I made this art a few months ago, unfortunately, at that time I was not experiencing the best emotions and apparently it resulted in this art. And my love for this character too…
Summary: You take down a monster but it has one last surprise for you – a polar plunge. Leon's forced to go in after you. Once you're free of the ice, you've got to go get warm, fast.
WC: 4.5k
CW: NSFW, minors DNI, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, monster fight, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, reader put in peril, reader is injured, shared body heat, sex in the back of the Porsche, first time (together), unprotected p in v, creampie, synchronized orgasms, sort of aftercare (Leon is sweet and attentive), I'm so incredibly not kidding half of this is porn
Notes: MINORS DNI
The root of the problem is there are too many fucking limbs to keep track of.
The monster’s knotted, slimy arms – if you could call them such – are clawed into the ground, keeping it pulled onto the shore, and it has plenty more to swing and slam and bludgeon with, swatting at you and Leon running around like you’re nothing more than pestering flies. After an initial trial of overwhelm, you’re learning: shoot for the bends to shatter joints, hit the ground when it swings then immediately roll to avoid the follow-up slam meant to unite you with the dirt. Permanently.
There’s an additional complication.
“It’s a fucking hydra!” Leon shouts.
It’s a fucking hydra. You’re dealing with more limbs now than when it had burst out of the frozen lake and charged you, with a screech so piercing it still rings in your ears. This changes things, if you don’t want to end up popped like a sauce packet on the patchy grass bank.
“Fuck.”
You have to keep moving, but you’re not shooting at it now. You’re reassessing, heart pounding, breath loud in your ears and visible in the cold, grey air. Leon grunts as he dives clear of a slamming limb, rolling to his feet and dodging the bullwhip crack of another arm.
Your gaze locks on the grenade hanging from his belt. A plan fills in behind your singular focus.
He sees you half a second before you slam into him at full tilt, no time to slow down, but his stance is wide enough that it doesn’t knock him over.
“What–!”
You meet his eyes. You can see the next threat in your periphery; your one, his six, another slimy limb coming in hot. He’s realizing where your hand is. It all happens in the space of a heartbeat.
“Spicy meatball,” you explain, then drop him by kicking your heel into the back of his knee, folding it. Your grip on the grenade yanks it free of his belt and you hold it up over your head as the hydra’s arm, great ugly claw-hand open, misses Leon on the ground and grabs you, ripping you into the air. Leon shouts your name but it’s lost under an ear-splitting, triumphant screech.
The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.
You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.
Leon’s already caught on.
A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.
You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.
The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –
It throws you.
Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.
Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.
Leon’s already running.
The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.
The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.
You haven’t come up for air.
“Fuck.”
He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.
The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.
The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.
Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.
He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.
You do not.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.
You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.
It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.
Get up
We need to move
Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”
As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.
“Run!”
It’s a bit much to ask.
You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.
Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.
You’re almost there.
You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.
Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.
“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.
You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.
The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.
“Almost there. Come on.”
Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.
“Get in. Get in!”
You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.
“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.
You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.
“Fuck!”
There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.
Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.
“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?
Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.
“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.
“No.”
“No?”
“The keys are in my coat.”
“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”
“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”
He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.
Fuck.
You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.
It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.
Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.
“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.
“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."
“How bad?”
“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”
“Deep breath in.”
You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.
“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.
His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.
“You gotta get down on me."
You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.
"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."
“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.
Fuck.
"I don't know where you think my knees are going."
You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.
He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.
“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”
You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.
“You can’t be wearing that.”
“Leon–“
"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."
Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.
"Do you trust me?"
You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.
"Yes."
It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.
"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.
It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.
“Yeah. Fine."
It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.
He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.
“Do you know you're doing that.”
He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.
“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.
“Yes ma'am.”
Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.
Your eyelids are heavy.
“Is it bad to fall asleep?”
He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.
“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.
And you register why.
His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.
And something else is different.
“…Where are your hands?”
You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.
“Good boy.”
You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–
He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.
“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.
He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.
“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”
“You be careful with my side.”
“Damn.”
“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.
“You’ve got a fixation.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”
“Don’t be rude.”
You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”
“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.
“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?
He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.
“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”
“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”
You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”
He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.
“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.
“What do you want?”
Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.
“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”
The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.
“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.
“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”
“Mm. Lucky day.”
“I know.”
