring toss.
"You could teach me, sometime."
"How to throw better?"
"To shoot."
He quiet. Quiet for so long you have to look back over your shoulder.
That same damn expression. You can't make heads or tails of the ranch hand.
Finally, he speaks.
"If your daddy says it's alright."
You roll your eyes.
"I say it's alright."
You throw another ring. Miss. Scowl.
"Well. Alright then."
You try to hide your smile even though he can't even see you.
Throw again. Miss again.
"Damn, that was the last one."
He buys five more rings.
They all miss.
The teenager running the booth is trying very hard not to smile.
"You know," you say, tugging on Leon's sleeve, "we can just go look at the horses."
"In a minute."
"You've been saying 'in a minute' for fifteen minutes."
"Mm."
Another miss.
"You're stubborn, I'll give you that," he says.
You point. A little cow stuffed animal. The one that reminds you of Herman back home.
"Can't give up. I want him."
"Yeah?" Leon asked.
"Yeah."
You hear his boots scuffle in the pebbles.
"Want me to try?"
You turn. Meet his eyes. Try not to blush.
"Show me what you got, cowboy."
He chuckles under his breath. His hat comes off. He scratches the back of his neck. Narrows his eyes.
He studies the bottles. The next ring lands perfectly. The booth erupts in little victory bells.
The teenager sighs.
"Pick your prize."
Leon doesn't even look at the shelf.
"Go ahead," he tells you.
You turn happily to the stand and lean over the counter to point at the cow. The one with the crooked ear and the big belly.
The teenager presses it into your hands, and you turn excitedly back to Leon. You catch the way he was looking at you bent over the stand before he can avert his gaze.
"Sorry for making you spend twenty-three dollars on this. And...thank you, Leon "
His ears turn just a little pink.
"Wanna go look at the horses now?"
"Yeah."
You pause after two steps.
"But don't go getting a big head. I think those bottles were uneven."
Because you're telling me this man spent twenty years doing backflips through church windows, suplexing cultists, surviving bioweapons, looking unfairly good in every conceivable lighting condition, and then one day someone hands him a report and he just squints.
Holds it farther away.
Brings it closer.
Farther away again.
"...Hang on."
And then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a pair of reading glasses.
The glasses aren't even old-man glasses. They're practical and have clearly been researched. The kind purchased by a man who spent three weeks reading reviews because he refused to admit he needed them.
The room goes silent.
Because that's not Leon Kennedy, legendary government agent.
That's a forty-something guy whose eyes have finally given up.
He doesn't even act embarrassed about it, he just puts them on, reads the document, and keeps talking.
Meanwhile, Claire is crying, Ashley thinks it's adorable, Chris is blushing, and I'm chewing drywall.
The glasses stay on for exactly six minutes before he takes them off and immediately goes back to looking like the coolest man alive.
Nobody has ever treated Leon Kennedy like something precious
Words: 900
Has he been treated like he's ncessary?
Yes.
Valuable?
Sure.
Important?
Obviously.
But precious? Something to be protected? Something to be cared for simply because he exists?
Not until you.
And the thing is, you don't even realize you're doing it.
You're halfway through a conversation with someone from work who had come over for your dinner party when you wander into Leon's office carrying a bowl of fruit. Watermelon. Grapes. A few strawberries. The last of an orange you'd started that morning.
The watermelon is cut into cubes because you've noticed Leon actually eats it when he doesn't have to fuss with it.
You set the bowl beside his laptop without breaking stride.
"Chris, why would Hunnigan report that it's 'up your ass'? She said 'in the grass' clear as day. You're just getting old."
"I'm thirty-nine."
"That's exactly the response a forty-year-old would have, and I've seen your personal file."
You turn to leave. Behind you, Leon's voice stops you.
"Wait."
You glance back. Leon is staring at the bowl. Not eating it or touching it. Just staring.
"Are these for me?"
You laugh because the question is so strange.
"Obviously."
The answer leaves your mouth without thought. Of course they're for him. Who else would they be for?
And then you see his face.
The laughter dies gradually. His hand is still resting on the keyboard. His gaze remains fixed on the fruit as though you've placed something far more significant than a few pieces of watermelon beside his computer. A faint crease forms between your brows.
