WHEN YOU'RE CLAWING AT THE EDGE AND WITHOUT ESCAPE; leon s. kennedy x f!reader. minors dni!!! strictly 18+. check ao3 for tags! first time writing for leon i am #nervous. 7.6k words
Like the barrel of a gun – the sights, two circles closing down on the target. It’s a struggle to pinpoint their color, the right shade of blue. Leon calls you silly when you compare them to a changing sky – has the nerve to roll them, averts them as if flustered.
Then snaps them back to you. It’s easy to imagine him doing the same with actual guns in some gruesome place he never describes. Almost six whole feet of a man with his chin high as he fixes someone with those same eyes, the softness reserved for you replaced by learnt stoicism. The gun becomes a knife sharp enough to both protect and keep people at a distance.
The blade grows dull the moment you step in the picture. Even at work, the man begs to escape the uniform, and Leon has to force his eyes away from you if in a crowded room. Tenderness is his most recent secret and he’d go through hell and back to keep it safe.
‘Hell,’ in his case, waters down to office work. He’s all agent in the field – used to be even behind his desk, right before Leon discovered the DSO quarters like hiding pretty things. Namely, you.
It was a miracle – a stupid, ridiculous miracle – that he had stumbled upon you, who didn’t even work on his same floor. Leon later wished to ditch his private office to invade a spot of your cubicle. Privacy be damned if it meant being only a plastic divider away.
Leon, who had begun withdrawing from anything social that wasn’t signed ‘Redfield’ at the end of a catch-up email or an invitation for drinks, rejoined with small talk only to talk to you: elevator rides, coffee breaks and even lunch getaways when he wasn’t swamped with paperwork deadlines and could afford a proper pause.
Dinner was, surprisingly, off limits. The word clung to the walls of his throat like a lump and refused to reach his tongue, causing him many awkward coughs. He was glad you didn’t mind them. And, mostly, that you seemed to tell they meant ‘dinner’ anyway.
You were gracious enough to act oblivious and offer something smaller than dinner, maybe out of a need for caution he could understand. “Hey, my group is getting drinks later today,” You had said on one of the elevator rides. “Wanna come along? I don't think anyone would mind, they’re all bringing a plus one.”
Leon didn’t have the guts to ask if ‘plus one’ meant their partners and you had for some reason turned to him. What I don’t know won’t hurt me. So much for the DSO golden boy. The brave agent is reduced to stiff schoolboy.
He had hesitated, giving you enough time to backtrack – another awkward exchange, his startled apologies overlapping with yours, shaky reassurance that No, I’m free, sure, I’d love to, are we going right after clocking out?
You had rephrased it: after dinner, typical Friday night activities. Almost as if to soothe his worries, you joked it was like a shitty college-bullshit type of hang out. Leon – who had wasted those years training for his hell, playing cop-wannabe oblivious he would be anything but – had only smiled as much as the thought allowed.
The interaction left him dissatisfied despite the upcoming plans and the ‘being invited by the woman you like’ part. You had already waved and stepped out the elevator when Leon called out with a hand over the doors to keep them open. “Hey, I could pick you up?”
He winced internally: it wasn’t meant to sound like a question. You backtracked again, office heels clicking on the ground. “Eh, I don’t know,” Secretly, you kind of wanted to avoid worrying about parking on a Friday night, especially on his passenger seat. You gave him your best polite smile. “If you don’t mind?”
He didn’t. The elevator doors almost squashed him while he wrote your address down and it took an army of guys with briefcases to remind him he was, in fact, blocking the goddamned thing.
You waved again as he was pretty much pushed around by the group as they entered, giggling. Leon thought about the sight his whole day, reports neglected again.
Drinks were uneventful as events where one doesn’t know anyone always are. He kept both elbow and head low, more keen on being a friendly shadow – your friendly shadow, perking up when chat came by you. He was glad you had asked him to save you from multiple third wheeling.
“Hey, thanks for tonight. And for the ride.” You had discarded office attire for something both pretty and comfortable, earrings dangling and catching the city lights – they blinded him and made Leon feel like a deer caught in headlights, frozen in place. If being run over felt like looking at you, he’d embrace death in a heartbeat.
Too macabre for a first date – which this was not, Leon remembered, not wanting to get ahead of himself. Getting ahead of himself got him trapped in a tragedy he had only seen in movies. He gave you a little shrug. “Don’t thank me. You live pretty close anyway. And I’m not one to say no to drinks and good company.”
It made you laugh again, like outside the elevator. He liked that – making you laugh, the way your brows pitched at the center and your lips bent at the ends to try and suppress a smile at his jokes – which were growing ridiculous as the distance between you dimmed. He had learnt the pattern without even noticing: the bit-down grin, the huff that carried your first laugh and the way you leaned inwards when you stopped fighting the reaction.
Leon, too, smiled a lot in those moments. It was harder and harder to remind himself those were timed pauses at work and he couldn’t hog your attention as much as he wanted. While they would probably keep him under any circumstance, who knew if the DSO was cruel enough to fire you for poor conduct. Not having you around left a weird ache at his chest, one he could name despite telling himself the opposite.
Your seatbelt was long off, a hand already on the door handle. Ready to leave. Leon was willing to watch you exit his car and then turn around with another wave and an affectionate ‘Goodnight, Leon.’ He could keep this a breather, his precious corner of peace at work. It’d be waiting for him when he’d be deployed again, like always. Maybe smile if he managed to grab a little souvenir in between missions and bring it back to her.
He could keep it like this. Leon was still smiling when your fingers began pulling at the handle, that affectionate glimmer that appeared just for you fixed behind his irises.
For a man who seemed so keen on providing and pleasing, service built in his bones, you would argue Leon is very, very selfish – that or painfully oblivious. But just like him, you lacked the guts to use your mouth for what God intended.