“Any last words?”
“What?”
You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.
“Be careful,” he says.
“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.
“Are you okay?”
You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”
He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.
Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.
“Fuck me.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.
“Think you can come like this?”
“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.
“Tip your hips down,” he says.
You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.
“Fuck, like that Leon!”
He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.
“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”
“Do you want me to be?”
You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.
“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.
“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”
He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.
When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.
"I think that did the trick,” he says.
You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.
“How’s your side?”
“Stings.”
He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.
“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.
“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”
He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.
“Worked out fine the first time.”
You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.
“Beginner’s luck.”
There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.
But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.
On AO3
Guys quick tip don’t take survival advice from a gratuitous x reader they probably died lmao
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Summary: Sex pollen galore, but listen: you and Leon both work at the DSO and you hate each other kicking my feet, giggling
Masterlist , part 2
Notes: Thank you guys so so much for 5- *checks notes* 600?! How did that happen so fast? I swear I started writing right away.
word count: 4.5k
Warnings: nsfw, sex pollen, non-con if you squint, age gap, younger reader, semi-public sex (sorry Sherry), oral m!receiving, bratty reader, slight daddy kink, orgasm denial at the verge of death, subby Leon?, Leon So much cum Kennedy receiving the blowjob of his life and seeing god holy shit what even is this
K was the eleventh letter of the alphabet. You knew because you had been counting down ever since you had started working with the DSO. K like Kennedy.
“Kennedy, you’re with the junior.” Of course. Every single time you got paired up with fucking Kennedy.
“The junior has a name,” you murmured, shaking your head, shooting a look at the senior agent.
He looked pissed. Like being teamed up with you was the worst thing that could have ever happened to him.
You had no idea what you had done to deserve this level of hatred but ever since you had walked through the doors of the DSO, it burned bright like a fire in him, apparently. He couldn’t even stand looking at you most days. Like now, grinding his teeth, avoiding your gaze at all costs.
You and me both, old man, you thought.
At first you had tried to be friendly with him. He was kind of your superior after all. Not directly, but all junior agents answered to the more experienced ones, especially if they were a founding member.
But lo and behold it became clear that he thought you were less than capable. At first you thought he was nothing but a misogynistic asshole. But then you realised he wasn’t like that with the other female agents. Only you. It seemed personal. Like he thought specifically you had no idea what you were doing, which pissed you off even more.
It hurt a little, if you were being honest. Leon Kennedy was well regarded by everyone. You wanted him to think highly of you, too.
And you weren't a rookie by any means. Actually you were the most competent agent in your field, but something about working on a mission with Agent Kennedy made you feel like you didn't even know how to do the basics. Probably because he never let you do anything on your own and was always there to take the load off your shoulders. As if you were a damsel in distress. You hated it.
It was dangerous as well. You were supposed to cover for him too. But he never let you. You had tried plenty of times.
The mission at hand was retrieving some biochemically altered plants from an underground Umbrella facility. Ones that were suspected to spread airborne pathogens, infecting whoever was unlucky enough to breathe them in.
“Let’s go then,” Kennedy growled, pushing out of his chair, already walking off to the armory without so much as looking at you. You involuntarily sank deeper into your seat. Something about Kennedy made you feel smaller than you actually were, younger too, less experienced. Incompetent.
You drew in a determined breath and followed him down the hallway.
This was the mission to change that. You were going to show him how capable you were, once and for all. And finally Leon Kennedy would tell you that you were doing a good job.
After a whole bunch of briefings because of the high risk of contamination on your mission, you and Kennedy were in the field, Sherry Birkin on your earpiece.
“Sherry, we're in the warehouse.” Kennedy murmured, walking in ahead of you as if you weren’t even there. Why didn‘t he just go on these missions alone? He was so shit with other people, and especially you.
Your determination to prove yourself to him had disappeared as soon as he had once again, come between you and your first target, eliminating it for you. It was an unarmed janitor. As if he could make it any more clear that he thought you had absolutely no idea what you were doing.
Kennedy didn't only walk in ahead of you, no. He held the door open for you as well, as if he suddenly remembered the liability he was constantly dragging around.
“I can open doors myself, you know,” you hissed.
“You’re slow. You need to keep up or you’ll get yourself killed.”
