leon stirs before the alarm ever has the chance to ring. years of early mornings and restless sleep have trained his body well enough that he wakes with the sunrise barely filtering through the curtains, one arm still lazily draped over your waist. he blinks a few times, taking in the quiet apartment, then the sight of you still asleep beside him, curled closely to his larger frame, clinging to him.
a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. carefully, he reaches over to silence the alarm before it can wake you. except, he hears a whisper before he extends his arm.
“happy birthday.”
his hand freezes right above the nightstand. “...what?”
you peek up at him through half-lidded eyes, sleep still clinging to your voice, “happy birthday, lee.” he blinks once, then twice before chuckling dryly, “..that's today?”
you can't help but laugh at how clueless he sounds, “you forgot your own birthday?”
he sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. “...guess i did.” it's said so casually that your heart squeezes. another year, another birthday he'd almost let pass by without a second thought. he was never big on celebrating the fact he kept getting older. it was a bitter reminder of how his life hadn't change since he turned twenty-one.
“it's just another day,” he shrugs, already reaching to push away the sheets from his body. you catch his wrist before he can stand and shake your head, “no.”
he glances back at you and tilts his head to the side, “...no?”
“stay.” your voice comes out quieter than you expected.
“sweetheart, i've got work.”
“you've got thirty minutes.” your hand reaches for his bicep, pulling him back into bed. leon stays silent, brows furrowing.
“...twenty?”
he lets out the softest laugh through his nose, but still... he climbs back beneath the blankets and pulls you close to him. after all, he can't deny how nice it feels to sleep in flor a while. by the time he wanders into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, the apartment smells faintly of coffee and vanilla. there are crooked streamers hanging from the ceiling. one of them has already started peeling away from the tape.
a tiny grocery store cake sits in the middle of the table with white frosting and slightly smudged writing, exactly one candle right in the middle. he stops in the doorway, a small smile on tugging at the corners of his lips, “...you did all this?”
you suddenly feel very aware of how lopsided everything looks. “it's not much.” you admit shyly.
he doesn't answer right away. instead, he looks around the apartment like he's trying to memorize every little detail. the cake, the breakfast, the decorations... you. “...it's perfect.” his voice comes out softer than before, almost like he wasn't expecting it to. you walk over, smoothing a wrinkle from the front of his t-shirt before resting your hands against his chest.
“happy birthday.”
he looks down at you with that familiar, tired softness that's settled into him over the years. “...thank you.” he says. there's something almost bashful about his tone, like he still isn't quite sure what he did to deserve any of this. he wraps his arms around your waist for a few seconds before you're opening a cabinet, already on the move.
“okay,” you grin, striking the lighter. the little candle flickers to life and lights a small fraction of the dim kitchen, “make a wish!”
leon lets out an amused huff. “...i'm forty-nine”
“mhm.”
“I think i'm a little old for birthday wishes.”
you fold your arms, “humor me.”
he studies the tiny flame dancing atop the candle, a grin gradually growing on his face.
“come on.”
“i'm thinking.”
“you're overthinking.”
“probably.” another quiet laugh slips from him. he closes his eyes for only a second before blowing the candle out. smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling and you immediately lean forward, fingers absentmindedly dipping into the frosting.
“what'd you wish for?”
he smiles. “...can't tell you.”
“leon.”
“then it won't come true!”
you narrow your eyes dramatically, “i'm interrogating my husband.”
“good thing i've had years of training, hon.”
you groan, nudging his shoulder. you shouldn't have told him about the whole wish thing... “you're impossible.” before you can argue again, he reaches for your hand across the counter, intertwining your fingers with his. his thumb brushes over your knuckles, caressing the skin.
“...for what it's worth,” he murmurs, eyes lingering on yours, “i don't think i've ever had a birthday this nice.”
the apartment falls quiet. just the distant hum of the city outside, the cake slowly beginning to melt and spill gently onto the marble, morning sunlight spilling across the table. you smile, squeezing his hand, a smile of your own as you look up at him, “good.”
You circle the rim of your glass, bored. This stupid cheesy bar is humid, boring, and exactly what you get for falling into peer pressure. “It’ll be fun” they said, “You never come out with us anymore” they droned, you would’ve been happier cooped up at home. But no, you’re here with your cheap, fruity cocktail, wearing something little and springy, whatever.
You figure instead of throwing your own pity party you should just go… call an uber or something, maybe your friends already left, typical.
“I’ll have whatever she’s having.”
You peer over towards the man sitting next to you, definitely older then you are. Still handsome in a rugged way, with slight streaks of grey hairs, and a jaw of sharp stubble.
“I don’t think you’ll like it…” You murmur, suddenly self conscious of your girlish tastes, wouldn’t a guy like him be more content to sip something stiff?
“What makes you say that?” He hums, thanking the bartender as she sets an ornate cocktail down on the bar top. “I like..” He pauses to take a sip “eugh… strawberry, yeah i like strawberry just fine.” He smiles at you and it’s enough to notice the dimple in his cheek, as well as the fine lines that appear more as he grins.
You introduce yourself meekly, he leans in and does the same, even his name is handsome, it’s a perfect fit, leon kennedy. “Well Leon, if you like strawberry you can finish that off for me, i’ve probably had enough for tonight anyways…” You murmur standing up from the bar stool, shaky enough that his hands grasp your shoulders before you can tip over. “Are you sure you can make it home alright?”
“What’re you? A cop or something?” As soon as you spout it you feel a little mean, he’s just trying to be nice, but you’re put at ease by his crooked smile. “Wait… are you?”
“It’s okay, I don’t have my handcuffs on me.” He shrugs, licking his bottom lip briefly, you don’t like how the mental image makes you a little hot, you’ll blame it on the alcohol. “C’mon, i’m parked right outside, lemme take you home, pinky swear i’m not a creep.” Leon extends his thick finger towards you, smiling sweetly, you could imagine a tail wagging behind him, maybe some fluffy ears perked up too, for an older guy he’s a goof.
