@sokkadora - Tumblr Blog

Mar 6

gentle intimacy

summary: leon would not describe himself as good or kind, and he's cut open and bleeding at your feet, but you know he can be gentle | leon kennedy x f!reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: a sickening amount of yearning, leon taking care of you, seriously this guy is down bad, leon being self deprecating, alternating povs, acts of service as a love language, mentions of injuries, sherry birkin appearance /// 18+ MDNI, SMUT!!!, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), creampie by technicality, trust me there's plot, this is LOVE MAKING at its core

notes: re9 gave me the leon bug BAD. personally, I wrote this with DI!leon in mind but re9!leon also works here bc that old man's still got it | ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That was stupid,” Leon says, hauling you into him. The words aren’t unkind, but they’re not gentle either. You stumble against him.

“Have I been known to be anything else?” you ask. He grunts. “Besides, I’ve got you to take care of me,”

He doesn’t respond. He finds a quiet spot, a reclusive corner where he can assess the damage. There’s a wicked gash along your side, cutting from near your navel up towards your ribs. It makes your vision tunnel when you finally lay eyes on it. You hadn’t known how bad it was. His fingertips are gentle around the surrounding skin.

“You’re lucky evac is two minutes out,” he says. His voice is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. Maybe he is.

“Yeah?” you ask, a breathy noise that you’re not certain you could recreate. The sound is deep, rooted in desperation and blood loss. Leon’s eyes flick up at you from where he’s crouched, icy gaze cutting through his lashes. He looks pretty like this, bent low in front of you, looking at you with something you can’t place. It makes you shiver.

“You’re losing blood,” he says. You nod.

“Gonna give me yours?” you tease. Your vision tunnels a bit, and you slump forward. Leon catches you, pulling you flush against him. He smells like sweat and cedar and smoke, something that nearly lulls you into sleep. You hear a distant rumble as the building continues to crumble.

He helps you out of the derelict building. You’re barely even walking, just sort of stumbling beside him as he carries most of your weight, and you feel strangely guilty for making him do all the work. The helicopter’s blades never slow as it touches the ground. Leon helps you into your seat, guiding you gently. He’s soft as he slides the headphones over your ears, even going as far as to smooth a piece of hair out of your eyes. You can hardly keep them open.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs. It feels like a promise. “Can’t have you dying on me, now,”

“That would ruin your whole week,” you say, trying to smile. It’s a weak attempt at a joke, and he knows it. You can see tension make its home under Leon’s skin. It rears its head with every pull of muscle, every furrowed brow.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says. You nod. You’re not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself.

When you do finally land, you’re pulled away from him for medical attention. You fight as best as you can, attempting to sit in on the briefing, but Leon levels you with a gaze you’ve never seen him wear, and you accept defeat. There’s two medics standing idly in the room, and they turn to see you hobble in, eyes widening.

“What the hell happened?” one of them asks. You shrug, sitting down on the bed.

“Caught something sharp,” you say. They lift your shirt, which is in ribbons. A shock of pain rips through you, and you stifle a groan.

They work quickly, giving you a tetanus shot. You wince as the needle sinks beneath your skin. The pain only adds to the rest of it searing through your muscles. Now that you’re sitting, adrenaline having dissipated, everything hurts. The gash oozes blood, which makes you feel dizzy. Your back hurts, your legs hurt, your side hurts. Every time they touch you, you suck in a breath.

Finally, you’re stitched up. They tell you to take it easy for a week, shove pain meds into your hands, and send you out the door. Leon leans against the opposite wall, watching his boots. He looks tired, run down. He’s covered in dirt. Black streaks smear across his cheeks, his biceps. His hair falls like a golden frame over his eyes. You sigh.

He looks up then, watching you. He scans over your body, checking for any lingering injuries the medics managed to miss. You offer him a weak smile.

“No hospital?” he asks, pushing off the wall to meet you where you stand. His steps are heavy, tired. You shake your head. “Good. Let’s get you home,”

You follow him out of the building. It’s winding turns and desolate hallways until fresh air smacks you in the face. You take a deep breath, trying to let the residuals of the mission fall off of you. Leon’s car faces you, a beat up old Buick–he refuses to get anything newer–and it stares at you like it knows something you don’t. You fit easily into the passenger seat, like you were made for it. You lean back against the headrest. You feel suddenly exhausted, like a two ton weight rests in your chest. You just want to sleep. The drive to your apartment isn’t long, and you’re counting down the seconds until you’ll be able to slip into the shower and let the day wash down your back.

