Summary: Leon is a worker at CyberLife tasked to test your peformance as a sex bot.
Here is a link to the nsfw audio accompanying this one shot, but i will also link to it further down during the story again, so you know exactly which scene it depicts 🔉
Note: for those of you unfamiliar with Detroit: Become Human lore, here's a short (and probably shit) explanation of the LED light each android has on their temple to give fic context
red light commonly happens when androids start to become 'deviant' a.k.a gain consciousness, and that is often as a result of a deep emotional experience
word count: almost 1.8k, i know it's short but the audio did take me hours to make and this was meant to be a drabble anyway 💀
CW warnings will contain spoilers.
CW: nsfw, objectification, dehumanization, dubious consent (she's an android so she can't really consent), groping, vaginal fingering, spitting, blowjob/oral, deep throating, cum ingestion.
You are the newest addition in the line of the sex toy industry, a hyper realistic android whose entire purpose is to serve humankind as sexual relief.
Today is the first day you have been turned on since early manufacturing tests, because today you are undergoing quality control before being displayed at a store sometime soon.
Standing completely naked in the middle of a sterile, gray walled room, the only furniture around is a single metal chair with a small table beside it, and a twin sized cot bed pushed against the corner.
The small ring of LED light at your temple shines blue while you wait as instructed, not moving a muscle. Then, the door slides open and a man in a short sleeved, charcoal colored jumpsuit walks in, sporting the CyberLife company logo on his breast pocket.
His dark blonde hair is pushed back to reveal an attractive face, or at least that's what you would assume most humans would think according to your knowledge on common beauty standards.
He doesn't look in your direction as he walks up to you, his eyes focused on a tablet he’s holding in a gloved hand, a look of concentration on his features.
“WR400 Traci Unit, model number 24R-7706?” he asks without lifting his gaze from the screen.
“Yes.”
Your response is immediate, voice steady and measured—you’re ready for whatever might be required of you.
The man taps the device a couple of times with his fingers, before finally lifting his gaze to meet yours with ice blue eyes.
“I’m Leon, I will be your handler today.”
“Nice to meet you, Leon.”
He gives you a casual nod, before setting the tablet on the metal table and causing a clink. He then removes his worker gloves one by one, placing them down with a silent thump.
Turning back to look you up and down, he takes in your appearance, your whole body completely exposed to him as he inspects it.
He steps closer, his focused gaze tracing your facial features for anything out of place, then his eyes drop to your lips.
“Open your mouth.”
You comply with his request without question, and you remain silent while he examines your teeth and tongue, even lifting the slick muscle to show him the underside of it.
Seemingly satisfied, he steps back then orders you again with a neutral tone.
“Turn around.”
You immediately do as told, facing the wall while he continues to observe you silently.
Two hands on your hips make you startle slightly—something you’ve been designed to do to deliver the thrill of illiciting a surprised reaction to the consumer.
Leon doesn't say anything, instead he slides a palm lower, groping your ass cheeks one by one, making a small ‘hm’ of contentment when he finds them adequate enough.
Without asking, he spins you around to face him again, his gaze focused down on your moving legs while you stare back at him curiously.
His hands move up to fondle your breasts without warning, squeezing the soft flesh and twisting your nipples while you moan softly, the electronic receptors on your manufactured skin activating with a tingle.
He nods again to himself, seemingly satisfied with the test so far.
“Spread out.”
As you do, moving to plant your bare feet wider, his right hand cups your pussy, giving it a testing squeeze, before he crouches down to examine you better.
Leon spreads your labia with his thumbs to take a better look at your inner folds with the same detached expression a mechanic would have while inspecting an average motor. Though, there is a growing bulge at his groin as his digit brushes your made-to-be-sensitive clit.
Every sound you’re coded to produce only spurs him on to continue his observation, probing a finger inside your tight, artificial cunt.
“What's your lubricant reservoir level?” he looks up at you while continuing to feel your hole.
“64%”
At that, he straightens back up with a nod, then steps to the table to input gathered information onto the tablet while muttering something to himself about a 'lubricant refill.’
“There's only enough time for an oral test today.”
“Okay.”
“You'll start with demonstrating your skills and then I’ll take over to test your throat. All clear?”
“All clear.”
“Knees,” he orders as he turns back to you, uttering the single word sentence in a nonchalant tone as he begins to unzip his jumpsuit.
