summary: leon would not describe himself as good or kind, and he's cut open and bleeding at your feet, but you know he can be gentle | leon kennedy x f!reader
word count: 6.2k
warnings: a sickening amount of yearning, leon taking care of you, seriously this guy is down bad, leon being self deprecating, alternating povs, acts of service as a love language, mentions of injuries, sherry birkin appearance /// 18+ MDNI, SMUT!!!, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), creampie by technicality, trust me there's plot, this is LOVE MAKING at its core
notes: re9 gave me the leon bug BAD. personally, I wrote this with DI!leon in mind but re9!leon also works here bc that old man's still got it | ao3
“That was stupid,” Leon says, hauling you into him. The words aren’t unkind, but they’re not gentle either. You stumble against him.
“Have I been known to be anything else?” you ask. He grunts. “Besides, I’ve got you to take care of me,”
He doesn’t respond. He finds a quiet spot, a reclusive corner where he can assess the damage. There’s a wicked gash along your side, cutting from near your navel up towards your ribs. It makes your vision tunnel when you finally lay eyes on it. You hadn’t known how bad it was. His fingertips are gentle around the surrounding skin.
“You’re lucky evac is two minutes out,” he says. His voice is hushed, like he’s telling you a secret. Maybe he is.
“Yeah?” you ask, a breathy noise that you’re not certain you could recreate. The sound is deep, rooted in desperation and blood loss. Leon’s eyes flick up at you from where he’s crouched, icy gaze cutting through his lashes. He looks pretty like this, bent low in front of you, looking at you with something you can’t place. It makes you shiver.
“You’re losing blood,” he says. You nod.
“Gonna give me yours?” you tease. Your vision tunnels a bit, and you slump forward. Leon catches you, pulling you flush against him. He smells like sweat and cedar and smoke, something that nearly lulls you into sleep. You hear a distant rumble as the building continues to crumble.
He helps you out of the derelict building. You’re barely even walking, just sort of stumbling beside him as he carries most of your weight, and you feel strangely guilty for making him do all the work. The helicopter’s blades never slow as it touches the ground. Leon helps you into your seat, guiding you gently. He’s soft as he slides the headphones over your ears, even going as far as to smooth a piece of hair out of your eyes. You can hardly keep them open.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs. It feels like a promise. “Can’t have you dying on me, now,”
“That would ruin your whole week,” you say, trying to smile. It’s a weak attempt at a joke, and he knows it. You can see tension make its home under Leon’s skin. It rears its head with every pull of muscle, every furrowed brow.
“We’ll be home soon,” he says. You nod. You’re not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself.
When you do finally land, you’re pulled away from him for medical attention. You fight as best as you can, attempting to sit in on the briefing, but Leon levels you with a gaze you’ve never seen him wear, and you accept defeat. There’s two medics standing idly in the room, and they turn to see you hobble in, eyes widening.
“What the hell happened?” one of them asks. You shrug, sitting down on the bed.
“Caught something sharp,” you say. They lift your shirt, which is in ribbons. A shock of pain rips through you, and you stifle a groan.
They work quickly, giving you a tetanus shot. You wince as the needle sinks beneath your skin. The pain only adds to the rest of it searing through your muscles. Now that you’re sitting, adrenaline having dissipated, everything hurts. The gash oozes blood, which makes you feel dizzy. Your back hurts, your legs hurt, your side hurts. Every time they touch you, you suck in a breath.
Finally, you’re stitched up. They tell you to take it easy for a week, shove pain meds into your hands, and send you out the door. Leon leans against the opposite wall, watching his boots. He looks tired, run down. He’s covered in dirt. Black streaks smear across his cheeks, his biceps. His hair falls like a golden frame over his eyes. You sigh.
He looks up then, watching you. He scans over your body, checking for any lingering injuries the medics managed to miss. You offer him a weak smile.
“No hospital?” he asks, pushing off the wall to meet you where you stand. His steps are heavy, tired. You shake your head. “Good. Let’s get you home,”
You follow him out of the building. It’s winding turns and desolate hallways until fresh air smacks you in the face. You take a deep breath, trying to let the residuals of the mission fall off of you. Leon’s car faces you, a beat up old Buick–he refuses to get anything newer–and it stares at you like it knows something you don’t. You fit easily into the passenger seat, like you were made for it. You lean back against the headrest. You feel suddenly exhausted, like a two ton weight rests in your chest. You just want to sleep. The drive to your apartment isn’t long, and you’re counting down the seconds until you’ll be able to slip into the shower and let the day wash down your back.
Leon helps you upstairs. You try to protest, tell him that the elevator isn’t going to exert you any more than the walk to the building itself, but he refuses to listen. He follows silently behind you until you reach your door. He’s like a shadow as you enter the apartment, still bathed in the darkness of night. You hate to do it, but you turn on the light, flooding the room and making you wince. Leon holds your arm to keep you steady as you toe off your shoes.
“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, not looking at him. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been hurt,”
He doesn’t say anything for a long, pregnant moment. But then, “I would like it to be the last, preferably,”
You huff a weak laugh, something hoarse and weary. “You and me both, partner,”
He follows you from room to room, picking things up as you drop them. Your right arm is effectively useless because any movement on that side sends shockwaves of pain through your entire body. You sigh heavily, fighting back tears. Leon stands in the threshold of your bathroom, holding your bundle of clothes and hairbrush. He looks at you with something you can’t identify–not quite pity, but something adjacent. He looks so pretty, so collected, even in his dirty state. You clutch your side.
“I can take it from here,” you say, breathless. “I’ll see you in a week,”
Leon stares at you. His fingers fidget with the hem of your sleep shorts. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Then, “Do you want help?”
You blink at him. You hadn’t considered he’d be willing to help you. You hadn’t thought so far ahead as to know what you’d do to get out of your clothes.
With a breath, you say, “Yes, please,”
He nods wordlessly. Your clothes find their home as a heap on the sink counter. He pats the top of it once as if casting a spell to make them stay put. He turns to you then. He’s broad, forces you to dial in on him. His hands linger at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
You lift your left arm above your head, a silent encouragement to get him to touch you. His hands fall on you like a caress. Gently, he lifts your shirt up. His knuckles brush against your side, making your breathing hitch. He’s not watching you, fully focused on his task, but you can’t look away from him. He looks so focused, like one wrong move would paralyze you. He catches one end of the shirt in your armpit, pulling the other side out so you can slip your arm through. He helps ease your head through the collar, then pulls it off entirely via your other arm. He breathes in heavily through his nose at the expanse of skin he’s revealed. Then he takes a step back. You swallow thickly.
“I need…” you mumble, brain rotting inside your skull. “I can’t reach-”
“I got it,” he says. The words sound broken on his tongue.
You spin for him, presenting the clasp of your bra. You purse your lips when his warm hands make contact with the smooth skin on your back. He makes surprisingly quick work of it. Within seconds, you feel it loosening around your ribs, a small blessing. You breathe out something heady and heavy.
“I’ll be out there if you need anything,” Leon says. He leaves little room for argument by bustling out of the room as quickly as he can. You blink.
The shower water is hot on your skin, but it feels good. You can feel the tension slipping down your shoulders in rivulets. Somehow, you manage to wash yourself one handed, which you feel mildly proud of. The steam loosens you. It’s only when you step out of the water that you remember that you have to put a shirt on.
You struggle for what feels like hours. Every movement pulls on your stitches. You’re near tears when you finally call out for Leon.
“Yeah?” he asks, cracking the bathroom door. You sniffle.
“I can’t…” you say, taking a breath to recollect yourself. “I can’t get my shirt on,”
“I’ll help,” he says. His voice is so soft, so intimate. He enters quietly, staring at anything that isn’t you.
The shirt looks miniscule in his hands. Carefully, almost reverently, he eases the collar over your head. His gaze still lingers just past your shoulder. You frown. You slip your good arm through the sleeve.
Leon finally looks at you. You nod, letting him know it’s okay to put his hands on you. You see the turmoil in his eyes, the need for consent.
“You can touch me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods once.
He grips the hem of the shirt, pulling as far down as the fabric will let him. Then, softly, he helps guide your arm through the sleeve. His fingers brush against you again, just along the curve of your breast, but the touch is electric, crackling with something unsaid. The moment is so intimate, so personal, you could burst into tears. Then the shirt is fully on your body. You wonder if Leon can hear your heart hammering against your chest. If he can, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“Thanks,” you say, breathless. He nods. “I can handle the rest,”
“You sure?” he asks. There’s no suggestion in his tone, and that almost makes it worse. You breathe heavily through your nose, nodding.