“Fine… but my friends have my location if you try anything!” Your bravado falters as Leon closes out his check as well as your own, then places his leather jacket over you, the inside is lined with something soft, it smells like him, manly, rugged.
“C’mon sweetheart, let’s get you home and all tucked in.”
Hopefully you don’t end up on the local news station…
General Story Warnings: Smut, Romance, Angst, Unplanned Pregnancy, Age Gap (~20 years)
Chapter Warnings: None
Story Summary: Leon isn’t quite sure how to handle the news. After a nasty divorce, he’s starting over in the most unpredictable manner. At almost forty-nine, he’s becoming a first time father.
Perhaps you should’ve been wiser last night. Leon left your apartment a little before dawn after a lot of… Reckless behavior. The behavior was injudicious and certainly something that you should’ve thought twice about before doing so– Yet, that’s not what you regret the most. You had the audacity to fall asleep without setting an alarm.
“Shit, shit, shit–” You’re rushing out the door, heels in hand as you try to call for the elevator. You put the heels on the ground, putting them on as you grab your phone to call your boss. None other than Leon S. Kennedy himself. Wait… Should you call him or would a text be better? What are the odds he’s in a meeting right now?
With one finger you manage to type the most incomprehensible message in your life, getting into the elevator and clicking on the first floor. A taxi is waiting for you outside, a true luxury that you only get during emergencies such as this one. You’re cursing yourself for falling asleep in the first place. You were tired out of your mind but you could’ve survived your day with a triple shot of espresso.
You get into your cab, give the address and stare at your phone for some sort of response from your boss. Alas, he doesn’t answer. The cab driver attempts to make small talk with you, but you can only hum in agreement since your stomach is in knots. It’s not the first time you’re late, but this time you’re nervous. You should’ve known better than to make a move on Mr. Kennedy.
You take a deep breath when you’re in front of the building. You have no option but to exit, thinking of the elaborate lie as to why you’re late– It shouldn’t be an issue if your coworkers weren’t so nosy. You’ve never been so conscious about the way your heels click as you enter the building, but today you can barely ignore it. Your stomach churns as you approach the elevator.
All eyes are on you when you finally get to the office, at least that’s what it feels like. Even if half of the office is empty, people stare at you as you step into the place. You smile at the receptionist before trying to walk to your desk unscathed, except that when you’re about to walk past reception, you hear your name.
“They’re waiting for you in the conference room,” the receptionist informs you, and your breath gets caught up in your chest. You feel your face get warm, and you try your best to think of what they could possibly need your presence for. While your role is important, they can carry out any meeting without you.
You put your purse down on your desk before rushing to the conference room. Mr. Kennedy’s deep voice fills the room but it comes to a stop when you enter the conference room. This time, all eyes are actually on you. A sheepish smile comes to your lips and you mutter, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Took you long enough,” you hear, making you roll your eyes.
“I told her to take the morning off since she was the only one willing to work with me last night,” Mr. Kennedy quickly steps in, defending you. “In fact, you’re lucky she decided to show up at all.”
You shyly smile at him before looking down at the table. You can’t make eye contact with anyone, scared that they can see his fingerprints on you. Mr. Kennedy continues speaking, and you look at him for one second, tearing your eyes away just as quickly. Your ears get hot.
To top off any embarrassment, your stomach growls loudly in the middle of the meeting. In the midst of your rush, you forgot to eat anything. Great. At least your boss continues speaking, turning their attention back to him.
The meeting drags out for far longer than what you anticipated, and now you’re dizzy as you go back to your desk. You take a deep breath before putting your head down for a moment. You already feel it in your bones that you won’t get out until it’s dark out.
“Sorry about that.” You lift your head up to find Mr. Kennedy at your desk, holding a snack bar. Your stubbornness refused to let you stand up and walk out of the meeting at any time. That same stubbornness is about to make you reject the snack, but ultimately your shaky hand reaches out and takes it from him. “Do you want to go out for lunch?”
“Yeah,” you nod with no hesitation. You know that you should keep your distance from him of all people, but right now your stomach speaks for you.
“You wanna go now?” he asks, and you stand up, grabbing your purse. That’s your answer. There’s no small talk as you walk out of the office and get to his car. He does the chivalrous thing and opens the passenger door for you, closing it once you’re in the car.
In less than twenty-four hours you’ve been in his car twice. A new personal record.
“I know I told you that you could have the morning off but–” Mr. Kennedy begins as he gets into the driver’s side. Immediately, a frown comes to your face, confused at what he said. What he said in the meeting was something he said to save face– That’s what you assumed. You remember all the events from last night very clearly, and not once did he tell you that you could have the morning off.
“You didn’t.” You can’t help but chuckle. If Mr. Kennedy had said that, you wouldn’t have rushed out of bed this morning.
“I did, right before I left. You were half-asleep then,” he argues, and you nearly roll your eyes. At the very least he could’ve sent a text.
“Then why was everyone waiting for me in the conference room?”
“It wasn’t my order. I told them you weren’t going to be there, and carried on without you,” he claims. He can sense that you’re annoyed, but considering the last minute appearance that you’ve made, he can understand why. While you typically look dashing, he can say today isn’t your best day. He must say you look beautiful regardless. “I wish I could let you go early but with everything–”
“It’s fine, I get it,” you cut him off. You’re drowsy, but it won’t really hit you until you’re finally home. All you need is a shot of espresso and maybe an energy drink, and you’ll be fine until dark. You just won’t be able to stay overtime. You yawn before asking, “Where are we going?”
“To one of my favorite places,” he answers. “Just a way for me to say thank you for helping me during busy season.”