You obey instantly, the synthetic skin of your legs coming into contact with the cold floor as you kneel in front of him, your hands flat on your thighs.
You watch him silently as his chest is revealed, the zipper sliding down with a sharp sound that fills the silent room. He continues lowering it until it reaches his crotch, exposing the black boxer briefs he’s wearing underneath.
Without hesitation, Leon lowers the elastic band of his underwear to take out his semi formed erection, then proceeds to jerk himself to full hardness while watching you like the pornographic sight you’re designed to be.
Once his veiny cock is ready, he steps back to sit on the chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and spreading his legs wider in a relaxed position.
🔉🔉🔉.
You crawl to him dutifully without being asked, until you’re settled between his thighs, waiting for permission.
“Come on,” he ushers you to move, a slight hint of impatience in his otherwise neutral tone.
That is all you need to lean in and take his cockhead in your mouth, making him release a low grunt at the contact.
You bring a hand to hold his base to jerk him at the same time to optimize stimulation, but notice the glide is too dry. So, your software quickly works to find a solution, the ring at your temple flashing yellow until you land on a fix. You spit on his veiny length to glisten it—saliva being a resourceful fluid in times of intercourse.
He groans, his hips jerking slightly from the movement, before relaxing again as he intently keeps his eyes on you while the LED turns back to blue.
You use every technique you’ve been programmed to perform. You lick and kiss his heavy cock from base to tip, then slurp the head and suckle it into your lifelike mouth as your artificial tongue wets his skin.
Leon doesn't say anything to praise you, but he doesn't hold back on making approving sounds either. Your bionic eyes track each one of his reactions to ensure you're delivering optimal results. Every scrunch of his eyebrows, every grunt, every hitch of his breath, only spur you to continue pleasing him as the ideal man serving-machine you were made to be.
You decide to deepthroat him next, bobbing your head forward and taking him in as much as you can while your throat chokes around his tip. It’s a deliberate design choice to make the experience as realistic as can be. You know you can turn the gag reflex on or off depending on what the situation calls for.
Leaving it on for now seems to be the right choice, however, as the blonde man grunts again in approval, his hips twitching.
Retreating your head back, you use your hand once more to stroke his dick while kissing his veins, before deep throating him again. You keep alternating between the different motions, eliciting more and more positive reactions from him, until you choose to focus on demonstrating more of your throat abilities. So, you spit on his throbbing cock once again to facilitate the procedure and ensure ideal delivery.
Gagging a couple of more times to his satisfaction, you finally turn off the gag reflex option seamlessly, the change happening inside your software. Then, you use your throat as a cocksleeve to take him deep repeatedly.
Leon stops you though, gripping your head with two hands to pull you off him. He doesn't say anything as he shuffles to stand up over you, his eyes never leaving your face when he positions you to take him in your mouth again.
Keeping your jaw slack, you stay completely still, pliant and submissive as he digs his fingers in your scalp and begins to fuck your throat hard and fast with a low grunt.
He doesn't have to ease you into it, or pause to make sure you’re breathing, or even ask if you're okay with the act in the first place. No, he simply thrusts into your open mouth, pushing past your man-made epiglottis without a care.
“Fuck…” he finally speaks, seemingly unable to contain the curse word as he uses you like a literal fucktoy.
All you can do is watch him with wide eyes, the hair at the base of his cock tickling your nose, the muscles of his abs rippling with every movement, and the sweat beading on his temples wetting his golden strands.
Your machine of a brain thinks he looks beautiful.
His movements grow faster, jerkier—not even noticing the ring flashing yellow again next to your right eyebrow—as the growls that slip past his lips are made of pure delight, nearing closer and closer to release.
Finally, with animalistic sounds that highlight the difference between man and machine, his cock shoots spurt after spurt of creamy cum down your synthetic throat. Only then does he stop moving, letting out a final grunt before pulling out of your mouth, the muscles of his biceps relaxing after the strenuous exercise.
He watches you, his chest heaving, as you start to lick and slurp every remaining drop of semen off his spent dick, not even needing a second to recover despite the brutal throatfucking you’ve just endured.
Steadying his breathing with deep exhales, he expresses his satisfaction at your performance in simple terms.