Leon helps you upstairs. You try to protest, tell him that the elevator isn’t going to exert you any more than the walk to the building itself, but he refuses to listen. He follows silently behind you until you reach your door. He’s like a shadow as you enter the apartment, still bathed in the darkness of night. You hate to do it, but you turn on the light, flooding the room and making you wince. Leon holds your arm to keep you steady as you toe off your shoes.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, not looking at him. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt,”

He doesn’t say anything for a long, pregnant moment. But then, “I would like it to be the last, preferably,”

You huff a weak laugh, something hoarse and weary. “You and me both, partner,”

He follows you from room to room, picking things up as you drop them. Your right arm is effectively useless because any movement on that side sends shockwaves of pain through your entire body. You sigh heavily, fighting back tears. Leon stands in the threshold of your bathroom, holding your bundle of clothes and hairbrush. He looks at you with something you can’t identify–not quite pity, but something adjacent. He looks so pretty, so collected, even in his dirty state. You clutch your side.

“I can take it from here,” you say, breathless. “I’ll see you in a week,”

Leon stares at you. His fingers fidget with the hem of your sleep shorts. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Then, “Do you want help?”

You blink at him. You hadn’t considered he’d be willing to help you. You hadn’t thought so far ahead as to know what you’d do to get out of your clothes.

With a breath, you say, “Yes, please,”

He nods wordlessly. Your clothes find their home as a heap on the sink counter. He pats the top of it once as if casting a spell to make them stay put. He turns to you then. He’s broad, forces you to dial in on him. His hands linger at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You lift your left arm above your head, a silent encouragement to get him to touch you. His hands fall on you like a caress. Gently, he lifts your shirt up. His knuckles brush against your side, making your breathing hitch. He’s not watching you, fully focused on his task, but you can’t look away from him. He looks so focused, like one wrong move would paralyze you. He catches one end of the shirt in your armpit, pulling the other side out so you can slip your arm through. He helps ease your head through the collar, then pulls it off entirely via your other arm. He breathes in heavily through his nose at the expanse of skin he’s revealed. Then he takes a step back. You swallow thickly.

“I need…” you mumble, brain rotting inside your skull. “I can’t reach-”

“I got it,” he says. The words sound broken on his tongue.

You spin for him, presenting the clasp of your bra. You purse your lips when his warm hands make contact with the smooth skin on your back. He makes surprisingly quick work of it. Within seconds, you feel it loosening around your ribs, a small blessing. You breathe out something heady and heavy.

“I’ll be out there if you need anything,” Leon says. He leaves little room for argument by bustling out of the room as quickly as he can. You blink.

The shower water is hot on your skin, but it feels good. You can feel the tension slipping down your shoulders in rivulets. Somehow, you manage to wash yourself one handed, which you feel mildly proud of. The steam loosens you. It’s only when you step out of the water that you remember that you have to put a shirt on.

You struggle for what feels like hours. Every movement pulls on your stitches. You’re near tears when you finally call out for Leon.

“Yeah?” he asks, cracking the bathroom door. You sniffle.

“I can’t…” you say, taking a breath to recollect yourself. “I can’t get my shirt on,”

“I’ll help,” he says. His voice is so soft, so intimate. He enters quietly, staring at anything that isn’t you.

The shirt looks miniscule in his hands. Carefully, almost reverently, he eases the collar over your head. His gaze still lingers just past your shoulder. You frown. You slip your good arm through the sleeve.

Leon finally looks at you. You nod, letting him know it’s okay to put his hands on you. You see the turmoil in his eyes, the need for consent.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods once.

He grips the hem of the shirt, pulling as far down as the fabric will let him. Then, softly, he helps guide your arm through the sleeve. His fingers brush against you again, just along the curve of your breast, but the touch is electric, crackling with something unsaid. The moment is so intimate, so personal, you could burst into tears. Then the shirt is fully on your body. You wonder if Leon can hear your heart hammering against your chest. If he can, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Thanks,” you say, breathless. He nods. “I can handle the rest,”

“You sure?” he asks. There’s no suggestion in his tone, and that almost makes it worse. You breathe heavily through your nose, nodding.

He stands there as you fumble with your hairbrush. Your lips are pursed as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re barely halfway through the tangled strands before he stops you.