You could argue mouths had better uses. To hell with being careful and waiting for the first move – and maybe fueled by the bit of alcohol from your lonesome drink – you leaned across the console to press your lips against his cheek.
Coward move – what are you, fifteen? Kissing the man you like on his cheek. Quick as well, yet not quick enough for his reflexes to fail and allow you to escape on spot. Another little push, just like inviting him for drinks when he was clearly struggling with asking you out for dinner. A final hint slapped in his face. He can’t be this blind, you thought in a rush as you leaned back, growing ready to bolt. He can’t. Maybe he just doesn’t like me that much. Ah, well. I’ll live.
Leon had either found his own liquid courage or acted on instinct, because your face was guided back to his by warm digits and you tasted whiskey on someone else's tongue for the first time. You’ll have the occasion to complain about his choice in drinks later on.
More alike than you thought, you were. Leon kept his tongue busy with yours as much as he could – inside the car, on the elevator ride to your floor, on top of you. Surprisingly, someone who seemed to enjoy running his mouth with bullshit was rather silent in bed.
It starts a circus of an on-and-off relationship, the offs caused by his deployments and the ons never long enough to allow normalcy to settle in. Even if they are, Leon distracts you with another kiss and the conversation dies easily.
You should be angry. Upset, at the very least. Months of running into him at a coffee machine – him, who winces at coffee and carries enough trauma and thoughts to keep him awake already – and wasting most of your lunch breaks by his side, eyeing each other like clumsy teenagers, all to end up in something that never leaves the bedroom.
It should let you down. Leon doesn’t make it easy to feel disappointed.
You blame his silence on his kisses, on how he seems to need his mouth against yours the way one needs air – or maybe it doesn’t even compare, as Leon looks almost confused when you escape his mouth for a breather.
Knife back on being a gun, his eyes pierce yours with the shadow of a frown as he seems completely unbothered by the moment of asphyxia. Leon follows your head as it tilts back, noses alongside the warmth of your cheek – he smiles when you flush so easily.
“Come back here,” he says with a rasp, the only evidence the lack of air leaves on him. The gentle nosing turns into open mouthed kisses. You wonder if he can ever get enough of them. “Come on, don’t leave a guy hanging.”
You’re about to argue he’s leaving himself hanging, actually, but Leon notices your mouth parting to speak and seals it with his again, noses knocking at his enthusiasm and your words reduced to sounds for him to devour.
The hanging part is true whether he likes it or not. You are naked, skin already blooming with lovebites on your chest, while Leon discarded his shirt only because you kept sulking about it – he did it with a smile, too, endearment clear on his face.
Lower he’s fully covered: pants and underwear, clothes reduced to a prison for his erection, the line of it straining against the fabric. He always does that too, teases himself with that little friction of fabric as if it doesn’t make him more sensitive in the long run.
Maybe he just likes the ache, tormenting himself as much as tormenting you. Or maybe aching is the only thing he knows. You’re not sure you want to dwell into that.
Leon doesn’t, either. He holds the gun and worries more about its target. If he was as brave and strong and admirable as everyone says he is, he’d have the courage to tell you to quit it with the gun imagery and stick to the cheesy sky one.
He was ragged pieces sown together by guilt, not strong enough to ask if that’s really how you truly picture him – bloody hands holding weapons. The Leon in his mind struggles to loosen his hold on them and truly blame you. After all, his hands are familiar with guns as they are with you.
Even more so with you. His fingers are rough with years of bloodshed and the grime he isn’t sure he can wash away. Thumb on your chin, pushing it down to keep your jaw slack and open for him. Leon would kiss you until your spit became his, until you couldn't tell where his mouth ended and yours began. Would hold your mouth open to trace the edges of your teeth with his tongue, one by one, taste the red of your gums. Were air not a problem, Leon’s convinced nothing could get him off your mouth.
But when you push at him again for another breather, he is quick to let go of your chin and direct his attention elsewhere. He knows mercy, he tells you with humor, hoping you believe it more than he does.
Your lungs almost hurt as you suck on air greedily. “God, you–” The accusation dies easily in the back of your throat, replaced by a heavy huff. Leon grins above you as you turn away to hide those smiles you can’t resist. It brings him comfort, knowing your self restraint is as bad as his.
“‘Me’ what?” He prompts anyway, hand fully abandoning your jaw to descend down your neck. His fingers drill absently against your collarbones. “I’m sure it was something nice.”
You huff again, head tilting back down to look at him. You’d flash him a glare if he didn’t kiss you stupid. Leon has to resort to his learnt self-restraint to not kiss you again when you speak: “You know exactly what I meant. Seriously, you– who undresses a woman in three seconds only to kiss her for ten whole minutes?”
“Oh, you were counting? Good. We should up it to fifteen at least.”
“I wasn’t actually–! Leon. I’m too blissed out to talk back.”
Leon laughs. It’s more like laughter blooms somewhere between his ribs and crawls up his bones to reach you, bend and kneel at your will – not his, never his. Leon loses all rights to his reactions when it comes to you.
Predictably, his heart skips a beat without his consent when you whine his name quietly, mistaking his endearment for amusement. Leon is always quick to soothe, redirect your attention where he needs it.
“Already?” He hums low in his throat. His lips press a final kiss to your cheek before moving down to replace his hand. Leon props himself on both elbows instead. “You know I’ve barely had any fill.”
You do know that, obviously. Making out does little other than leaving you dizzy. Leon's eyes crinkle with affection again as he ducks his head between your tits, taking a long drag of your skin as if it’s a drug. The spot glimmers with sweat and you don’t flinch when he licks it away, humming again. It’s another way of tasting you. Spit, sweat. He would make a joke about picking them over water if his mouth wasn’t so busy.
He’s already taken his time with your chest – surprisingly before kissing – but Leon can’t help himself. Not when your fingers card through his hair, not while you’re murmuring soft praise at him – ‘You’re so sweet, Lee.’ You are not as quiet as you believe – Leon would tell you, yet is terrified the realization might make you more careful, more quiet. He’s not sure he can handle that.