“Okay…” he nods, looking down at you like the useful piece of equipment you are. “You good.”
Without another word, he tucks himself back into his boxer briefs, then zips up his jumpsuit before checking his watch—he has a busy schedule.
Leon steps to the table and grabs his earlier set down device and gloves, inputting collected information silently as he begins to walk to the door.
“Someone will come collect you to put you into sleep mode,” he mutters, not sparing you a glance as he puts on his worker gloves that match his clothes in color. “Oh, and you can stand now.”
With that, he walks out of the room, the sliding door shutting behind him with an electronic swoosh.
As you pull yourself back up to your feet, your eyes stay trained on the spot he disappeared from, the circle of light on your temple flickering red for a split second.
This is a reupload because I had this posted in 4 different parts, and now that feels a bit stupid, so I instead combined it all into a single one shot. If you still want to read it in parts, here's a link to that.
Summary: One word. Clones. 'Nuff said.
Alright, alright, I'm kidding. Basically you convince your jealous husband to get a temporary clone to get freaky, and so filthy, nasty, possessive sex ensues, but also FLUFF and an attempt at leonic humor.
["Holy fuck..." you mutter under your breath as your brain short circuits, taking in the sight of the carbon copy of Leon, from the color of his eyes, to the timber of his voice, to the width of his shoulders, to the very mole on his neck. He's a perfect replica.]
"Remind me why this is a good idea again?" Leon sighs as he leans to look past your shoulder at the screen, squinting his eyes in suspicion.
"Honestly, it might not be, but it's too late to back out now anyway," you retort teasingly, leaning back in your desk chair.
You're both staring at the computer screen with a mix of excitement and horror—definitely more horror on his end—as you read the order confirmation email on the screen.
— — — — — — — — —
Subject: Order Confirmation #K073177
Thank you for choosing Radames Labs! We have received your request and your order is being processed.
Order Summary:
Item: Temporary Male Clone
DNA Sample: Received and verified
Quantity: 1 Duplicate
Activation Window: 12 hours from initial deployment
What happens next:
1. Your DNA sample is currently being sequenced.
2. Your clone will enter rapid-growth incubation shortly.
3. You will receive a notification once your clone has shipped from your nearest facility and is out for deployment.
Estimated Delivery:
Please allow 1–3 business days for sequencing and shipping to be completed.
Important:
The clone will be aware of its nature and it will have the same memories of the original DNA holder up until the time of sample collection.
In order to tell the original apart from clone copies, please look for the barcode printed on the clone's nape matching your user account number.
At the end of the activation window, clones will undergo standardized biological decommissioning.
For best results, please keep the clone hydrated and avoid exposure to extreme stress during the activation window.
You can view your order status or manage your clone at any time in Your Orders.
Trouble with your order? Please contact customer service for any questions.
— Radames Bioengineering Labs Team
Innovations for your holy body.
— — — — — — — — —
"Jesus, they print them out quick. I would've expected at least a week," Leon mutters, a frown apparent on his face.
"I think it's because we live close to one of their labs," you shrug, "we'll see if it gets here as fast as they claim."
He sighs again before straightening up, "I can't believe I agreed to do this."
"Oh, come on, it'll be fun! Plus, it's just for 12 hours before it deactivates,"
"What does that even mean? Does it just fucking die?" he scoffs as he makes his way to the bed, stepping out of his sweatpants in the process.
You turn off the computer and stand off the chair to join him on the opposite side, "well, on the website it says that it'll sort of just turn into dust and disappear?"
Leon rolls his eyes before peeling back the covers to settle in bed, "and I thought I'd seen everything."
You lay on your side of the bed, shifting to get comfortable, "the point is, it's temporary. It's not like we've signed up for some throuple situation. It, or should I say he, will come hang out for half a day and then disappear to never be seen again. That's all."
"Hang out my ass," he quips with another scoff before reaching to pull you closer and bury his face in your neck, making you giggle. "This is what I get for marrying a sexy little freak. And fine, we can 'hang out' with it—or him—or whatever the fuck—but I swear to God, honey, if you end up liking him more than me I will shoot the bastard. Deactivation or not."
You grin, happy to see him come around, and then pinch his arm playfully, "so that's what the pouting is all about. You're just getting jealous. Already."