“Let me help,” he says–no begs. You glance at his reflection. He looks as wrecked as you feel. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze unblinking as he waits for you.

“Okay,” you say softly, voice hollow and breathy as you pass him the hairbrush.

He’s gentle as he works the brush through your hair. His gaze remains focused on the wet strands, but yours is on him. His brow furrows slightly, that bottom lip pulled snugly between his teeth as he pulls on a particularly tough tangle. His eyes look so blue in the yellowing light above the mirror. The care he takes with you is enough to make you sick. His hands are frustratingly warm as they bump against the back of your neck. He never once pulls or yanks, never scrapes the bristles against your skin, never gets frustrated. He works until it is done, unwaveringly, and you didn’t expect anything less. The moment is so soft, so delicate, you’re afraid that something might break when you pull away.

“I think I got it,” he says, soft as a whisper against you. You nod.

“Thank you,” you say. You stay idle for a moment, just watching him. He looks so unsure.

You think, in another lifetime, miles and miles away from here, that you could’ve loved him. He’s funny when he wants to be, charming in a boyish sort of way. You count on him, but he doesn’t let it get to him. He gives because he thinks it a privilege that you let him. You reach up to wipe away some of the dirt still smudged on his face. He stiffens beneath your fingertips, not prepared for such affectionate contact.

He swallows thickly. You remove your hand, and you see him relax just a fraction.

“Do you need any more help?” he asks in an almost broken way. You shake your head. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Yeah,”

He ducks his chin at you, then shuffles out of the bathroom. You hear the front door open and click shut a moment later, leaving you alone in your apartment.

...

Leon is not sure that he would describe himself as kind or good. But on his drive home, as he thinks about your withered form presented to him in the dim light of your bathroom, looking up at him through your lashes like he was something holy, he starts to think that that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he is kind or good because you kept looking at him like he was all you ever needed. He can still feel your skin against his fingers, sending shivers down his spine.

He’d frozen up. He knows that he probably looked ridiculous, like a flushed school boy who had just stumbled into the girl’s locker room by accident. Your skin had been so soft. The expanse of flesh he’d discovered beneath your tattered shirt lives in his brain as he shuffles into his apartment. The space is dark and empty. He has very few personal items, unlike you. His space looks abandoned, which he guesses it usually is. He really only uses this place to sleep and eat sometimes.

He crashes onto his couch, still unshowered and unclean. He just needs a moment, he tells himself. Just one moment, to collect the memories of you like precious items to set on his vacant shelves. The way you shivered against him when he brushed your side, the way you watched him, doe eyed, in the mirror as he brushed your hair, the humidity of the room clinging to you; they all go, framed and perfect, on shelves in his mind. He breathes out, something heavy and soft all at once.

He’s unfamiliar with this feeling. He doesn’t know how to embrace it, so he decides that he shouldn’t. He’s not sure he deserves something as sweet and gentle as you. You’re better than him, in almost every way. You don’t let the job wear you down, you take pride in what you do. You tease him. The mercy and compassion you give him are foreign in his brain. And he feels so selfish for accepting every last scrap. He eats up the way you look at him, the way you laugh at his weak attempts at jokes, the way you worry after him even with a ten inch gash on your side that very easily could’ve gutted you. He is gluttonous and greedy and selfish. You are consuming him, and he is letting you. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let you plague him this way. He knows that it could all too soon be ripped away from him, but in this moment, in the dim light cast by the moon streaming through his curtains, he doesn’t care. A shudder rakes through his body, from head to toe.

It would be all too easy to blame you. He could curse you for whatever spell you’ve cast to make him stupid in this way. But he knows the fault is his and his alone. It’s his fault that he mistakes your casual compassion for anything more. It’s his fault that he devours whatever good comes his way, just to corrupt and blacken it. And he doesn’t want to do that to you. He doesn’t want to see where this will end, even if he has before and knows it as intimately as he knows every other aspect of death and decay.

He tips his head back against the couch. There’s a crack in his popcorn ceiling, cutting through the expanse of white like a vein.

He knows he’s cut open and bleeding at your feet. He’s wounded in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t want you to help him. Not because he doesn’t ache to feel your gentle hands smooth over his scarred flesh, working out the evil with every electrifying touch, but because he does, and that would make you the universe’s top priority.