"Is it the watermelon?"
Leon blinks.
"What?"
"The watermelon. You don't like watermelon anymore?"
"No."
You look at the bowl again.
"The grapes?"
"No."
"The strawberries?"
Only then does he look up at you, and suddenly you understand. His disbelief has absolutely nothing to do with the fruit.
It's the fact that you remembered.
The fact that while making your own lunch, you automatically made something for him too. That somewhere between setting the table, arguing with Chris, and checking on dinner, you still factored in that Leon hasn't eaten yet.
So you fixed it. No discussion needed, no praise expected.
And suddenly, sitting behind that desk, Leon doesn't look like a DSO agent finishing reports on a Saturday evening. He doesn't even look like your husband.
He looks like a man who has spent most of his life being needed. Relied upon. Deployed. Useful. A man who never quite learned there was a difference between being valued and being cherished.
Leon lowers his eyes to the fruit. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and you know that look immediately. That dangerous look. The one that means you've accidentally brushed against something deep enough that he'll never explain it. The one that appears when he can't stop thinking about how nice you're being to him.
You point at him immediately.
"Oh, don't do that."
His eyebrows lift.
"Do what?"
"Whatever this is."
For a second he genuinely looks like he doesn't know what you're talking about, which only makes it worse. Then a reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
You sigh dramatically.
"See? There it is."
"What?"
"The face. The one where you're about thirty seconds from getting emotional over a bowl of fruit."
Leon huffs a laugh and looks away.
You shake your head and start backing toward the door.
Honestly. Men. Especially dangerous, competent men who have never known a scrap of softness.
"Hope you don't cry when you see what I'm making for dinner."
The laugh that escapes him is soft. Rough around the edges.
You point at him again.
"Seriously." Then, with all the casualness in the world, you add, "It's your favorite."
The silence that follows is almost comical because Leon Kennedy, survivor of impossible things, veteran of countless disasters, one of the most capable men alive, looks completely, utterly defenseless.
His gaze drops back to the bowl. To the watermelon cut into cubes. To the orange peeled for him because you know he won't bother if he has to do it himself. To the handful of grapes that were probably tossed in at the last second while you were doing three other things.
You can practically see the realization moving behind his eyes. That you notice. That you remember. That caring for him has become so automatic you don't even think about it anymore.
The same way he checks the locks before bed.
The same way he reaches for your hand in crowded places.
The same way he makes your coffee without asking.
Just another quiet act of love folded into the day.
Leon understands sacrifice.
He understands duty.
He understands devotion.
But being cared for? Being considered before he asks?
He's such a pain in the ass about it.
You smile despite yourself, then turn and head back toward the kitchen before he can say anything embarrassing.
Halfway down the hallway, you hear the scrape of his chair.
"Thank you."
The words that follow you down the hall are quiet.
You glance back.
He's looking at you with that same soft, impossible expression, like you've handed him something precious, when really, all you did was remember he likes his watermelon cut into cubes.
A/N finally finished part 2. You can find part one here.
words: 1.3k
Synopsis: The nightmares were bad. They chased him all the way to your apartment - across town, through the rain, and into your living room. Now that you've let him in, he isn't sure what to do.
He made it here. You opened the door. You let him in. Now he’s just a soaked man in your apartment.
As he follows you further in, clutching a towel in one hand, he's looking at you like he’s waiting for you to decide whether this was a mistake.
He reminds you of a puppy that chewed something you told him not to and knows they did something bad.
You see that and sigh, softer than you mean to.
“Jesus, Kennedy, take the jacket off before you flood my floor. Pants too.”
That finally gets a ghost of something from him. He huffs, almost embarrassed, and shrugs out of the leather. It hits the tile with a wet slap.
Underneath, his gray shirt is plastered to him, clinging to the lean lines of his chest and stomach when he peels that off too, you scan every scar and old injury.
He hesitates and you raise your eyebrows at him.
“Pants, too,” you remind.
“Don't have any other pants.”
“Lucky me. Drop ‘em, Kennedy.”
You have the decency to look away first.