"Pfft... Yeah, fine. And what about it? Can you blame me for worrying that some asshole—clone or not—might come around to whisk my little wife away from me?" he grumbles against your neck, his grip tightening a bit more around you.
"Right... And I'm assuming I've suffered extensive brain damage in this imaginary scenario because apparently I can't make my own decisions?"
"That's not what I said!"
"Then what are you saying? Because all I know is that I married you, and I'm not about to run off into the arms of another man, even if he looks and sounds exactly you," you gently grab his head to tilt his face to look at you, "there's only one Leon Kennedy in the world for me and he's currently in my arms."
Leon gives you a small smile and leans to rest his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, "I just worry that one day you'll grow sick of me and all of my, uh... baggage."
You exhale sharply through your nose and grip his face a bit tighter, "baby, I want your baggage, because I sure as hell know I have mine too. I want every part of you, Leon."
You take in his vulnerable expression for a moment before adding in a lighter tone, "I mean, fuck, I just ordered a copy of you just so I can have two of you for a day. If that doesn't tell you how much I like you then I don't know what does."
His expression brightens and he chuckles softly, "yeah, alright I get it, you like me. Jeez," he teases.
Your smile widens before softening again, "and remember if at any point you don't wanna do this or you wanna stop midway through, we immediately stop, and I'm not gonna be upset at you for that, okay?"
He sighs in contentment, and you think to yourself that if he was an emoji he'd have hearts in place of his eyes, "okay."
He leans in to place a slow, gentle kiss on your lips before pulling back just to murmur, "I love you."
"I love you, Leon," you whisper back with a smile.
The next morning you wake up before Leon—a rare occurrence—and after freshening up, you decide to make him some breakfast on this lazy Sunday morning.
Thirty minutes later, while you're in the middle of cracking eggs into a bowl, you hear the light padding of bare feet on hardwood flooring and you turn to see a yawning, disheveled mess of a husband with the worst case of bed hair you'd seen on him in a while. He scratches his stomach lazily with a hand under his cotton tshirt, allowing you to catch a glimpse of his abs, before he walks up behind you and wraps his arms around your midsection, resting his chin on your shoulder.
"'Morning," he mumbles, voice groggy, eyes closing sleepily.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," you smile, planting a kiss on his cheek.
"Why're you up so early?" he keeps his eyes closed, frowning slightly.
"I don't know, I just kind of woke up and felt like being out of bed before you for once," you chuckle, turning your attention back to the bowl of eggs, picking up a fork to start whisking.
"Hmph... And you're making breakfast," he grumbles almost accusingly.
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No, I just wanted to cuddle first..."
You're about to answer with some teasing remark about his clinginess whenever he's sleepy, when the sound of the doorbell interrupts your thoughts.
Leon's eyes open slowly, "did you instacart at 7 in the morning?"
"No, but maybe it's a package? Though, I don't remember ordering anything recently. Plus, I always ask them to just leave stuff at the door," you pause, trying to remember any recent online shopping you may have inadvertently done when something comes to mind, "unless..."
"Unless?" he raises a quizzical eyebrow.
You set the fork down and wipe your hands in a paper towel before grabbing your phone off the counter. As soon as you unlock it a notification dings:
'Radames Labs: your order is here! Good news! Your order arrived earlier than expected, meet your clone at your door!'
Leon, who had peaked over your shoulder to see what you're doing, immediately stiffens, his eyes growing comically wide, "he's here?"
"Uh, seems like it?" you chuckle nervously.
Another ring at the doorbell has you pocketing your phone as you prepare to go open the door, but a hand around your wrist stops you.
"Wait, let me get dressed first!" he gestures to his bottom half clad only in boxer briefs.
"Honey, I'm pretty sure your clone, which is basically you, doesn't care if you're in your underwear—"
"It's the principle," he retorts instantly, "I can't have him first see me like this if i plan on having any kind of authority over him."
"Authority?" you ask skeptically, an amused smile spreading on your face.
"Yes, authority," he grumbles before pulling you behind him towards the bedroom.
"What are you—babe, we're not just gonna let him wait out there. You can get dressed while I go open the door?" you look at him in confusion.
Your comment is met by a sharp incredulous laugh, "and have you meet him alone without me? Seriously? Yeah, no fucking way."