What is he sure of, anyway? Each time his knee dips in your bed to crawl on top of you, everything Leon knows becomes a distant memory. His brain locks on everything he’s learnt about your body and the world restricts to the mattress.
A world he’d be glad to die in for once. He sucks a new mark under your breast and trails his mouth down your stomach when you tug at his locks. You’ve been together enough times for him to save you his oblivious act: Leon barely reacts.
“Don’t start,” You sigh with another tug, more forceful. Leon does something between grunt and whine, what you’ve learnt means displeasure. Your eyes snap to the ceiling to avoid his sulk.
“Don’t you start. You know our deal, I’m halfway through the count.”
“You and your bullshit deals. I never agreed on looking like a mosquito ate me over. And, what count? You change the number everytime.”
Leon obviously ignores the accusation. He hums instead: “Well, how does your blood taste? Since we’re talking ‘bout mosquitoes.”
You have half a mind to ask what the fuck is wrong with him. Tugging again proves itself useless when Leon only spares you a glance, descending to a fading mark just below your navel. You’re surprised he’s here to freshen it up and not redo it.
Little banter already forgotten, Leon presses his face against your skin after he’s done. You truly are a gift sent from a God he no longer believes in. Leon knows he’s easy to take apart, the humor and silver tongue sewn with the ragged pieces with a thread thinner than he likes to admit.
Leon never truly felt shame, not until he jerked back the first few times you tried to return the favor and bit gently on the side of his neck.
Again, so much for the government’s precious agent. He had recovered quickly and distracted you with a well placed line, a kiss down your throat or a bite of his own – but he isn’t dumb. He’s trained to assess and to notice everything, no matter how subtle and no matter where. The agent doesn’t really rest in your bed, stays alert in his subconscious.
So, he knows. He knows you’ve noticed and knows you realised it’s less about preferences and more on memories of rotten teeth trying to close on his skin. It was silly to think the same woman who managed to rightfully translate his awkward stares as interest wouldn’t pick on his reactions.
Leon pillows his cheek on your thigh, nose shy of the crevice between leg and pelvis. You are so careful with him, so considerate. You don’t even ask him for explanations, but maybe he’s more obvious than he likes to believe and you simply don't mind it. The thought should make him shrink back. Is he even allowed to be known like this?
You’re aware he loves to just laze around in between moments, so the poke on his cheek is affectionate and not questioning. So are your words. “What's the sulk for, handsome?”
So easy. Leon perks up at the praise – and it's not even his favorite. “Shouldn't you know? Messing up my plans.”
“‘Plans’ being how to fuck me?”
“Knew you’d know. Smart girl,” His teeth kiss your skin when he tries to hide a grin there. Your only defense is nudging him with your knee, but Leon chuckles.
He wishes to tell you how fun it is to rile you up like this, push and pull and push again until you eye him as if exasperated. Which, honestly, you might be. But impatience paints your face just right and Leon understands what people mean with cuteness aggression. He’d chew on your cheek if you wouldn’t lament about drool. Would you? Maybe he just has to say please.
His face is back inches from yours – you briefly wonder if he’s going to shut you up with a kiss per usual, but Leon’s mouth stays busy in an absentminded smile as he cups your cheek with a cool palm. They never sweat. You wondered and envied it and frequently stared at his palms after sex.
Leon would catch on and offer one for you to take. “What’s on your mind, precious?”
In the beginning, Leon got off on the way you reacted at his pet names: the dust of pink on your cheek, the averted eyes, the clenching around him. His heart is slowly breaking watching you get used to them. You’d hum at his question and Leon’d let you spread his fingers and inspect each digit, joint, knuckle: “Your hands. They never get clammy or anything. How do you do it?”
“Eh. I run cold, I guess.”
“Oh, I’m so jealous. My palms get sweaty so easily I can’t even hold hands for long.”
You say that a lot – because you play with his hands a lot, and the habit causes the same conversation – and Leon dislikes it no matter how many times he’s heard it. ‘Why are you thinking about holding hands?’ he wants to ask, ‘I’m here to do it and I never complain.’ Or maybe he doesn’t hold them enough. Not as much as he wishes to, anyway.
He opts for something softer. When your little inspection is over, Leon bends his fingers in the space between yours and brings the back of your hand to his lips. “Mhm. I think you know I don’t mind sweat by now.” It’s dumb enough not to give him away, but you pick on it as always.
Your palm presses against his rough knuckles – Leon sighs when you both nuzzle in his touch and caress his skin with circles of your thumb. Isn’t he the luckiest, drunk on your touch.
“Am I really in trouble for the whole ‘kiss count’ thing?” You ask softly with the tone of someone who knows she isn’t in trouble at all. Leon stretches his thumb to caress the bridge of your nose like you’re a cat. “You always take it so seriously.”
Leon shrugs again. “Do you want to be in trouble?” He asks instead. It’s his way of asking how you want it tonight. Leon smiles again when you rub your nose against his digit.
“I don’t know. You’ll be mean anyway.”
“I’m not mean. I just missed you.”
You mumble something about it being an excuse – ‘a shitty one, too,’ Leon thinks he hears – but you both know it’s the truth. Leon’s quick to march to your place when he’s back stateside and quicker to finish reports when he’s stuck to paperwork duty post missions. He sends them at the edge of deadlines anyway: they avoid sending him away until he’s done, hoping it motivates mister ‘I could be doing something more useful on the field right now.’
Leon takes advantage of those windows, responsibilities forgotten for once – until guilt begins eating him alive. But he misses you first and foremost and needs to make it up to you when he’s finally back. Making it up to you is, in fact, more useful than paperwork, if you ask him. Brass doesn’t need to know, though.
