Spoiled Oatmeal @spoiled-oatmeal - Tumblr Blog

break room coffee

leon kennedy x dso!reader

Author's Note: fuck my stupid fucking chungus life, these blonde men can't keep getting away with this

Summary: You meet Leon Kennedy at work, the absolute last place you should be looking to date anyone. Too bad you're a sucker for blue eyes and vaguely pathetic-looking men.

Word Count: 15.1k

Content: 18+, smut, vendetta era!leon, pining, leon is shyyy, reader knows what she wants (hint: it's leon), leon is dealing with trauma, reader heals him with her pussy, leon whimpers bc of course he does, fingering, oral f!receiving, oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v sex, lowkey breeding kink as per usual, no use of y/n

To Read on AO3

Masterlist

You meet Leon Kennedy at work.

That fact alone should be enough to prevent you from entertaining any romantic notions that pop into your head when your eyes meet his baby blues during your introduction. You're a fresh transfer from the West Coast office, and your job doesn’t really leave room for much socializing—your abysmal dating history shows that. So, maybe you're just a glutton for punishment because you bat your eyelashes a little more than necessary as a coy smile appears at the corners of your lips.

He offers his hand for you to shake, his skin warm against yours—it's brief as your supervisor quickly whisks you away to meet the next person, and you can't help but call out innocently to him, "I look forward to working with you."

You chance a glance over your shoulder, noticing Leon's eyes lingering on you. When he realizes you've caught him staring, a red flush spreads up his neck, and he swiftly turns away. You struggle to hold back a grin as you follow your superior, nodding along to what he's saying as if you've been paying attention the whole time.

You see him again the next week during a mission briefing as you lean back in your seat, notebook balanced on your crossed legs while you chew the end of a pen. When your eyes cursorily shift to him, his gaze, which you know has been steadily on you the entire meeting, flicks pointedly down and away, and he raises his hand to scratch the back of his head as his cheeks turn pink. Once everyone is dismissed and you're gathering your things, he quietly whispers a 'good luck' as he brushes past, his hand grazing your lower back. You respond with a wink and a 'you too'.

Three weeks later, you're sitting at your computer, a strain in your eyes as you stare at the screen, mindlessly typing your report for the mission—the bruises on your face are starting to yellow at the edges, blending with the deep purple into a sickly, painful color. The rest of your body isn't faring much better after falling nearly twenty feet through a skylight during a chase through an old Umbrella facility. Honestly, it's a miracle you didn't break a limb or two—or your neck.

"What happened to you?" The voice prompts you to crane your head toward the source, causing a wince as you see Leon standing next to your desk with a worried frown. You take a moment to observe him, noticing a few scrapes on his cheeks that weren't there the last time you'd seen him. He and his partner had been on cleanup duty for the mission—not that you'd left them much to clean up; there's a reason the DSO hired you, and it wasn't because of sloppiness.

"Fell through a skylight," you answer blankly. When his eyes widen, you let out a huff of laughter that only causes your ribs to ache. "Could've been a lot worse, trust me."

"Looks like it," he says. "Maybe avoid high places next time."

The tone in his voice sounds like it's a reprimand—a warning for something most people would see as a rookie mistake—you're not a rookie—but you notice the smirk that flickers at the edges of his mouth. "I'll make sure to put the request in," you joke as you take a sip of your coffee that has, admittedly, been sitting on your desk for way too long, grimacing when the bitter liquid hits your tongue. "God, that tastes like sludge."

"Someone should've warned you about the break room coffee," he jokes. "I'm pretty sure it could be considered a biohazard."

You purse your lips, willing the taste from your tongue, knowing it's going to linger in the back of your throat all day as you nod in agreement. "I'll file a complaint with OSHA."

The small smile that creeps onto his face at your joke makes the butterflies in your stomach go wild. He shifts slightly on his feet, looking as though he wants to say more, or maybe he's just reluctant to end the conversation. Regardless, he taps lightly on the top of your cubicle wall with his palm, signaling he's going to take his leave. "Well, I'll let you get back to your reports," he says, about to walk away before pausing, hovering for a moment before adding, "I'm glad you're alright."

The sincerity in his voice makes you soften, your shoulders dropping as you stare at him with gratitude. "Thank you, Agent Kennedy," you say, turning back to your computer, though you watch him leave from the corner of your eye until he's gone from your sight.

Later that night, you're joylessly chewing on a bland granola bar while walking back to your desk after a much-needed break among a sea of cubicles that have long since cleared out for the day. You come to a stop just a few feet from your destination when you notice a paper coffee cup deliberately placed in front of your keyboard. The logo of the fancy coffee shop down the road stares back at you—the one you always tell yourself you're going to stop in on the way to work but never wake up early enough to do so.

Your head swivels from side to side, glancing around the office to make sure you didn't just miss some other poor soul lingering after hours under the threat of looming deadlines, but the rest of the office remains resolutely dark except for the glow of your own computer and its blinding blue light—probably why you've had an impending migraine for most of the night.

Stepping closer, you see a bright pink Post-it note tucked underneath, one taken from your own stack that sits right under your monitor. You toss the half-eaten granola bar into the trash beside your desk before picking up the coffee cup and then the note, gazing down at it curiously.

'Hope this is better than the breakroom sludge.

P.S. Don't stay too late.'

There's no name or even initials signed at the bottom, but you still know who it's from. You huff through your nose as if trying to dispel the ridiculous amount of giddiness that swells in your belly at the kind gesture. You were only gone from your desk for thirty minutes, so you're surprised you didn't even see him skulking about like some wayward food delivery driver.

The coffee is still pleasantly hot when you take a sip; it's a medium-roast, smooth, and a bit sweet. You savor the taste, warming your palms against the cup. As you take a seat, you tuck the note into your top desk drawer with a fond smile.

Despite his words, you stay later than you intend to, but he doesn't need to know that.

Thus begins a little song and dance between you and Leon.

You leave a cup of coffee for him on his desk the next morning—just a black coffee with no extras, but you set a small bag filled with creamers and a variety of sugar packets you pilfered from the coffee shop next to it, along with a note that says:

'Didn't know how you like it.'

You drop it off quickly before you can talk yourself out of it, telling yourself you're just returning the favor from last night, and ignoring the fact that you specifically woke up thirty minutes early to ensure you had enough time to stop at the coffee shop this morning before work.

If you're a bit more aware of who comes in and out of the office, peeking over your cubicle wall for a familiar mop of dirty blonde hair, that's your own business… at least until your neighbor gives you an inquisitive look and asks if you're waiting for someone. You blanch, shake your head, and sink a little deeper into your seat, then redirect your gaze to your computer. The blush of being caught spreads to your cheeks as you idly pretend to check your emails.

When you finally see him, it's in passing in the hall, but he's holding a familiar cup and sends you a shy smile, mouthing 'thank you' before ducking into a conference room. It's a high you ride through the rest of the day, even if you're mildly embarrassed by how the man and his pretty blue eyes have invaded your frontal lobe.

You feel like a teenager pining after a crush.

Between him being sent out on assignment and you being medically cleared for field work again after your fall, you don't see each other for a few weeks. Luckily, when you return from this mission, you're mostly unscathed, though the same can't be said for Leon. Scrapes that are just beginning to scab over mark his face, and one arm is cradled in a sling. Overall, he looks rather pathetic—you hate how much it's working for you.

Leaning over his cubicle wall, you place a coffee cup down in front of him before giving him a sympathetic glance. "Skylight get you too?" you ask, straight-faced.

He lets out a hoarse, wheezing chuckle, wincing and putting a hand over his ribs. "Don't make me laugh," he says as he grabs the coffee. "Try an elevator shaft."

Grimacing, you take a sip of your own drink before muttering, "Bummer."

"At least I get some good coffee as a reward," he offers optimistically with a playful smile on his lips as he reclines more comfortably in his chair.

"I fear your standards may be too low, Agent Kennedy," you tell him.

"Leon," he quickly interjects.

Quirking a brow, you let out a curious hum, not understanding what he means.

"Leon," he repeats. "You can call me Leon."

A moment of silence passes between you two before the corners of your lips curl up, and you lean closer to him over the half-wall of his cubicle. "Okay, Leon," you agree, your tongue curling around his name experimentally, low and intimate in a way that's completely inappropriate for the workplace.

You notice the subtle change in his expression—how his pupils dilate, and his mouth hangs open slightly. Someone in the office coughs somewhere, and he snaps back to himself, his one good hand gripping the armrest of his chair as he looks away from you, shifting in his seat. You smirk, eyes glinting with amusement; you hadn't expected the man to be so shy.