“Busy season? There’s a busy season in this job?” you laugh, though there’s a hint of worry in it. Mr. Kennedy chuckles. “That’s sweet, thank you, Mr. Kennedy.”
“I thought we were past Mr. Kennedy,” he says, and you try to think of something astute to answer with. But you’re caught off guard and embarrassed as you remember last night. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, he’s clearly not shaken up about your encounter. “I mean since last night and all–”
“Are we almost there, Mr. Kennedy? I’m really hungry,” you speak loud enough to drown out his voice. He ends up laughing again.
“Almost there.”
You’re sitting across your boss, mouth watering as your eyes glance at the menu. You want everything, knowing that you won’t be able to properly finish the first plate. You’ve never really paid much mind to the old mom and pop restaurant that’s a couple of minutes from your home, but the food that comes from the kitchen looks delicious. To think that it’s one of Mr. Kennedy’s favorite places.
“Should I get a cheeseburger or a chicken sandwich?” you ask, looking up from the menu to look at Mr. Kennedy who already knows what he wants. While everything looks great, that’s the only thing that you really crave right now.
“Cheeseburger sounds good,” he answers, though he has to say that he’s surprised that’s your choice considering the ample menu. While he had a different plan, you’ve tempted him to change his decision. “I think I might get one too.”
You wait for a minute for the waiter to come by, and once he takes your order, you look around the place. You wait for him to say something, not daring to utter the first word.
“How are you feeling after last night?” he asks, and your eyes widen. You’re caught off guard even though you shouldn’t be. You didn’t expect him to be so upfront about it. “I have to apologize, it was completely inappropriate of me and–”
“You don’t have to apologize, I initiated it,” you say.
“But I’m old enough to know better and I should’ve stopped it,” he responds, and you nearly scoff. Not only did he not stop it but he went a couple more times after that. It’s rich for him to say that.
“It’s fine, we can pretend as if nothing happened,” you answer. At least now you have a good reason as to why he offered to take you out to lunch. He certainly wasn’t planning on hooking up again. A shame– though maybe it’s better considering you’ve been ashamed all day over nothing.
“While we’re here I wanted to ask you something,” he begins, and while you’d take the opportunity to shoot a flirtatious joke his way, you’re certainly not in the mood now. You don’t think you ever will.
“Shoot.” Your voice is rather unenthusiastic. Mr. Kennedy isn’t an idiot, he can tell that you’re displeased with the way he’s turned you down.
“I have a field mission in the next month or so, and I want you to help me out,” he puts it out in the open, making your brows furrow in confusion.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Consider it, you’ve been stellar at your job and you’ve been trained enough for this,” he answers, and while your stomach churns at the mere thought of taking such a responsibility, you have other questions.
“Since when did you set a date on a field mission?” you question, knowing that you did end up doing a lot of work, but nothing that would have a particular area of interest.
“When I left your apartment, I got to work and found an area of investigation, and that’s what I’ve been–”
“Do you ever sleep?” Your eyes narrow as you examine him, trying to get a better look at him. You were absolutely drained after last night, yet he hasn’t even shut his eyes and he looks fine.
“Maybe I sleep with my eyes open and you guys never notice,” he jokes. Usually you’d laugh, but you take his statement as factual since it’s the only thing that actually makes sense. He clears his throat. “But I’ve been setting it up, and since you were there with me last night… Before that, I want you to help me.”
“Don’t you want someone more experienced for that? I’ve been working with you for how long?” you respond, hoping that he’ll get his mind off that ridiculous idea. Some of your coworkers have never been on a field mission, and they’ve been working with Mr. Kennedy for longer– Why you?
“Hey, I get that you’re nervous but look at me, I’ll be there every step of the way,” he reassures you, though it doesn’t help.
“I signed up for paperwork, not field work,” you reveal. Maybe you should’ve spent a little longer reading the fine print of the job requirements. “I do research, Mr. Kennedy. I help set up the mission and find areas of interest not–”
“Think about it, okay?” he ultimately interrupts you, feeling the nerves that flow through you. You take a deep breath before nodding.
The food gets to your table, and work talk dies down. It’s awkward for a few minutes, but you manage to get over the events of last night rather quickly. As much as you hate to say it, it’s hard to stay awkward with him.
Summary: An attack during an attack leaves Leon injured and increasingly delirious. After extraction, he’s whisked away, and nobody’s fucking telling you what’s going on.
Finally, you get a phone call.
It changes everything.
WC: ~5k
CW: NSFW, like REALLY NSFW, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, Leon is injured, fuck or die, sex pollen, sex venom, shaky safety practices, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, first time (together), friends to lovers, technically coworkers to lovers, handjob, unprotected p in v, creampies, multiple orgasms (Leon), he's a hopeless romantic at heart, happy ending
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You say you saw the suits.”
“Yeah, in passing.”
“You didn’t think they were important?”
“It’s a fucking lab. Labs are rife with hazmat suits. We’ve never had to equip them before.”
“There were warnings posted all over the exit.”
“There were zombies all up on our ass.”
The splattering offspray from Leon’s last-minute shot paints your back like a gory Jackson Pollock. The infected hits the floor, tripping two more.
It would be more helpful if there weren’t about a thousand of them closing in.
You’re running side by side with Leon, shoes eating up the sterile white floors, trying to divine an exit through the branching arteries of the lab. He has to veto a turn into a side hall when more shambling figures lunge forward; he grabs your arm to tug you away with him, but it’s an unnecessary precaution. You’ve already matched his footwork.
He glances behind as you run.
“Where the fuck are they coming from?”
You’d like to fucking know.
“And why are they all runners?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.
These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.
You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.
“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.
“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.
This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.
You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.
EXIT
It’s a final sprint.
You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.
‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.
“Fuck! Force it!”
You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.
With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.
“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.
There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.
“There’s no power!”