“If you didn't run ahead like that all the time, I wouldn’t have to.” You asshole, you wanted to add but you remembered he was your superior after all. Not your direct one, but still.
“Check the boxes,” Sherry said over your earpiece. “I need to know the serial number to find the one we’re looking for.”
You nodded, grabbing one of them immediately. Too slow, you were going to show him 'too slow'.
Kennedy did a double take. "Don't touch that."
“She said check the boxes. Do you need a hearing aid?“ you hissed, getting out your knife and slipping it under the lid.
“She said she needs the serial number,” he retorted, rushing to your side, his hands closing around yours, halting your movements. You ignored the way your heartbeat kicked up at his touch. Kennedy always made you nervous whenever he was near, that was nothing new.
“If you had listened during the briefings you would know that they printed false serial numbers on the outside to lead us astray,” you spat, struggling against him.
It was pointless. The man was pure muscle, his grip like a vice. But you tried anyway because you were full of rage. He wouldn’t let you do anything. Not even what you were being paid to do. Not even checking a god damn label.
Because of your little tussle with Kennedy your knife got wedged deeper into the box than you intended.
“Let go,” you hissed through gritted teeth.
“You let go, junior,” Kennedy growled in return.
“Whatever you do,” Sherry’s voice sounded over your earpiece. “Do not puncture the—”
Kennedy pushed down on your wrist too hard and you yowled, your hand slipping off the hilt. “You’re breaking my wrist, asshole.”
Without you to counter his movement, Kennedy pried the lid open in one swift motion, a cloud of greenish yellow pollen erupting from the box, coating his entire face. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“—plastic inside. As far as we know, they’re probably trying to contain some sort of highly infectious microspores.”
Under all the pollen you still saw a muscle tick in Kennedy’s jaw. He wiped the dust off his face. “I said don‘t touch it.”
"Sorry," you stammered, cheeks hot, realising you had called a senior agent an asshole to his face. You wanted to disappear off the face of the earth.
Kennedy sneezed. “Sherry, what if we did? And got the plant shit all over our face?” He sneezed again.
“Wash it off with water immediately and check inside the box for the serial number. I‘ll try and find out what it is,” she replied. “But be careful not to get any more of that stuff on you.”
Leon sneezed a third time and fumbled for his canteen, unscrewing the top and dousing himself with water. He shook his head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere.
“I seriously hope for you this isn’t poisonous,” he hissed, taking a sip of water for good measure.
You held up a hand. “If you had just let me do what I needed to do, you wouldn’t be covered in chemically fucked up plant right now,” you snapped, slipping on a pair of gloves and lifting the front of your compression shirt over your nose and mouth, before approaching the box. You had enough of him babysitting you. This was ridiculous.
“Excuse me, what?” He whipped around. “I’m a senior agent, you should listen to me and not think you know better all the time. Look where that got us both.”
You carefully lifted the lid, dodging another whiff of pollen escaping, scanning the plastic inside for the serial number.
He blamed you for this. If you ever had a chance of Kennedy respecting you, there it went. And with his standing in the DSO, you would never be able to get a foot on the ground in the organisation. You’d better update your CV asap. They would absolutely sack you for this.
You closed the lid as soon as you found it, sealing it shut with duct tape to be safe. “Sherry, the serial number is AV-4/B.” You slipped off your gloves and tossed them to the side.
“Alright,” she said. “Are you both contaminated or just Leon?”
“Just Agent Kennedy,” you replied. You would also call him Leon like every other person in the DSO but he insisted on keeping you on a last name basis. So you never dared.
“I’m fine, Sherry,” Kennedy cut in, splashing some more water on his face and rubbing it onto the back of his neck too. You didn’t miss the way he propped himself up against the wall with his hands. “Besides, we have to keep going.”
“Leon, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sherry said. “We have no idea what this might do to you. It’s too dangerous.”
Agent Kennedy was breathing heavily and you looked him up and down. He didn’t seem changed, but you agreed with Sherry. You stepped closer to him, feeling his forehead.
He flinched like the touch pained him. “Don’t touch me.”
“Holy shit,” you breathed. “Sherry, he’s burning up.”
“Get him somewhere you’re both safe. I’ll try and figure out what he was infected with.”
Kennedy shook his head, little droplets still slipping from his hair.
“You heard her,” you said, grabbing his shoulder, but he shrugged you off.