As much as you'd like to stay and prod him a bit more, you decide to take pity on the poor man instead. "I'm glad you're alright," you say, echoing his sentiments from a few weeks ago as you turn to head back to your own desk.

He calls your name before you can get more than a foot away, and you stop, glancing over your shoulder with raised eyebrows. "Would you—" He closes his mouth, swallowing thickly as if his throat suddenly has gone dry. "—Would you like to get dinner sometime?"

Several heads peek over their cubicles, curious coworkers probably eager to hear this juicy bit of office gossip—Infamously aloof Agent Leon S. Kennedy asking out the pretty transfer from the West Coast? Yeah, that's going to make its rounds.

Leon is so absorbed in you that he doesn't even notice the nosy onlookers. There's nervous tension around him; you can see his jaw muscle twitch as he clenches his teeth, anticipating your reply—maybe even thinking you'll say no, as if you haven't been flirting with him since day one.

You step back toward him, holding a hand out expectantly, and when he gives you a confused stare, you clarify, "Your phone."

He scrambles to grab his phone from his pocket, and it's surprising how endearing it is to watch a man in his thirties eagerly offer it to you. When you swipe up on his phone and see he doesn't have a passcode, you give him an incredulous look but say nothing before typing in your information. You even send yourself a message, ensuring you have his number, knowing the chance of him chickening out isn't exactly zero percent. You feel your phone vibrate in your jacket.

In a swift motion, you lock his phone and toss it back to him, which he catches with ease, calling out, "Text me," as you walk away.

It takes him three days to text you.

Even as you continue to see each other in the office, leaving coffees on each other's desks and chatting in the break room, the only text in your message thread with Leon is the little coffee emoji you'd sent from his phone. It's Wednesday, and for the first time in weeks, you've managed to leave work at a decent time, and to celebrate, you're plopped on your couch, folding laundry and enjoying a glass of cheap wine while watching your favorite shitty reality TV show.

The muffled pings of your phone—three times in rapid succession—catch your attention, making you pause and toss the towel you'd been folding aside. When you search around for it, you realize you must've accidentally buried it under piles of clean clothes. "Fuck," you mutter as you carefully begin to peek under each stack until you find it in between pairs of underwear.

You're only mildly surprised to see three texts from Leon—or rather, 'Large Coffee, Light & Sweet,' as you've named him in your phone after learning his preferred way to take his coffee. A little surprising because you definitely pegged him for a plain black coffee kind of guy.

Hey.

It's Leon.

…Which you know already because you have my number.

You snort as you read the texts, hesitating to tap out a reply, thinking you might make him suffer for making you wait so long, but unfortunately for you—or fortunately for him—you lack that kind of impulse control.

Still, you can't help but make him sweat a bit, and only reply with a simple:

hi

The response is almost instant and makes you immediately regret the slight pettiness:

How was your day?

The question makes you want to do unspeakable things to him, you think sourly as your eyes narrow at the message on your phone. Every lackluster interaction you've had with a man in the last decade flashes before your eyes when you realize not one has ever asked you something as simple as how your day was.

Probably a talking point to bring up to your therapist.

finally got to leave the office on time :)

You send a picture of your hand holding your half-empty wine glass, backlit by your TV, being careful not to include any piles of laundry in the background—you don't want to scare him away with pictures of your delicates after he finally worked up the courage to text you.

You wait a few moments, biting the inside of your cheek as you watch your phone expectantly. When you finally set it down on your coffee table to resume folding laundry, it pings again. The speed with which you pick it up would be embarrassing if anyone else were around to witness it, but in the safety and solitude of your apartment, you permit yourself this humiliating instance of desperation.

He sends a picture back, with the top half of his face at the bottom, as the rest of the image shows the empty, dark office behind him. Unashamed, you click on the picture and zoom in to get a better look at him—his sandy hair, which usually falls into his eyes, is pushed back slightly, offering you a clearer view. The back of your neck warms as your gaze meets the still image of his that stares back at you, and you quickly click away to read the message.

Wish I was as lucky.

And just as you're about to type a reply, another message comes through.

What are you watching?

crappy reality tv

You type back.

gonna be a late night??

Resolutely, you put your phone back down, watching intently as the little dots pop up signaling that he's typing as you absentmindedly fold the rest of your laundry, knowing if you stopped now, you'd never get it all done tonight. It stops and starts several times before you finally get another message.

I hope not, all I have is the breakroom sludge to keep me awake.

Smiling, you speed through the rest of your laundry before replying:

maybe you should spend a little less time texting women then?

Woman.

You frown, brows furrowing.

what?

I'm only talking to one woman.

An unnamed feeling swells comfortably in your chest, as if it belongs there. You stand, hooking your laundry basket onto your hip with one hand while staring down at your phone in the other. You walk the entire way to your room with your eyes fixed on your screen, setting the basket on your bed before gnawing your bottom lip raw as you type and erase a response.

After several attempts, you hit send before you can rethink it anymore.

is she cute?

He doesn't make you wait long for an answer; clearly, he doesn't intend to get his reports done tonight.

I think beautiful would be a better word.

You toss the phone away from you as if it burned you, hands on your hips as you sway your weight from one leg to the other—nervous energy flooding through you. Maybe you expected him to deflect or be coy about it; you definitely didn't expect such a sincere response.

Another message pops up in the chat.

I'm also hoping she'll agree to go to dinner with me on Friday even though I was a coward who took three days to text her.

A grin works its way onto your face as you grab your phone.

i suppose it depends on where you plan on taking her. it'll have to be somewhere prettyyyy nice if you made her wait three days for a text

He sends a link to a restaurant—it's an Italian place, and a quick glance at the menu shows it has no prices listed—pretty nice, indeed.

Is this nice enough?

If he were any other man, you might think he's being facetious, but in the few months you've known him, you've exchanged numerous sarcastic remarks with each other, never with any malice.

Another text pops up, as if he's getting nervous by your lack of reply.

I can find a different place if you don't like that one.

You smile to yourself, tapping out a response.

no that's perfect

I'll pick you up at 7

sounds good, i'm gonna head to bed, don't stay too late

I won't, I promise.

When you see Leon the next morning, he's already at his desk like he never left last night, and there are bags under his eyes. The sling he'd been wearing all week is notably missing; likely, he'd finally been cleared to stop wearing it. As you hand him his drink, you tease, "Hey, look at you, two working arms again."

"As good as new," he replies, accepting it tiredly.

"I take it you ended up staying late," you say.

He takes a gulp of it like it's the elixir of life, sighing contentedly into the cup. "Yeah, and I still didn't get the report done—might be easier now that I have two hands." His eyes finally scan over your figure, brows pinching together like he's taking notice of something. "You look nice."

The urge to poke at him a little wins out before you can even think better of it. "Do I not look nice normally?" you ask, no trace of humor on your expression.

His eyes widen, and you can see the way panic tenses through his entire body. "No," he says quickly. "That's not what I meant. You always look nice. I've just never—" His gaze flicks down to the pencil skirt you're wearing, different from the normal pantsuits you wear in the office, even more so from the tactical gear he's seen you in heading out on missions.

You come round the side of his desk, sitting against the edge of it as you lean over, voice low so none of the office busybodies hear, "Does the skirt do something for you, Agent Kennedy?" you question.

It's like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, gripping the faux leather of the armrests on his chair before lowering them to rub his sweaty palms flat against the tops of his knees. "Yes," he admits shyly at first, but he sees the teasing glint in your eye and grows bolder. "Would like to know the occasion so I might see you in it again."

You chuckle at his words, take a sip of your drink, and say, "I've got a deposition this afternoon on the Hill." You're not thrilled about it, and it's clearly written on your face. "Those idiots in Congress already like to rip into me for some shit that happened in West Africa a few years ago, like that wasn't BSAA's screw-up. I try not to give them much ammunition to use against me, which means dressing to old white conservative men's standards."

Leon seems to take affront to this answer, brows furrowing as a sneer makes its way onto his lips. "They make a habit of commenting on your clothes?" he asks.

Laughing a bit louder, you cross your arms before staring at him and realizing he's serious. "Leon, I'm a woman, of course, they comment on my clothes." That answer does nothing to diminish the perturbed expression. You soften your stance a bit, reaching out to comfortingly pat his shoulder. "Trust me, it's nothing I can't handle."