He doesn't let you answer before he's already shutting the bedroom door behind you both and striding to the dresser. You cross your arms and watch as he picks out an outfit, clearly putting in way more thought into this than he'd like to let on, "babe..."
He starts stepping into a pair of jeans, "what?" he answers without turning.
"We don't have to do this... I can go on the app right now and cancel it and he'll leave."
Leon pauses in the middle of zipping up, "I never said anything about canceling. I just want to look put together before letting him inside, that's all," he answers a bit roughly, his still groggy voice making him sound more upset than he intends.
"Yeah, but you're... I don't know, you look like you're getting a bit nervous, and I don't wanna do this if you're not comfortable with it," you fiddle with the hem of your shirt anxiously.
He exhales, "baby, stop. If I didn't want this, I wouldn't have payed for it," his tone is reassuring as he reaches for a long sleeved top that he puts on quickly in place of the cotton tshirt, "plus, he can wait for five more minutes if I'm about to let him share my wife."
You sigh in defeat and wait for him to finish fixing his hair and brushing his teeth, while the doorbell rings yet another time, making you grow extra nervous at coming off rude to the 'guest'.
After what feels like an eternity, Leon at last announces he's ready and grabs your hand to walk you both out of the bedroom and down to the frontdoor.
You take in a shaky breath, feeling more nervous by the second and noticing that he's just as tense.
"Let me do the talking first," he mutters before finally, finally, opening the door.
The clone, who got tired of waiting, is leaning against the wall, company issued phone in hand, looking utterly bored as he mindlessly scrolls the screen. When the door opens, his attention snaps to the movement, standing up a bit straighter and adjusting his grey sweat set adorned with the orange 'Ramades Labs' logo on the left breast of his top.
"Took you long enough," he grumbles, looking between you both.
"Holy fuck..." you mutter under your breath as your brain short circuits, taking in the sight of the carbon copy of Leon, from the color of his eyes, to the timber of his voice, to the width of his shoulders, to the very mole on his neck. He's a perfect replica.
Leon, who's brain is bugging just as much as yours, quickly regains his composer when he remembers his mission: asserting dominance.
"We were busy. And no one told us you'd show up earlier than soccer moms on Black Friday 2006," he answers with a condescending smirk, proud of his little quip.
"What can I say, I like to make an entrance," the clone responds with the same mocking tone before he turns his attention to you with a flirty grin, "I expected you to still be sleeping, though. But good thing you're up, beautiful, it feels like i haven't seen you in ages. Getting cloned is trippy, I missed you, sweetheart," he steps closer, making your heart race.
"Oh, uh, I just woke up early today, I guess..." you answer nervously, feeling like an idiot when your face grows hot.
Leon's hold on your hand tightens before he forces himself to relax, "whatever, just come in," he tells the clone before turning around and pulling you with him, not caring one bit for hosting manners.
Leon's replica follows behind and shuts the door, removing his shoes just like Leon always does, before sniffing the air, "smells good. Were you cooking something, babe?" he asks you with that same flirty smile.
Leon rolls his eyes, "yeah, for me."
You clear your throat and let go of his hand to walk up to the kitchen counter where you had left off your breakfast preparations, "you're probably smelling the french toast. I was just about to make some eggs to go with it, and then we can all eat."
"Can't wait," the clone smiles wide, giving you a wink.
Leon, on the other hand, feels his left eye twitch, and he curses under his breath before turning to his copy, "alright, Romeo, sit down, we need to talk this out," he gestures to the kitchen stools.
They both sit, their mannerisms uncanny in their resemblance as you start cooking the scrambled eggs, stealing glances at them every so often as your brain still struggles to process that there's two of him now.
Leon eyes up the clone, his jaw tight, "first of all, I'm in charge. You don't do anything, especially not to her, without my permission."
The duplicate rests his chin in his hand, elbow on the kitchen island, looking every bit relaxed, "well, actually, she's in charge. I'd know. I'm you," he comments with a lazy grin.
You can't help but snicker at the comment, and Leon immediately shoots you a glare before turning his attention back to his double, "look here, buddy, you're here for a good time, not a long time, so unless you want us to cut this meeting even shorter, you'll do as I say and not cause us a headache."
The clone rolls his eyes, "yeah, whatever you say, old man. At least I don't have to be careful with my back every step I take."
Leon frowns even more, "what's that supposed to mean?"