His index finger taps against your parted lips, no longer puffy from kissing. He really does talk too much, and you are worse than him. If only it were ever about something serious. Leon almost takes his finger away to kiss you again before you take the pad of it in your mouth, trap it between your teeth.
He should scold you for the nip, play bad cop. A shame Leon’s no cop. He leans down again, weight half on his elbow and half on you as you suck on his finger. His free hand cards through your hair: “Oh, sweetness. So pretty like this.”
And pretty you are, breathing through your nose when he presses on your tongue just to watch you gag. Leon apologizes profusely to the pitch of your brows, kisses and nuzzles it away with the tip of his nose, but his dick twitches at the small sound from the back of your throat. He wants to hear it again and again until it rings in his ears like gunfires do.
Leon resorts to doing it only twice, repeating the tease – and apology – when his middle finger joins the warm pool of your mouth. It’s you who pushes at his wrist, impatient as ever.
Leon finds it endearing. “Eyes on me,” He murmurs sweetly. Maybe he should sound firmer, fully embracing all the control you give him (did you give it to him? Or did he take, take, take before he knew where he was supposed to stop?), but his voice bends with affection and Leon smiles more than he’s had in ages.
On your part, you are indulging as always. Leon watches the circles of your eyes, how your pupils seem to dilate, how they close when he drags the pads of his fingers over your soaked folds.
“Eyes on me,” He repeats with the same gentleness, following your face with his when you turn your head away. “On me. You know I won’t do anything until you look at me.”
Leon says that, yet his middle finger circles just shy of your entrance and you clench around nothing. Your legs had closed around his hand on reflex like a shy virgin – Leon doesn’t mind as long as his fingers can do their work. ‘The sight is very cute,’ he likes to tell you with another kiss.
You give him what he wants with brows pitched at the center. Leon murmurs praise against the precious spot – “There you go” – before pushing his finger inside up to the knuckle.
This is when he begins to withdraw. His smart mouth shuts closed for once, greed taking over his childish urge to tease. The Leon that grins bullshit in between kisses disappears the moment his fingers sink inside you and you are left with the same man that struggled to ask you out.
In hindsight, Leon should’ve known he was fucked the first time he got his hands on you – or rather, in you, that fateful Friday night. Or he should’ve seen it coming when he started to forget his words half a sentence in because you looked too pretty not to stare, or when his head began snapping at the sound of your heels, when his voice cracked with nerves for the first time. Or when yours did, like it does now – stumbling over his name, cutting it in half as if your tongue is a knife. Le-on. He’s obsessed with how you say the ‘o’ so sharply as if startled and sigh the ‘n’ out in bliss.
Maybe he did see it coming. And maybe, for once, he was willing to let something wash over him. But that could scare you off, so Leon decides you don’t need to know – like many other things. They become irrelevant when you breathe through your nose at a second finger, then a third, and have to force your eyes open lest he stops.
You do try to get him to talk – Leon sees your attempts, feels both heart and guts rearrange at them: do you need to hear his voice so terribly? He can love you without speaking. He can love you in this little apartment of yours, if you keep letting him. He’s getting better at playing discreet loverboy at work, too.
His palm catches on your clit good enough to make you stutter on his name again. Leon, Leon, Leon. He needs you to say it again. Your hands are crawling at his shoulders at all his demands: enduring the purposefully irregular pace, having to look at him, not holding hands because he likes brushing his fingers through your fringe as he stares down at you. Leon wonders if he forgets to blink.
“Le–on, fuck,” You mewl as his fingers curl just right, the way they’ve learnt to. Your hands slip to his nape with your nails sinking in his scalp. “God, fuck…”
God is not the one fucking you right now, Leon would love to say, eagerly risking the blasphemy. Instead, he pumps his fingers faster, hands working without his brain catching up because it’s too busy cataloging your reactions. Your hips stutter up, chasing the heel of his palm for more friction, lips lost in a ‘o’ shape he wants to take in his mouth. Push your upper lip up, ask you to sink the ridges of your teeth down his tongue for him to carry for a few days.
You grow impatient beneath him. “Please, please?” You plead, knowing how it’ll go anyway. Leon smiles as you force your eyes open, brows trembling just above, the effort only spurring him on.
You’re so close, he can feel it. Close enough your walls squeeze him, trap his fingers there for them to please you, where Leon wants to keep forever. You look beautiful, falling apart like this. Another thing he wants to keep.
So he takes it, hand tilting uncomfortably to get away from your clit and fingers slowing to a sudden halt. There it is, his mean streak. Leon didn’t even know he had one before you came along.
Or, rather, didn’t come at all. He could get high on the choked breath that leaves your mouth and fans over his. Your eyes widen, brows arched as if startled. “No– No, why?”
Leon just smiles, nuzzles his nose in the apple of your cheek to hide his reaction. It’s so, so cute how you never get used to it.
One of your hands leaves his nape in a rush, cupping his and trying to push it back where it was. Leon laughs again: “Careful, honey. You don’t want my fingers to slip out, do you?”
Like every time, what you want is punching his face. “Don’t, please, Leon,” You beg, trying to arch your hips to fuck yourself over his fingers before the pleasure you were crawling to disappears. He simply retreats them so only the tips stay nestled inside. “Leon–Fuck, don’t do this to me.”
But it’s no use, it never is: the edges of your vision sharpen and you are left with a distant throb. You give up on your poor orgasm, hips falling back down on the mattress with a defeated sigh. The moment he picks on it, Leon is quick to sink his fingers back in, then out, the sound an obscene squelch, and presses the heel of his palm back on your clit.
That same pleasure that had just left comes back in a rush, taking over you with a sharp moan. Leon leans back to look at you. “Here, here– Stay right here, yes,” He says, but it’s not truly meant for you. He’s in awe. “Look at you…”
There’s no mirror for him to fuck you in front of, so Leon does the looking for both of you. He doesn’t scold you for closing your eyes, never does when you reach this part. You wish he’d talk, but Leon insists it’d be a crime to cover your little noises.