“I can sleep in this.”
“You’ll get hypothermia in that,” you call over your shoulder.
“I’ve slept in worse.”
“I know,” you say, sharper than intended. “That’s part of the problem.”
That shuts him up. There's a few quiet moments as he wrestles his soaking pants off.
You are staring at absolutely nothing while your pulse hammers in your ears. This feels bigger than it should.
People let friends crash at their place all the time. People do not, however, show up at one specific person’s apartment at midnight in a storm because they can’t bear the thought of being alone unless that person has become something…something.
Necessary, maybe.
When the shuffling stops, you turn around to see Leon toweling his hair, clad in nothing but semi-wet boxers and the old tshirt he loaned you years ago (that you never bothered returning). The sight of him nearly undoes you.
Barefoot. Damp. Old clothes stretched over him in a way that should be ridiculous but instead feels unbearably intimate, like seeing a wild animal in a house where it has decided, against all logic, that it is safe.
He looks at you. You look at him. Neither of you says a word until the spell breaks.
“Lets go sit down,” you manage.
Leon obeys, following you to the living room.
He sits first. Not on the far end of the couch, and not on the matching armchair. He lowers himself onto the middle cushion like his body already knows where it wants to be and is too tired to pretend otherwise.
You bring him tea because coffee would keep him awake and whiskey would make him want to lie.
He takes the mug with both hands, fingers curled around the heat, and for several minutes the apartment is quiet except for rain on the windows and the muted clink of ceramic when he sets it down on the coaster.
His shoulders are still tense and his knee is bouncing. His jaw is locked so tight you can see the muscle jumping.
He is here, but only technically. Whatever chased him across town came in with him.
You sigh and shift closer.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”
“Lie to somebody dumber.”
His eyes close. He suffers through long inhale.
Then he leans forward, forearms on his knees, head bowed, and says in a voice scraped raw at the edges, “I had one of those nights.”
You know what that means. Not a nightmare, exactly, but something worse.
The kind of night where every face he couldn’t save lines up behind his eyes. Where sleep turns into drowning. Where silence gets too loud and the apartment feels like a coffin.
You don’t ask for details.
You think he loves you a little for not asking.
Instead you just say, “Okay.”
That word breaks something. Leon doesn’t fall apart in some cinematic collapse. It’s smaller than that. Sadder, in a way.
His shoulders drop one inch, his head tips back against the couch. And then, with the hesitant slowness of a man approaching a landmine, he turns toward you.
You open your arm before he can change his mind.
He folds in.
God.
Leon Kennedy is all length and hard muscle and trained reflex, but none of that matters when he curls against you like this, forehead pressing into the space between your neck and shoulder, one hand fisting in the fabric at your waist like he needs something tangible to prove you’re there.
He is trembling, very slightly. It could be from the cold but you know it's not.
That makes your chest hurt.
Your fingers slide into his damp hair.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The breath he lets out sounds stolen from him.
Neither of you speaks for a long time, you just sit there with rain muttering outside and Leon slowly, slowly putting more of his weight on you, as if every minute that passes convinces him a little more that you are not going to shove him off.
His nose brushes your throat when he shifts.
His hand spreads over your side.
“This what you came for?” you whisper eventually.
He makes a tired sound that might be a laugh.
“Pretty pathetic, huh?”
“No.”
Your hand slides down to the nape of his neck, thumb resting there.
“No,” you repeat, quieter. “But more honest than I thought you were capable of.”
Leon is silent. Then, “I don’t know how to do this.”
“This?”
His fingers tighten once in your shirt.
“Always making me say it,” he chides again absently. He hesitates. “Needing someone.”
That nearly kills you but you don't let him know how much it affects you. You want to be stable for him.
He knows anyway because he can hear your heartbeat hammer.
The way Leon says it sounds like an admission of failure. Like dependency is a wound, not a human fact. Like every part of him was built for endurance and none of it was built for reaching.
You tilt his face up.
His lashes are still wet, not entirely only of rain now, but his eyes won’t quite meet yours.
“You’re doing it,” you tell him.
His mouth parts.
You brush your thumb under his eye, over his cheekbone, slow enough that he shudders.