“I said don’t touch me, junior” he hissed.
You scanned your surroundings for a safe place where you could hunker down until you got the all-clear from your dispatcher.
“In here,” you said, opening the door to the nearest shipping container, trying to push Agent Kennedy inside.
He whimpered at your touch. The invincible agent Kennedy whimpered. This was bad.
“Oh shit,” you hissed, barring the door from the inside.
“No, no, no,” Leon protested. “Don’t lock yourself in here with me.”
You huffed. “Shut up, Leon.” Another inappropriate way of speaking to a senior agent, and first name basis as well. But you were done for anyway. “I’m not a damsel in distress, I know what I’m doing.”
He winced, lowering himself down to sit against the wall. “I never said you didn’t.”
You whipped around to face him. “You didn’t have to, you’re always on my ass, no matter what I do.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, ridding himself of his weapons and harness, tossing them to the side. “Can you blame me? It's a good ass.”
You did a double take. Kennedy was seriously unwell. He coughed, clearly trying to cover up what he had just said.
You crouched down beside him and he flinched again.
“Don’t come so close,” he panted. “I can smell you.”
“What do you mean, you can smell me? I don’t stink, I showered before we went out on this mission,” you said, offended.
Leon’s brow knitted together in helplessness and he leaned his head against the wall. “I’m serious, back off.”
“No way,” you insisted, fumbling for the canteen on your belt, screwing the top off and offering it to him.
He eagerly grabbed it, drinking the water inside, some of it spilling down his prominent Adam's apple as he did.
Despite him being old enough to be your father—and an absolute asshole to be around—you couldn’t deny that Leon Kennedy was an exceptionally handsome man. Hot even.
Right now, literally. He was sweating so much, wet patches had formed all the way down the back of his tactical shirt.
“Take it off,” you ordered, as you began to unlace his boots.
He shook his head, lips pressed together, like he was fighting something invisible inside his own body.
You slipped off both his boots, tossing them to the side, grabbing where his shirt was tucked into his tactical pants. “I said, take it off, Leon. Don’t be so stubborn.”
He struggled against you, trying to get a hold of your hands, but you managed to pull his shirt out of his pants at least, grazing his crotch when he tried to stop you.
“Holy shit,” you breathed.
You had just touched your superior's dick.
Not your direct superior, but that didn’t matter. Because you also hadn’t touched his flaccid dick. No, no. Leon Kennedy was rock hard beneath those tactical pants.
“I’m sorry,” he whined, squirming, desperately trying to get comfortable.
You stared at him. “So when you said you could smell me you meant—”
“Don’t say it,” he pleaded, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing. He looked like he was in agony.
“My vagina,” you concluded.
Leon bit back a moan and you couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “It’s the plant,” he whispered.
“So it’s what? Some kind of super potent viagra?” you said, still tugging at his shirt.
“Stop, what are you doing?” He tried to push away your hand but as soon as your skin touched his, a groan slipped past his lips and he clasped his hands behind his back.
“Leon, I know you’re incapable of listening to me in any situation, but this is serious. You’re burning up and I don’t care that you have a boner right now,” you hissed. “You were infected with some kind of chemically altered shit. Take your fucking shirt off.”
He finally caved, letting you slip his shirt over his head. You drew in a sharp breath. Leon Kennedy shirtless was a sight to see. Taut skin stretching over chiselled abs, beefy pectorals, perfect for propping yourself up on while you were riding him.
You touched your chest, feeling for your heartbeat and breathing. Were you contaminated too?
Oh. No, you were just horny for a man old enough to be your father.
Leon’s nose crinkled and he turned his head away from you. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” you asked.
“Getting wet, I can smell it.”
You rubbed your forehead. This was going to make for one awkward as hell debrief. “I hope we don’t have to write a report on this,” you murmured and pressed your earpiece, calling for Sherry. No one answered.
You took out your knife and cut off a piece of your shirt, exposing a sliver of your belly.
“What are you doing?” Leon rasped.
“Relax,” you shushed him, folding the fabric carefully and wetting it with water from your canteen. You scooted closer to Leon, dabbing his forehead with your makeshift cloth. His eyes fluttered shut. "I hate to break it to you, but you're in no state right now. You're going to have to let me take over."
“You hate me,” he huffed.