“Listen, precious,” He’d say the first times, guiding you to look at his fingers as they’d sink in you again and again – Leon would have to grip your hair gently so your head wouldn’t loll back in bliss. Your moans would be too loud for you to actually catch the sound, but Leon didn’t really care. He’d grind his clothed cock against your thigh, half clumsy and half desperate. “My pretty girl singing for me. Come on, baby, keep going.”
Maybe if you shut your mouth and deny him of what he wants, you could coax him to talk more – tell you how pretty you are, say that filthy bullshit you know he loves. It’d be good to be the one doing the denying for once. It’d be easy, if only your heart didn’t do somersaults when you’d meet his starstuck gaze.
You doubt he knows how he stares at you. It’s the most open you’ve ever seen him, more than his content smiles when you’re just talking in a moment of peace. Leon’s lips part instead, his tongue darting as if to lick drool away.
“Are you starving?” You want to ask – prompt him if that’s what it’d take to hear his voice again. You’d grow bolder than usual, too: “Do I make you this desperate?”
You wonder if he’d ignore your attempted taunts or just kiss them away like he kisses everything out of your brain. Even when his eyes glint with delight at your pleasure, you wish to drown in the clear sky locked in his irises. How corny. He’s rubbing off on you. Truly is, with the messy rolls of his hips against your thigh. This circus is a familiar show.
Your own hips stutter sharper than they should and Leon is quick to ease the pace again, lick and kiss the sweat from your forehead and then resume rougher when pleasure almost leaves you. You’re pushed to the edge again, thrown into it, kept there like it’s a precious bell jar.
The glass cracks. Your clit is pulsing with need, throbbing with each nudge of his palm – it needs more, you need more. “I can–I can’t,” You sob, fisting at his nape. His hair is damp with sweat. You’d be surprised if your brain wasn’t too mushy to notice. “Leon, Leon, I can’t–take another–”
Leon hisses when your leg twitches on reflex, rubbing right against his dick. “You can,” He argues, voice hoarse – a grunt hesitates in the back of his throat and you whine when he gulps it down.
Leon uses his thumb to flick your clit with purpose and your whole brain short circuits for a good second. Eyes sparkling, he does it again. “Just one more, precious, yeah?” He promises when you jump, sobbing his name again. His nose knocks into yours in another apology. “Just for me, let me see my pretty girl.”
He’s gentle when he denies you again, slowing down almost completely rather than stopping abruptly. The fire in your lower belly stops sizzling and becomes just a pulsing ache in the back of your mind, flickering its edges, and your chest flinches with a little sob.
Spare his heart, it’s hard to deny you comfort when tears glaze your pretty eyes. He’d be worried if he didn’t know them, but Leon kisses your forehead anyway.
His digits pump in and out lazily as he watches you tremble. Leon can’t know how smitten he looks. “Easy,” He murmurs to your heavy eyelids, your slack jaw, the sharp breaths from your nose. He pushes words out of his mouth mostly for your sake. “So, so beautiful when I keep you there.”
He’s ogling your face with his eyes crossed. The bullshit metaphors about his eyes started when you pointed out his tendency to stare: it was somehow more prominent during sex – you stopped yourself when you said this, frowning at your own words. Before, during, after. Leon’s eyes were always on you, unless the situation didn’t allow it.
In one of his anticlimactic streaks, Leon had been looking for your underwear in between the sheets and apologising in advance in case he had somehow kicked it off the bed. Your words had made him pause, stare at you again.
He never considered himself one for staring. Looking, yes – who would blame him for looking at something pretty? But he prided himself as discreet, especially in his later years, using that learnt composure to his advantage. He had to learn to see his glass half full, so he embraced the new set of social skills. Frequently, Leon wonders what the 21 year old rookie thinks about all of this.
You had stared back, lazily cuddled into a pillow since he was too busy to replace it. Yours had been simply an observation, an absent-minded comment. Chatting in the afterglow came naturally, yet Leon felt scrutinized.
How was he supposed to explain you knocked the air out his lungs without sounding insane? That he grew confused when you leaned back from kisses – thinking he did something wrong – because there was no need for air when he was consuming you.
He could count the droplets of sweat that slithered down your neck when he kept teasing, remember the scent without needing to burrow his face in the damp back of your head – he’ll do it later, glue himself to your back while you drift off to sleep and he uses your presence to ground himself.
You hadn’t asked, but Leon saw it between the lines: ‘Why do you stare at me so much?’ And he held many answers, but not the words to explain them. Wouldn’t you think of him as weird if he said every change of your expression made his head spin, heart racing with the delirious thought that they were just for him, for the bliss only he gives you? That when he was close enough to see the lines and spots of your skin, he wished his brain could remember them forever?
That could freak you out. If you knew how he truly adored you – Christ, you might insist on loving him back, give up on protecting your heart and then corner him with a serious conversation.
The edges of your vision are blurred – blame the tears, blaming Leon never comes easy to you. He presses another peck to your forehead, denies himself of your mouth as punishment: again, maybe he likes tormenting himself. Leon doesn’t care about the answer when he has you like this.
He’s been cruel enough. Poor girl, you’re swallowing your mewls. Pretty nonetheless, biting down your lips, eyes struggling to stay on focus. If Leon could ask a moment to haunt him instead of memories, he’d pray for this. For you to live in his mind so vividly, held firmly on the edge by his hands. Selfish, selfish. His chest has a hollow pit that has learnt greed.
It’s torture to love you like this – carefully, in quiet corners, with the terror that a label might make you a target – when all he wishes is to take. You’d let him take, let him devour you whole and keep you safe in his ribcage – a cage nonetheless.