"You didn't read the fine print, did you?" the duplicate chuckles, eyes lighting up with mischief, "you see, my freshly made body didn't have to go through all the bullshit you've been put under. I don't have back problems, my shoulder doesn't hurt if I move wrong, and unlike you, I haven't been an insomniac for years."
You notice the tension in Leon's demeanor increase tenfold, "so what, you're trying to insinuate you're a better version of me?"
The clone grins wider, "I mean, I didn't say that... You could just say I'm the improved upgrade. Like if I'm the remaster, you'd be the demo version, probably. But yeah, I guess that does make me better."
You interject before Leon says—or does—something rash by placing between them with a thud the food you kindly prepared, "time to eat, you two can argue later."
"Did you know about this?" Leon asks you, annoyance clear in his voice.
You move around the kitchen island to sit in the stool between them, hoping you can serve as a peace barrier before answering, "Uh, yeah? I don't see how it matters, though."
"It matters to me," he retorts, his grip tightening on the fork you hand him.
The clone picks up a plate from the tray and starts eating, completely uncaring of Leon's existential crisis, "this is so good. Thanks for breakfast, babe," he leans in to kiss your left cheek mischievously, making you sputter on your coffee at the feel of the familiar yet oddly foreign touch.
"Hey!" Leon glares at him over your head and places a possessive hand on your thigh, "I didn't say you could touch her yet."
You sigh in exasperation while the duplicate laughs, and you already know this is about to be a very long day.
"Can we please just eat in silence? Seriously," you whine and both of them are reluctant to agree, but for vastly different reasons.
You finish eating breakfast quietly, and once done, the clone clears the dishes without a word, moving to place them in the dishwasher. Though, you do notice the little smirk on his lips.
Leon scoffs under his breath and makes a show out of wiping the counter, putting in a bit more force than necessary.
At the sight of them both working in the kitchen, you can't help but smile fondly, "you know, I could get used to this."
"Yeah? You like seeing two of me slaving around for you?" Leon raises a teasing eyebrow, some of his tension dissipating at the sight of your smile
"Well, I wouldn't say no to an extra pair of hands," you grin and immediately catch the replica's smirk widening.
"Amen to that," the latter wipes his hands in a kitchen towel, walking around the island to stride over to you, catching you off guard.
But before he can reach you, Leon also strides over, a bit faster, and manages to yank you closer first, an arm wrapped securely around your waist, "what do you think you're doing?" he glares at his double.
The other Leon grins and continues to slowly walk closer, "getting the party started. You said it yourself, I'm here for a good time, not a long time," he reaches a hand to hold yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as he looks down at you, "if the wifey's okay with it, of course. This was your idea after all, right?"
You swallow hard, suddenly feeling heat course through your body and pool in your gut, "um, yeah... My idea."
Leon, notices the way you're already getting worked up and pushes aside some of his jealousy to move and press his body against your back, "and what a wicked idea that was," he teases, his hot breath in your ear making your pussy throb.
"Though, we all have to admit, it's not in the least bit surprising coming from my little fan," the duplicate chuckles darkly, lifting your arm up to place a kiss on the inside of your wrist.
Your breath catches in your throat and Leon bites your ear in retaliation, "my fan. I'm the one married to her."
"Technically, we both are," the clone nibbles your skin.
"Technically, you can shut the fuck up," Leon slides a hand to grope your right breast.
"I know we're the jealous type, mr. original flavor, but you're acting like a little bitch," the other's hand grabs your left tit.
Leon seethes, twisting your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt, making you whine, "you don't get to call me a bitch when you're the discount imitation of me."
"The upgrade," the clone cups your pussy through your leggings.
"The knockoff," Leon slaps your ass making you jolt.
At this point you can barely breathe, your pussy slick coating your panties as you find yourself in the middle of the ridiculous ego battle, "y-you're both acting like children!" you exclaim in a whiny voice.
Both of them scoff at you, the duplicate speaking out first, "well, you're the one who wanted two of me, maybe you should've thought that through, sweetheart."
Your eyes widen at his retort, and you turn to look at Leon past your shoulder, expecting him to come to your defense.
"Don't look at me. He's not exactly wrong, you know. You asked for this."
You're taken aback by the fact they've suddenly both turned on you, finally agreeing on something, and you can feel your heart race faster when the air in the room suddenly shifts.