“You hated me first,” you countered, flipping the cloth over so the new, cool side was pressed against his forehead.
“I don’t though,” he rasped. “I think you’re one of the best agents we have.”
You shook your head. “You’re delirious. We’ll talk about that when you’re less animalistic.”
He chuckled and you joined in.
A hand shot forward, grabbing your wrist. “Stop that.”
“What?”
“Laughing. Smiling, everything.” He writhed, palming his cock with his other hand, desperately trying to get comfortable.
Your breath hitched in your throat. It was the plant, you reminded yourself. This wasn’t really him.
“Anytime you laugh in a meeting it’s torture for me,” he whispered.
“Is that why you never talk to me?” you breathed, continuing to dab his forehead, the fact that his hand was still clamped around your wrist not escaping you.
He gave a shy nod.
“So when you say you don’t hate me…” you went on.
“The second you set foot in the DSO headquarters I knew you were going to be my downfall,” he rasped.
You paused, watching the way he was leaning into your touch involuntarily, like he couldn’t help himself. “Did you request to be partnered up with me? Is that why I’m on missions with you every single time?”
He nodded again and you leaned closer to him. “I needed to ensure your safety myself. I don’t trust anyone else with it.”
You bit back another comment about how you didn’t need anyone to take care of you. You had a feeling your capacity of knocking a grown man out cold had nothing to do with his instinct to protect you.
“Leon, if this is some kind of enhanced viagra, I can help you.”
He shook his head, his jaw working. “I would never ask that of you.”
“I’m offering. And in a way this is … necessary,” you whispered. “But if you’d rather do it yourself, I can look the other way and make sure you’re okay while you do it.”
"Fuck no, that’s way worse," he grunted, a rosy blush creeping up on his cheeks. "I'm not gonna let you watch me jack off."
“Alright, it’s settled then,” you said, hands moving down to the buttons of his tactical pants, undoing them one by one. Your mouth watered with anticipation.
You would be lying if you said you had never imagined what Leon S. Kennedy looked like naked. Or what he would be like in bed. Matter of fact, the second you had seen him, walking into the DSO on your very first day you thought he was the most attractive man you had ever set eyes on. The fact that he was so much older, making it all the more forbidden and enticing.
Leon’s hand shot forward again in an attempt to keep your hands from doing what they were doing. “Don’t. This is so unprofessional,” he pleaded and you felt him twitch beneath your palm. He was hanging by a thread.
You sighed. “Yes, it is. Very much so. But do you not want me to?”
He bit his lower lip and his restraint finally snapped. His hands fell down to his sides and he let himself sink lower against the wall, giving in.
Your hands became shaky when you pushed his pants off his hips. What would this be like at the office?
Avoiding each other at all costs? Not looking when the other person spoke? So business as usual.
His cock sprang free and you gasped. It was the most beautiful cock you had ever seen: thick, long and just as veiny as Leon's forearms.
"Oh fuck," you breathed. How was he the one under the spell of those damn plants when you could feel yourself grow wetter by the second?
Leon whimpered again, covering his eyes with his arm. Right. Heightened sense of smell.
You closed your hand around his base, squeezing him. That was already enough to draw a breathy moan out of him.
The great Leon S. Kennedy. Putty in your hands.
You gently spread the pre-cum that had gathered on the tip with your thumb, giving him a tentative pump.
“Oh fuck,” Leon groaned. “I’m so sensitive. It’s not usually like that.”
A grin tugged at your lips. Was he now? No time like the present to take a little revenge for all those times he had made you feel like a child during your missions. It was too easy.
You leaned down, gently running your full lips along the underside of his cock, as you slowly pumped him, gripping him tightly.
His breath hitched and his head shot up, staring at you with half-lidded eyes, brows drawn together. “You don’t have to do that, you can just ah—”
You shut him up with an open mouthed kiss to the tip of his cock and a hand slipped into your hair.
“I always exceed expectations, Agent Kennedy,” you whispered, breath fanning over his most sensitive body part. “If you ever let me do what I’m being paid to do on our missions, you would know that already.”
Leon whimpered and you licked up his entire length in one broad stroke. His hips bucked and the grip on your scalp tightened.
“Please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,” he whined and you chuckled, looking up at him.
“Oh, I will make it harder,” you promised, closing your lips around his tip, hollowing your cheeks.
