OVERWORKED
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leon kennedy x fem! reader
summary: You’re still struggling with overworking. Leon shows you when it’s time to take a break.
master list | previous (not required but gives some context) next
cw: once again, female pronouns used but reader’s features are not described, some suggestive content, dom! leon much more heavily this time, very not subtle praise kink (use of good girl), pet names, tbh rating COULD be pg-13 but i don’t write nsfw so minors ur fine :) uhhhh non-sexual sub-space if you squint?
tags/tropes: once again hurt/comfort, cuddles, leon being touchy again (reader is just as touchy honestly) soft dom behavior (leon)
a/n: a little continued drabble for those of u who asked/liked the last one !! hope u like it @cherryandsugar <3
MY ELDEST DAUGHTERS WITH PRAISE KINKS MAKE SOME NOISE 🔥🔥🔥🗣️🗣️🗣️💯💯💯
｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ
You’re overworking again.
You don’t mean to, necessarily. It’s just always what you do. Work, work, work. It needs to get done, so you do it. No matter how tired you are, no matter how much you don’t want to do it. No matter how many tears get shed. It needs to get done. You have to do it. So you do it.
Leon’s been taking issue, with it though.
You’re not really sure what you are to each other, yet. He definitely finds you attractive —he tells you pretty much everyday, an almost overuse of words like hot, sexy, cute, amazing, and of course, his favorite; princess.
He occasionally comes over to the place you and a few other girls rent together and does his absolute best to be as distracting as possible. Sometimes he cooks, sometimes he gets touchy, sometimes he just sits on your bed and watches you work which is, in your opinion, by far the worst one.
When he’s not bothering you in the comfort of your own home, he’s sitting next to you in the couple classes you share, a distracting hand on your thigh that he squeezes when you get a question right— something that never fails to make you breathless and dizzy for a few minutes afterwards. Between the sight of his hand engulfing your thigh and the frequency of your correct answers, it’s a miracle you don’t asphyxiate during class.
You did come close, once. It was a week after what you’ve dubbed The Library Incident, and the professor had singled you out as one of his most consistent students when it came to turning in homework. Leon had leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear and whispered, all low and rumbly:
“Good girl.”
You didn’t get a single thing out of the lecture for the rest of class.
(You’d then given him the silent treatment, but he made up for it by you sending you his rather extensive and detailed notes from the lesson with a single text: “Better learn to multitask, princess.”)
So yeah. He isn’t a huge fan of your studying habits. Something he’s made abundantly clear.
“When was the last time you got up?” He grumbles, walking into your room with your now full reusable water bottle. You’d abandoned it in the kitchen a few hours ago. He’s such a stickler about your water intake.
“Who are you, my mother?” You pause, looking up at the mischief in his eyes and the way his mouth is open, poised to say something, likely dirty. “Don’t answer that.”
You reach out with grabby hands towards your water bottle, which you know is filled with some delicious water combination, courtesy of Leon. Shit, he’s Pavlov-ing you into drinking water, isn’t he?
He rolls his eyes, handing you the bottle. “You know, you can make this exact same water yourself with the items in your fridge. Which I put there. For you. To use. Yourself.”
“You make it better,” You answer smoothly, ignoring his sarcasm. Ooooh. It’s minty strawberry today.
“Oh?” He says with a raised eyebrow, a signature Leon smirk on his lips. The same one he always gets when you admit to liking him in some way.
“You’re such an attention whore. Isn’t that why you came over here?”
“Ouch. So touchy,” He tuts, draping himself over your back and resting his chin on your head. “But no. I came over here to drag the lovely and beautiful and terribly stubbornly princess away from her desk because she’s overworking again.”
You tense. “I can’t, Leon. Not right now. I have to finish this.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
“I get behind and then I can’t catch up and then I fail—“
“Woah, now,” He says, standing and spinning your desk chair so it faces him instead of your work. “None of that is going to happen if you take a break. We both know your work ethic is too good for that.”
You start worrying your lip between your teeth. “But—“
“Hey,” He says, a gentle, slow hand reaching out and brushing your lip away from your teeth. “None of that. Leave your lip alone.”
You wince. It’s a mindless action, the same way you pick at your hangnails and other parts of your skin when you’re stressed. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. Just don’t want my girl hurting herself more than she already is.”
You ignore the latter part of his sentence and focus on the first. “Your girl?”
“Yeah,” He says, tilting his head and looking down at you with a small smile on his face. “My girl.”
You look down at your hands, fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. “I won’t be able to sleep or relax if I don’t finish this. It— I can’t.”
He takes the side of your face in his hand, thumb sweeping across your cheek and beneath your eyelid. “I know, baby. But you work too much.”
“But I have—“
“You have to, I know. I know you’re hardwired for independence and overworking. So how about this. Take a break, lie down in bed with me, and then finish only what you’ve already started.”
You start chewing on your lip again. “I—“
His fingers deftly move down to your jaw, grabbing it firm, thumb pressing on the edge of your lip and pulling it down, away from the merciless bite of your teeth. His grip leaves no room for argument, but you don’t feel frightened or scared. In fact, your stomach is doing flips at the careful, gentle control in the press of his hands and the fondness in his eyes.