He stands there as you fumble with your hairbrush. Your lips are pursed as you stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re barely halfway through the tangled strands before he stops you.
“Let me help,” he says–no begs. You glance at his reflection. He looks as wrecked as you feel. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze unblinking as he waits for you.
“Okay,” you say softly, voice hollow and breathy as you pass him the hairbrush.
He’s gentle as he works the brush through your hair. His gaze remains focused on the wet strands, but yours is on him. His brow furrows slightly, that bottom lip pulled snugly between his teeth as he pulls on a particularly tough tangle. His eyes look so blue in the yellowing light above the mirror. The care he takes with you is enough to make you sick. His hands are frustratingly warm as they bump against the back of your neck. He never once pulls or yanks, never scrapes the bristles against your skin, never gets frustrated. He works until it is done, unwaveringly, and you didn’t expect anything less. The moment is so soft, so delicate, you’re afraid that something might break when you pull away.
“I think I got it,” he says, soft as a whisper against you. You nod.
“Thank you,” you say. You stay idle for a moment, just watching him. He looks so unsure.
You think, in another lifetime, miles and miles away from here, that you could’ve loved him. He’s funny when he wants to be, charming in a boyish sort of way. You count on him, but he doesn’t let it get to him. He gives because he thinks it a privilege that you let him. You reach up to wipe away some of the dirt still smudged on his face. He stiffens beneath your fingertips, not prepared for such affectionate contact.
He swallows thickly. You remove your hand, and you see him relax just a fraction.
“Do you need any more help?” he asks in an almost broken way. You shake your head. “I’ll see you later, then?”
“Yeah,”
He ducks his chin at you, then shuffles out of the bathroom. You hear the front door open and click shut a moment later, leaving you alone in your apartment.
...
Leon is not sure that he would describe himself as kind or good. But on his drive home, as he thinks about your withered form presented to him in the dim light of your bathroom, looking up at him through your lashes like he was something holy, he starts to think that that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he is kind or good because you kept looking at him like he was all you ever needed. He can still feel your skin against his fingers, sending shivers down his spine.
He’d frozen up. He knows that he probably looked ridiculous, like a flushed school boy who had just stumbled into the girl’s locker room by accident. Your skin had been so soft. The expanse of flesh he’d discovered beneath your tattered shirt lives in his brain as he shuffles into his apartment. The space is dark and empty. He has very few personal items, unlike you. His space looks abandoned, which he guesses it usually is. He really only uses this place to sleep and eat sometimes.
He crashes onto his couch, still unshowered and unclean. He just needs a moment, he tells himself. Just one moment, to collect the memories of you like precious items to set on his vacant shelves. The way you shivered against him when he brushed your side, the way you watched him, doe eyed, in the mirror as he brushed your hair, the humidity of the room clinging to you; they all go, framed and perfect, on shelves in his mind. He breathes out, something heavy and soft all at once.
He’s unfamiliar with this feeling. He doesn’t know how to embrace it, so he decides that he shouldn’t. He’s not sure he deserves something as sweet and gentle as you. You’re better than him, in almost every way. You don’t let the job wear you down, you take pride in what you do. You tease him. The mercy and compassion you give him are foreign in his brain. And he feels so selfish for accepting every last scrap. He eats up the way you look at him, the way you laugh at his weak attempts at jokes, the way you worry after him even with a ten inch gash on your side that very easily could’ve gutted you. He is gluttonous and greedy and selfish. You are consuming him, and he is letting you. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let you plague him this way. He knows that it could all too soon be ripped away from him, but in this moment, in the dim light cast by the moon streaming through his curtains, he doesn’t care. A shudder rakes through his body, from head to toe.
It would be all too easy to blame you. He could curse you for whatever spell you’ve cast to make him stupid in this way. But he knows the fault is his and his alone. It’s his fault that he mistakes your casual compassion for anything more. It’s his fault that he devours whatever good comes his way, just to corrupt and blacken it. And he doesn’t want to do that to you. He doesn’t want to see where this will end, even if he has before and knows it as intimately as he knows every other aspect of death and decay.
He tips his head back against the couch. There’s a crack in his popcorn ceiling, cutting through the expanse of white like a vein.
He knows he’s cut open and bleeding at your feet. He’s wounded in a way that doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t want you to help him. Not because he doesn’t ache to feel your gentle hands smooth over his scarred flesh, working out the evil with every electrifying touch, but because he does, and that would make you the universe’s top priority.
He is cursed, a bad day after a worse one. And he knows that if he were to let you have him the way he wants, you’d become cursed too. Cursed with him and his aches and pains, his scars and bruises, his anger and resentment.
When he settles beneath the sheets that night, he dreams of you. He dreams of your soft skin against him, your laughter, your easy smiles. He dreams of the life he could have were it not for his exceedingly awful luck.
He could save you. He could prevent you from ever coming nearer. But that somehow feels like a worse, more torturous ending. And he is nothing if not selfish.
...
The next time you see Leon, it’s nearly a week later. The swelling on your side has gone down and most of the pain has subsided, but it’s still tense and unforgiving, especially so early in the morning. There’s little light coming through the curtains thanks to the steady stream of rain pelting the earth.
His hair is soggy, casting thick shadows over the high points of his face. There’s crystal droplets on the shoulders of his jacket, ones you want to reach out to shake off, but you refrain. He smiles at you, that gentle half smile he only ever wears when he’s half exhausted.
“Came to check on you,” he says softly, words turned plush on the corners of his lips. You smile.
“Unfortunately, I’ve succumbed to sepsis. You’re seeing a ghost,” you joke. He rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the apartment.
He shakes off like a dog as he hangs his coat on the hook. A few rogue water droplets smatter your face. You take a moment to observe him. The lines of his body are rigid like there’s something pulling him taught. For a moment, you ache to reach out and smooth your palms over his muscles, to help him relieve some of that tension. You wonder if that’s something that would be okay, if he would welcome your touch. There is a line that stands between you, and you’re not sure which side of it you reside on.
“Anything interesting happen in the week that I’ve been gone?” you ask, leaning against the back of the couch.
Leon hums, pursing his lips as he thinks back on the last few days. “There’s a new coffee machine in the break room,”
You huff a laugh. “Can’t wait to try that baby out,”
Silence stretches thick between you, like a rope that’s been left out in the rain. You watch him move with careful precision, finding where would be the best place to exist within. You wonder why he never seems to relax, even in your space. You wonder if he knows how much you care. Subconsciously, you run the pads of your fingers over your injury. It’s a rough stretch of skin now, bubbled with scar and scab. You frown.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, suddenly standing again to get to your side. He catches your wrist where it hovers near the tear.
You shrug. “Only when I think about it,”
He purses his lips and emits a low hum, giving you a once over. “Have a fever at all?”
You shake your head. He nods, once and curt, before dropping your wrist and stepping away from you.
“Do you need any help?” Leon asks, avoiding your gaze by scanning around the room. “Any chores that have been neglected? Any errands I can run for you?”
You feel the corner of your mouth tick up in a small smile. Shaking your head, you say, “No, Leon. I’ve been able to manage on my own,”
“I know,” he says. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing on the soft flesh there in thought. Then, soft as a whisper, he says, “I was worried about you,”
You feel your heart catch in your throat. You think back to the way he looked at you that night, like you were broken before him and he couldn’t do anything to fix you. You think about how gentle he was with you, how careful he was like you were bursting at the seams. You see his cheeks turn a tinge of pink as the silence stretches thick between you. You reach out, placing a flat palm against his chest. There’s no sound in the apartment, just the rain outside and your own heavy breathing.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Leon,” you say, just as soft. “I know you’ll always take care of me,”
He swallows, something heavy and unsaid, and nods. “I will,”
It feels like a promise. It feels like a vow.
With an intake of breath, you say, “Anything on our docket?”
Leon purses his lips. “Not on yours,” he says. You frown. “You’re on light duty for a while,”
You twist your face up in a nasty expression, which makes Leon smile a fraction. “I don’t like that,”
“That’s what I figured you’d say,” he says. He moves around you to finally sit down. You’re almost surprised as he gets comfortable on your couch. You move to join him. “I tried to tell Hunnigan you wouldn’t go down easy,”
“I can’t imagine I have much choice,” you say, grumbling. “Did they say for how long?”