Leon knows love. And if you’d need more than the love he knows, he’d mold his poor excuse of a heart to your liking and shoulder everything that could wear you down. He’s strong enough – he has to be strong enough for you, at the very least. You would be safe. Yet no safer than not being his. How much would it take for his affection to turn into three circles on the back of your head?
He’s rocking into your thigh, no self-control. Leon feels the pit deepen for a moment, masks it with a quick swipe of his thumb on your clit. He’s a natural at fucking up, he’ll better fuck you just as good.
Oblivious to the storm in his dull skull, the sudden friction has you jumping again. “Ah–!” You squeal just as he restarts fingering you at a ruthless pace.
(‘Unbecoming of him,’ the lucid part of your brain thinks. ‘He’s getting sloppy at hiding his thoughts with actions.’ Why do you notice them more easily in bed?)
“Leon,” You gasp, snapped into pleasure once more. “Leon, fuck, I’m–”
“Let me in, baby, let me see you, come on,” He interrupts almost deliriously, his hips rutting into your thigh. He sounds drunk, and he might as well be. His brain is dizzy with the image of you. “Just a bit more–”
Uncaring of his weird fixation for staring, you yank him by the hair and pull him in a kiss – swallowing the moan from the sting at his roots.
It’s just like your first kiss – built on urges, the both of you turning your brains off for once. Leon’s all bumping noses and pressing you down as if that could make his tongue reach down your throat, almost as if he’s trying to crawl inside of you. To live inside your skin, nestled in the lumps in your throat and the beats your heart skips. He is so much bigger than you, each muscle a weapon, but he now wishes to be small enough to be cradled. Just for a while, at least.
His hips rut into your thigh unceremoniously and without care. It’s a careless chase for friction, all his focus split between fingering you senseless and kissing the orgasm out of your mouth.
And don’t you feel so heavenly when you finally come. Leon wonders if it feels the way it does for him, a knot being undone by a rush of ecstasy. He hopes it is, and hopes no one unties it better than him. Your walls clench and flutter, the nasty sound of mouths smacking together interrupted by a broken gasp.
Leon steals it and swallows as if that’d send the precious thing down his chest, the pit welcoming it for safekeeping. Your hips stutter irregularly as he struggles to let you go, tempted to push you the other way after denying you thrice.
But you shake your head, escape his mouth and arch away as if to sink in the mattress. Leon’s fingers stop gently – so do his hips. It feels wrong to not share pleasure, even if the sloppy rutting was not enough to make him come with you. Leon almost wants to apologise.
Hard to when you’re glowing. His stare comes back, fixed on your bruised chest as it heaves up and down while you catch your breath. Leon, unbothered by the kissing as always, almost wants to ask if you used to smoke and that explains the shitty lung capacity. Or maybe he just takes your breath away. Unlikely.
He’s settled against you, watchful. Leon remembers how to speak, the quiet part of him replaced by his caring nature. “Still in one piece?”
You nod with a little laugh, almost sheepish. You’re a mess and he seems barely affected – your ego would be hurt if you didn’t know better.
Leon nods, coming back to himself, walls and all – and the strange need for proximity, tenderness’ side effect. His cheek presses down against yours like a clingy dog and you use the fingers still at his nape to pet his hair. Leon hums – you even feel him smile against your face, nuzzle your skin as if it could bring you closer.
It makes you scratch his scalp with intent. Whatever your baby needs. “If I said I wanted to be in trouble, what exactly would you have done? At this point I’m scared of an actually mean Leon.”
His turn to laugh with a breathy huff. It lands on your nose and tickles your nostrils. “Dunno. It’s pretty hard to be mean when you start saying please.”
“Ah, is it? I’ll keep that in mind, then.”
Leon snickers at that, pressing down as if to squash you into the pillow – and, most importantly, make you giggle again. “Behave, you. You still owe me those fifteen minutes.”
You tilt your leg to nudge his foot just because, but the movement causes your thigh to rub against his hard-on. Leon can’t help a whimper and he’s lucky you’re nice.
Well, not nice enough to pretend you didn’t notice. You hum, and Leon has to squeeze you still when you try to turn your face to his.
“Stop it. We are cuddling.”
“You’re squishing me, mind you. And you’re still hard. You didn’t come?”
It’s cute how you almost sound sad for him. Everything about you is cute, Leon realizes. He didn’t know he was a sucker for sweet things. He rubs his cheek against yours again: “Mhm, don’t worry, honey. ‘M not done with you yet.”
Leon hears a mumbled ‘no shit’ that makes him smile again. Since you share the stubborn streak when you aren’t fucking, you tilt your leg again to give him some friction. “Come on, let me take care of you for once.”
He bites his lips to stop another whimper. His cock twitches pathetically at the little bit of attention, but Leon doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be taken care of. It’d be easy to let you turn around, paw at his sweatpants and push his boxers just enough to free his erection. He would keep his face glued to yours, moan in your mouth and plead for you to kiss him quiet.
Maybe he’d ask you to deny him like he denies you, make him beg and let his eyes dampen with tears. When he comes, quick and messy, he’d lick himself off your fingers and slur over his post-orgasm ‘I love you’s and you’d pepper kisses on his fucked out face.
It’d be easy. But Leon doesn’t know anything easy that doesn’t come with a price. A little lightbulb lights in his brain – maybe that’s why he’s scared to talk things through with you. Or is that the only reason?
Your voice drags him out of his fantasies – and it hurts a bit when Leon knows you wouldn’t have spoken if you knew he was thinking of bliss.
“What do you need, Lee?”
Being in your cunt, hopefully dying in it. May the same God that sent you to him struck him with a heart attack so he dies deep in his ecstasy. In your arms would be fine, too, but the throb in his pants makes him demanding and filthy.
Leon looks down at himself and his arousal stares back. Sinking into you, maybe rolling you on your stomach and holding you in a loose headlock, whimpering his affections in your ear. But he’d miss kissing you – you never like twisting your neck and the number of kisses he needs always causes it to ache.