“I know I phrased that very nicely, but this isn’t an argument, sweetheart. You need to rest. Your brain needs time to recharge. What happens if you get sick from all this working, huh?”
You decide now isn’t the time to bring up that you always work through every cold, flu, and fever you’ve ever had.
“Hey,” He leans down, catching your averted gaze. “Look at me.”
He could easily turn your head himself, his fingers still pressed against your jaw, but he doesn’t. He waits for you to muster up the strength to look over at him yourself, eyelashes fluttering.
His gaze is cool and deep when it meets yours. “I am not mad at you. I am not upset with you. I just want you to take care of yourself.”
His voice, gaining that low, rumbly edge when he ushers the words sends tingles up your spine. You sigh, letting the tension ease from your shoulders.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“I’ll try harder.”
“You’re doing just fine, okay?” He pulls you up by your hands, hand leaving your face as he tugs you over to your bed. Once you’ve sat down, he reaches back towards your desk, grabbing your water bottle from your desk and putting it on your bedside table. “You just need a little help sometimes. Everybody does.”
He motions for you to scoot over and you oblige, immediately slotting into what’s become one of your usual positions: arms wrapped around his torso, head pillowed on his chest.
“There we go,” He mumbles, hand sliding under your shirt, intermittently squeezing the place his hands always seem to find: the squishy, vulnerable stretch of flesh in between the top of your hip and the bottom of your ribcage. He rolls the skin there in his hands, a pleased hum rumbling from his chest. “Such a good girl for me.”
You shudder, hiding your blush by pressing your face further into his chest. A tingle spreads from your spine to the rest of your body.
He chuckles. “Aw, you like that don’t you? Did the same thing last time. Is that all I have to do? Is that what you need, baby?”
A small whine rip’s itself from your throat before you manage to tamp it down. Embarrassed, you try and hide your face further.
“None of that, now. Come on, let me see that pretty face.”
You shift, rolling to basically lie on top of him, bracing your hands on either side of him to lift your head, a small frown on your face and a not-so-small flush across your face.
He smiles, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. “There she is,” He practically coos, “My pretty baby.”
“You’re baby-talking me.”
“Mhm,” He says, squeezing your cheeks. “You got a problem with it?”
“…No.”
“What was that?”
You drop back down, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your chin on his chest. “Shhh. I’m supposed to be resting.”
“Convenient that you’re listening to me now.”
“Shush.”
He grumbles, but doesn’t say anything more. He slips his hands under your shirt, palming the expanse of your skin. His fingers are hot where they press and linger, warmth spreading from the points of contact. You go limp in his hold, humming contentedly.
You’re not really sure how much time passes with the both of you like that— bodies pressed close, legs tangled together. It just feels so… nice.
You relax. You actually relax. A small part of you feels annoyed that Leon is your source of comfort and relaxation (muttered whispers in your brain whine about independence, about not relying on anyone else—) the bigger, louder part of you is so overwhelmed with how nice it feels to just… not worry. Even for a little bit. In moments like this your brain goes pleasantly blank: Leon will take care of it. You don’t have to worry, because Leon will take care of it.
The stretches of time you spend in what you’ve mentally dubbed Limbo have started getting longer. At first, you’d last five, maybe ten minutes before your brain would kick into high gear again; worries and concerns flooding your brain so quickly you usually jolt straight up.
But now? It’s easy to slip into it. To let yourself take a mental break. Check out from life for a half hour or so. And when you’re ready to get back to work, you do just that- usually a lot calmer than before Leon came around.
It’s addicting. It’s dangerous.
“How long has it been.”
“Five minutes.”
You blink your eyes open, frowning. “It has not been five minutes,” You reach for your bedside table, snatching your phone off and checking the time. “Liar. It’s been thirty minutes.”
“Is it so wrong to want to lay in bed and hold my princess?”
“It is when the princess has work to do.” You grumble, sitting off and rolling off the bed with a thud.
“It’s so unnerving when you do that. Doesn’t it hurt?”
“No,” You say, hauling yourself to your feet. “It’s fun.”
“I don’t see how sustaining bodily injury is fun.”
“You wouldn’t get it,” You say, waving a hand in dismissal.
Loud shuffling and the thump of Leon climbing to his feet has you looking back. “You’re leaving?”
You can’t quite keep the desperation out of your tone.
He looks at you, surprised. “Usually you don’t like it when I stay while you work.”
“Yes,” You say, cheeks burning. “Um. Yeah. Right yeah. I have work to do. So.”
“Princess,” He says, his voice low and teasing, “You want me to stay?”
“No, no I have to work—“
“Uh-uh,” He says, crossing the room to stand in front of you, arms folded. “No lying. Do you want me to stay?”
You look down at your sock-clad feet. “Please?”
“Aw, well how could I say no to that,” He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of your head. “Finish your work. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
“…Can we go get slushies when I’m done?”
“Of course, baby.”
You finish your work in record time.
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