Leon shakes his head. “Could be a while,”
You groan.
“Hey,” he says, gently. “You took a hard hit. It’s either office duty or a grave,”
You scowl at him, and he flashes you a smile. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed while I’m gone,”
He makes a motion over his chest. Cross my heart.
The next week, Leon is shipped out to God knows where. They won’t tell you, probably afraid you’d commandeer a craft to chase after him. You’re checking in with Hunnigan by the hour, who tells you you’re being paranoid. How can you not be? He’s out there, alone, doing something, something dangerous, and you’re stuck writing reports and drinking watered down coffee from the new machine in the break room. He could be hurt, he could be dead, and you would never know the difference. It makes you sick, it makes you scared.
“Separation anxiety?” Sherry asks, taking a seat beside you. You’re staring at a monitor, feeling like your eyes are melting out of your head.
“Shut up,” you retort, making her laugh. “I just worry about him,”
“Y’know, I think I had this exact conversation with him a couple weeks ago,” Sherry says, grinning at you. You scowl at her. “You two act like if you’re not attached at the hip, you’re basically dead,”
“That’s what it feels like,” you murmur. You sigh. “You don’t get it,”
“Maybe not,” Sherry says, shrugging. “But I do know what it’s like to feel,”
You blink at her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go be annoying?”
Sherry jabs a finger into your side, making you yelp. “Don’t be mean to me just because you’re grumpy,”
You huff.
You are not grumpy.
...
Leon feels half dead on his feet as he trudges up the stairs of your apartment building. He’s been gone almost two weeks, with little to no contact with you. It feels like it’s killing him. He feels like it’s sucking out his will to live. He just wants to see you.
He knocks gently on your door. It’s late, just past midnight, but he knows you’re still awake, always the night owl. You open it a second later, wearing a shirt three sizes too big and an old pair of sweatpants; he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. You give him a once over, scanning him for injuries, and when you don’t appear to find any, you crash into him. He lets out an oomph as his arms settle around your waist. You smell like home, and he feels his heart crack open a little.
“Worried about you,” you whisper into his shoulder. He holds you a little tighter.
“Not over yet,” he says, and you pull away, squinting at him. He shrugs his jacket off to reveal a nasty cut along his bicep. He smiles sheepishly at you.
You sigh, and it’s like the greatest symphony ever written. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll patch you up,”
His pain ebbs as he sits. You return to him moments later with a first aid kit and a scowl. Your soft hands against his skin are what keep him tethered to the earth. Pain threatens to eat at his muscles and sinew, to consume him. But you’re gentle, easing through it like a softbed creek, curving over already smooth stones.
“Did you even try to get out of the way?” you murmur. You don’t look at him, but he’s watching you. He sees the twitch at the corner of your mouth as you clean the wound, the pull of your brows in concentration. You look so beautiful like this, like a pink sunrise, a reminder that good is out there.
“Sort of,” he mumbles back. You frown at him. “I didn’t really have time,”
You hum. Once the wound is thoroughly disinfected, you prime the needle for stitches.
“This will hurt,” you say, sinking the steel beneath his flesh. He doesn’t react. You make quick work of the area, making sure to tape over it to protect the stitches. When he’s all patched up, you pat his other arm, saying, “Try to make time so that this doesn’t happen again,”
He nods, watching you. You’re a breath away, inspecting him for any other injuries he may be sequestering. He reaches up hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He feels giddy at the way your eyes widen.
“Pretty,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure you hear it. He wonders if he’s concealing the deep, desperate love he has for you, or if he’s bearing it all with his gaze. At this point, he’s not sure he cares.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kennedy,” you say, smiling at him. “I’m still mad at you,”
Soft as a whisper, he says, “I think I can handle that,”
Without much further thought, Leon closes the gap. You let out a little squeak when his mouth meets yours, but you almost melt into him. He’s so relieved that he could cry. Your hands find purchase along the curve of his jaw, his own grasping at the loose fabric of your shirt. You sigh sweetly into him, coating his nerves in a saccharine so destabilizing he can’t help but return it. When you fall into his lap, parting your lips and winding your arms around him, he’s afraid he’s died and gone to Heaven. And when your tongue finally meets his, he groans, something deep and guttural and unbecoming.
You pull away, a string of saliva hanging from your kiss bitten lips. You rest your forehead against his. His every perception centers on you; your hands on his chest, your nose bumping his as your chest heaves, your smell, the skin of your neck, open and exposed for him. He wants you, needs you like you’re the only thing that can save him. And when you kiss him again, a fire burns anew in his chest. Your hands are everywhere; his arms, his shoulders, his chest, and they find a home winding into his hair. A gentle tug against his scalp has his hands tightening their grip on your hips, begging you to still.
“Leon,” you murmur against his mouth, heady and soft all at once.
“I’m here,” he says, and he means it. He has never been more present. And then he’s standing, lifting you with him to place you back on the floor. You stare at him, pupils blown wide, gnawing on your bottom lip.
He pulls you flush against him because he can’t help himself. He is nothing if not selfish, nothing if not gluttonous and greedy, and now that you’ve given him this small victory, he wants to see if he can keep winning you. He sees the quiet desperation in the deep color of your eyes, the way you’re watching him with your full, rapt attention.
“You can touch me,” you say, voice low and barely audible. He wants to eat you alive.
He wastes little time after that, mouth crashing against yours with renewed energy. His heart swells in his chest when you cling to him all the same. Your fingers dig into the tops of his shoulders. He taps his fingers once against your thigh, signaling you to jump. He catches you, carries you close against him until you’re laid out against the sheets. He doesn’t stray far, following you into the linen, soft and sweet.
He watches you for a moment, taking it all in. You’re smiling at him, grinning really as he hovers above you. You brush your fingers against his cheek, smoothing away whatever doubt may be lingering. He ducks his head, pressing feather light kisses to the column of your throat, making your breath hitch there. He doesn’t get far, not when you pull his mouth back to yours, grasping at his shirt in an effort to rid him of it. Leon is a compliant man, flashing you a grin as he pulls back to yank it off. He wonders if your cheeks warm like his, if you can hear the hard hammer of his heart in his chest.
...
Leon is all rigid muscle, sinew pulled tight and corded along his arms, the plans of his stomach, his shoulders. You feel almost animalistic, feral. You run flat palms over him, feeling him twitch and tremor under your touch.
“Pretty,” you say, soft as a whisper. He huffs a laugh.
You push him back slightly, only giving yourself enough room to sit forward to pull off your own shirt. You watch him swallow thickly as it gets discarded somewhere across the room. His hands are soft, gentle against the revealed skin as he kisses you again. Feather light touches across your waist, your stomach. Rough and callused palms against your breast, thumb finding your nipple. You arch into him at the contact, tightening your grip on his shoulders.
You’re aching, cut open and bleeding. His hands leave goosebumps and fire in their wake as he lays you back against the sheets, tracing his lips down your torso, stopping at the waistband of your pants. He looks up at you, chest heaving. You nod, a gentle duck of your chin. Your breath catches in your throat as he slowly–painstakingly slowly–tugs your pants down. He lets his hands wander over your exposed thighs, hopefully ignoring your choice of underwear. Light touches against your hips cause them to fall open. You wonder if you look as vulnerable as you feel. He presses the gentlest kisses to the insides of your thighs, head bouncing between them.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says, a mumble against your skin. It sends shivers down your spine.
When he presses an open mouth kiss to the apex of your thighs, you think you black out for a second. A breathy gasp echoes off the walls. He tugs your underwear out of the way to flatten his tongue against you. The sound you make is unbecoming, head dropping back against the pillows. He wastes little time, sucking and kissing and licking as he finds his rhythm, finds what you like, what makes you the loudest. He eats you out like it’s a game, like he’s determined to get the highest score. Your vision is nearly white, fingers buried in his hair. When you tug on it a bit, he groans, deep and sultry, sending shocks to your brain.
Your thighs begin to shake when he pulls your clit between his teeth, a breathy moan escaping you. He locks an arm across your hips to keep you in place. You’re shamelessly grinding against his face, chasing release. You keen high and whiny as he slides two fingers into you.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, low and heavy. “Make a mess on me,”
He curls his fingers against you. The stretch and tempo and timbre of his voice were nearly enough to send you over the edge, but what does you in is seeing him lean back to watch you, stubble brushing the inside of your thigh. You clench around his fingers as you come, writhing and panting like an animal. You watch him lick his fingers clean before you’re clawing for him, pulling his mouth back up to yours. You groan as you taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers fumble with the clasp on his belt, fighting to free him of it. You feel him chuckle against you as he reaches down to help you. He pulls away a bit to shuck off his trousers.