“You’re armed!”
Oh, right.
BANG T-SHUNK
Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.
Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.
“Say something?”
“Something.”
“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”
"You only look like it.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He’s flipping you off.
You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.
He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.
“Wait.”
You’re in a greenhouse.
Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.
No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.
The plants are rustling lightly.
Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.
“What’s the sitrep on the door?”
It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.
“Fucked.”
“Other doors?”
It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.
“Negative.”
“How long can you hold your breath?”
“I don’t think that’s the concern.”
You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.
Bite-proof.
“Fuck.”
“So you tried to bypass it underground.”
“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”
The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.
The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.
“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”
“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”
The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.
He shines his flashlight forward.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”
His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.
“Ugh,” you agree.
Roots.
Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.
Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.
“Hey. Look.”
He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.
You come closer with the flashlight.
The dark color is red.
“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.
The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.
Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.
“God. Which way do you think they run?”
He glances at you. “Three guesses.”
“Plants don’t bleed red.”
“Not typically.”
You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.
You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.
You check your pistol's chamber and follow.
“A line of tanks.”
“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”
“Which way were the tubes running?”
“Both ways.”
“So…”
“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”
“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”
There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.
Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.
Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.
“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.
“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”
“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”
“Yeah.”
Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.
The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.
He steps back, jaw tight.
“Dare I even ask?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”
You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.
“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.
“Twist my arm.”
“You didn't see it?”
“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”
“You didn't hear it?”
“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.
Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.
Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.
It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.
This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.
Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—
That’s when the other thing strikes.
Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.
“Leon!”
It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.
The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.
A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.
The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.
Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.
“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.
“Let me see. Leon.”
You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.
His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.
“What the fuck.”
The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.
At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.
Pink with blood.
“Shit. Hey.”
Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.
It takes him a moment to focus on you.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.
You’re trying not to panic.
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.
“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.
You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.
“What did the labs say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What did Medical say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”
“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.
“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”
“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”
“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”
You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.
“I wanna see him.”
“He’s in precautionary isolation.”
“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”
“You weren't bitten.”
“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”
Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.
“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.
Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. You are free to go.”
Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.
“We were told you might try that.”
Fucking debrief.
So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.
Assholes.
You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.
You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.
You call the labs.
Some poor idiot actually picks up.
“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.
“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”
“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.
You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call
Leonnedy
You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.
“Leon! Are you okay?”
Immediately you can tell he’s not.
“I need help,” he says. Croaks.
Cold sweat breaks on your skin.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.
You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.
“Leon, where are you.”
“Home.”
“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”
“They said I could take care of it.”
“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“
He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.
“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.
“Leon.”
“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.
“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”
“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”
“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”
“What?”
“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”
You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.
“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.
That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.
“Why’d you call me?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.
Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.
"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”
You’re partners.
No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–
“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.
You wrench the door open.
Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.
You’re still not prepared.
As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.
This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.
Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.
Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.
His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.
His chest is heaving, his hips restless.
His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.
“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.
He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.
“I’m here. What do you–“
“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”
And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.
The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.
You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.
You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.
He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.
It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.
Six goddamn hours.
You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.
His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.
He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.
Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.
You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.
And why couldn’t he get there himself?
What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?
What a fucking epitaph that would be.
No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.
You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.
“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”
His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.
His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.
He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.
You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.
“A little pent up?”
He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.
His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.
There’s a very noticeable issue.
He’s still incredibly hard.
When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.
“Do you feel any different?”
“Fuck. Barely.”
"What if you're stuck like this?"
“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.
"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"
He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.
You grab his hips and force them down.
“Leon.”
He bucks hard against you, bratty.
"You think I know?”
“Don’t give me an attitude.”
“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.
You move fast.
A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.
His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.
“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”
He’s not moving, trapped under you.
You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.
“What do you say?”
“Fuck.”
“Leon.”
“I love you.”
It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.
It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.
“That’s not fair,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.
He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.
He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.
“Shit.”
“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.
It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.
He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.
God, you’re aching.
“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.
“That wasn’t on the invitation.”
“Aren’t you a saint.”
“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”
“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”
Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.
Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.
He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.
He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.
"Oh my god, Leon."
He comes.
Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.
He’s still looking directly at you.
You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.
“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”
“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.
“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.
“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.
You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.
His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.
The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.
You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.
He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.
“Leon.”
“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”
You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.
“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”
“God, Leon.”
Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.
It almost does you in.
Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.
His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.
He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.
A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.
He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.
He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.
You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.
He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.
“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”
“I’m not the medical concern.”
He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.
He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.
“There you are.”
Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.
“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.
“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”
You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.
“Come on, cowboy– ah!”
He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.
“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”
“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.
“I told you–“
His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.
You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.
The third time, it seems, is the charm.
When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.
“Leon.”
“Mm.”
“Your phone.”
“Mmph.”
You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.
You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.
The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.
Five seconds later, it starts up again.
“Fuck.”
You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.
“Huh. Medical,” he says.
“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.
He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.
“Kennedy.”
He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.
“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”
You start giggling.
“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”
It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.
“What?”
“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”
He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.
It was an emergency.
“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.
“There’d be a demand.”
His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.
“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”
“How selfish.”
He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"
"What I said?"
"Don't be obtuse.”
He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.
"I've never lied to you," he says.
"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."
He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.
"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."
You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.
"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you.
"Yeah. I love you," he says, and maybe it's a little gruff. "And isn't that just a shitload of complications."
"A metric fuckton," you agree, stroking his cheek. His stubble rasps against your fingertips.
His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.
“But maybe it helps that I love you, too,” you murmur.
It's not a kiss this gets you. He's been dishing out all manner of kisses tonight, their significance has shifted. No.
Instead, he nuzzles his face against your neck, wraps his arms around you, and holds you. Holds you like he intends to for a very long time, like you're the only thing that matters, like your beating hearts need to carry out a close and personal conversation.