You tap his jaw innocently, his expression harder to read now that you aren’t both weakened by incoming orgasms. Leon nuzzles in your palm like pets do, and thinks being a pet would be easier.
You ask your question again, but he shakes his head, indecisive. He knows everything when it comes to you, nothing when it draws down to him. It’s easier to reduce this as a matter of ‘what position to fuck you in.’
He misses the warmth of your hand when he leans away, kneeling between your legs instead. “Just you. Forgot to mention, I didn’t have dinner yet.”
You kick his back lightly after he guides your ankles on his shoulders with a grin. Call him corny all you want. What he does need is seeing you once more.
Just once. Maybe if he looks harder, he’ll know what to choose. And say, too.
i have: a headache. sorry for the drop in quality i haven't touched a book or google docs in months
There's not much of a height difference between you and Leon, and he's perfectlyyyyy okay with that...
#I'm 5'9 so this is kind of self-indulgent but whatever #leon is 5'11 and that's okay #I love my average height king #men over 6'2 scare me anyway
taglist: @cakeofhorrors @rainyxie@venus-in-roses
Leon was many things. He was as strong as an ox, with muscles so taut and bulging it seemed almost impossibly uncomfortable to exist in his own skin. And he was honorable–the way he would put his own life before anyone else’s was what drew you to him in the first place. You have spent your entire career around special agents like him, people who are hand-picked by the government based on certain inimitable traits, their heroism or sense of undying patriotism, so you’re not unaccustomed to such duty in a person. But he was still exceptionally special in that regard. And the man was handsome, like Old Hollywood, silver-screen, stop-you-in-your-tracks handsome, with a dimpled chin, a regal jaw, and a straight nose with just the slightest bump that gave it character.
Yes, Leon was many things, but he wasn’t especially tall, not by today’s standards at least, and not compared to you. At five-foot-eleven, he hovered just a mere half-inch over your above-average frame, and sometimes when he was tired from a mission, or his back was hurting, he’d forget to stand up straight, and slouch a bit beneath you.
And he didn't mind that you were tall unlike some of the other–weaker–men you had dated in the past. In fact, he reveled in it, always making comments about how much of a woman you were, how much he loved the length of your legs, your arms as they wrapped around him. He wasn’t shy about how much he loved to show you off, always encouraging you to wear heels that placed you above him. Much easier to worship you that way, he thought.
Over the years, your job hasn’t been kind to your feet, and it takes a special occasion to make you put on a pair of stilettos. Lucky for Leon, a night out on the town to celebrate your wedding anniversary did just that.
“Fuck me,” he groaned to himself, turning on the heel of his dress shoe to see you, walking out of the closet in an outfit he believes must have been tailored especially to your every dip and curve, and in a pair of shoes that placed you like a goddess or an amazon above him.
He immediately stepped toward you, framing your waist with his hands as he pulled you into him.
“How do I look?”
Did you even have to ask? Could you not have made an assumption based on the hunger you saw dripping from the glistening whites of his eyes, the way his pupils were blown, eclipsing the pelagic blue of his irises.
“Gorgeous.”
His gaze dropped down your form as though to survey the altered dimensions of your body.
Then, he dropped to his knees, his face now perfectly level with your pussy. As he worked his fingers up the skirt of your dress, you reminded him of the reservation he had made months in advance at a restaurant the two of you had been dying to try. There just wasn’t enough time to fool around.
“I’ll be quick,” he promised, tongue lapping at your clit through the lace of your panties. You shuddered, hands immediately going to the soft strands of his hair, tugging and pulling, then falling to his shoulders to find something hard and stable to tether you to the earth.
Leon, in fact, wasn’t quick, and the two of you were late to your dinner reservation, but how could he pass up the chance to eat you out when those shoes made your pussy the perfect height for his tongue?
in which leon kennedy tries his best to get out of paperwork
(re9!leon x f!reader)
cw: sfw, but very suggestive
“What’s goin’ on?”
He takes up your doorframe, one arm braced against it, leaning in with the ease of someone just passing through. His eyes find you, then Mike—the resident bane of the office—in front of you.
Too casual, too controlled.
Like he’d already decided how this ends before he hit the door.
Mike, clenching his jaw hard enough to crack teeth, must sense it, too, because when he looks back, he does a double take.
His gaze slips to you, jaw slackening, bravery fizzling under Leon’s presence at his six.
Figures.
You answer for him. A sharp bite.
“Nothing. He was just on his way out.”
He doesn’t argue.
Instead, he compresses himself through the doorway, Leon’s gaze boring into him as he pointedly stares anywhere else. His boot catches on something—Leon’s foot—and his breath hitches as he glances back before stumbling away, muttering.
Leon closes the door. Not enough to echo, but more forceful than necessary.
You stare at him, then busy yourself with your computer.
“You didn’t need to do that.” You slam the spacebar. “I can handle him.”
He huffs, sinking heavily into the chair in front of your desk, hands folding over his stomach as he reclines. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“Then don’t come charging in here like that. People will talk.”
A quiet laugh leaves him as he swivels the chair back and forth. “And they don’t already?”
You tut, shaking your head.
“You're gorgeous when you’re angry, by the way.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, all warmth and fondness. “Can’t stop staring at ‘cha.”
Bastard.
You can’t help your smile, glancing at him sidelong and drumming your fingers along your keyboard.
“Don’t you have something to do?”
He rolls the chair forward, bringing an elbow to your desk to rest his chin atop a fist.
“Stopping by in the middle of you reaming into everyone's favorite was on my to-do list.”
You flick him on the nose.
He snatches your hand, trapping it against his cheek.
“Wanna make out?”
You snort and yank your hand back. “You’re three seconds from Mike part two if you don’t leave me alone.”
He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh no, can't have that.”
He stands and meanders around the desk, slow, deliberate—giving you plenty of time to glare at him.