Your mouth waters when his cock springs free from his boxers, thick and flushed and dripping. Instinctively you reach for it, but he stalls you, gently grasping your wrist. You frown up at him.
“Won’t last very long,” he says by way of explanation.
“Next time, then,” you say, chest heaving. He grins at you, climbing over you again.
His kisses are addictive, you decide. You’re not sure how you ever went without them. They’re all consuming, send you spinning. You’re flat on your back again, pulling him as close as you can, running your hands down the expanse of his chest. He lines himself up with your entrance, gently pushing himself inside. The stretch is devastating. You break the spell of his kiss to gasp, jaw slack. His chest heaves as he buries himself in you, arms flexing on either side of your head. He stalls once he’s fully seated inside you. You smooth his hair away from his face, thumb swiping against his cheekbone. You feel so full; of him, of want, of love.
“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse and heavy. You grin at him.
“Never been better,” you say.
You lock your legs around his waist, begging him to stay close to you. He drops his head, turning into your palm more as he begins to slowly pull out of you. The drag of him against your walls has you keening. He almost pulls out fully before pushing back in, setting a languid pace that has you boneless. One hand smooths up your side, cupping your breast. You pull him back down to you, mouth meeting his in a devastating kiss. He sighs heavy against your lips, a whimper so delicious it has you rolling your hips just to hear it again. He moves to bury his face in your neck, pressing gentle kisses to the skin there.
“So pretty,” he mumbles. You sigh. “Like you were made for me,”
The praise has you scratching your nails lightly down his back, earning you another pretty noise. His thrusts pick up their pace but never lose their softness. He ruts into you like a man consumed, mumbling against your sweat slick skin.
“Dreamed of this,” he says. His hands wander over you, fingertips gentle against your injury. “Dreamed of you. My pretty girl,”
There’s a pressure building in your stomach, a coil wound tight, threatening to burst every time he opens his mouth.
“Yours,” you say. “Always have been,”
His thrusts turn shallow, deep. He says, “Doin’ so good, fuckin’ perfect,”
You clench around him, huffing a breathy moan. “Leon,”
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here,”
His thumb finds your clit, and you’re seeing stars. White hot pleasure radiates throughout your body, threatening to consume you. He picks up the pace, chasing his own release. He thrusts one, two, three more times before he’s groaning in your ear and filling you up. He collapses against you, chest heaving and panting. Your fingers wind into his hair, toying with the ends. Every now and then you feel him press kisses to the column of your throat.
“Leon,” you whisper. He hums. “I think your stitches split,”
He laughs then, a bright, airy sound that splits your chest open with want. He pulls back to look at you, and you note the way his eyes brim with adoration. You feel suddenly shy.
“You gonna patch me back up?” he asks, soft against you. You grin.
“Yeah,” you say, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “I will,”
post elpis older boyfriend .ᐟ leon kennedy is a different man. he might as well be a sex robot now— his sex is one of a rabid animal’s in heat and he fucks a lot. insanely so. something changed in his libido; it went out straight up the roof. he can’t get enough of you and at times, he gets a pulsing hard boner that lasts him enough for a couple of hours. he makes you come sweet on his tongue fresh in the morning, hiding under the blanket. during your breakfast, he can barely contain himself. he spreads your legs wide open on the kitchen table and fucks your cunt with no wrapper or birth control. he might as well put a few babies in you if he’s so healthy all of a sudden.
it’s always been an insecurity of his that a guy your age could keep it up for longer and take care of your needs. not anymore.
and that’s not even the best part. leon makes your thighs tremble shut with his cock inside you, spilling ropes of salty, warm cum inside your swollen pussy. it then, he leaves you dizzy and breathless on the bed to grab you a towel. when he returns, his initial plans of cleaning your thighs and running you a warm bath are completely replaced. he traps you under his rough, strong body, sweaty muscles and burning red cheeks from doing all the work. “one more round, doll?” and you won’t even stop there. god knows if you’ll ever stop.
you even told leon he can use your pussy freely while you’re asleep if he needs it so badly— so, he grabs the sole bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer and mixed with spit, he stretches your cunt with two of his fingers, right before opening your tight pussy up with the tip of his cock. every night you fuck like dirty rabbits because he can’t stop thinking about how sexy you’d look bent over the balcony, fucking yourself messy into his thick cock.
Synopsis: You and Leon have to pretend to be married for 48 hours to complete a mission. He goes a little crazy when he realizes just how much he actually wants that
Words: 1.3k
A/N: 100% will be doing a part 2. He's so cute, he deserves a cute little marriage with someone that can tease him when he's being silly
Part two found here
Whole story (4 chapters) found here
The first sweetheart is an accident, or at least that’s what Leon tells himself.
The two of you are standing in the polished lobby of some overpriced mountain resort under assumed names, your forged wedding bands catching warm chandelier light while a concierge smiles too brightly and asks how long Mr. and Mrs. Carter will be staying.
Leon’s hand is on the small of your back, purely tactical. Purely for appearances. His thumb is not supposed to move in reassuring strokes like it is.
“Two nights,” he says smoothly, sliding over the IDs. “Just us, sweetheart.”
The word leaves him in that low government-trained voice and lands directly in your spine.
You turn. Just a little, just enough to look at him.
Leon does not look back at you.
His face remains professionally blank, all clean lines and practiced indifference, but the tips of his ears go pink.
You smile. Oh, this is going to be fun.
By hour three, he has said sweetheart seven times. You were counting because every single one hit differently.
There’s the clipped, efficient sweetheart he uses in public when ushering you through doors or steering you away from security cameras.
“This way, sweetheart.”
“Careful on the steps, sweetheart.”
“Forgot your purse, sweetheart.”
Each one accompanied by his hand at your waist, your elbow, the center of your back, touches that are supposed to look casual but linger one beat too long because Leon is suddenly, catastrophically aware that he is allowed to touch you whenever he wants under the guise of maintaining cover.
Then there is the low murmur he uses when hotel staff are nearby.
“You cold, sweetheart?”
You nearly trip because that one sounds domestic. Familiar, like he has been saying it to you for years.
And Leon hears it too, judging by the way his jaw tightens immediately after.
You glance at him.
He is staring dead ahead like a man who just stepped on a landmine but cannot stop walking.
By dinner, the problem becomes obvious: Leon is getting too good at this.
Not at surveillance or gathering intel. At husbanding.
He pulls your chair out, orders your drink from memory, cuts into some overpriced chicken while discussing case details through clenched teeth, then absentmindedly slides the better-looking portion onto your plate because you always steal his food anyway.
Your amused stare makes him freeze. He looks at the plate then looks at you.
“…habit,” he mutters.
“Leon.”
“Don’t.”
“You fed me.” Your tone is lightly teasing. Like you know something he doesn't.
“It was tactical.”
“With the larger piece? The big juicy one we'd normally fight over?”
His expression says he wants the earth to open and swallow him whole.
You grin into your wine.
Sweetheart count: thirteen.
Sleeping arrangements are where it starts to ruin him.
One room. One king bed. Of fucking course.
You don’t even bother pretending outrage; both of you have done this dance before. Missions are uncomfortable. It happens.
What does not usually happen is Leon looking at the bed like it has personally betrayed him.
“It’s fine,” you say, already kicking off your shoes. “At least it's a king.”
“Yeah,” he answers too fast. “Fine.”
It is not fine because married couples do not build a pillow wall.
Married couples do not sleep rigidly on opposite edges of the mattress like Victorian strangers.
Married couples, if anyone is listening through the walls or watching through optics, sleep close.
So close that Leon can feel your body heat through the thin hotel blanket. So close that every shift of your leg brushes his. So close that when you roll over in your sleep and tuck unconsciously into his side, one hand splayed over his chest, Leon’s entire central nervous system exits the building.
He goes perfectly still.
Your breath fans warm against his throat. Your knee slots between his. Your wedding band - fake, fake, fake - taps softly against his sternum when your hand flexes in sleep.
Leon stares at the ceiling all night with the expression of a man being slowly executed.
Because now he has to call you sweetheart in the morning. Now he has to wake up with you draped over him and act like this is normal.
Now he has to survive thirty-six more hours of pretending you belong to him in front of witnesses while his body starts reacting to that fiction like it has found religion.