Good. They can work out the details. You're just gonna lay here and pet the hair of the man you trust most – the man you can finally admit that you love – glowingly content in his arms.
On AO3
This now has a Part II! -> Complications
Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🩷
Story Summary: Leon isn’t quite sure how to handle the news. After a nasty divorce, he’s starting over in the most unpredictable manner. At almost forty-nine, he’s becoming a first time father.
The clicking of his pen is slowly driving you insane. The sound echoes through the empty office, ringing in your ears. Your eyes are slowly closing on their own, and that annoying sound is the only thing that’s stopping you from falling asleep.
It’s late, the last thing you want to be is with your boss, trying to figure out whatever the hell he wants to figure out. You hear the deep raspy voice speaking to you, and instead of waking you up, it’s lulling you to sleep. You thought that spending the night with Mr. Kennedy would entail something different.
“Hey, you okay?” His hand goes to your shoulder, startling you awake. You rub your eyes, yawning though you try to play it off.
“Yeah, yeah, something about weird infections and–” You can’t finish your sentence before another yawn leaves your lips. It earns a laugh from Mr. Kennedy, and he stands up from his chair.
“I’ll get you some coffee,” he says, and you nod in response. He walks to the kitchen, and you take the opportunity to stretch your legs. You don’t even know how you ended in this hellish situation– Well you know. Mr. Kennedy asked you to stay late and you were smirking thinking about the dirtiest possible scenario. You knew that you had a better chance at winning the lottery than succeeding at your thoughts, but you still took your chances. Now that you’re pacing mindlessly around the office, you regret thinking with something other than your brain.
“Are you done for the night? You were almost drooling all over me.” He comes back with two coffees, setting them down on the desk. He watches as you stop pacing, and walk back to your chair.
“I’m okay,” you answer, giving him a sheepish smile as you sit back down again. You look at the documents spread on the desk, eyes becoming heavy yet again. There’s a marked map, places circled following mysterious deaths of unknown diseases. There’s suspicion of bioterrorism, but there’s no idea how it’s being spread.
“You like yours with sugar, right?” Mr. Kennedy asks, and you nod in response.
“Thank you,” you tell him, bringing the mug up to your lips and blowing on it before taking a sip. You scrunch up your nose, the coffee still too bitter for your liking. He can’t help but chuckle when he sees the face you make.
“Too sweet?” He uses a sarcastic tone, and you laugh. You’re about to stand up to add more sugar, but he beats you to it. He winks before telling you, “I got it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kennedy,” you respond, smiling at him before looking back at the documents. This has been the main task at work the past couple of weeks and no one has been able to find some sort of lead– Determined and hardworking Mr. Kennedy decided that he’s staying late to find some sort of useful information.
“Hey, Mr. Kennedy! You said you were caught up in Raccoon City when the outbreak happened, right?” you shout, reading the papers that are laid out on the table. They’re case reports around the country, all detailing the same symptoms and reactions. By the erratic behavior, it is by no means a natural outbreak. It’s not a naturally occurring virus or bacteria.
“I was,” he answers once he’s back in your presence, holding your cup of coffee. He sets it down on the desk, and you quickly pick it up to give it a taste. This time around it’s perfect.
“Does any of this sound like the outbreak there?” you ask, almost getting deja vu as you read the reports. You’ve read too much about the Raccoon City outbreak, after all, that incident inadvertently led to the creation of your job.
“It does,” he hums in response. “But a little bit more complex.”
“So it could be the same virus but mutated?” you question, and he nods. Though that’s not what matters. There’s a point of containment that you have yet to find.
“Possibly. Most likely.” He grabs his mug, taking a big gulp. He needs all the caffeine he can get, he knows he has a long night ahead of him. He sighs, looking down at the papers on the desk. He can’t bear to look at them any longer. “We have no idea how it spread, or how it left that place.”
“If this is possibly connected to the t-virus then maybe–” you begin, only to be interrupted by him.
“The creator of the virus is long gone, as well as any contributor,” he tells you. He quickly realizes that he’s interrupted you, and feels bad about it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off.”
“You’re good,” you respond, not minding the interruption. Mr. Kennedy is older and wiser, he definitely understands the complexities better than you. You clear your throat, before speaking on the issue again, “Umbrella didn’t just have a couple of people working with the virus though– I’m guessing.”
“You’re right.” He frowns, grabbing his pen and writing down something quickly. You try to decipher what he’s written, but the writing’s rushed and messy. It doesn’t matter, the note is for him to read.
“I don’t know how you have the energy, Mr. Kennedy,” you yawn, bringing the mug back up to your lips to take another sip. The caffeine is not working as fast as you’d hope. “I’m beat.”
“Please, call me Leon.” The man doesn’t know the amount of times he’s had to correct you on the matter, but every time you insist on formalities. It’s true, you work under him but he doesn’t care for formalities with the people he works with. “Are you ready to head out?”
“I think I got another…” You pretend to think about it for a moment, putting your index finger on your chin and humming before finally saying, “I’d say another five minutes in me.”
“I take it, you’re a comedian,” he answers before letting out a low laugh. “I’ve put you through the ringer tonight, I’m sorry.”
“Just doing my job, sir,” you reassure him. You certainly can’t complain about your duties, after all, this is the job that you nearly begged to have– You won’t even mention that you were the first one that perked up at the opportunity of staying late with him.
Frankly you got in your head about it. You were reading signals that apparently weren’t there. The flirtatious jokes perhaps didn’t mean anything more. The teasing and flirting were just something you misread. Or perhaps he just isn’t brave enough to do anything more. Though it makes sense that he’d remain composed, not willing to cross over the line.
“What are you going to do after this?” he asks, shifting in his seat as his attention turns towards you.
“Why? Are you planning on asking me out?” There’s clearly a joking tone in your voice so as to not make him uncomfortable. He chuckles in response.