Leon and his clone exchange a single look over your head, a silent agreement passing between them without the need for words—easy when they're the same person—and your clothes are suddenly getting wrenched off your body.
One pair of hands tears off your top, the other yanks down your leggings and panties down, a low groan resounding in the room at the way your bottoms catch on your figure, something about 'fat little thighs', but you're not even sure which one of them says it. You're left completely naked between them, shivering from nerves and excitement, your cunt growing wetter by the second.
Leon spins you to make you face him, reaching a hand to grip your jaw, "you're about to learn why only one of me is enough, princess," he mutters in a low voice before crashing his lips to yours, his fingers pressing on either side of your face to coax your jaw open and fuck his tongue into your mouth.
"Now we're talking," the clone grins and grabs your hips, pulling your ass back against him and kicking your legs open wider with his foot to slip a hand between them, fingers slowly circling your drippy hole.
You moan in Leon's mouth at the sensation, and he quickly joins with a hand of his own—ever the competitive—rubbing your needy clit just how he knows you like. He then pulls away from the kiss just to whisper against your mouth with a dark chuckle, "sweetheart, you're such a little slut."
His counterpart slides a finger in your clenching cunt, making you moan obscenely as he adds his own commentary, "buddy, this is the same bitch that sucked your dick on the first date, I'm not exactly surprised."
They both laugh and you whimper in a mix of pleasure and embarrassment, your hands moving to grab Leon for balance but his clone wrenches your arms behind your back as he adds another finger inside you, slowly fucking you open on his digits, "tightest fucking cunt, always takes work for it to open," he tsks.
Your upper body leans fully against Leon's chest now that your arms are useless, moaning against his shirt while he continues rubbing your clit, only stopping occasionally to give it condescending little taps, "it's like her pussy's so greedy it clamps up before it even gets a cock inside. Pathetic."
Your hands twitch behind your back in the clone's grip, your knees starting to feel weak and your wet hole clenching with every pump of his fingers: your body is on the verge of orgasm.
"Gonna c-cum," you announce in a pitiful whine, prompting Leon to grip your hair to tilt your head back to make you look at him.
"Already?" he scoffs mockingly.
The other Leon finger fucks you even faster, "already,” he answers in your place, a few more pumps of his digits paired with the original Leon’s incessant strokes and you’re cumming between them with breathless moans, nearly losing balance if it wasn't for the strong hands keeping you in place between hard bodies.
“Like a bitch in heat,” Leon shakes his head in mock disappointment, though he can't hide the smile on his face.
The clone retrieves his fingers out of you to bring them up to his mouth, making a show out of closing his eyes and humming at the taste before he grabs your jaw to make you look back at him past your shoulder, “I just realized I tasted your sweet pussy before your pretty mouth, and that simply won't do,” he murmurs before kissing you filthily, the hand holding your wrists letting go just to wrap around your waist and pull you back against him.
Leon watches for a moment, a mix of possessiveness and arousal warring inside him, so he does what any sane person would do if their spouse was making out with their clone: he drops to his knees to bury his face against your pulsing pussy.
The gasp that leaves your lips is instantly swallowed by the duplicate, his hands moving to grope and play with your tits, trying to keep your attention on him even as Leon tongue fucks you with his thumbs pulling your cunt open for easy access.
Your hands scramble for purchase before settling in both mops of dark blonde strands, though the one in Leon’s hair is quickly swatted away by his counterpart, prompting the original to pull his mouth away from your sopping pussy to glare up at him, “what the fuck?”
The clone breaks the kiss you were sharing just to look down at him with a wicked smile, “what? You get to be tongue first in her pussy, the least I can get is her attention.”
“I w-” you start but you're quickly interrupted by Leon, “stop sabotaging me, you fucker. You made her cum on your fingers, now it’s my turn.”
“No, we made her cum. You were touching her the whole time!” the other retorts.
Leon suddenly stands up, wrenching you flush against him, “damn right, I was touching her. She’s my wife.”
“She’s my wife too, dumbass,” the clone yanks you back against him.
“Like hell she is!” Leon pulls you to him once more, and in the middle of their childish quarreling, you find yourself getting somehow even more wet, a moan escaping your lips when you’re yanked back and forth like a toy.