The second morning is fatal.
You are both in the breakfast lounge scanning suspects.
You lean over his shoulder to whisper an observation. Your hand lands on his thigh under the table.
It's tactical. Something about keeping up appearances, Leon remembers vaguely. You feel the muscle in his leg jump violently beneath your palm.
He turns his head just enough to glare at you.
You widen your eyes innocently.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” you ask.
His pupils blow wide. There is a full two seconds where Leon forgets how language works.
Then, through gritted teeth, “You are enjoying this too much.”
“Enjoying what, honey?”
He makes a strangled noise. You have to bite the inside of your cheek not to laugh. This is no longer a mission for Leon, this is psychological warfare.
Every pet name from your mouth hits him like a bullet.
Honey.
Baby.
Darling.
One time, in the elevator, just to watch him malfunction, you smooth nonexistent lint from his tie and murmur, “You look handsome, sweet husband.”
Leon walks directly into the closing doors.
By the final night he is wrecked.
Forty-eight hours of sweetheart. Forty-eight hours of rings. Forty-eight hours of your head on his shoulder in public, your fingers linked with his, your smile tossed at him over breakfast like you’ve done this a thousand mornings before.
Forty-eight hours of pretending to be a man who gets to keep you.
The mission concludes at 11:37 p.m.
Target apprehended. Intel secured. Cover no longer necessary.
You close the hotel room door behind you and immediately start peeling off your ring.
“God, I’m ready to stop being married.”
Leon says, very quietly, “Don’t.”
You look up. He is standing across the room, jacket half unzipped, hair a mess from the rain outside, staring at your fingers.
At the ring.
At the small pale indent the metal left behind.
The room changes.
You lower your hand.
“Leon?”
His laugh comes out thin. Disbelieving. Ruined.
“I have called you sweetheart for two days,” he says, like this is an indictment, “and every time I did it, it sounded less fake.”
Your heartbeat stumbles. Leon drags a hand over his face.
“I know your coffee order. I know which side of the bed you sleep on. I know you steal the olives out of my drinks and leave me with the stupid toothpick.” He looks at you then, eyes dark and exhausted and frighteningly open. “Do you understand how bad it got in my head?”
Neither of you moves.
His voice drops. “By this afternoon I stopped pretending for them.” He swallows. “I was pretending for me.”
Oh.
Oh, that poor man.
He looks furious about it. Furious that two days of domestic theater exposed something he had apparently been keeping chained in the basement of his chest.
Furious that hearing sweetheart in his own voice made him want things.
A kitchen. Your shoes by his door. Arguments over laundry. Lazy Sunday mornings. A life he was never supposed to let himself imagine.
And now that he has imagined it, even by accident, he cannot force it back out.
“What do you want?” you ask softly.
Leon’s eyes drop to the ring still pinched between your fingers.
When he answers, his voice is almost wrecked enough to shake.
“I want you to put that back on before I do something stupid.”
SUMMARY: You and Leon haven’t felt this good in ages, so it’s only natural that you’d go at it like animals.
CONTENT: 18+ mdni ! SMUT. CITY. this shit is pure porn. re9/dilf!leon (he has reading glasses because I said so) and spouse!reader (no age gap!). marathon sex (oh they be fuckin like crazy). mostly piv; oral and fingering; car sex (leon’s porsche mentioned), bathroom/mirror sex; multiple positions (backshots, cowgirl); size kink, dilf kink(?), overstimulation kink (reader cries), maybe slight pain kink (if you squint), praise kink; multiple orgasms, creampies. some fluff and angst (cause they’re so in love); use of pet names; slight re9 spoilers (: they both had raccoon city syndrome and were then cured, and now they’re super horny for each other).
WC: 1.7k (of pure smut babyy)
NOTES: i have no idea what possessed me to write this.
•
You’d lost count of how many orgasms you had within the past twenty-four hours.
It’s not like you were keeping track to begin with. Leon had made it very clear that doing so wasn’t the point. There was no expectation for either of you to keep score.
There was only the expectation to feel it. To enjoy each other as much as possible. As much as your bodies could allow.
The challenge was a delightful one. A kind of excitement neither of you had been able to experience for months. Almost a year, come spring.
At first, that time a part didn’t seem too bad.
A marriage of nearly two decades meant that you had rhythms and routines; patterns that were so very easy to fall into the second you got each other alone.
Before the syndrome had even reared its head, you were near-insatiable. How could you not be?
Having worked alongside each other since The Incident meant that you got to see each other grow. You evolved into better versions of yourselves, and embraced the parts you had always liked.
Being that close, that involved, also taught you both to welcome whatever opportunities you could. Whether that was getting each other off in the bathroom of a lonely rest stop, or in the comfort of your home.
Of course, once those black marks decided to finally make themselves known, your bodies had naturally begun to slow.
Sure, you were both getting older…
Leon now needed prescriptions, and his shoulders had gotten a lot stiffer—though that wasn’t to your surprise really because he’d always had bad posture. But you too had been feeling the effects of age. Your mornings were now spent massaging your sore joints, and chiropractor visits had become a near-weekly occurrence.
All of these things you could navigate, but the syndrome wasn’t as forgiving.
So like with everything else in your shared life, you adapted. With some trials and a few errors, you learned to appreciate each other in new ways, reaching crevices of your relationship you would never known possible.
Through a certain lens, it was actually a rather beautiful thing.
But that didn’t mean you weren’t inexplicably horny.
So when Grace cured you both, after all was said-and-done and DSO had, more or less, cleared you, it didn’t come as a shock that you both had only one thing in mind.
Leon had enough restraint—or decency, depending on how you looked at it—to wait until you were both in the car before doing anything.
But just as you encroached on the outskirts of Raccoon City’s ruins, a large hand found its home on your thigh.
Leon’s grip was firm and warm—a kind of heat that not even thick denim could resist. It had you shifting in place, leaning farther into the leather seat, and subtly trying to spread your legs more.
Eventually his thumb started to trace lazy, albeit soothing circles into the flesh. Then suddenly the button of your jeans had come undone, and your husband’s thick fingers were slipping past the waistband of your underwear in search of your puffy clit.
You don’t think you’ve ever come faster in your life.
With a few more excruciating miles still between you and home, Leon was silent as he moved the Porsche between the congested lanes of the highway. He ended up taking the closest exit (where it even led to, you still don’t know) and drove until he spotted the gravel lot of a small abandoned gas-station.
You were pulling him into the back before he could even unbuckle himself.
You rode him harshly. Sloppy and uneven—not that it mattered in the slightest. With his hands on your face, holding you close as he flexed his thighs beneath you, it didn’t take long for you to come again. And it took even less time for him to spill into you with a breathy grunt.
When you did finally make it home, after what felt like hours, you were practically wrestling him through the front door.
Pressed between the wall and his hard body, Leon took you in the foyer—right next to the shoe-rack, and the small table where you usually kept your keys.
Trying to recall the night before was like listening to a skipping record. Your memory consisted of flashing images, of sounds you hadn’t heard in so long, of ice-blue eyes and the feeling of stubble against your chest.
You certainly remembered the next morning though.
You were awake first. While Leon slept, you took the time to stretch out your spine and massage your aching wrists. At some point, you missed Leon stirring. You missed his soft hum, and the mattress dip.
He was the first to kiss you—a soft peck to your shoulder while he pulled you back into his lap.
“Just wanna rest today,” was his excuse.
It’s what he kept telling you as he rolled you both over, as he sucked at the hollow of your throat, as he took your nipple into his mouth. “We deserve this.”
His hands were everywhere—hooking your legs over his shoulders, sliding up your stomach to your breasts and back down again. Then, with his face inches from your dripping pussy, he searched for your eyes. “Ain’t that right, pretty girl? You deserve this.”
He then pressed a teasing kiss to your mound, and you whined—all high-pitched and pathetic. Leon simply laughed.
“Yeah. My beautiful wife—“ he mouthed at your folds “—deserves whatever she wants.”
Leon ended up pulling a climax or two out of you. Though you’re certain if you hadn’t been the one to set the boundary, to pull him back up your body with promises of returning the favour, he would’ve gladly stayed between your legs the whole day.
It went on like that for hours. From him lapping at your release, to you teasing his annoyingly pretty cock with your throat.
A constant, mind-numbing, breath-taking push-and-pull.
Getting to be with him again meant everything to you. But you had thought that was the end.
Not of your sex-life, but of the reunion.