Before you can pull your hand away, he grabs it. You remember his skin being rough and callous from when you shook hands on your first day. It should be off-putting, but the way his thumb carefully caresses the top of your hand is anything but. "I know you're capable of handling a bunch of asshole politicians," he says softly. "I've seen you in action, I've read the reports—I know you're a great agent, and I wish you didn't have to bend to the whims of those people."

You fall silent for a moment, warmth spreading through your body originating from where your hands are joined. Admittedly, it's nice to hear someone acknowledge your hard work—you've spent so much of your career fighting and clawing to get to where you are. It hasn’t been easy; the constant dismissal you've faced because you’re a woman in this field—you just want to be taken seriously.

"I appreciate you saying that," you say. You squeeze his hand before reluctantly drawing away. "I gotta go meet my lawyer before we head down, but I'll see you later?" You don't mean for it to come out like a question, but there's a twinge of hope in your voice.

"Yeah, you'll have to let me know how it goes," he says with a smile.

"Bye, Leon," you breathe out as you leave.

Leon's eyes stay glued to you until you disappear into the elevator.

Several excruciating hours later, you're finally stepping out of your deposition, your ass numb from the god-awful chairs they force you to sit in, and you squint as if you've never seen sunlight before when you walk out of the building.

Pulling your phone from your purse, you see you have a text from Leon from only a few minutes ago.

Thought I might try this place.

It's accompanied by a picture of a coffee shop's storefront, different from your usual one. Cute is the first word that comes to mind as you stare at the photo—the building is bright pink with neon signs and flowers in the window.

feeling adventurous today agent kennedy?

The heels you're wearing are digging into the backs of your ankles and pinching your toes in all the wrong ways. You can't wait to shuck them off in favor of the more sensible shoes you have back at the office that you regrettably forgot to take with you to change into. Your phone pings again.

Are you finished with your deposition?

While you're walking, you snap a quick selfie—not caring that your hair is windswept or that it's probably from a bad angle. You just flash a thumbs up to the camera before sending it.

all done! mostly painless though congressman fowler is going to get my size 8 shoved up his ass if he makes another comment about how i conduct myself before the "esteemed members of congress" gagggg

As you make it to your car, your feet feeling like you're stepping on shards of glass with each step, you burst out laughing at Leon's next message.

I can call in a bomb threat to his office if you want.

is there actually going to be a bomb?

You reply as you slide into the driver's seat before typing out a second message.

actually don't tell me, i need to have plausible deniability

If I go down I'm taking you with me.

and just when i was beginning to think we were friends </3

You receive another picture: a cup holder safely placed in his passenger seat with two drinks in it.

I guess I just got these two drinks for myself then since we're not friends.

They must be from the new place he'd found, and for some reason, it amuses you to think of Leon Kennedy, dressed in all black with his furrowed brow, in a cute coffee shop ordering you coffee.

nvm all is forgiven <3 what did you get me?

Oh, how quick your tune changes when coffee is at stake.

You wonder if he's smiling like you are you type out your response.

i am a simple woman please don't take my coffee from me i had to deal with politicians today :(

I'll see you back at the office.

what does that mean leon

There's no answer.

leon what does that meaaaaaaan

When no reply comes, you figure he must be driving, so you start your car and head back to the office. As you pull into the parking garage, you spot a familiar figure leaning against a sleek black car. You pull into a nearby parking spot, not caring that your feet are aching as you saunter up to him, watching him as he watches you. "So, what did you get me?" you ask as you reiterate your previous query, reaching out toward the cup in his hand that he isn't drinking from, but he holds it up just out of your reach at the last second.

"Who says this is for you?" he questions with a smirk.

Your mouth drops open as if scandalized, as you recoil back dramatically with a hand poised at your chest. "I didn't know you could be so hurtful, Agent Kennedy."

In the privacy of the underground garage, Leon bends down closer to you, tilting his head as his gaze meets yours, eyes flicking briefly toward your lips before quickly looking back up. You feel your cheeks flush, nervousness flooding your insides from the intensity of his stare. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you glance down at the small space between you.

A fond smile forms on his face—maybe with a satisfaction at being the one to fluster you for once. "I'm just kidding," he assures softly as he gives you the coffee cup. With his now free hand, he plays with a lock of your hair that falls over your shoulder. "I'm excited for tomorrow."

You study his features, the sharp cut of his cheekbones contrasting with the gentle pout of his lips. There's an earnestness in his eyes—they burn cold, sharp like the ice that cracks beneath your feet on a frozen lake.

It is a plunge you think you'd gladly take.

A smile spreads across your lips as you take a sip of your drink, eyebrows rising at the new flavor. It's flowery—not as sweet as one might expect, but not bitter either. This is part of the little game you and Leon have been unintentionally playing over the past few weeks. While you've been able to pin down his favorite drink, he hasn't managed to find yours, so each time he gets you a coffee, it's a different one.

You've begun texting him a star rating for each one, though a 5-star rating remains elusive.

"Getting braver with your choices," you comment slyly.

He raises his eyebrows. "Do you like it?" he asks, and you see the flash of worry in his eyes. "I can go back an—"

Pressing a hand to his chest, you stop him mid-sentence, feeling how he leans into your touch. "Leon, I like it," you assure. "A solid... 3-stars." He frowns at the rating but seems at least pleased that you don't completely hate the drink he got you. "As much as I'd love to sit here and chat all day, these shoes are killing me, and I left my comfy pair at my desk."

"I can carry you," he offers quickly.

You glance up at him incredulously. "Yes, because that wouldn't make people talk, seeing you carry me into the office because of my poor choice of footwear." Your eyes quickly shift to the faint outline of his biceps through his suit jacket before a mischievous smile spreads across your face. "Besides, I don't think you'd be able to carry me that far." With that, you turn on your heel and begin walking toward the elevator.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he questions, clearly offended by your little quip.

"Nothing," you call out in a singsong voice, hearing his footsteps scramble to catch up with you.

You think he starts to say something about how much he can bench before deciding how self-absorbed that sounds, and instead he settles on a muttered, almost pouting, "I could carry you no problem."

"Mhm," you hum as you push the button to call the elevator and take a sip of your drink; for some reason, it tastes even sweeter with the simmering agent beside you.

You step in as the doors open, and he's close behind; you can feel the warmth of his body at your back. "Now who's being hurtful?" he whispers into your ear as he leans into you. The tickle of his breath against you sends a tingle all the way down to your practically numb toes.

When the doors close, you spin around and lay your hand against his chest. He seems surprised, but he doesn't resist as you push him back until he feels the cold metal of the elevator wall through his suit. "I'm just kidding, Leon," you murmur as you close the gap between you. His free hand moves to your hip, thumb tracing circles into the fabric of your skirt—resisting the temptation to dig his fingertips into your waist, to become more intimate with the curve of your body. "I know you could carry me."

"I could," he confirms quietly. His lips are so close to yours that you can almost taste the coffee on his tongue. There's something ravenous building in you, and you see it reflected in Leon—can see how he's about to surrender to the hunger as his eyes flutter shut and he slants his head to the side.

You're a hair's breadth from the edge when the elevator dings, signaling you've arrived at your floor. "I know," you whisper, then step away as the doors open. "Thanks for the coffee, Leon."

He's leaning against the elevator wall, left staring at you as you walk away, his gaze dropping to the gentle sway of your hips in the pencil skirt, committing it to memory.

That night, you're tearing through your closet, the panic of your date finally setting in. It's been far too long since you've gone on a first date—the nature of your job didn't leave much time for a social life, and even less time for relationships. Most people you've been with have been less than understanding of the weeks, sometimes months, you spend away on missions—if you even get to that point to begin with.

The perpetuity of an endless cycle of talking stages is soul-crushing.

You had almost given up on anything that wasn't a quick, one-time hookup.

As such, most of your wardrobe is dedicated to business wear for the few stretches of time when you're home long enough to be in the office, and more sensible, tactical clothing you wear when you're in the field. With the entirety of your closet now spread across your bed in various piles labeled 'no' and 'absolutely not', you're left staring at the final piece of clothing in your wardrobe.

It's a slinky black dress you bought on a whim a few years ago, probably a size too small now, if you could manage to squeeze into it, and made of a sleek silk. It's simple—maybe too simple for a first date, but your only other option is to find something tomorrow... if you even have time before the actual date.

You groan, grabbing the dress from the hanger, cursing Leon for scheduling a date so soon, and yourself for agreeing to it so easily. You hold your breath as you pull it on, and only after ensuring it actually zips do you release it, relief washing over you. Standing in front of your long mirror, you twist every way, smoothing your hands over the fabric.