Leon growled, drawing in a sharp breath.
You hummed in response, swirling your tongue around his tip, continuing to work him with your hand, as you french-kissed his cock.
“Oh fuck, that feels so good,” Leon breathed, his cock twitching in your mouth. You released him with a lewd popping sound, looking at him with lustful eyes.
He stared at you, mesmerised, his other hand coming down to cup your cheek, running his thumb over your lower lip, all wet and glistening with your saliva and his pre-cum.
You grinned. “Do you want it sloppy or neat?”
He chuckled, dipping his thumb into your mouth for you to suck on. “Has anyone ever said neat?”
You shook your head. “Never happened.”
Leon grabbed a fistful of your hair and pushed you back down on his cock, thrusting his hips up. You eagerly took him deeper into your mouth, saliva running down the sides, gathering at the base of his cock.
“Fuck yes, just like that,” he groaned, hitting the back of your throat. You gagged, but that only meant more saliva to lubricate for a softer glide.
“I’ve been thinking about this in meetings all the fucking time,” he confessed, moaning loudly. “That’s why I couldn’t look at you. Because I kept thinking about what you’d look like choking on my cock.”
A moan racked through you at his confession, sending vibrations through his entire body, making him draw in a sharp breath. You came back up to catch your breath.
“What else were you thinking about?” you asked, puffy lips spreading your saliva all over his length. “Because when I first saw you, I thought about how I wanted you to bend me over your desk and fuck me.”
Leon groaned. “Don’t say that. I’m old enough to be your father.”
You shot him a fiendish grin. “Daddy.”
You sank down on him again.
“Holy shit,” Leon panted, squirming underneath you, cock twitching. You swallowed around him, raking your fingernails over his abs.
“I’m gonna cum,” he moaned, his breathing coming ragged, his fingers in your hair tightening, pulling at it ever so slightly.
Tongue pressed to the underside of his cock, you moved up, sucking him into a vacuum for the grand finale, spit leaking past your lips.
"Oh fuck, just like that." He gritted his teeth, moments from losing it. "Don't st—"
You pulled your mouth off him.
Leon's eyes flew open and he let out most pathetic sound you had ever heard. His hips bucked, cock thrusting up at—nothing.
You chuckled. "You didn't think I'd let you cum that easily, did you?"
He whimpered, brows knitting together. "What are you doing?"
You shook your head. "This whole time, you make me feel like I'm a good for nothing rookie and now you think I'm just gonna suck you off like nothing happened?"
He swallowed, trying to catch his breath. "This is serious, I could die from this."
A smirk tugged at your lips. This was too good.
You shrugged. "See, if I were in your situation, I would ask nicely."
"Junior..."
You clicked your tongue, scoldingly wagging your finger in front of his face.
He let out a laboured breath, fists clenching at his sides. Oh, he hated this. For a moment, you almost backed down.
But you were going to have to look for a new job anyway, so fuck it.
"Say 'please'," you purred, sticking out your tongue, almost close enough to reach, close enough to run over his length, tracing every vein.
"This is very unprofessional," he whined, eyes never leaving you. "We are supposed to work together to ensure mission success."
You raised an eyebrow at him. "Unprofessional? Leon, you have your dick in my face." You licked his tip and he let out another broken moan. He was at the very edge of sanity. "Besides, I feel like it's not me who needs a lesson in cooperating with my assigned mission partner."
He thrust his hips upward again, desperately pushing himself against your face. You leaned back.
"Say it." You leaned in closer, watching his muscles ripple underneath his skin, a sheen glint of sweat coating his entire chest. "Fucking beg for it, Leon."
"Please, okay? Please make me cum, I'm fucking begging you, I can't take this anymore," Leon whined. "Please let me cum in your mouth."
You closed your lips around him, making eye contact as you did. Leon looked like he was about to die. Because of the plant or because of you was hard to tell.
Hollowing your cheeks, you picked up right where you had left off, sucking, licking, lapping up every bit of precum and restraint he had left in him. Every single muscle in his body was taut like a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment.
His lips fell open and he let out a strangled moan, cock twitching inside your mouth. Your hand moved down to cup his balls, tight and ready to release all he had into you and you pushed down on his length, swallowing around him.
He cried out, grabbing the back of your head and pushed himself impossibly deeper into your throat, making your eyes water.