“Showing up counts.”
Leon stares at you the way starving people stare at food they think belongs to someone else.
Then he says, almost inaudibly, “Can I stay?”
Not on the couch. Not until the rain stops.
Can I stay means: can I have the night, can I have the quiet, can I have your hands in my hair when the ghosts get loud again, can I have this softness without owing the world for it.
You press your forehead to his.
“Yes.”
The answer leaves him in pieces. Or maybe makes him whole.
His eyes close.
His whole body loosens with a kind of exhausted surrender that feels painfully private, and when he pulls you tighter against him it is not with hunger, it is with relief.
Like he has been holding himself together with bloodied fingers for hours and has finally found somewhere safe enough to let go.
Tonight Leon does not need saving, he needs shelter. He needs your couch becoming a bed because neither of you wants to move.
He needs your heartbeat under his ear.
He needs to wake at three in the morning disoriented and find your hand already on him.
He needs, maybe more than anything, to learn what it feels like when someone opens the door and says: come in, you can stay, I am not asking you to be less needy than you are.
And tucked against you while the storm spends itself outside, Leon learns it in increments of loosened breaths, unclenched hands, and honest whispers.
A/N I decided to name this fic midnight rain but this is from the prompt "Rain soaked Leon Kennedy at your door at midnight because he 'was around' (but absolutely was not". Will be doing a part 2.
*header image used for visual mood only / source unknown / likely AI-generated*
Midnight comes down in sheets.
Rain splatters against your apartment windows in fat drops, tapping the metal railing outside your door, turning the whole hallway beyond the peephole into a warped blur of yellow light and shadow.
This is the kind of rain people make white noise out of to drown out all other noise.
You’ve been lulled halfway to sleep, wrapped in the old shirt of an older friend, when the knock comes.
Three sharp raps, then silence.
You open it expecting an emergency. Instead, Leon is standing there; he's so wet you wonder if he walked here from his fancy uptown apartment, but then you catch sight of his Porsche.
His hair is plastered to his forehead, jacket soaked black and dripping onto the welcome mat, breath visible in the cold. Both hands are braced on opposite sides of your doorframe.
You take your time looking him up and down.
“Leon.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His smile implies he doesn't have a care in the world.
You stare at him harder. “It is midnight.”
“Yeah.”
“And you are outside my apartment.”
He glances once down the hall to buy time. “I was around.”
You look past him into the parking lot.
There is not a single goddamn thing around your apartment except a closed laundromat, a gas station, and two roads that lead absolutely nowhere near anything Leon would ever be doing at midnight in the rain.
“You were around,” you repeat flatly.
“Mm.” He grabs the head of the doorway with both hands, blocking the outside world away, the muscles of his chest and arms becoming your entire view..
“You absolutely were not around.”
His mouth twitches. It's a sheepish smile that shows he's been caught.
Rainwater slides off the end of his nose. His boots leave dark prints on the concrete. He still hasn’t asked to come in, which means this is bad, because Leon only thinks to be polite when he’s hiding something.
You’d be gentle on a normal day, but the warning bells turn you serious.
You fold your arms. “Why are you here?”
His jaw clenches once. He sniffs indifferently.
“I…” he exhales. “Couldn’t sleep.”
You lean against the doorframe. “So naturally, you drove across town in a thunderstorm.”
His response is silence.
“Leon.”
His laugh is short and humorless. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make me say it.”
If he says it aloud, it becomes something pathetic and needy and real, and Leon Kennedy would rather get shot than admit to needing anything.
You wait him out. He swallows.
Then, low enough that the rain almost washes it away, “I didn’t want to be by myself tonight.”
He looks embarrassed immediately after, eyes hardening, shoulders tightening like he regrets every syllable. “It’s stupid. Forget it. I just -”
You snatch his hand in both of yours, dragging him over the threshold so unexpectedly that he trips on the frame.
“Come inside before you drown.”
Cold rain comes with him. He stands awkwardly on your floor while you push the door closed, suddenly all broad shoulders and nowhere to put his hands.
You hand him a towel. He holds it as if he forgets he can use it.