You look… nice.

Really nice.

At least, you think you do.

You will yourself not to focus on where the dress hugs a little too tightly, knowing you'll only hyperfixate on things that you have no control over. Instead, you nod to yourself, muttering a soft and accepting, "Okay."

Excitement wells up in you as you take the dress off, carefully hanging it up on the back of your bedroom door. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you snap a picture of it, sending it to Leon with the message:

a little preview for tomorrow night :)

Setting your phone face down on your nightstand, you start putting everything back in your closet, trying not to give in to the impulse to just sit there staring at your phone until he responds. Even when you hear it vibrate, you resist the urge, only looking at it after you've put everything away nearly thirty minutes later.

Are you trying to kill me?

You grin.

no if i was trying to kill you, i'd show you what i was going to wear underneath

You quickly send a second message before putting down your phone.

goodnight!

You hear your phone go off once, then twice, and then a third time as you settle into bed. You take a peek at the notifications while promising yourself you won't respond.

Wait what are you wearing underneath?

Hellooo?

Sweet dreams.

Walking into the office the next day, you're smiling when you spot Leon hovering around your desk. It quickly drops from your lips when you finally see the grim expression he's wearing. As you set your stuff down in the chair, you ask, "What's wrong?" There's already anxiety tightening your chest.

"I'm being sent out on a mission," he says, a frown on his face.

You try to keep a neutral countenance as you accept the coffee cup he holds out, cradling it in your hands, appreciating the warmth it provides when the rest of your body suddenly feels cold. "When do you leave?"

Glancing down at his watch, he can hardly look you in the eye as he says, "Three hours."

"Oh," you murmur, trying not to let your disappointment show but ultimately failing. It's not like you didn't know this was a possibility—maybe you just naively thought you'd at least get through the first date without your jobs getting in the way.

Reaching out, he grabs your hand. "Can we reschedule?" he asks.

You nod, forcing a smile—this isn't Leon's fault, and you don't want him to feel worse than he already no doubt feels. "Yeah, of course."

"I'll text you, okay?" he offers—it's an olive branch, one you're glad to take.

"Okay," you say. "Make sure to check in when you can—" You freeze and grimace, realizing you might be overstepping some boundaries. You're not his girlfriend, you have no right to request him to keep in contact while he's away. "—If you're able to, or want to—"

"I will." He cuts you off before you can dig yourself deeper into a hole, a tender smile on his face as he holds your hand in his. "I'm really sorry," he murmurs.

"It's okay," you assure him, because it really is. "I get it, trust me, I get it." Your fingers play with his, thumb mapping the callouses built up along his hand from shooting—there's one right on the pad of his index finger that you find yourself delicately brushing against. "Just means I get to order the most expensive dessert on the menu when we go."

"Gonna make my wallet hurt, huh?" he teases.

You wink. "Think of it as a rescheduling fee."

He carefully extracts his hand from yours, as it pains him to do so, and checks his watch. "I have to go to the briefing, but I'll see you when I get back," he says as he pulls away, but he stops short just a foot or so away from you as if he's remembered something."You didn't answer me last night."

"Hm?" You pretend not to have a clue what he's talking about, sipping at your drink—it's a caramel macchiato, you realize.

He lowers his voice to make sure no one else can overhear. "About what's underneath."

Your eyes are wide with faux innocence. "Nothing," you answer.

His brows furrow. "What?"

"Nothing is underneath."

Understanding dawns on his face gradually, and you can see the flush that spreads up his neck to his cheeks, tinging the tips of his ears. You hide the shit-eating grin behind another sip of your coffee. "Right," he chokes out, as he forces himself to walk away before any of the follow-up questions escape his mouth.

You watch him go, eyes tracing the broad planes of his back, the tension clear in his shoulders, and you giggle to yourself.

You're not given much time to dwell on Leon's absence, as two days after, you're sent to Alaska—of all places—to follow up on a lead about a suspected BOW facility. It's cold, but a change in scenery is always welcome—especially when it helps distract you from the blue-eyed, brooding agent who's been plaguing your thoughts lately.

Speaking of—

You snap a picture of the snowy landscape—the sun has begun to set behind the snowcapped mountains. The clouds rolling across the sky are bathed in the purple of twilight, casting a soft pink glow against the white-coated crags. It's beautiful in a way that makes you feel insignificant.

You send it to Leon, not expecting an answer as you haven't heard anything from him since he left.

hope you're some place warmer than me right now

You get an answer four days later, and smile at the simple picture of a nondescript forest and the message that reads:

Why don't we ever get sent somewhere nice like Hawaii?

The lead ended up being a bust; you'd spent the better part of your time here trekking through the Alaskan wilderness with your team, though it wasn't as bad as you'd thought it'd be, even when you were trudging through snow waist-deep that left your entire body frozen to the bone. You send a selfie back, cheeks flushed red from the cold and face surrounded by the insulating fur of your heavy jacket.

idk the tundra has kind of grown on me

It's late in the day when you touchdown back in D.C., you snap a picture on the tarmac of the sun setting, sending it to Leon.

home

It's nearly 2 AM when you receive a similar message from him, though the sky is dark and the moon faintly hangs behind a cloud bank.

Home.

Even being woken up out of a dead sleep by your phone going off, you grin like an idiot against your pillow, barely able to type out a 'yay' in response through your bleary-eyed vision before you promptly pass out again, knowing the jetlag is going to be killer in the morning.

Predictably, you're dead on your feet as you walk into the office, two cups of coffee securely in your hands as you shuffle instinctively toward Leon's desk. You spot him hunched over his desk, seeming just as tired and miserable, though he lights up when he sees you coming his way. He's on his feet, meeting you halfway and guiding you toward the empty breakroom with his hands on your shoulders, where no prying eyes can watch your reunion, though you notice a few curious eyes following you both.

You let out a laugh as you hold out his coffee to him. "Good morning." He takes it before gently pulling you close. The tenderness he shows makes your heart swell. You reach up to wrap your arms around his waist, being careful not to spill your drink, inhaling his scent of smoke and gunpowder, muttering into the shoulder of his jacket. "Did you miss me or something?"

"Shut up," he murmurs into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Did you know there's no cell service in rural Poland?" He withdraws slightly to catch your eye, his hand reaching up to trace the line of your jaw with something like reverence. You take a moment to survey him, searching for any injuries—you notice some bruising around his eye, a scab just above his lip, but apart from that, he looks unscathed.

"Probably about as much service as Alaska," you answer. "Deluca almost got mauled by a bear."

Leon's brows raise high on his forehead, eyes wide at the sudden shift in conversation, though he can tell by the giddiness in your voice that you've been waiting to tell him this little bit of information. "What?" he asks.

You're already laughing as you take your phone out of your pocket. "Yeah, I got it on video. The idiot thought he was a bear whisperer," you say as you hold your phone up for him to watch.

His gaze keeps darting between you and the screen, too distracted by your own reaction as you giggle behind your hand, watching Agent Deluca run for his life from a large grizzly bear he tried to approach like a scared dog in the streets. He's so captivated by the sparkle in your eye and how a dimple forms in your left cheek from smiling so hard.

"I was thinking, maybe this Saturday we could try for our date again," he says abruptly, cutting over the faint screams of Deluca in the background of your video.

You pause the video, tucking your phone back into your pocket as your face softens and you nod. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"I have a mission in Bethesda on Thursday, but it should be a quick turnover," he assures.

"From your mouth to God's ears, Leon Kennedy," you joke as he draws you back into a hug, and you feel his lips press to the top of your head. "Don't jinx yourself."

He jinxed himself. It's the only thing that comes to mind when you hear the news that his team, along with their target, Senator Eyre, were killed by explosives rigged to their vehicles. Remarkably, Leon managed to walk away relatively uninjured, or at least, that's what the report states.

He hasn't answered any of your texts or calls.

You try not to take it personally. You understand how this career can be—it's isolating, and most days, it's tough enough just to get out of bed. When something like this happens, though, it's devastating even for the most seasoned agents.

So you keep texting—sharing little updates, sending pictures of the sunset, your morning coffee, a bird hopping around on the sidewalk, just because it reminds you of him. You figure he hasn't told you to fuck off yet or blocked you, so maybe he's seeing them, or maybe he's not.

But you still want him to know you're thinking of him.

"Hi," a voice hesitantly calls out.

It jolts you, so focused on the screen in front of you that you didn't hear anyone sidle up next to your desk—and admittedly, you're running on barely any sleep after returning from a week-long mission in Vietnam.