He is cursed, a bad day after a worse one. And he knows that if he were to let you have him the way he wants, you’d become cursed too. Cursed with him and his aches and pains, his scars and bruises, his anger and resentment.

When he settles beneath the sheets that night, he dreams of you. He dreams of your soft skin against him, your laughter, your easy smiles. He dreams of the life he could have were it not for his exceedingly awful luck.

He could save you. He could prevent you from ever coming nearer. But that somehow feels like a worse, more torturous ending. And he is nothing if not selfish.

...

The next time you see Leon, it’s nearly a week later. The swelling on your side has gone down and most of the pain has subsided, but it’s still tense and unforgiving, especially so early in the morning. There’s little light coming through the curtains thanks to the steady stream of rain pelting the earth.

His hair is soggy, casting thick shadows over the high points of his face. There’s crystal droplets on the shoulders of his jacket, ones you want to reach out to shake off, but you refrain. He smiles at you, that gentle half smile he only ever wears when he’s half exhausted.

“Came to check on you,” he says softly, words turned plush on the corners of his lips. You smile.

“Unfortunately, I’ve succumbed to sepsis. You’re seeing a ghost,” you joke. He rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the apartment.

He shakes off like a dog as he hangs his coat on the hook. A few rogue water droplets smatter your face. You take a moment to observe him. The lines of his body are rigid like there’s something pulling him taught. For a moment, you ache to reach out and smooth your palms over his muscles, to help him relieve some of that tension. You wonder if that’s something that would be okay, if he would welcome your touch. There is a line that stands between you, and you’re not sure which side of it you reside on.

“Anything interesting happen in the week that I’ve been gone?” you ask, leaning against the back of the couch.

Leon hums, pursing his lips as he thinks back on the last few days. “There’s a new coffee machine in the break room,”

You huff a laugh. “Can’t wait to try that baby out,”

Silence stretches thick between you, like a rope that’s been left out in the rain. You watch him move with careful precision, finding where would be the best place to exist within. You wonder why he never seems to relax, even in your space. You wonder if he knows how much you care. Subconsciously, you run the pads of your fingers over your injury. It’s a rough stretch of skin now, bubbled with scar and scab. You frown.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, suddenly standing again to get to your side. He catches your wrist where it hovers near the tear.

You shrug. “Only when I think about it,”

He purses his lips and emits a low hum, giving you a once over. “Have a fever at all?”

You shake your head. He nods, once and curt, before dropping your wrist and stepping away from you.

“Do you need any help?” Leon asks, avoiding your gaze by scanning around the room. “Any chores that have been neglected? Any errands I can run for you?”

You feel the corner of your mouth tick up in a small smile. Shaking your head, you say, “No, Leon. I’ve been able to manage on my own,”

“I know,” he says. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on the soft flesh there in thought. Then, soft as a whisper, he says, “I was worried about you,”

You feel your heart catch in your throat. You think back to the way he looked at you that night, like you were broken before him and he couldn’t do anything to fix you. You think about how gentle he was with you, how careful he was like you were bursting at the seams. You see his cheeks turn a tinge of pink as the silence stretches thick between you. You reach out, placing a flat palm against his chest. There’s no sound in the apartment, just the rain outside and your own heavy breathing.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Leon,” you say, just as soft. “I know you’ll always take care of me,”

He swallows, something heavy and unsaid, and nods. “I will,”

It feels like a promise. It feels like a vow.

With an intake of breath, you say, “Anything on our docket?”

Leon purses his lips. “Not on yours,” he says. You frown. “You’re on light duty for a while,”

You twist your face up in a nasty expression, which makes Leon smile a fraction. “I don’t like that,”

“That’s what I figured you’d say,” he says. He moves around you to finally sit down. You’re almost surprised as he gets comfortable on your couch. You move to join him. “I tried to tell Hunnigan you wouldn’t go down easy,”

“I can’t imagine I have much choice,” you say, grumbling. “Did they say for how long?”

Leon shakes his head. “Could be a while,”

You groan.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “You took a hard hit. It’s either office duty or a grave,”

You scowl at him, and he flashes you a smile. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed while I’m gone,”

He makes a motion over his chest. Cross my heart.

The next week, Leon is shipped out to God knows where. They won’t tell you, probably afraid you’d commandeer a craft to chase after him. You’re checking in with Hunnigan by the hour, who tells you you’re being paranoid. How can you not be? He’s out there, alone, doing something, something dangerous, and you’re stuck writing reports and drinking watered down coffee from the new machine in the break room. He could be hurt, he could be dead, and you would never know the difference. It makes you sick, it makes you scared.