“I was thinking about it, but I wasn’t too sure if you’d be willing to go out with an old man such as myself.” He plays along with you, and you try your best to not smirk.
“I’d show you off like a trophy,” you answer, biting your lip as you look back at him. The exhaustion wears off, feeling yourself fill with energy that the caffeine couldn’t replenish. “How old are you again? Forty?”
“You flatter me. I’m forty-eight,” he corrects you, and you try your best to not laugh like a schoolgirl.
“Twenty years, that’s not too bad,” you comment, and he smirks.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns you, licking his lips as mischievous eyes check you out. Before you can argue that you know exactly the situation you’re getting yourself into, Mr. Kennedy stands up from his seat. “It’s getting late.”
“You’re right.” You follow his lead, standing up from your chair. “I have to leave before I miss the last bus.”
“Bus?” he asks, and you hum in response.
“You know, those really big cars that are considered public transport–” you joke, trying your best to not burst into laughter.
“Nonsense, I’ll drive you home,” he responds, grabbing his jacket and patting his pocket to make sure he still has his keys. While you’d typically protest and insist that you’re fine on your own, the last thing you want to do right now is test your luck.
“Won’t it be too out of your way?” You still double check, trying to seem considerate. You already know that he’ll insist on taking you home, no matter what you say.
“Not at all, but I might need some gas money.” He shoots you a wink, and you chuckle in response.
“You talk a lot of shit,” you answer, grabbing your purse and following behind him. He holds the door open for you, letting you walk ahead.
You call for the elevator, and wait patiently by his side– Considering no one is in the building at this hour, it takes a relatively long time.
“Seems like everyone is working late tonight,” he comments, getting slightly impatient the longer he stands idle.
“Got someone waiting for you at home?” you pry, though you bite your tongue the moment the question leaves your lips. You know that not too long ago Mr. Kennedy went through a nasty divorce, ultimately leaving him alone. However, that divorce was a year ago and perhaps he’s taken the opportunity to move on.
“My dog. How about you?” he questions, and you shake your head.
“You know, since you’re being so kind, I can make you some dinner.” You’re testing the waters, checking how far he’s willing to go. You fight back a smirk as you look up at him. He cocks his brow, trying to figure out what you’re up to. Though, it shouldn’t take a genius to figure it out.
“I’d be honored. What are you offering? Instant noodles?” He gives in without an issue, though he takes the opportunity to tease you.
“If you’re lucky, I might throw an egg in there,” you answer, earning a chuckle from him.
“Aren’t I just the luckiest man alive?” he replies with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. As the words leave his lips, the elevator doors open. To no one’s shock, it’s empty. He lets you step inside first before following behind you.
“Considering how expensive eggs are these days, you’re very fortunate.” You stick your tongue out playfully, making him laugh in response. He hits the first floor’s button, making the elevator doors close. In the silence, you hear his stomach growl and you raise your brows, “Seems that someone desperately needs dinner.”
“It’s your fault for bringing up food,” he argues, and you roll your eyes. You finally get to the first floor, leaving the elevator and nearly rushing out of the building. You walk ahead of Mr. Kennedy, knowing exactly where he parks daily. It’s hard to miss Mr. Kennedy’s car. “Will you slow down?!”
“Hurry up, Mr. Kennedy!” you yell back at him, though you stop in your tracks to wait for him.
“You’re just eager to escape, aren’t you?” he asks, voice a little out of breath when he catches up to you. You chew on the inside of your cheek, holding back what you truly want to say. The last thing you want is to escape from his grasp.
He walks to his car, going to the passenger side and opening the door for you. You mutter a thank you before getting inside. It smells just like his cologne– The musky, woody scents encapture you. He shuts the door and rushes to the driver’s side.
“Where do you live?” he asks, and you put out your hand to take his phone.
“If you give me your phone I can put it in the G–” You only get the first letter out before he cuts you off.
“I know this city like the back of my hand, I can take you there with no outside help,” he assures you, and you frown before you reluctantly tell him your address. You’d insist that he uses his phone, but you decide against arguing about it. You can only hope that you don’t end up driving in circles. He begins to drive, and at least he starts off going in the right direction.
“A little old-fashioned, aren’t ya, Mr. Kennedy?” you tease him, making him click his tongue.
“Leon,” he corrects you, though it goes in one ear and out the other. You’re still going to call him Mr. Kennedy. “You know, you can’t always rely on technology.”
“Hmm, is that so?” you respond with a mocking tone in your voice. He’s not oblivious to it, but he still hums in response. You keep your eye on him, watching as he focuses on the road. You have to say that when he’s concentrating, he’s pretty hot– Though you think that no matter what he does.
“When you get to my age–”
“You talk about yourself as if you were ancient,” you comment, and the corners of his lips turn upward. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he actually says something, he closes it.
“I’m ancient,” he answers, holding back the inappropriate comment he was going to make. Even if you’re out of the office, he’s still your superior.
“I don’t think you are,” you say, and he chuckles.
“I can bet money on why.” He makes you furrow your brows, and you tilt your head as you look at him. He catches you from the corner of his eye and asks, “Got something to say, sweetheart?”
“What are you betting money on?” You cross your arms, eyes narrowing as you stare at him.
“Nothing, I was just talking to myself,” he claims, and you scoff.
“Seems like all the field work is catching up to you, Mr. Kennedy. Your sanity is slowly dropping,” you mutter, though it reaches his ear without an issue. He laughs at your comment, not saying anything back.
“You know, I have to say,” he begins, though he bites his tongue for a moment. He stays silent for a moment, and just as you’re about to speak, he says, “I’m surprised you don’t have a boyfriend.”