You glance over at the blonde woman standing at your desk—she's young, and wearing a smile. Your gaze flicks down to her name badge—Sherry Birkin. "Hi," you greet back a bit awkwardly. You know the name—you're aware of her association with Leon, although it's only from official reports.

"I'm sorry, I know we haven't met before," she says as she extends her hand. "Sherry Birkin." The warmth in her demeanor makes it easy to respond kindly, so you take her hand to shake and offer your name, although you suspect she's already aware of who you are. "We share a common acquaintance—" She pauses. "Leon Kennedy."

Coldness washes over you as your stomach fills with dread. You turn in your chair to face her, giving the woman your full attention. "Is he okay?" you ask, voice shaking slightly as if you're anticipating the worst.

"I… think so," she says, uncertain. "He hasn't spoken to me—"

"—Hasn't spoken to me either," you interject, your expression mirroring her own dejection, though you suppose there's some solace in the fact he's not just ignoring you.

She frowns. "That's what I was afraid of," she murmurs to herself. "I may have… looked into it."

You quirk a brow. "Oh?"

She nods, leaning closer and talking in a hushed voice. "After he didn't answer my calls," she explains. "I… politely inquired with HR about his whereabouts—" You give her an amused look that signifies you definitely don't believe her. "—He's in Colorado, apparently he put in for an… extended vacation."

You're not sure what it is that swirls in your stomach—disappointment or maybe hurt, but your face falls. "Ah," you breathe out.

It's easy for Sherry to pick up on the sudden shift. "I just wanted to let you know," she says. "He… talked about you—a lot."

This information surprises you. "He did?" Your voice raises a pitch.

"He was really looking forward to your date… wouldn't shut up about it. I just—" She glances down, contemplating her next words. "—I want to ask you not to give up on him."

You're quiet for a moment as you observe her, seeing the way concern pools in her eyes. You don't know their relationship, but it's clear they're close, and she cares a great deal about him—you expect the opposite to be true as well. "I don't plan on it," you assure her.

A soft smile tugs at her lips. "Thank you," she says. "He's… he's gone through a lot, and I just worry."

"I get it," you tell her. "This job—this life… it takes a lot out of you."

You've faced more than your fair share of horrors and lost plenty of people along the way—you've fought your own demons and had to scrape and claw your way out of despair. Some days, it still feels like you're drowning in it—those are the days when you think it might be easier to just give in to the feeling.

Even before you befriended Leon, you knew who he was—of course, you did. One of the survivors of Raccoon City, the USSTRATCOM Agent who saved the President's daughter from the Los Iluminados nearly a decade ago. You can only imagine what he's seen—what he's had to do.

"Yeah," she agrees softly. "It does."

"I appreciate you letting me know," you say. "If—If you hear from him, could you let me know? Just so I know he's okay?"

"Of course." There's something so sincere about Sherry Birkin, you note. "It was nice to finally meet you—we should… get drinks or something sometime."

You smile. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

An incoming call from Leon lights up on your screen a week later. You're out on assignment—stateside, luckily, or rather unluckily, given the recent events that transpired. You answer the call immediately. "Hey," you greet casually, as if you're not perched atop a building, peering through the scope of your sniper rifle, phone cradled between your ear and shoulder.

"Hey," you hear him reply. He sounds tired, and there's a tug on your heartstrings.

"How was New York?" you question, eyes scanning through the scope as you track your target through the streets below—too many people around, you realize.

The question is enough to break the tension, and he gives a huff of laughter, though he sounds no less exhausted. "Not all it's cracked up to be," he answers. "Chris Redfield says 'hi', by the way."

You let out a disgusted noise at the mention of him. "I can't stand that man," you say bitterly.

The BSAA operator has been a thorn in your side for years, even before you started working for the DSO. His impulsive and stubborn disposition was the cause of most of your headaches when you first joined the FBI after leaving the army, thinking you'd left the world of military jugheads behind you—oh, how young and naive you were.

"He only had nice things to say about you," Leon muses, and you can tell from his tone that’s most definitely not true.

"Oh, I'm sure," you snort as you adjust your grip, keenly watching as your mark breaks from the crowded streets toward a more secluded area. "How did I even come up in conversation anyway?"

You hear him cough as if he had breathed in awkwardly. "I was… telling him about you."

"Oh?" you hum. "And just what were you telling him, Agent Kennedy?"

"Told him I had a date planned before everything went to shit… that I probably fucked it all up—"

You take the shot, and the man goes down like a sack of potatoes. "Target down," you say into your comms before giving the coordinates.

"—Are you on a mission right now?"

You begin to disassemble your rifle, quick and precise, as the clean-up crew no doubt makes their way onto the scene to take care of the body. "I was," you say. "It just ended." You press the clips on your gun case back into place with a firm click. "You didn't fuck anything up, by the way."

There's silence on the other end—you almost think you lost service as you enter the stairwell of the building through the roof access door you'd kept propped open until, "You free tomorrow?" he asks.

You smile, moving swiftly down the steps. "I'm sure I could pencil you in," you reply.

"I'll pick you up at 7," he says. "Get home safe, okay?"

When you reach the fire exit door at the bottom, you push through and find yourself in a side alley. "Good night, Leon," you say before hanging up, pulling your hood up as the police sirens start flooding the streets, and then you're gone, blending into the crowds.

He's at your door at 6:59 PM, and you're busy fastening an earring when you open it. The air leaves his lungs as he takes you in—seeing you in your black silk dress, hair done up, and a bit more makeup than you normally wear to the office.

You're busy giving him a once-over, you don't see the subtle shift in his expression, the way he closes himself off. "You clean up nice," you compliment as you finally get your earring in, fluffing your hair a bit more as you look in the mirror by your entrance.

"Thanks." He's quiet. "So do you."

"You ready to go?" you ask as you grab your purse.

"Yeah," he nods, and you lock your door behind you, offering him a smile that he doesn't return.

A frown forms as he begins to walk away—part of you expecting he would have offered his arm or hand. You try to shake off the uneasy feeling settling in your stomach, thinking maybe he's just nervous—you definitely are.

It only gets worse as the night progresses.

The car ride is mostly silent except for the low rumble of the local rock radio station — you try to ask a few questions, but are met with one-word, noncommittal answers that leave you feeling defeated before you even reach the restaurant. Every time you glance over at him, his eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

When you arrive at the restaurant, he maintains a respectful distance from you as you walk in, only doing the small courtesy of holding the door open for you. After you're finally seated at a small table, a candle burning low between you, hope flickers that now, face to face, he'll be more willing to talk as you both thank the hostess. "Any idea what you're going to get?" you ask.

"No," he answers, gaze focused solely on the menu in his hands.

"I was thinking—"

"Good evening," the waiter greets as he sidles up to your table, pouring water from a pitcher into the empty glasses in front of you. "Any drinks to start?"

"Just a glass of your Cabernet Sauvignon, please," you reply, and the waiter smiles at you before turning to Leon.

"Just the water is fine," he says, not even looking up at the man.

You see the waiter's brow twinge just slightly, and you give him an apologetic smile. "Thank you," you say weakly.

He inclines his head to you. "I'll be back with your wine," he assures.

Silence settles over the table. Surrounding you are other people—couples—talking and laughing together over their meals, and your heart tightens as you watch Leon from behind your menu. He hasn't even looked up at you once since you've sat down—probably has read the menu seven times by now.

"Do you know what you want?" Your voice is small—unsure and so unlike you that you can hardly believe it's your voice coming out of you, but now you're feeling like this whole situation has been a huge mistake that you've somehow pushed him into. There's a chasm forming in your chest, filling with dread.

"Yeah," he murmurs, though he doesn't set the menu down.

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek until you taste blood, mind desperately trying to find something—anything—to talk to him about that he hasn't already shut down in the car with his lackluster answers. "I met Sherry the other week," you decide on.

For the first time, his eyes briefly flick up to you. "She told me," he says.

"She's really sweet," you continue. "She… she seems really fond of you."

"I've known her since she was a kid," he answers in a way that doesn't invite any further comment.

You try to smile—try to come up with something else to say, but you're left floundering until the waiter returns with your glass of wine and takes your order. He must see the disappointment on your face because he offers you a sympathetic look as you tell him your order, while handing the menu back to him, and Leon does the same.