“Separation anxiety?” Sherry asks, taking a seat beside you. You’re staring at a monitor, feeling like your eyes are melting out of your head.

“Shut up,” you retort, making her laugh. “I just worry about him,”

“Y’know, I think I had this exact conversation with him a couple weeks ago,” Sherry says, grinning at you. You scowl at her. “You two act like if you’re not attached at the hip, you’re basically dead,”

“That’s what it feels like,” you murmur. You sigh. “You don’t get it,”

“Maybe not,” Sherry says, shrugging. “But I do know what it’s like to feel,”

You blink at her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go be annoying?”

Sherry jabs a finger into your side, making you yelp. “Don’t be mean to me just because you’re grumpy,”

You huff.

You are not grumpy.

...

Leon feels half dead on his feet as he trudges up the stairs of your apartment building. He’s been gone almost two weeks, with little to no contact with you. It feels like it’s killing him. He feels like it’s sucking out his will to live. He just wants to see you.

He knocks gently on your door. It’s late, just past midnight, but he knows you’re still awake, always the night owl. You open it a second later, wearing a shirt three sizes too big and an old pair of sweatpants; he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. You give him a once over, scanning him for injuries, and when you don’t appear to find any, you crash into him. He lets out an oomph as his arms settle around your waist. You smell like home, and he feels his heart crack open a little.

“Worried about you,” you whisper into his shoulder. He holds you a little tighter.

“Not over yet,” he says, and you pull away, squinting at him. He shrugs his jacket off to reveal a nasty cut along his bicep. He smiles sheepishly at you.

You sigh, and it’s like the greatest symphony ever written. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll patch you up,”

His pain ebbs as he sits. You return to him moments later with a first aid kit and a scowl. Your soft hands against his skin are what keep him tethered to the earth. Pain threatens to eat at his muscles and sinew, to consume him. But you’re gentle, easing through it like a softbed creek, curving over already smooth stones.

“Did you even try to get out of the way?” you murmur. You don’t look at him, but he’s watching you. He sees the twitch at the corner of your mouth as you clean the wound, the pull of your brows in concentration. You look so beautiful like this, like a pink sunrise, a reminder that good is out there.

“Sort of,” he mumbles back. You frown at him. “I didn’t really have time,”

You hum. Once the wound is thoroughly disinfected, you prime the needle for stitches.

“This will hurt,” you say, sinking the steel beneath his flesh. He doesn’t react. You make quick work of the area, making sure to tape over it to protect the stitches. When he’s all patched up, you pat his other arm, saying, “Try to make time so that this doesn’t happen again,”

He nods, watching you. You’re a breath away, inspecting him for any other injuries he may be sequestering. He reaches up hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He feels giddy at the way your eyes widen.

“Pretty,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure you hear it. He wonders if he’s concealing the deep, desperate love he has for you, or if he’s bearing it all with his gaze. At this point, he’s not sure he cares.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kennedy,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m still mad at you,”

Soft as a whisper, he says, “I think I can handle that,”

Without much further thought, Leon closes the gap. You let out a little squeak when his mouth meets yours, but you almost melt into him. He’s so relieved that he could cry. Your hands find purchase along the curve of his jaw, his own grasping at the loose fabric of your shirt. You sigh sweetly into him, coating his nerves in a saccharine so destabilizing he can’t help but return it. When you fall into his lap, parting your lips and winding your arms around him, he’s afraid he’s died and gone to Heaven. And when your tongue finally meets his, he groans, something deep and guttural and unbecoming.

You pull away, a string of saliva hanging from your kiss bitten lips. You rest your forehead against his. His every perception centers on you; your hands on his chest, your nose bumping his as your chest heaves, your smell, the skin of your neck, open and exposed for him. He wants you, needs you like you’re the only thing that can save him. And when you kiss him again, a fire burns anew in his chest. Your hands are everywhere; his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and they find a home winding into his hair. A gentle tug against his scalp has his hands tightening their grip on your hips, begging you to still.

“Leon,” you murmur against his mouth, heady and soft all at once.

“I’m here,” he says, and he means it. He has never been more present. And then he’s standing, lifting you with him to place you back on the floor. You stare at him, pupils blown wide, gnawing on your bottom lip.