He's just watching you, as if staring at you was the real reason he came over.
“Is that all?” you ask quietly. “You came here because you couldn’t be alone?”
Leon’s throat moves. His fingers tighten on the towel.
“No,” he admits reluctantly.
You feel your heartbeat trip.
“No?” you echo. You wish he'd speak; you feel like going crazy under the weight of needing it.
He shakes his head once, water still dripping from his hair onto his lashes, making him look younger and more broken all at once.
His voice comes rough. Honest in that painful, reluctant way that means he fought himself the whole drive over.
“I came here because when it gets bad,” he says, “you’re the only place my body thinks to go.”
You stop breathing.
Leon looks almost angry after saying it, like he wants to snatch the confession back out of the room and shove it somewhere deep enough no one can touch it.
But he can’t because he’s here. At midnight. Soaked to the bone.
Lying about being “around” when he crossed half the city just to stand at your door and hope…what? That you’d let him in. That you’d look at him. That maybe for a few hours he wouldn’t feel like a haunted house full of ghosts.
What does he want?
Not sex. Not even words, really.
He wants warmth. He wants your lamp on and your couch and your stupid old blanket and the sound of you moving around the kitchen like the world is still ordinary.
He wants to sit close enough that his shoulder touches yours, and pretend he is not quietly unraveling.
He wants, with a desperation that would humiliate him if named too plainly, to be kept.
And the worst part, the part that makes his eyes close when your hand finally rises to cup his rain-cold face, is that you understand exactly what he came here for before he ever has to ask.
“Only thing I've got that'll fit you is your own shirt,” you say, pulling it off of yourself and handing it to him.
Goosebumps rise against your skin as you acclimate to the room temperature in just a tank top.
He grabs it in fingers that have gone white with cold. It smells like you. He fights the urge to bring it against his face and breathe it in.
“Come cuddle me on the couch, I'll put something on.”
He follows after you, silent and weary because he no longer has to pretend he's not.
Chris Redfield helps Leon finish moving into your apartment and finds out his roommate is of the female persuasion. And you miss 100% of the shots you don't take, right?
I have decided that Leon will be in a frat and this will become relevant in future installments.
Words: 536
The front door swings open.
Chris Redfield walks in first. Shirtless. Sweaty. A couch balanced across one shoulder like it weighs nothing.
Leon follows behind him carrying the other end. He doesn't think much of it. Until Chris notices your apartment.
"Dude."
"What?"
"You didn't tell me your roommate was a girl."
Leon glances toward the couch in the living room. You're curled up in the corner with a blanket over your legs, manga open in your lap.
"Huh?" You finally look up. "Oh. Hi."
Your eyes move from Chris, to Leon, to the couch.
"Need any help?"
"Nah, we got it," Leon says.
"Okay."
You go back to reading.
Chris waits. Surely you'll look up again. People usually did. When he was shirtless and smiling and looking in their direction.
Instead, you turn another page.
Chris carries the couch into Leon's room. The second it's on the floor, he rounds on him.
"Dude."
"What?"
"Your roommate is cute."
"Yeah?"
"You didn't think to mention that?"
Leon shrugs. "It never came up."
Chris stares at him.
"It never came up?"
"I was more worried about whether she'd murder me if I ate her leftovers."
"That's a weird thing to say."
"She's...kind of weird."
Chris smiles. "Best ones are." He scratches the back of his neck. "So..."
"So?"
"You mind if I...?"
Leon already knows exactly what he's asking. He sighs.
"She probably won't notice you're flirting."
Chris laughs.
"Nobody misses me flirting."
Leon just shrugs. "Knock yourself out."
Chris grins. Back in the living room, he leans casually against the doorway.
"So..."
You hum without looking up.
"Whatcha reading?"
You hold up the cover.
"Oh. Any good?"
"So far."
"I've been meaning to get into manga."
"You should."
"I'll have to ask you for recommendations sometime."
"Sure."
You turn the page. Chris waits.
"You got a boyfriend?"
"No."
He smiles. "No?"
"No."
"Can I ask you out sometime, then?"
You finally look up. "Oh." You tilt your head. "I'm sorry."
Chris blinks.