Without anything to focus on, he fidgets with the cloth napkin in front of him, expression impassive except for the clench in his jaw, as if he's grinding his teeth. You feel a familiar sting in your sinuses as you idly sip your wine, which is practically tasteless in your mouth, trying to stave off the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

With every second that passes, your heart pounds against your ears so loudly it feels like the world around you is muffled, though you're keenly aware of your own breathing. A thin sheen of sweat forms on your skin even though you feel completely freezing. The dress you were so excited to wear now feels suffocating, as you've become hyperaware of all the parts of your body that it fits too tightly on.

Abruptly, you set your glass down and say, "Excuse me, I'm going to go to the bathroom."

You don't give him a chance to say anything with how quickly you get up, though you doubt he would have anyway. Once inside the safety of the bathroom, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror, taking a inhaling deeply to hold back the tears welling in your eyes. Your chest feels like it's caving in, and you're now sure that you've somehow misunderstood the situation between you and Leon.

It's making you feel crazy.

You exhale shakily, grabbing your phone to scroll through your message thread with him, searching for any sign that he wasn't as interested as you initially thought. It only makes his current behavior even more confusing. You try to recall every single interaction you've had, where he was the one to reach out to you, and you can't understand this sudden coldness.

There's a second when you consider calling Sherry to see if she might have any insight into why he's acting this way, but it feels wrong to involve her in whatever is going on, especially since she was the one who told you how excited he had been about the date. Instead, you tuck your phone back into your purse and try to breathe steadily as you turn the faucet on.

As you pump some of the fancy-smelling soap into your hands, you start to scrub your skin, your mind spinning in circles. Maybe while he was away, he realized he didn't like you as much as he thought, and this dinner was meant to let you down easy. Or maybe he met someone else and doesn't know how to tell you.

Every single reason that comes to mind only causes anger to grow inside you because there's no excuse for him to treat you so coldly. You at least believed you were good enough friends for him to be honest with you.

When you think you've rubbed your skin raw, you shut off the water and violently grab the paper towels to dry your hands. Your walk back to the table is more dignified, the tears gone from your eyes, replaced by a quiet fury.

You see that your food was brought out while you were gone, and Leon is slowly picking at his plate. As you sit down, you grab your wine glass, knowing you might need the extra bit of courage for whatever is to come, and down the rest of it in one gulp. "Food good?" you ask as you wipe at the corners of your lips.

He gives an indecisive shrug, and that's your breaking point.

"What is going on?" you question, low, but firm.

He must hear the anger in your voice because he actually looks up at you, expression feigning confusion as if he doesn't know where your unexpected question is coming from. "We're… having dinner?" he offers.

"You've barely spoken to me all night," you say, voice rising slightly as you swallow the lump in your throat, feeling the hot sting of scorned fury prickling under your skin.

"We've… talked," he tries to assert, though you can tell even he doesn't believe his own words.

You cock your head, staring at him like he's the stupid one. "Are you serious?" You twist the napkin in your lap so hard you think you might tear through the fabric. "Do you even like me, Leon?"

He seems taken aback, recoiling away from you as if you struck him, and his eyes drop to the table between you, but he stays silent, which is more than enough of an answer for you. Swiftly, you push your chair back, toss your napkin onto your untouched food, and grab your purse.

"Wait, where are you going?" he calls out, but for the first time tonight, you're the one ignoring him as you march out of the restaurant, unconcerned with the curious stares that follow you, intending to walk down the street before you realize he'd driven you here.

You huff in frustration, pulling out your phone to find a number for a taxi service, but your anger has shifted to sadness, and tears cloud your view, making it impossible to read the screen. You hear him call out your name, and you let out an exasperated noise as you begin to walk further down the street away from him.

Hurried footsteps approach you, and you feel hands gripping your shoulders, stopping you in your tracks. You finally realize how cold the night air is when you feel the warmth of his body behind you. "What are you doing?" he asks, confused.

"Calling a cab," you manage to say, though your throat constricts as you try to pull away from him to no avail. Embarrassment wraps around you as your voice breaks, despising how pathetic you sound.

"Hey," he murmurs tenderly, with more care than he's shown you all night, as he circles around to face you, hands gripping the exposed skin of your upper arms. "No, if you—if you want to go home, let me drive you."

"Why?" you spit out. "So you can ignore me some more?" It should feel childish to say that, and maybe tomorrow you'll think differently, but right now your feelings are hurt, and you just want to go home.

He shakes his head. "No, c'mon," he urges, trying to get you to look at him, but you're stubbornly refusing, settling to stare at the repeating pattern on his tie—you'd thought it was cute that he'd worn a tie on your date. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"If you didn't like me, you could have just said so from the start instead of pretend—"

"I do like you," he interrupts like he's desperate to get you to understand.

Sharply, your eyes snap up to him, and his face falls when he sees the tears that are beginning to streak down your cheeks. "You're sure not acting like it tonight," you argue. "I thought I was going crazy—that I… that I just missed some sign that you didn't feel the same about me."

"You didn't miss anything," he says. "I'm just… I'm an idiot who is terrible at this."

You give him a look of disbelief, nostrils flaring. "At what? Conversation? Yeah, I'd say so after tonight's performance."

He winces even though he knows he deserves that scathing remark. "No—I mean, well, yes, apparently. It's just… being vulnerable, and… letting myself look forward to something," he explains. "Everything just kept going wrong, and you're just… so understanding even after I fell off the face of the earth for weeks."

"You went through something traumatic, Leon," you murmur, arms crossing and gaze settling on the lampost just over his shoulder.

"See?'' he says, gesturing toward you. ''You're… you're so put together, and I'm a mess.'' Your eyes jerk back up to him, and you see the defeat in his eyes, like he thinks he doesn't deserve the kindness you've shown him. It makes the tightness in your face soften, hands falling to your sides, abandoning your defensive posturing. ''You opened the door tonight, and I realized you're something I don't ever want to ruin, and I'm so afraid I'm going to do that.''

"Do you think I'm not a mess, Leon?" you question with a humorless chuckle. "You don't get into this business without having more than a few skeletons in your closet. Some people are just better at hiding theirs than others."

His brows come together. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound like you don't understand what I'm going through."

"I was worried for you," you admit, reaching out and tugging him closer by his tie to bridge the gap between you. "You can't just… disappear to Colorado to get shitfaced. It's not healthy—and I…" You pause. "I felt sad for you, but you can't just keep it bottled up. You need to talk to someone—me, Sherry, or hell, even Chris fucking Redfield."

He lets out a laugh. "Yeah," he nods, staring down at you fondly. "You're right."

"I know I'm right," you say sharper than you mean to, but you take a deep breath to calm yourself. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I just… I really like you, Leon, and you hurt my feelings tonight."

"I know," he exhales as he reaches up to cup your jaw. "I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot."

"And you're not going to ruin me," you say. "I'm built pretty sturdy. I just need you to be willing to communicate with me."

A small smile forms on his face. "Okay," he agrees softly.

You feel lighter, most of the anger and sadness of the night washing away. "Okay," you repeat back, tender and pliant as your thumb rubs at the fabric of his tie.

"I really like you, too," he says. "Probably more than is appropriate."

At the confession, you simper, head tilting into his touch as you gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. "Is that so?" you ask.

"Mhm," he confirms, thumb brushing up against your cheek. "And now I keep thinking about what you told me about the dress."

Confusion tints your expression. "What about the dress?"

"About what's underneath." You can see his pupils blown wide as his hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"Would you like to find out?" His fingertips dig into your hip at the question, breath hitching in his throat. "I could think of a few things that would turn this night around."

He's leaning closer, like he's caught in your orbit. "What would that be?"

You think it must be the glass of wine finally kicking in as you say, "I might be inclined to forgive you depending on how many times you can make me cum."

The muscle in his jaw flexes as he clenches his teeth. You can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly. "How many times for me to repent?" he asks.

You pretend to think, gaze flicking up to the dark sky above as you hum. "Maybe I'll consider it after two."

He exhales a shuddering sigh. "C'mon," he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he leads you toward where he parked his car. A perfect gentleman now, he opens the door for you, ensuring you're settled into the passenger seat before closing it and rounding to the driver's side.

His hand stays on your thigh throughout the drive—firm and steady. The closer he gets to your apartment, the tighter his grip on your thigh becomes—anticipation coiling inside of him. You're no better, the heat of desire scorching through your veins, though a small part of you wants to make him suffer just a little, so you diligently keep your hands to yourself.

If he pulls into the parking spot a little crooked, you don't comment on it as he cuts the engine before sending you a warning look when you go to open the door. With more patience than you probably should have at this point, you wait for him to open the door for you, grabbing his outstretched hand and letting him haul you out of the car.