In your wildest fantasies—those that belonged to a version of you who knew nothing of Elpis—you had envisioned it: physically coming back together. With the threat of death, you’d hoped—desperately wanted—to feel him like that again, if only once more.
And by some insane stroke of luck, your wish came true.
You got what you wanted, and then some.
And you were grateful. Really, you were.
But as Leon pounded you from behind, you were starting to realize that maybe you hadn’t been prepared at all.
You felt good. Really, really good. Fucking amazing, even.
And it was almost too much.
Everything that happened over the course of the weekend was coming to a head.
It was climbing the peak right alongside another orgasm, and you weren’t sure if you could handle the fallout.
Leon slams his hips into yours again.
You nearly collapse onto the sink, eyes rolling back as your toes curl.
With Leon’s relentless cock bullying your walls, you feel a heavy pressure blooming between your hips. Mewling, you push your hips back to meet his thrusts.
“I know, baby, I know.” Leon grunts behind you.
Leon, who you know has been watching you carefully, readjusts his grip then. Wrapping one arm around your shoulders and the other across your hips, he tugs you back into him.
Your jaw goes slack at the new angle. His cock presses deep—deeper in a way that immediately has you squirming.
“Hey, look at me.” Leon’s eyes are blown wide, almost pitch-black. He’s always had an intense stare, but this time it’s lethal.
It takes everything in you to keep your eyes open.
“I love you, you know that?” Your knees buckle. “Seriously. I”—another thrust —“I know I don’t say it—shit—a lot…” he shoves his head into yours with a growl. “But I do. Fuck, I do.”
With his arm—that goddamn bicep that makes your mouth-water and your cunt flutter—Leon reorients your attention back to the mirror. Through half-lidded eyes, you study the hard set of his jaw.
“Look at yourself,” he groans.
You grab onto his arm and squeeze—the only response you can manage at this point that isn’t a sob.
“You’re fuckin’—agh—so fuckin’ beautiful.”
You nod, helpless, feeling your lashes grow heavy with tears.
Your pelvis is screaming from the friction, and your spine feels as if it’s going to snap at any moment.
Everything in you is begging for release.
But you’re selfish, and perhaps, a bit masochistic.
Because Leon—your husband, the love of your life—is purring praise after praise into your ear.
And you’re preening, practically gushing all over your old man.
All you want is to give him every ounce of your attention, of your self, and your arousal. But every thrust makes it harder not to let yourself go.
“Feel you squeezin’ me, baby,” he pants. “So-shit, so tight.”
Tears slip down your cheeks then. You have half a mind to care, but the other half is shameless. Even with how you crane your neck up to him, to meet his eyes, to put yourself on full display for him.
Leon tightens against you—in you. He swallows hard. “D-Does it feel that good? Does—agh—does my cock make my pretty wife wanna cry?”
Your mouth falls open with a babble, and suddenly all the sounds you had been suppressing come out tenfold.
“Ah, fuck.” Leon grits his teeth.
He’s flush against you now. The sheer size of him is overwhelming.
“Want you to make a mess on my cock, baby. C’mon. I—oh, fuck me.” His arms strain, caging you into him even tighter. “Need you to come, pretty girl. Need—shit. Need you to let go f’me. …I got you. I got you.”
When you finally come, Leon falls back into the wall, keeping you still as he works through his own orgasm. He groans and pants in your ear, while you tremble and claw at his arm.
You’re both left a complete mess. Sensitive, unable to speak or move much.
Yet Leon somehow manages to kiss your face again. And you—with the little energy you have left—let out a contented hum, making a point to run a shaky finger along the smooth silver of his wedding band.
⊹₊⟡⋆ mdni 18+ — smut. re9!leon x fem!reader. potential re9 spoilers!. wife!reader. not proofread. ᯓᢉ𐭩
masterlist
leon wanted to call you as soon as he and grace were rescued, wanted to tell you that he’d found a cure. that he was no longer deteriorating.
but leon is a good man, and he respects his wife’s wishes, which are not to call when he’s out on assignments.
he did once and you were so scared that he was calling to tell you he loved you one last time. that he was just calling to say goodbye, which that wasn’t the case but he vowed never to put you through that again.
leon pulled his car into the garage, he ran a hand down his face giving himself a second to take in the fact that he’s no longer infected.
he stepped out of his car, grabbing his gear from the trunk before he started to unpack all of it on his workbench. he really didn’t feel like cleaning everything tonight. normally when he comes back he’d clean all his guns and sharpen his knives and axe. leon was meticulous when it came to his gear, tonight though, he just wanted to hold you.
“leon…”
your soft voice carried through the garage, he hadn’t even heard you open the door, too lost in his own thoughts.
“hey, love.”
leon’s voice was tired, exhausted even, but you didn’t miss the way the corners of his lips turned up and his eyes filled with a warmth that only happened when you were around.
a shaky exhale passes from your lips before you nearly tackle leon where he’s still standing in the garage. you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest.
it took him a second, but he returned the sentiment. wrapping one strong arm around you, his fingers thread through your hair close to your scalp. he held you close as he finally, finally relaxed.
“i’ve been worried sick.”
your voice was muffled against his chest. you’ve always had plenty of faith in leon, he’s always come home to you. however, you couldn’t ignore the way he’d been slowing down prior to this mission he just came home from. how those black marks spread across his neck and other parts of his body. an infection of some kind. it made you sick to your stomach.
“i know, i’m sorry.”
he was home, that’s what mattered.
you pulled back, bringing a hand to his face. he had new scars, he always comes home with new scars. it’s the one on his neck that makes you wince, though.
but that’s when you notice what’s missing.
your hand moves to quickly adjust his collar, baring his neck to your gaze.
it’s gone. the inky black marks that made it look like he was on the brink of death were just gone.
“leon…wh-where’d it all go?”
he shook his head, still in a bit of disbelief himself.
“we found a cure.”
the word felt heavy on his tongue, a cure, an actual cure. it was a miracle, truly. he sure as hell didn’t think it would’ve come from one of umbrellas founders.
he watched as many different expressions passed over your face in quick succession. confusion, shock, joy. when the tears filled your eyes leon combed his fingers through your hair and pulled you close again. his beautiful wife. he didn’t want to leave you again.
“feel better than i have in years, darling.”
that wasn’t a lie, he hasn’t felt so alive or healthy in a very long time. that virus was taking its toll, and nearly killed him in raccoon city, but he wasn’t going to tell you that. you didn’t need to know the gory details.
you felt so much relief. it had been hell seeing him decline, but if he’s okay now…
you pull back, looking up at him, almost like you’re making sure he wasn’t lying. despite him looking tired, you could tell he meant that he was feeling better.
leon held your face in his hands, the rough pads of his thumbs ran across your cheeks. he just…looked at you for a while, appreciating how beautiful you were.
leon’s gaze was intense, like he was picking you apart—stripping you down until you’re baring your soul. you squirm under his regard. even after years of being married to leon, you’re still weak for him.
leon’s lips meet yours in a heated kiss. he doesn’t waste time pushing you back until your against the wall. he angles your head, deepening the kiss. his tongue slides against yours, licking at the backs of your teeth, the roof of your mouth. the kiss is messy and needy, entirely desperate. he needs you more than he thinks he’s ever needed you.
leon breaks the kiss, hauling you up into his arms. holding you by the backs of your thighs before carrying you into the house, climbing the stairs and down the hallway to your bedroom.
he’s so thankful that your kids are away at college right now. he doesn’t have to be quiet, or keep you quiet for that matter.
in the bedroom, you’d had the windows open—spilling warm spring air and moonlight across the room. leon is bathed in the silvery light, it catches on his stubble and the few strands of graying hair. he’s only gotten more handsome over the years.
he lays you down in the middle of the bed, stripping you of your pajamas before climbing over you. he kisses you again like he’s starving, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
leon’s lips move from yours to your neck and collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin before sucking at both of your nipples. taking one between his lips and flicking over it with his tongue then repeats the same with the other. he kisses in the valley of your breasts then down your stomach.
“leon, i’m sure you’re tired, you don’t have—“
“shh, just let me take care of my wife.”
there was no room for argument, especially not when he was hooking your legs over his shoulders and yanking you close enough that he could practically taste you already.