He pulls you flush against him because he can’t help himself. He is nothing if not selfish, nothing if not gluttonous and greedy, and now that you’ve given him this small victory, he wants to see if he can keep winning you. He sees the quiet desperation in the deep color of your eyes, the way you’re watching him with your full, rapt attention.

“You can touch me,” you say, voice low and barely audible. He wants to eat you alive.

He wastes little time after that, mouth crashing against yours with renewed energy. His heart swells in his chest when you cling to him all the same. Your fingers dig into the tops of his shoulders. He taps his fingers once against your thigh, signaling you to jump. He catches you, carries you close against him until you’re laid out against the sheets. He doesn’t stray far, following you into the linen, soft and sweet.

He watches you for a moment, taking it all in. You’re smiling at him, grinning really as he hovers above you. You brush your fingers against his cheek, smoothing away whatever doubt may be lingering. He ducks his head, pressing feather light kisses to the column of your throat, making your breath hitch there. He doesn’t get far, not when you pull his mouth back to yours, grasping at his shirt in an effort to rid him of it. Leon is a compliant man, flashing you a grin as he pulls back to yank it off. He wonders if your cheeks warm like his, if you can hear the hard hammer of his heart in his chest.

...

Leon is all rigid muscle, sinew pulled tight and corded along his arms, the plans of his stomach, his shoulders. You feel almost animalistic, feral. You run flat palms over him, feeling him twitch and tremor under your touch.

“Pretty,” you say, soft as a whisper. He huffs a laugh.

You push him back slightly, only giving yourself enough room to sit forward to pull off your own shirt. You watch him swallow thickly as it gets discarded somewhere across the room. His hands are soft, gentle against the revealed skin as he kisses you again. Feather light touches across your waist, your stomach. Rough and callused palms against your breast, thumb finding your nipple. You arch into him at the contact, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

You’re aching, cut open and bleeding. His hands leave goosebumps and fire in their wake as he lays you back against the sheets, tracing his lips down your torso, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He looks up at you, chest heaving. You nod, a gentle duck of your chin. Your breath catches in your throat as he slowly–painstakingly slowly–tugs your pants down. He lets his hands wander over your exposed thighs, hopefully ignoring your choice of underwear. Light touches against your hips cause them to fall open. You wonder if you look as vulnerable as you feel. He presses the gentlest kisses to the insides of your thighs, head bouncing between them.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, a mumble against your skin. It sends shivers down your spine.

When he presses an open mouth kiss to the apex of your thighs, you think you black out for a second. A breathy gasp echoes off the walls. He tugs your underwear out of the way to flatten his tongue against you. The sound you make is unbecoming, head dropping back against the pillows. He wastes little time, sucking and kissing and licking as he finds his rhythm, finds what you like, what makes you the loudest. He eats you out like it’s a game, like he’s determined to get the highest score. Your vision is nearly white, fingers buried in his hair. When you tug on it a bit, he groans, deep and sultry, sending shocks to your brain.

Your thighs begin to shake when he pulls your clit between his teeth, a breathy moan escaping you. He locks an arm across your hips to keep you in place. You’re shamelessly grinding against his face, chasing release. You keen high and whiny as he slides two fingers into you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, low and heavy. “Make a mess on me,”

He curls his fingers against you. The stretch and tempo and timbre of his voice were nearly enough to send you over the edge, but what does you in is seeing him lean back to watch you, stubble brushing the inside of your thigh. You clench around his fingers as you come, writhing and panting like an animal. You watch him lick his fingers clean before you’re clawing for him, pulling his mouth back up to yours. You groan as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers fumble with the clasp on his belt, fighting to free him of it. You feel him chuckle against you as he reaches down to help you. He pulls away a bit to shuck off his trousers.

Your mouth waters when his cock springs free from his boxers, thick and flushed and dripping. Instinctively you reach for it, but he stalls you, gently grasping your wrist. You frown up at him.

“Won’t last very long,” he says by way of explanation.

“Next time, then,” you say, chest heaving. He grins at you, climbing over you again.