He holds you to his side as you walk into your apartment building, and once you're inside the elevator, he's behind you, arms wrapped around your waist as he kisses into your neck, leaving you a giggling mess.

"This is the slowest elevator ever," he complains gruffly into the bare skin of your shoulder just as it dings, signaling your arrival on your floor.

You already have your keys in your hand, knowing that if you take too long to open your door, he might just break it down. He's quick to usher you into the apartment once you've gotten the door open, closing it behind him.

In one swift motion, your back is pressed to the door, and before he closes the distance between the two of you, he questions, "This is okay, right?"

You nod hastily, breathing out a soft 'yeah', and then there's just the warmth of his lips against yours. Your heart feels like it's about to burst out of your ribcage as he deepens the kiss, a noise of contentment resonating from his throat as he runs his hands up your sides. Your own trail up his chest coming to rest at the base of his skull, curling your fingers through his hair to draw him even closer.

His mouth is hot against yours, growing braver with each passing second as his tongue licks against your bottom lip before he nips it gently, drawing a gasp from you. He's grinning as he pulls back to look at your flushed cheeks, adoration heavy in his gaze. "Leon," you pant out, eyes half-lidded and want swelling in you.

"Turn around." He doesn't give you the chance to, as he manhandles you into position, the coolness of your door against your cheek as you brace yourself with the palms of your hands. As he rucks up your dress, you hear the sharp inhale as he pulls it over your ass. "Fuck," he practically groans, hands kneading the globes of your ass, spreading them just enough to see the glistening slick of your bare pussy from behind. "You weren't lying."

"Did you think I was?" you ask, breathless from the way the cool air hits your hot core.

"Didn't want to get my hopes up," he admits as he kicks a leg in between yours, forcing your legs apart before sliding a hand down to rub at your cunt. Moaning, you arch your back against his touch, a shiver running through you as he brushes against your clit. "God, you're so wet."

You close your eyes, focusing on the slide of his fingers against you, coating his fingers in your juices. His nose jams into the crook of your neck as he plunges a singular finger into you, lips pressing against the quickening pulse in your neck.

"All this for me?" he murmurs, as his other hand slips one of your dress straps off your shoulder, palming one of your breasts with a satisfied noise, before adding a second finger just as he tweaks your nipple, relishing in the way you gasp, arching back into him.

You're nodding your head to his answer, gasping out a 'yes' as you turn to lay your forehead against your door to cool off the fevered temperature of your skin, though it does nothing for the rest of your body, which feels like it's on fire.

"Can't wait to taste you," he murmurs lowly into your ear, sending goosebumps trailing up your spine. "Need you to cum on my fingers first though." The hand on your breast trails down your front, the pads of his fingers catching onto your clit and circling it in slow, purposeful patterns. "Can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," you moan, fingernails scraping against the wood, trying to find purchase on anything as the coil in your stomach tightens with every precise swipe of his fingers. You feel it in your toes, head dizzy as he whispers words of encouragement into your ear, pressing soft kisses into your jawline so sweetly like he's not knuckle deep in your pussy with your slick dripping down his wrist. "Leon, oh—"

He can feel the way you clench around his fingers as you teeter over the edge, gasping out his name in a way that makes him strain painfully against his pants. "That's it," he says, talking you through it. "Sound so pretty when you cum, know that?"

Your moans pitch higher as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, ensuring you're thoroughly worked through your orgasm before finally withdrawing them. The steady presence of his body behind yours is the only thing keeping you upright as your legs feel like they might give out beneath you at any moment. His hands grip your waist as his lips press to your temple.

"Where's your bedroom?" he asks quietly.

You vaguely gesture over your shoulder toward the hall. "First door on the left," you manage to say as you think you're finally regaining feeling in your lower limbs, and then you're being hauled up with a surprised squeak, your hands coming up to grab Leon around his neck as if he would drop you.

"Told you I could carry you," he grins as he heads toward your bedroom.

"Mm, yes," you murmur, a renewed desire pooling in your cunt at the display—not that you would ever admit that to him aloud. "Glad those muscles aren't just for aesthetics."

He laughs as he carefully navigates through the doorway of your bedroom, then haphazardly throws you onto the bed while tugging at his tie, loosening it just enough to undo the top two buttons on his shirt before grabbing your ankles and dragging you until your backside hits the edge of the bed.

"Leon—"

"Told you I wanted to taste you," he interrupts as he kneels in front of you like you're a sacrament he's about to receive. His fingers bore into the plush flesh of your thighs as he spreads you open for him, your dress gathering up at your hips, leaving you bare before him. "Fuck, you're so pretty." His voice is practically a whimper as he fights the temptation to palm himself through his slacks, mouth watering at the way your cunt glistens in the dim light of the moon that filters through the sheer curtains on your window.

He leans down, gently kissing your inner thigh before nipping at the tender skin, taking pleasure in the sharp gasp that escapes above him. Trailing his lips up until his breath fans against your pussy, and your chest blooms with suspense, the anticipation of his hot mouth against you consumes your thoughts. His eyes flick up to meet yours as you're propped up on your elbows, staring down at him through half-lidded eyes. Your breasts spill out of your dress, heaving. "You waiting for an invitation or—"

His tongue licks a wide stripe up your center, your words getting caught in your throat as you moan. He doesn't tease; instead, he dives in as if he intends to devour you, eyes staying focused upward, watching as your head tilts back. One hand grasps desperately at the comforter beneath you, while the other instinctively finds purchase at the back of his head, fingers weaving through his hair in an unrelenting grip that sends a wave of searing thrill straight to his cock.

The noises are obscene as he eats you out, his own spit mixing with your slick, dripping down his chin. The sting of you tugging at his hair only drives him, paired with your hitched moans, and the way you gasp out 'fuck, Leon' when he sucks at your clit just right. He's savoring the taste of you, swallowing you down with every flat press of his tongue against you, moaning into your pussy as your scent envelopes him.

While one hand stays firmly on your thigh, feeling the way your muscles tense with every swipe of his tongue, he uses the other to thrust two fingers into you in a way that makes your eyes roll back in your head, your head lolling. No longer able to hold yourself up, you collapse onto your bed. He doubles his efforts, crooking his fingers to make your toes curl as your orgasm rapidly approaches.

He's steady in his administration, keenly listening to every one of your reactions to every flick of his tongue, and thrust of his hand, deciphering precisely what you like in record time.

"Leon, I'm—"

That's all the warning he gets as your thighs clench around his head, fingernails biting into his scalp as you thrust your hips up against his face, and he only groans, not caring when he finds he can't breathe, and his eyesight gets spotty, all noise muffling around him in favor of the sweet pressure of your thighs crushing him.

As the final waves of your second orgasm crash over you, your legs fall open as you pant heavily, the world sounding like you're swimming in a fishbowl, a thin layer of sweat covering your skin. Leon is no better, cheek resting against your inner thigh as he catches his breath, pressing one last kiss to your cunt before crawling up to you and gently laying a kiss on your lips. You return it with much more enthusiasm, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and mashing your mouths together, not caring that his is covered in the taste of you.

He licks into your open mouth, before pulling back just slightly, leaving a trail of spit between you. "That was two," he murmurs against your mouth. "How am I doing?"

"Exceptional," you sigh out. "I'm almost inclined to say all is forgiven."

He grins; it's far too endearing when he has your slick glossing his chin. "What else does a guy gotta do to earn your forgiveness?"

You press a hand to his chest, and he moves away willingly until he's sitting at the edge of the bed, watching with curious eyes as you stand before kneeling between his legs, which spread to accommodate you.

His breath stutters as he exhales your name. "What're you doing?"

"Sucking your cock," you say as you begin to undo his belt.

"Oh," he says rather lamely. "This is supposed to be about you—"

"Well, I want to suck your cock," you reaffirm, gazing up at him. "You gonna stop me?"

"God, no," he says as his hands scramble to join yours, undoing his pants and adjusting so he can pull them down. You're met with the pretty sight of his cock bobbing in front of your face, and you wrap your hand around him. He's painfully hard, tip reddened and leaking with precum—the weight of him in your palm makes your pussy clench around nothing, and as you give him an experimental stroke, he gasps.

You bite your lip to hold back a smile, slowly moving your hand up and down, spreading the precum along the shaft, appreciating how you can see the muscles in his lower abdomen tighten as he pulls up his shirt out of your way.