“leon!”
you blanch but he laughs at your bewildered expression and pulls you closer to his mouth. his eyes meet yours as he drags his tongue through your slit, grunting at how wet you are for him.
your head drops back into the pillow, a low whine passes your lips as he sucks on your clit. your hips buck up, trying to chase the ecstasy that is his mouth on you. warm, calloused hands grab your hips, holding you down as he pushed his tongue into you as far as he could.
you tasted so good, the finest honey he’s ever had the pleasure of feasting on. and it showed in the way his hips were grinding against the bed.
he focused on your clit with his tongue as he pushed two fingers into you, still holding you down with his other hand. leon didn’t stop until your legs were shaking and you were babbling incoherently. he nipped at your thighs as he continued to finger you, wanting you completely relaxed when he finally sinks into you. he brings his thumb down on your clit, circling it with an excruciating slowness that if it weren’t for his fingers inside you you’d have thought he was edging you.
after he pulled another orgasm from you, he removed his fingers, licking your juices off them as he stood up and shed his clothes. he couldn’t wait for you anymore. his hand wrapped around his heavy cock. pre cum glistened at the tip as he gave himself a few quick strokes.
leon was over you again before you had time to come down from your previous orgasms. he kisses you again, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. this kiss isn’t messy like before, it’s slow and revert like the way he slides into you. your legs wrap around his waist as his thick cock sinks deeper inside your velvet walls.
making love never used to be something leon was good at, he was anything but vanilla when you first met him. that was then, though. now, he loved taking you apart slowly. loved making you feel all of him and making sure you knew it was because he adored you, even now, after years of marriage and two kids and all the stuff you’ve put up with that comes with him being a DSO agent.
“i love you.”
his voice gruff as he presses his forehead to yours, slowly grinding his hips against yours once he’s fully inside you.
you gasp, back arching off the bed. you bite your lip, lifting one hand to his face, the other hand going to his arm. fingers press into the corded muscle of his bicep.
“i love you too.”
the response came out breathier than you’d intended because leon decided to pull out to the tip then sink back into you in one smooth stroke.
the sound of your skin meeting over and over filled the room as he set a slow, steady pace. there was barely any space between you and him. eyes locked on each other, sharing the same air.
you were lost in each other, completely focused on the pleasure you were both receiving in this moment. when your moans came more frequently and your eyes rolled back leon broke that steady pace.
“need you to cum for me, darling. let me feel you cum on my cock.”
leon’s pace became sloppy at best, clearly close to his own orgasm. he wedged a hand between your bodies, his thumb connecting with your clit one more time. he pressed down harshly, sliding his thumb back and forth over the sensitive bud.
your orgasm crashed over you in the best way possible, stars dotting your vision as you clench rhythmically around his cock. your nails dug into his shoulder as the prettiest moan filled his ears, leon had always been a weak, weak man for all your little noises.
he wasn’t far behind you, his thrusts only grew sloppier before he stilled deep inside of you. groaning and panting against your neck as his cock twitched, spurting ropes of cum along your walls that were still fluttering around him.
“well that never gets old.”
leon pulls away from your neck, giving you that cocky grin you’re used to seeing. you smack his chest, laughing softly as he rolls off of you. he cleans you up with damp towel then settles back in bed with you. he has one arm draped over you as you rest your head on his chest, letting his steady heartbeat lull you to sleep. leon fell asleep soon after you, and it was the best sleep he’d gotten in a long time.
content: re9!leon x gn!reader. married couple. pure tooth rotting fluff. leon has hearing problems and tinnitus. (ao3)
notes: little fluff as a thank you for 200 followers 🎉 and all of the love on my past works. every single note means the world to me and, even tho i most of the times fail when it comes to interacting with people, i really appreciate you and wish i could initiate convos with so many of you. enjoy!
Before you even opened your eyes, you knew it was a perfect day. The lingering chill of winter had finally broken, giving way to the very first warm, sunny morning of early spring. The sun had already risen, its light incredibly warm against your face. Through the closed window you could faintly hear the sweet chorus of a family of birds that had settled in the budding trees outside. You blinked, watching the dust motes lazily dance in the sunbeams.
Leon was still asleep, which was a miracle. He was usually restless, especially after hard days. But in that moment, he was completely out, making him look at peace in a way that made your heart swell with an overwhelming tide of affection. Lying on his stomach, one muscular arm draped across your waist, holding you against his side. His face was buried half in the plush pillow, half in the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your collarbone with every deep exhale. You took a moment to look at him. The years had matured him gracefully, dusting his dark blonde hair with silver and etching fine lines around his eyes, lines that deepened beautifully whenever he smiled at you.
You lay there for a long time, perfectly content to be pinned beneath his weight. It was a Saturday, a day that belonged entirely to the two of you. There was no rush, no schedule, nowhere else in the world either of you needed to be. The house was a sanctuary of peace, and you wanted to savor every second of it.
Eventually, the faint and persistent rumble of your own stomach reminded you that it was time to start the day. You wanted to make him something special, something warm and comforting to wake up to. Moving with the practiced stealth of someone who deeply cherished their husband's rest, you gently slipped your hand under his heavy forearm. Inch by inch you lifted his arm, sliding out from beneath the covers and quickly replacing the empty space beside him with a long body pillow. Leon stirred, his brow furrowing for a fraction of a second before he wrapped his arms around the pillow, burying his face into the fabric. You smiled, pressing a feather light kiss to his sleep tousled hair, and quietly padded out of the room.
The hardwood floors were cool beneath your bare feet as you walked down the hallway. The house was silent, wrapped in a blanket of morning stillness. As you entered the kitchen, the sunlight was already spilling across the counter tops, reflecting off the polished surfaces and making the whole room glow with a warm light.
You tied your favorite apron around your waist. First things first: coffee. But you knew the electric grinder would be too loud for a quiet house and more importantly, too sharp for Leon's ears. He suffered from mild hearing loss and a persistent, sometimes agonizing tinnitus. It was a lingering echo of his past that flared up when he was stressed, tired, or exposed to sharp or sudden noises. Instead, you reached for the bag of pre-ground roast he loved and set a silent kettle on the stove. While the water warmed, you gathered your ingredients. Today felt like a pancake morning. Fluffy, thick pancakes served with the fresh, sweet berries from the local market you had gone to the day before.
You set a large glass bowl on the counter and began adding the ingredients, the tap tap of the eggs against the rim of the bowl the only sound in the room. Reaching into the utensil drawer, you pulled out a standard wire whisk, the metal hitting the sides of the bowl as you mixed. Then you heard the unmistakable, heavy tread of footsteps descending the carpeted stairs. You didn't stop whisking, but you slowed your pace as the footsteps drew closer. They were slow, dragging slightly. The steps of a man who was still half asleep and entirely reluctant to leave the warmth of his bed. A moment later, his tall frame filled the doorway of the kitchen when you looked at him. He was a sight for sore eyes, wearing only a simple pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair, usually styled meticulously, was falling into his eyes in messy strands. He was rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes squinted against the bright morning light pouring through the wide windows.
"Morning, handsome," you said softly.
Leon stopped, leaning his broad shoulder against the door frame, and just looked at you. A slow, soft smile spread across his face, melting away any lingering sleepiness and making his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Mornin', sweetheart," he replied, his voice a deep baritone, raspy and thick from sleep.
He pushed himself off the door frame and shuffled toward you. Before you could say another word, his arms were wrapping securely around your waist from behind. He pulled you against his chest, dipping his head to press his face into the crook of your neck. You sighed happily, leaning back into his solid, comforting warmth. He always made you feel incredibly safe.
"You left me," he mumbled into your skin, his lips brushing against it sending a delightful shiver down your spine.
"I only left to make you breakfast," you chuckled softly, your voice directed downward and away from him. "I thought you'd want to sleep in."
Leon's arms remained tightly locked around your waist, holding you flush against him, but he hummed a questioning and low note. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Hmmm? Didn't catch that, sweetheart."
You smiled, a rush of fond warmth blooming in your chest. His hearing problems were just a part of him, mostly affecting his left ear, and accommodating to it was entirely second nature to you. You turned your head, leaning back against his chest and angling your face so your voice would carry clearly.
"I said," you repeated, raising your volume just a fraction and articulating your words with loving patience, "I only left to make you breakfast. I thought you'd want to sleep in."
"Nah. Bed felt too big and cold without you." He kissed the side of your neck again, his light stubble gently scratching your skin. "Smells good in here, though. Coffee?"
"Almost ready," you promised, turning your head further to press a tender kiss to his warm cheek. "And pancakes."
Leon squeezed you tighter, burying his nose in your hair and taking a deep breath. "You spoil me. You know that, right? I don't deserve you."