"Dating is for people...who want to date."
Chris nodded. "Right."
"That's not me."
"You don't want to date? Like, just me, or in general."
You shrug, looking back at your book. "I just wouldn't survive it. Sorry again."
He nods once. "No, that's fair. Even if I don't understand." Then he smiles, easy as ever. "Can't blame a guy for trying. Friends?"
You smile politely. "Sure."
Chris laughs. "I like you."
You peek over the page.
"Hm. Weird. Thanks."
He wanders back toward Leon's room shaking his head. Leon looks up from unpacking a box.
"Well?"
Chris snorts.
"I got friend-zoned by a girl who spent the entire conversation trying to finish Chapter Forty-Two."
Leon blinks. "Seriously?"
Chris points toward the living room.
"Dude."
"What?"
"I don't think she noticed I wasn't wearing a shirt."
Leon peeks around the corner. You're still exactly where he left you. Feet tucked under you. Completely absorbed in your manga.
You put up a flyer looking for a roommate. Blond, pretty Leon Kennedy was the last person you expected to answer it.
College-age Leon x socially strange reader
Words: 560
The knock comes right on time. You open the door.
"Hi?"
The blond guy standing on your porch glances from you to the flyer in his hand. Then back to you.
"...Oh. I thought..." He rubs the back of his neck. "Didn't realize you were a girl."
You blink. You only added your name to the flyer. That didn't make it clear that you were a woman.
"I didn't realize you were a guy when you emailed me. [email protected] kinda leans more female. No offense."
He looks away quickly but you can still see the blush on his ears.
"Didn't realize I messaged you from that email. It's my old high school one. My friends were around. I was trying to be funny."
You tried not to snort. Poor guy. "Huh."
"...Yeah."
He looks down the hallway like he's considering apologizing and leaving. Instead, he holds up the flyer.
"I, uh...still need a place."
You hesitate. "I've never had a male roommate."
"You can say no."
The thing is...You've already interviewed six people. One smoked inside. One wanted to move in with three cats. You love cats, but you were allergic and couldn't have them at your house. One tried to negotiate paying rent in cryptocurrency.
So you sigh.
"Tell me about yourself."
"Name is Leon Kennedy."
"Ah. That's the L. I was picturing a Leah. Blond. Pretty. Though I suppose those two things are still true."
He just kinda...stared. Like you'd said something strange. Maybe you had. You weren't great at telling when you were being strange. Which was the number one reason you couldn't have a male roommate.
All of the missed and mixed signals would be exhausting.
"Um, thanks. So I'm a criminal justice major. And then I'll be a cop."
You raise an eyebrow. "A cop?"
He nods. "I know how that sounds."
"It sounds like how every serial killer documentary starts."
He laughs. A genuine one.
"I guess my sales pitch isn't great. But..." He shifts awkwardly. "I'm quiet. I clean up after myself. I cook okay. And if it helps..." He shrugs. "Apartment'll probably be a little safer with me around."
You look at him for a long moment.
"Would you eat my leftovers?"
He goes blank. His eyes move up and down your face slowly.
He's reading you.
You can't tell what he sees.
"No."
"Would you leave beard hair in the sink? It's only one bathroom."
"I can't."
"What?"
He offers a polite little smile. "I can't grow one. So you don't have to worry about that."
You nod your head. That was a relief. But he was still...male. And pretty. So dang pretty. There were probably tons of girls that were going to be a problem. Hell, probably tons of guys that were going to be a problem.
He seemed nice, but you didn't want nice.
You wanted quiet. You wanted peaceful. You wanted to be able to exist in your house the way you wanted to exist.
In pajamas.
Covered in paint.
Manga left open on the kitchen table.
Mumbling to yourself about how unrealistic the romance on tv was.
You sigh. "I just don't think it'll be a great fit. Sorry."
You start to close the door. His hand comes against it abruptly.
"Please. There's literally nothing else I can afford close enough to school. It'll just be a one year lease and then I graduate."
You look at him. Purse your lips. Ask the one question that needs to be asked.
"Can you handle...weird?"
He surprises you by smiling. "Now who sounds like a serial killer?"
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