Tentatively, you lean down, licking the fat tip of his cock, and he whines out a 'fuck' as he gathers your hair up into his fist, keeping it out of your way as you open your mouth to take more of him in. Carefully, you bob your head up and down, taking more and more of him into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat. Letting your jaw hang open, you will yourself to relax while he tries to restrain the way he wants to cant his hips up to gag you on his cock.

"You're so good," he groans. "Fuck, you're so good for me."

You can feel the way you're dripping down your thighs at his words as you hollow your cheeks and suck in a way that makes his vision go white while your one hand works the rest of his shaft that you can't fit into your mouth. Drool pools out of the corners of your lips, and you moan around his cock as you shove your other hand in between your own thighs, plunging your fingers into your cunt, though after being stuffed full of Leon's, it hardly compares, and you're only left aching.

The sight of you in between his legs, fingering yourself while you're sucking his cock makes his control falter. His fingers curl around the back of your head, forcing you further down onto his cock in a way that makes you gag, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, but it doesn't deter either of you as you try to swallow around his cock, the sensation causing his breath to catch in his throat. "Fuck, fuck," he whines, and he can feel his balls tightening, his own orgasm quickly about to settle over him.

Hastily, he yanks you off him, panting heavily as he tries to rein himself in. You wipe the corners of your mouth, blinking back the tears that had gathered from how deep in your throat he'd been. "You okay?" you ask.

"Almost came," he admits.

You give a huff of hoarse laughter. "Yeah, that's the point, Leon."

He shakes his head, grabs you, guiding you back on your feet, so you're standing between his legs. He gathers your dress, pulling it up and over your head, leaving you standing naked in front of him. "I'll cum down your throat another time," he says as he allows you to completely undo his tie, tossing it somewhere in your room before you start to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way. His fingers wander up your bare skin, indenting into the plushness of your curves. "Wanna cum in you first."

You grin as he palms your breasts, something like satisfaction in his expression at the weight of them in his hands, while you settle yourself into his lap, his cock pressed between the two of you as you bend down to kiss him. "Awfully bold of you," you murmur.

His hands reach down, grabbing the globes of your ass and pulling you further against him, grinding the shaft of his cock against your pussy. "Name your price, sweetheart," he whispers. "I'll do whatever you want, just wanna be dripping out of you by the end of it."

"How about—" You lift up, grabbing his cock with one hand as you usher him toward your entrance. "—You be a good boy and let me ride you, and once I cum again, I'll let you cum inside, okay?"

He's nodding eagerly, the words 'good boy' coming from your mouth instantly making him compliant. His eyes roll to the back of his head as his tip slips into you; the wet, tight heat of your cunt would probably make him agree to anything you request at this point. "Whatever you want," he repeats in a desperate whimper, fingertips digging into your waist—it would no doubt leave bruises in the morning—as you slide down his cock in one fluid motion that knocks the wind out of both of you.

"Leon," you moan, and his head drops forward, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as you start to rock your hips back and forth in a delicious cadence.

"God, you're so tight," he grits out, mouth biting at the delicate skin at the crook of your neck, intending to leave his mark on you. "Been thinking about this for so long."

"Yeah?" you murmur. "Spend a lot of time thinking about me bouncing up and down on your cock, Agent Kennedy?"

He groans. "You're the reason half of my reports are late."

Your hand rises, lightly pressing against the base of his throat, and when you hear his sharp inhale, you increase the pressure slightly. "Poor Agent Kennedy," you lament sarcastically. "How will you ever cope?"

He lets out a shuddered sigh as the rhythm you've set begins to build him back to the precipice. Lips press to your shoulder before his teeth dig in; his bruising grip is constant, but not unpleasant—the painful sting is just enough to make your cunt flutter around him.

Closing his eyes, he tries to stave off his release; the need to please you is far greater than his need to cum. "Hopefully buried deep in this pussy," he answers before opening them to look at you once more.

You grin, it's devastating and vicious, hips canting faster as the muscles in your thighs burn, but it only adds to the pleasure pooling in your core. You grab one of his hands that has a death grip on your hip, wrenching it from you to bring it up to your mouth, tongue flicking out against his thumb before your lips wrap around it, and he is enraptured by the sight, cock twitching inside of you as his gaze grows hazy.

"Fuck," he whines, watching you coat his thumb with your spit.

"Make me cum," you order as you guide his hand down to your pussy, and he follows your lead, thumb finding your swollen clit to begin tracing slow circles against it. He sees the way your eyes briefly close at the sensation, your hips stuttering just a bit before you continue to ride him in earnest, every sweet drag of his cock in your pussy driving you closer and closer to the end.

"C'mon," he nearly begs, trying to compel you toward completion, not knowing how much longer he himself can hold out. "Cum for me, sweetheart, c'mon," he says.

With one last swipe against your clit, you feel yourself fall over the edge as you grind down on him. "Shit, shit, shit," you moan as your thighs shake, movement coming to a shuddering halt as pins and needles start to prick all throughout your body. Leon feels the gush of your liquid release around his cock, and that's all it takes for him to have you on your back in the next instant.

He's pounding into you now with reckless abandon, the slap of your skin against his paired with the sound of his cock bullying into your sopping wet pussy is intoxicating. He gives you no time to recover from your orgasm, enjoying the way the overstimulated tears streak down your flushed face before his eyes focus on the way your breasts bounce up and down with each hard thrust.

"Gonna let me cum in you now?" he asks breathlessly as he cages you between his arms, muscles tense from the strain.

You're holding onto his shoulders, gasping with each hard thrust into you, still bleary-eyed from your last orgasm, nails biting into his skin, digging crescent divots into him, but nodding desperately. "Want your cum," you keen. "Please, Leon."

"Fuck." His hips snap into yours as he sinks his head into the crook of your neck, moaning out your name as he cums, burying his seed deep inside of you. You can feel the warmth of it, the twitching of his cock as he empties into you, and you clench around him, listening to him whimper into your ear. He continues thrusting until he's sure he's filled you.

You're both gasping for air as the aftershocks of your orgasms subside, and Leon pulls away just slightly to press a kiss to your lips, tenderly cupping your jaw.

"Was that okay?" he questions, panting heavily.

You laugh, and it makes him smile. "Five stars," you say, giving a weak thumbs up, your entire body shaking.

He chuckles against your cheek, kissing up the side of your face to your temple. "Where's your bathroom?" he asks.

"Across the hall," you answer.

He's careful as he pulls out of you, gently massaging your hips when you wince. "You okay?"

"We're going to be putting your ability to carry me to the test tomorrow," you say. "I don't think I'm going to be able to walk."

He rolls his eyes, but there's a fond grin on his face as he makes his way to the bathroom. He comes back a few minutes later with a warm, wet washcloth, and the care he takes in cleaning you up almost brings you to tears. You mutter a soft 'thank you' as he tucks you both into bed, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you into him.

The lull of sleep settles over you rather quickly, and you're barely awake, listening to the steadiness of Leon's breathing behind you as his thumb traces circles onto your hip. "You're forgiven," you murmur into your pillow, unsure if he's still awake or not.

He holds you tighter in response.

The next morning, you're both cuddled up on your couch, watching reruns of your crappy reality TV show, sharing a plate of slightly burnt pancakes, and enjoying your morning coffee… or well, tea for you.

"Why didn't you tell me you preferred tea?" Leon asked as he watched you prepare your beverage.

You only grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "I don't mind coffee, plus… I enjoyed seeing what you thought I might like."

"So, why is she mad at Gino?" he questions as he tries to follow along with the drama.

As you're busy explaining the intricate dynamic of the couple on the screen between bites of breakfast, his phone pings, and you both instinctively look down at it. That's when you notice the lockscreen—it's a picture you'd sent him a few weeks ago of a cute sidewalk mural you found, with the shadow of your figure cast over the ground, holding up a peace sign.

"Is that my photo?" you question, already knowing the answer.

"Uh," he stutters, embarrassed. "Yeah."

You blink, processing the information. "I wasn't sure you were looking at those," you admit.

"I was," he says before opening the gallery on his phone. "I saved them all."

You're unsure why tears form in your eyes upon seeing a folder in his phone; no actual name, just a small coffee cup emoji as the label, and when he opens it, you notice every single picture you've sent him safely stored inside.

When he hears you sniffle, he stares at you, startled. "Wait, why are you crying?"

"That's just so nice!" you blubber, nearly sending the plate of pancakes flying as you quickly reach up to brush away the tears.

Laughing softly, he carefully takes the plate away from you and sets it aside, wrapping you in his arms and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Spoiled Oatmeal