"I absolutely spoil you," you agreed playfully. "And you absolutely deserve it. Every single bit of it," you added, replacing his self deprecation with validation like you always did.
You turned your attention back to the counter and resumed whisking the batter, the metal wire clinking against the glass again. Suddenly, you felt Leon stiffen behind you. It was a small reaction, a subtle tightening of his muscles that anyone else would have missed entirely, but you knew every nuance of this man's body. The arms around your waist tightened, and he subtly pulled his head back from your neck. You stopped whisking immediately, your hands freezing over the bowl, and turned in his arms to look at him. His eyes were squeezed shut, a small wince pinching his eyebrows. He raised his left hand to the side of his head, the heel of his palm pressing firmly against his ear while his fingers massaged his temple. His jaw was locked tight, the muscles jumping rapidly beneath his skin.
Your heart squeezed with immediate, overwhelming empathy. The ringing. He had told you that sometimes it was just a low hum he could ignore with a bit of effort, but other times, it was a sharp and high pitched noise that gave him a throbbing headache.
"Hey," you whispered, your voice dropping to a soothing register, ensuring you were facing him directly so he could read your lips if the ringing was too loud. "Ringing?"
Leon opened one eye, looking down at you with a mixture of apology and deep discomfort. He gave a single, tight nod. "Yeah," he rasped. "Started when I woke up, but that scraping sound..." he stops himself, not wanting you to feel bad about it, rubbing his earlobe as if he could physically brush the noise away. "I'm sorry. I'm ruining a perfect morning."
"Don't you dare apologize to me," you said firmly, though your tone remained gentle and dripping with love. "You haven't ruined anything. Come here. Let me help you."
You moved smoothly out of his embrace and immediately swung into action, your movements focused on his comfort. First, you took the metal whisk out of the glass bowl and placed it gently into the sink, pulling out a soft silicone spatula that would be silent against the glass bowl. Next, you walked over to the stove and reached up to turn on the exhaust fan in the middle setting. It came to life with a steady rushing sound, a constant low frequency hum of white noise that filled the room.
Leon watched you from the center of the kitchen, his hand still pressed to his head, eyes tracking your movements with wonder and deep gratitude. But you weren't finished. You picked up your phone from the counter and connected it to the radio sitting on the windowsill, selecting a carefully curated playlist of instrumental lo-fi. Within seconds, the soft and mellow notes layered perfectly over the deep hum of the exhaust fan.
You walked back over to Leon, who was staring at you, the tight wince on his face had already begun to loosen significantly. "Better?" you asked softly, reaching out to gently cup his stubbled cheek.
Leon leaned heavily into your hand, turning his head to press a long, lingering kiss into your palm. "Much better. You're amazing. You know that?"
"I'm just taking care of my husband," you said, reaching up with your other hand to brush a stray, messy lock of hair away from his forehead. "Now, go sit down at the island. You're holding tension in your jaw again."
Leon didn't argue. He used to back in the day, but he rarely did anymore when you took charge of taking care of him. He walked slowly over to the large kitchen island and sat heavily on one of the tall, cushioned wooden stools, resting his thick forearms on the cool granite counter. You stepped up closely behind him and Leon immediately dropped his head forward, exposing his neck. You placed your hands flat on his broad shoulders, taking a moment to just feel the radiant heat of his skin.
You began to massage his shoulders, your thumbs pressing into the tight, stubborn knots of muscle that always gathered at the base of his neck. Leon let out a deep, rumbling groan, his head drooping further forward as his posture completely melted. You moved your hands higher, fingers slipping into the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck, massaging the base of his skull in small, firm circles. You brought your hands around to the sides of his face, thumbs finding the hinges of his jaw.
"Unclench," you instructed gently.
He obeyed immediately, parting his lips as you began to massage his jaw using slow, sweeping motions with your thumbs, pressing deeply into the stubborn knots and urging them to finally release. You could feel the exact moment he completely let go, his whole body seemed to sink heavily into the stool. He leaned his head back against your stomach, tilting his handsome face up toward the ceiling as you continued to expertly work out the tension in his face.
Looking down at him from this angle, you were struck once again by how fiercely and unconditionally you loved this man. He was so incredibly strong, so capable of enduring unimaginable things in the world outside these walls, but right now, he was completely vulnerable, openly allowing you to soothe his pain with nothing more than your touch and your undivided attention.
After several long, peaceful minutes, you slowly lightened your touch, trailing your fingers down the sides of his neck and coming to rest affectionately on his collarbones. You leaned down and pressed a long, tender kiss to his forehead.
"Better?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Leon opened his eyes slowly. They were clear, warm, and shining with an adoration that practically stole your breath away. The pinched, pained look was entirely gone, replaced by a radiant calmness.
"Perfect," he said softly. He reached up, covering your hands with his own larger, delightfully calloused ones, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Thank you. I mean it. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You don't ever have to find out," you promised, stepping around the stool to face him directly. You leaned in and pressed your lips fully to his. It was a slow, sweet, perfect morning kiss. Leon's hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing affectionately across your skin, holding you there for longer. When you finally pulled away, you gave him a bright smile. "Now, stay put. I have pancakes to finish making, and I am armed with the silent spatula."
Leon chuckled. "Yes, love. Whatever you say."
You returned to the counter, the rest of the breakfast preparation was a peaceful and quiet. You used the silicone spatula to gently fold the thick, vanilla scented batter, considering the absence of scraping sounds a massive victory. You poured two coffees in your matching mugs, placing Leon’s softly in front of him on the granite island. He wrapped both of his hands around it, letting the heat seep into his palms. You ladled the batter onto the hot pan, the sizzle completely masked by the soft hum of the exhaust fan and the mellow notes floating through the air. You moved around the kitchen deeply aware of Leon's eyes tracking you, a comforting gaze that made you feel incredibly cherished and seen.
When the pancakes were perfectly golden brown and fluffy you plated the food, arranging the fresh berries over the top of the stacks and carried two warm plates to the island, setting one down carefully in front of Leon before taking the stool next to him.
"This looks incredible," Leon said earnestly, picking up his fork. He cut a generous piece of the pancakes, dragging it slowly through the maple syrup before taking a bite. He closed his eyes and let out a soft groan. "Oh, man. You outdid yourself today."
"I'm so glad you like them," you smiled, taking a sip of your coffee.
You sat together in comfortable, golden silence, eating your breakfast side by side. The exhaust fan continued its steady hum above the stove. The lo-fi music played its melodies from the window. The sun climbed higher in the blue sky casting bright, geometric squares of light across the hardwood floor. Halfway through the meal Leon slowed his pace, his fork resting idly against the ceramic plate. He wasn't looking at his food anymore, his blue eyes tracking the way the sunlight caught the stray strands of your hair, turning them into threads of spun glass.
He pushed his empty plate aside and stood up from his stool, but he didn't head for the sink. Instead, he took two slow steps toward you. You remained seated on your high stool, your knees naturally parting to make room for him as he stepped into your space. He moved between your legs, his thighs brushing against yours, his large hands coming to rest on your waist. You reached up and brushed your thumbs behind his ears, over the skin where the ringing usually felt the sharpest. He leaned further down, bowing his head so his forehead could rest against yours.
"I don't think I tell you enough," he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "How much this means to me."
"You don't have to tell me," you whispered back, your hands moving to frame his face, feeling the stubble beneath your palms. "But I love hearing it."
Leon leaned in the rest of the way, capturing your lips in a kiss that tasted of maple syrup and the lingering warmth of the sun. It was a slow, deep pull, his hands tightening slightly on your waist as he pulled your seated frame closer to his standing one.
Leon pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours again. A small, crooked smirk, the one that still made your heart do a ridiculous little flip after all these years, tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I have an idea," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with tenderness.
"Oh yeah?" you teased, mirroring his smile. "And what’s that, Mr. Kennedy?"
He leaned in to brush his nose against yours, a boyish mischief in his eyes. "Marry me. Seriously. Let’s go find a chapel right now."
"Well," you said, leaning forward to peck his nose. "By my count, that makes this the fifth time you've proposed since we actually said 'I do.' If we keep having weddings, we’re going to run out of cake flavors."
"I'm okay with that," he chuckled. "I'll keep asking as long as you keep saying yes."
"Always," you promised.
Standing there between your legs, he leaned down one last time, capturing your lips in a light, slow, tender kiss that carried all the gratitude he couldn't always find the words for. A soft seal on the peace you had built for him within these walls.