"Oh fuck," he panted and you tried to relax your throat, failing, gagging on his cock.
Leon came with a moan loud enough to echo through the entire shipping container and you desperately tried to come back up for air, thick ropes of white coating your tongue, some of it spilling out the corners of your mouth.
This was sloppy as hell. Cum dripped all over his tactical pants and down your chin as you kept sucking him through his orgasm.
“Fuck, you look so beautiful like that,” Leon breathed, cock twitching, giving you one last bit of cum to lap up. Your eyes fluttered shut at the salty taste. Why did he taste so good?
Despite the state of you, you licked him clean and pressed a parting kiss to his now softened tip. You sat up, both your breaths coming out ragged. Cum trickled down the collar of your compression shirt and tears were beginning to dry on your cheeks.
Oh, this debrief was going to be hell for everyone involved.
Leon’s chest was heaving, as he came down from his high and—his infection.
"I don't know what to say," he panted, staring straight ahead.
"Me neither," you replied, shyly backing away, sinking down against the wall next to him, wiping your mouth and chin with your sleeve. Fuck it. This was a whole mess anyway. And you weren't talking about the shirt.
“I..." Leon started, pausing. "Good job, agent."
You chuckled dryly. What the hell were you thinking? Playing with him like that in a life or death situation? This was bad. What had gotten into you? You could drag your ass straight to HR after this, cum stained shirt and everything.
"I feel like I owe you dinner,” Leon murmured, wrinkling his forehead.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Thanks, but I just ate,” you whispered, mechanically.
You and Kennedy looked at each other from the corner of your eyes, waiting for each other's reaction.
“Agents? Agents are you there?” Sherry’s voice over your earpieces made you both jump. Leon frantically pulled up his pants. “Leon? Are you okay?”
“Sherry,” you rasped. “Please tell me you didn’t hear any of that.”
“Nobody heard a thing,” she replied, voice a little shaky.
Leon grabbed his earpiece. “What do you mean nobody? Sherry, who else is there?”
summary: making out in the car with re2!leon vs re9!leon. a continuation to "reporting back" if you squint
warnings: suggestive, allusions to car sex
re2:
leon was meant to be dropping you off, that was all. you had a girls date planned, and he had a night shift.
but you had kissed him goodbye and he leaned back in immediately after you pulled away. so you entertained his puppy eyes and kissed him again. and again when his lips chased yours. and again when he asked.
now, he’d asked for "one last one" thirteen kisses ago, but neither of you were in any rush to pull apart anymore. the small pecks were now forgotten for messy, half-coordinated, rushed kisses.
leon was leaned over you, his seatbelt half tangled into his torso as he ran his hands feverishly along any part he could. he'd been trying to do this since before you left.
his teeth were clattering into yours as you kissed, followed by immediate muttered apologies and a copious amount of puppy eyes in hopes of keeping you going.
"leon." you muttered into his lips, tugging his head away from yours with the hand tangled in the back of his hair. you'd done that at least four times now, his tongue stuck so far down your mouth you questioned if he was trying to reach your throat. again.
his nose bumped yours, not withdrawing from his kisses as he apologized, "sorry."
he gave you another look with wide eyes. you sighed at the biblical level of greed, kissing him back anyways.
⊱.˚── ⋅ .✧˚❀˚✧. ⋅ ──˚.⊰
re9:
leon was no one if not greedy with his kisses.
a lot of the man you once knew was gone, in differing ways. he learned patience, to take his time, he didn't hesitate, or hold back out of fear anymore. yet, the glimmer of that rookie still shone through his insatiable hunger.
pulled into a dark, secluded parking lot–because you and him both unanimously agreed the worst part of date night was the stretch of road between your reservations and your house–with one hand fixed on the back of your neck, the other cupped around your face. the location was less about fear–the risk of getting caught was part of the thrill–and more about the fact leon wanted zero chance at interruptions today.
his lips moved against yours with purpose rather than blind urgency, the hand previously on your neck now settled on the small of your back, pushing you deeper into him. you shifted into his lap, humming when leon's face winced at the movement.
"do you need help with that?" your hand lingered right atop his belt.
leon grunted in response, "later." he titled his head towards the backseats. "join me maybe?"
note: overtly freaked out on a friday tbh, i kinda wanna write a full part to both now 'cause this was so short