His kisses are addictive, you decide. You’re not sure how you ever went without them. They’re all consuming, send you spinning. You’re flat on your back again, pulling him as close as you can, running your hands down the expanse of his chest. He lines himself up with your entrance, gently pushing himself inside. The stretch is devastating. You break the spell of his kiss to gasp, jaw slack. His chest heaves as he buries himself in you, arms flexing on either side of your head. He stalls once he’s fully seated inside you. You smooth his hair away from his face, thumb swiping against his cheekbone. You feel so full; of him, of want, of love.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse and heavy. You grin at him.

“Never been better,” you say.

You lock your legs around his waist, begging him to stay close to you. He drops his head, turning into your palm more as he begins to slowly pull out of you. The drag of him against your walls has you keening. He almost pulls out fully before pushing back in, setting a languid pace that has you boneless. One hand smooths up your side, cupping your breast. You pull him back down to you, mouth meeting his in a devastating kiss. He sighs heavy against your lips, a whimper so delicious it has you rolling your hips just to hear it again. He moves to bury his face in your neck, pressing gentle kisses to the skin there.

“So pretty,” he mumbles. You sigh. “Like you were made for me,”

The praise has you scratching your nails lightly down his back, earning you another pretty noise. His thrusts pick up their pace but never lose their softness. He ruts into you like a man consumed, mumbling against your sweat slick skin.

“Dreamed of this,” he says. His hands wander over you, fingertips gentle against your injury. “Dreamed of you. My pretty girl,”

There’s a pressure building in your stomach, a coil wound tight, threatening to burst every time he opens his mouth.

“Yours,” you say. “Always have been,”

His thrusts turn shallow, deep. He says, “Doin’ so good, fuckin’ perfect,”

You clench around him, huffing a breathy moan. “Leon,”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here,”

His thumb finds your clit, and you’re seeing stars. White hot pleasure radiates throughout your body, threatening to consume you. He picks up the pace, chasing his own release. He thrusts one, two, three more times before he’s groaning in your ear and filling you up. He collapses against you, chest heaving and panting. Your fingers wind into his hair, toying with the ends. Every now and then you feel him press kisses to the column of your throat.

“Leon,” you whisper. He hums. “I think your stitches split,”

He laughs then, a bright, airy sound that splits your chest open with want. He pulls back to look at you, and you note the way his eyes brim with adoration. You feel suddenly shy.

“You gonna patch me back up?” he asks, soft against you. You grin.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I will,”

When he kisses you, it feels like a vow.

sokkadora

Jan 17

colouredbyd

all that matters

steve harrington x reader

summary: when borrowing steve’s car ends in an accident that destroys his darling car, you’re left shaken and terrified of his reaction. except when he finds you, it’s painfully clear he couldn’t give a fuck about the car.

word count: 2.1k

warnings: car accident, totaled car, panicked sobbing, slight bleeding minor injuries, blood on face/hair, guilt, hurt/comfort, comfort, reassurance, overthinking.

“He’s going to kill me.”

The words spill out of you before you can stop them, thin and shaking, ripped straight from your chest.

You barely recognize your own voice. You’re staring ahead, eyes unfocused, fixed on nothing and everything at once. Not the spiderwebbed windshield. Not the hood crumpled inward, steam ghosting up into the air.

All you can see is Steve’s face when he finds out. When he sees the car. His precious car.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”

You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”

Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.

The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.

If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.

Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.

The woman —who’s name you learned to be Mrs. Dunne—sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”

She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.

You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.

“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”

Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”

She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”

“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”

You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

“Can I take a look at you?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”

Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”

She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.

“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”

“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”

You try. The breath stutters anyway.

“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”

She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”

“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.

You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”

“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. Oh, God—the car—”

She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”

You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally paid an insane amount of money for it and shows it off every chance he gets.”

A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”

Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”

“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”

“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”

Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”

The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his furious rage leading him to probably— rightfully so— break up with you. Your stomach twists at the thought, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.

Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”

Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.

Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—

A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.

You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.

You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.

Terrified.

His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.

Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”

They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register.

Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”

The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.

He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.

“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”

You can’t.

Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”

Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.

“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”

“—look at me,” he says, low and steady.

Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.

Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.

“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”

You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.

“That’s it, good job,,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.

“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”

Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.

“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your heart drop.

You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he leans closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.

“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense. “not the car.”

You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you.

His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.

You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”

He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.

You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They saw the accident. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”

Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”

In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, or worse; not breathing.

He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.

You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”

His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”

He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”

You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”

He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”

You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”

“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”

Your throat tightens all over again, heart warming up at his sweet words.

“Now, come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”

“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”

You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.

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