Never mind the twitch of your lips betraying you completely.
He drops to his knees in front of you, hands coming to your waist to stroke gingerly up and down.
Your brow hikes upward.
His grin widens.
“Leon,” you mutter, pushing loosely against his chest.
“Yes ma’am?”
“Stop. We’re at work.”
He hums. “I’m not doing anything.”
He edges a finger into your waistband and snaps it against your hip. You huff, planting your palms on his cheeks, smushing them once.
“Leon Scott.”
His brows lift at the middle name. You ignore them.
“I’m busy, you’re supposed to be busy…”
God, his stupid eyes.
You bite your lip at the softness in them, too close now to resist. He takes it as an invitation, closing the distance and capturing your mouth with his. His arms snake around your waist, scooting you forward so that he’s between your knees.
You sigh into the kiss. Involuntary.
He matches it, his tongue edging into your mouth.
“Okay.” You push a finger against his lips. “That's enough.”
He only stares, amused and slightly miffed.
You roll your eyes, shaking your head, and bring your forehead to his.
“We. Are. At. Work.” Each syllable accompanies a light bump of your head against his.
“I’m aware.” He kneads the curve of your ass, aiming for your lips again.
You smile and lean back despite his arms heeling you. Your fingers walk under his chin, edging the stubble there.
“Look. The sooner we finish here—“
“Yeah, I’d like to finish here,” he interrupts, deadpan.
You slap his shoulder. “Listen. I was going to say, the sooner we finish here, the sooner we can continue this,” you run your thumb along his lower lip, “at home.”
He groans, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
You laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Oh god. Where’s my camera. The Leon Kennedy on his knees, begging? Nobody’ll believe me.”
He only plunks facedown into your lap, grumbling something that vibrates against your skin.
Your fingers comb through his hair, twisting the strands into small ringlets. “What? Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
He turns just enough to free his mouth from the fold of your thigh.
“Please don’t make me write another goddamn report today.”
a/n: sorry to any mikes out there. ily. *edited to include the last of it that was very rudely cut off by tumblr :)))
based on this request--to my requester, I hope I was able to breathe life into your fantasy, thank you so much for stopping by :)
a/n: I'm finally getting back into the groove of writing. tried to keep this short and sweet, I know my drabbles have been anything but recently. anyway...please enjoy and know that my inbox is always open if you have a wicked idea you'd like me to explore
It wasn’t long into your relationship with Leon that things started to get physical. One look at the man with the dress shirt he begrudgingly wore to work with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, or those suit pants that contoured his form a little too perfectly, and you were ready to pounce like a tiger on its prey. All it took was one movie night at your apartment where the two of you were snuggled up like bugs in a rug on the sofa, sharing the warmth of one blanket to keep the winter chill seeping through the windows at bay.
A round of sharing each other’s saliva, hands roaming past the point of no return, and a clumsy trek into the bedroom on shaky legs. Things were bound to proceed as hot and heavy as they began.
After stripping you down to your underwear, Leon gently nudged you onto the bed, and your lips immediately missed the warmth and softness of his own as he stood above you just to sink down onto his knees a moment later to pull down your panties. With his hands on either of your thighs, he drove them apart, and then he took a second to manually adjust your hips on the edge of the mattress, setting you into place for him to begin his ministrations.
He started with a long lick from the bottom of your entrance all the way up to your clit, the bud pulsing in anticipation. His tongue laid flat against it as he continued to lap like a kitten at a bowl of milk, small, gentle strokes to warm you up.
Then, when he was satisfied with how wet you had gotten beneath him, how your hips were jolting, your body writhing like a live wire, he began to eat.
You had never experienced a man who lived up to the name of the act, devouring your pussy like it was his last meal on earth and he had to make every drop count. He did it with such a ferocious hunger, you were certain it was more for his pleasure than your own.
He started by sliding his down your folds, licking the nerves on either side of your clit in between hungry licks at your seam. It made your body jerk, and your abdomen tense. Groaning against your pussy, he stuck the tip of the muscle past your entrance, tonguing your insides as if testing to see how far he could go. The sensation was euphoric, and your climax was nigh and fast-approaching.
Early into your relationship, you were worried how this would go. With every man before Leon, it would take hours for you to finish, if you did at all. Even by yourself, with your own fingers, or the help of a battery-powered friend, your orgasm was as elusive as a butterfly, always out of arm’s reach.
Whether Leon was experienced or whether it was written into his biology to know exactly which buttons to press, which spot to lick, you didn’t care. Just as long as he didn’t stop.
And he didn’t.
He continued to consume you after your first, second, and third climax, his tongue far from worn, his mouth far from tired.
“Leon,” you whined, clawing at the sinew of his shoulderblades through the fabric of his t-shirt. Your fingers dug into his skin, pulled at his hair; you pleaded for some reprieve, though he didn’t overlook the lack of surety in your voice, and continued to work. The moans that escaped your throat were like the sound of a flare gun at the starting line of a race.
In turn, the sounds he made against your pussy pushed you over the edge…yet again, until you were screaming out his name, and you felt as though you could either fall through the layers of cotton and fluff in the mattress, or ascend to the heavens to live among the stars behind your eyes.
After the waterworks of your last orgasm, you were probably drowning the man, though you’re certain, by the way he’s been dining on you for the last hour, he wouldn’t mind dying a hero’s between your legs.
He retreated, an obscene sheen of sweat and arousal painted across his chin and mouth. His chest heaved with each labored breath he sucked in, his shoulders consequently rising and falling. Strands of dark blonde hair were sticking up in all directions, a tousled mess at your own hands. Surely he was done, you thought. That is, until he wiped away the moisture on his face with his forearm and lunged past you onto the mattress, his head propped up by a pillow, hands expectantly grasped on his abdomen.
“Sit on my face,” he said, with a smile as big as the moon.
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