You fight back a smile as you hear the comment. It’s not out of sheer curiosity, Mr. Kennedy wants to test the waters. He doesn’t want to be too upfront about how he feels, just in case that the flirtatious jokes are just that, jokes. The fact that he’s technically your boss makes the situation all that harder. Mr. Kennedy can’t be too safe about the matter.
“I’m hard to please,” you answer. Your eyes remain intently on him, lowering your voice before making a remark, “Or perhaps I’m waiting for someone that can handle me.”
He rests his arm on the center console, hand tempted to move to your thigh. He remains still, composed. Mr. Kennedy’s known temptation for too long, but it’s never burned like this before. He knows it’s something you want, but he mustn't give in– Even though he plays along.
A deep laugh leaves his throat, before he asks, “You think you need someone older, sweetheart?”
“No.” You shake your head. “The person I have set my eyes on does happen to be older though.”
“You’re just talking in riddles.” Before you can properly say what’s on your mind, and make your move, he parks outside of your building. He was right, he knows the city like the back of his hand.
“You want me to be upfront with you?” You tilt your head, batting your eyelashes when his gaze finally lands on you. There’s a smug look on his face before he nods in response.
“I want to know what’s on your mind,” he says, and you straighten your posture. Your breath gets caught up in your chest, and for a second you’re hesitant on whether or not you should speak. You look into his eyes, biting down your lip as he asks, “Cat got your tongue?”
“Why don’t you walk me to my place first, then I’ll tell you what’s on my mind.” Nerves begin to consume you, and all the confidence that you swear you’ll have when you’re with him is nowhere to be seen. But you know one thing: if you don’t make the first move, then nothing is going to happen.
“Then lead the way,” he answers, turning off the car and getting out, not thinking twice about it. He doesn’t have the same issue as you, it seems. He rushes to the passenger side, opening your door for you before extending his hand for you to take.
You feel your heart about to beat out of your chest as you lead Mr. Kennedy into the building. You can’t believe that you’re actually leading him back to your apartment. You’re oddly quiet, scared that if you speak you might ruin the moment.
“This is a nice building,” he comments, earning no response from you. You’re too in your head about your next move. To think that you were complaining about your night with him being uneventful. He notices your silence, and decides to ask, “So what are you offering me for dinner?”
“Instant noodles, you guessed right the first time,” you answer with a nervous giggle, one that he can’t quite ignore. Before you can get to your door, Mr. Kennedy grabs your wrist and stops you in your tracks. You look back at him with wide eyes, and you blurt out, “What’s wrong?”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks, and you avert your eyes, looking at the ground in shame. His hand goes under your chin, tilting your head to look at him. “Hey, look at me. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave without an issue–”
“I really want you to come inside,” you cut him off, and he raises his eyebrow at the way you phrase it. Still, he nods in response before he lets go of you. You go to your door, taking a deep breath before opening it.
“Welcome.” You turn on the lights, showing off your humble abode. It’s cozy to say the least, but he can immediately tell that you don’t pay too much on rent. You look back at him and ask, “You want anything to drink?”
“Water, on the rocks please.” He shoots a wink your way and you roll your eyes before chuckling. He’s so stupid. Before you can get away, he grabs your wrist again, “But we have something pending.”
“You want to talk about it now?” you frown, and he nods in response. “I thought you were hungry.”
He remains silent, unsure of how to respond. His appetite is suppressed– It’s changed to something else. He no longer wants food but something more… Carnal. You look into his lustful eyes, and you feel the nerves fade away. He wouldn’t have joined you if he didn’t want the same thing. Your hand goes to his chest, and you smirk with newfound confidence before you whisper into his ear, “You want me to be upfront?”
“I’m all ears,” he answers, hands steady at his side. He’s not going to succumb to temptation so easily. It’s late, he won’t let the night get into his head. Not so fast. He knows what he wants and he’s known for a while but it has to wait.
“I want you, Mr. Kennedy.” You send a chill down his spine, and when you think he’ll finally give in, he remains still. Your cheeks burn, and you feel the embarrassment take over you from his lack of response.
“You know I can’t touch you, sweetheart.” His words are contradictory as he finally makes a move, hands going to your waist and slowly creeping down. He knew that by accepting this offer he’d go against the very thing he isn’t supposed to do. Yet he remains in your place, ready to give into temptation. “I’d get in so much trouble for doing anything with you.”
He shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have come up here. Truth be told, he pretends to fight temptation so he can claim that he tried. You just wouldn’t leave him alone. If he had any real intention of keeping to himself, he wouldn’t have walked you here.
“You know…” You lick your lips, wondering if you want to be so utterly bold with him. “You don’t have to touch me.”
“What are you implying?” His breath gets caught up in his chest, and it takes all the strength in him to not pin you against the wall and have his fun with you.
“You can just watch,” you respond, biting down on his earlobe before grabbing his hand and leading him to your bedroom. You smirk as you begin to unbutton your shirt, revealing the lacy bra that hides underneath your clothes. “Even though I know you want to touch.”
“You’re bold for someone that refuses to call me by my first name,” he points out, and you giggle before planting a kiss on the corner of his lip. He can’t touch, but there was never an agreement that you had to remain idle.
“Maybe I like Mr. Kennedy better,” you answer, kissing him again. You step back, putting some space between you.
He remains still, completely unmoving as he watches your every move. You slowly get undressed, making it as painful as you possibly can for him. He watches every garment hit the floor until you’re completely bare in front of him.
“Will you help me?” You bat your eyelashes in his direction as you sit down on the edge of the bed. That’s his cue. He can finally drop the act– Except that when he walks over to you, and his hand looms close to the forbidden, you slap it away. You click your tongue, shaking your head disappointedly before reminding him, “No touching, remember?”
“Ah, you’re strict,” he responds before clearing his throat. “How would you like me to help, sweetheart?”
“Spit,” you command, and he chuckles.
“You’re messy.” He almost sounds proud about the fact as he mentions it. He brings his lips together, spit dripping down and landing on your lower abdomen. Two of your fingers travel down, picking up his saliva before you run them through your folds. You spread your legs, making sure that Mr. Kennedy gets a clear view of what he can’t touch.
His gaze remains fixed, watching as your fingers tease your entrance— It’s almost torturing him. When he thinks you’re finally going to insert your fingers, you move them back to play with your clit. He’s not sure if your intention is to tease him by denying yourself, but it’s certainly doing something to him.
The room is hot. Five minutes ago it was frigid, but now he can barely breathe. Perhaps it’s because the scene in front of him is enough to melt him with a single glance. He knows that he grows uncomfortable with the tension within his pants, that he can’t relieve with you.
A breathy moan escapes your lips, your back hitting the mattress as you get lost within yourself. It’s almost his breaking point, but he manages to remain composed. He’s lucky that he gets to admire a masterpiece in the flesh, he won’t test his luck.
“Leon.” The way you say his name completely fucks him over, and even though you haven’t touched him, he could come right then and there. It’s the first time he hears it, and he hates that he’s pushed you to this point because he knows he’s going to get addicted to the way it rolls off your tongue.
Through half-lidded eyes, you look at him and say, “Touch yourself, Leon.”
He’s hesitant, until he can’t hold back any longer. He unbuttons his pants, pulling down his zipper before getting to work. His thumb swipes the precum, and he slowly drags his hand down to the base of his cock.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he mutters, hand moving slowly as his eyes remain steady on the way you please yourself. He sits down beside you, getting a better look at how you please yourself. Too engrossed in the lower half of your body, he misses how your free hand is caressing his arm before it wraps around the base of his cock. He hums, “I thought you said no touching.”
“You aren’t touching me, I’m touching you,” you argue, and he really can’t refute anything. Even if you were wrong, he wouldn’t say anything especially with how your pretty little hand lazily strokes his length. “Oh fuck, you’re big.”
“Were you expecting anything else?” He can’t help but laugh, fingers brushing against your thigh and almost succumbing. The subtlest touch makes you weak enough to ignore what you’ve set up. You let go of his cock, grabbing his hand and guiding it to your sopping pussy. Touching is okay as long as he doesn’t actually put his dick inside of you… Right?
“Shit… Are you sure?” He looks at your face for approval, as if you weren’t the one that led his hand to your cunt. You give him a subtle nod, making his finger run through your folds, getting them wet with your slick. “I need to feel you so bad, doll.”
“Leon,” you mewl, as he inserts a thick finger inside of you. Your hand goes to the base of his cock again, resuming lazy strokes, matching the pace of his own fingers. You arch your back as he inserts another finger into your pussy.
You’re softly moaning his name, getting lost in his touch as he treats your body as if it were his own. You shut your eyes, too lost in your own pleasure that you whine when he takes his fingers out of your pussy. You’re about to vocalize your complaint, but when you open your eyes, Leon is on top of you.
“I need to feel you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips landing on yours, locking into a messy kiss. Your tongue presses against his, while your hand strokes his cock. When he pulls away, a string of saliva connects your lips.
There’s no forethought. Any consequence is quickly forgotten– And what you had originally agreed upon is the last things on your mind. Right now you need release, in the best possible manner. It doesn’t matter that you’ll see each other tomorrow and you’ll have to remain professional. How this can possibly strain your relationship is not something you care about right now. Right now you need to consume each other.
“Put it in, fuck me,” you answer, making him run the tip through your folds before sliding right inside of you. You gasp as he stretches you out with his length. Leon moans your name as he bottoms out, remaining still so he doesn’t finish inside you just yet.
“Fuck,” he mutters, shutting his eyes as he feels the way you wrap around him. You feel so fucking perfect, just as he imagined. He begins to move his hips, giving gentle strokes.
“God, Leon,” you moan, keeping your eye on him. His mouth falls agape, sweat slowly dripping down his forehead. He moans your name, smoothly rolling off his tongue. Almost as if he’s been waiting to use it in this context.
“You’re doing so good. You’re taking me so well, sweetheart,” he praises you. Your hand goes down to play with your clit as your climax slowly consumes you. With your free hand, you push his head down so your lips can lock again. He feels your moans on his lips which make him slowly lose control.
You tighten around him as your orgasm slowly takes over you. You bite down his lip, pulling away from the kiss to freely moan into the air, telling him just how good he’s making you feel. “Leon, I’m gonna come. Shit, I’m gonna come.”
You shut your eyes, legs spasming as you reach your high. You coat him with your juices, making a mess all over him as his thrusts become unregulated.
“Good job, you’re doing so good,” he says as he chases his release. Leon had the full intention of pulling out, but before he can form a conscious thought, his cock twitches and fills you up with his seed. He curses under his breath, giving a couple more gentle thrusts before pulling out of you.
He falls back on the bed, staring at the ceiling of your bedroom. He’s still too hot for any sort of regret to consume him, though he knows that when he wakes up tomorrow, he won’t be too proud of his actions. He looks at you, and a shy smile comes to your lips as you stare back. At the very least that makes him feel better.
He’s not surprised by his actions, after all, there was no other reason for him to come back here. He knew that when he decided to walk you back upstairs, this is how he’d end up– Even if he claimed otherwise.
“So much for no touching,” you joke, trying to sit up, but your back hits the mattress just as fast. He laughs. A silly rule, one that you both knew neither of you would follow.
You lay in silence for a moment, before Leon gets up. He has to get going. But just as he’s getting ready, he gets a look at you in all your glory. He eyes glisten, watching his cum ooze out of your cunt, and for some reason–
He’s not leaving any time soon.
“Are you gonna get–” You stop in your tracks, your eyes widening when you realize that Leon isn’t quite done. “That was fast for an old man.”