Both of them suddenly pause their fighting, looking at you with a mix of surprise and amusement before Leon chuckles lowly and sighs, “of course she’s into it,” he tells the other man.
The latter grins in response, reaching around your body to slap your cunt with a wet sound, “maybe we should give the pretty lady what she wants, then. Keep fighting over her to show her just how bad we want her.”
“Sounds like a plan, asshole,” Leon grins back and grips your waist, lifting you off your feet suddenly just to plop you down on the couch. “You might have my DNA, but I can still fuck her better than you,” he announces before starting to unbutton his jeans. The sight makes your cunt quiver.
The clone scoffs, walking over to the couch to adjust your position until your back is against the armrest.
“We’ll see when it’ll be my turn to have that tight hole. For now, her mouth should keep me busy.”
Leon, even more annoyed now, finishes unzipping his jeans and lowering his boxer briefs just enough to let his cock spring free before settling between your legs on the couch, spreading them apart to watch your pussy glisten with strings of slick. “You ready, princess?” he asks, tone softer, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your thighs.
“Yeah… I’m ready,” you nod and watch as he taps his leaking cock on your clit, mixing his precum with your wetness.
“Good. Because it’s about time I remind this pretty pussy who she belongs to,” he rasps before notching his tip into your clenching hole, hissing at the feeling and making you gasp.
In the meantime, his clone stands next to the armrest, tilting your head back gently just to lean down and press his lips to yours in an upside down spiderman-type kiss, swallowing your moans as Leon drives his fat cock deeper and deeper, splitting you open.
When he pulls away from your mouth, the duplicate's eyes flicker to where your pussy is being stretched, watching Leon making you moan incessantly and he bites his bottom lip in envy. With a frustrated groan, he lowers his sweatpants and underwear, hard, leaking, identical cock standing free, and he pulls your head back further to rub his glistening tip against your parted, whiny lips, “so beautiful, baby. This might be the prettiest lip color on you.”
Leon scoffs at the sight, hips bucking roughly and bottoming out inside your weeping cunt, which causes you to open your mouth further to let out a loud cry, allowing the clone to slip his dick past your lips, a strong grip on either side of your face keeping your head tilted back.
He slowly starts fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts, your voice vibrating around his length as he tries not to make you gag—not yet at least.
However, the awkward position of having your back arched over the armrest and your pussy continuously getting filled causes you to choke on a gasp and gag around him despite his careful approach.
The clone huffs in amusement before glancing at Leon, “you know what that means, right?”
The latter, whose thrusts are getting gradually rougher and harder, looks at him with narrowed, suspicion-filled eyes, “what?”
“My dick’s bigger,” his double answers proudly, a shit eating grin on his face.
You suddenly yelp when Leon presses against the backs of your thighs to open them wider, slamming his hips so hard you scream around the cock stuffing your mouth.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Leon grunts, glaring at his counterpart.
The clone laughs and fucks your mouth faster too, his balls slapping against your nose in your awkward position, making you close your eyes reflexively as they tear up.
You realize you’ve been caught in a pissing contest with both men fucking you harder and harder just to one up each other. At some point they start removing their clothes too—to assert dominance? or maybe to show off? you're not sure, as they're built exactly the same.
“Listen to her. She sounds like she’s dying.”
And the clone’s right. Between the muffled screaming and choked gurgling, you sound like you’re on the verge of death, which is ironic considering you feel more alive than ever, every single sense activated.
“She always sounds like this with me,” Leon answers with a smirk before slapping your left tit, “right, honey?”
You can't answer, of course, not when your mouth is getting used and your throat fucked increasingly wider.
“Nah, I think it’s all for me. She’s swallowing me so good,” the other answers, placing a hand on your neck just to feel the way it bulges around his cock, “you’ve got the tightest little throatpussy, babe, fuck.”
“Or, maybe she just likes two cocks using her at the same time because she's a sweet little slut like that,” Leon feels you clench around him and he chuckles, pressing a hand against your mound and pulling it taut, adding a layer of pleasure to your already overly sensitive body by rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb.
It’s no wonder you cum so hard you start uncontrollably shaking, the muscles of your thighs and stomach spasming, your stifled screams and pulsating pussy making both men groan. It feels like your heart is about to stop—in the best way.
“Shit—” is all the warning you get before hot cum shoots down your throat, so deep you don't even taste it, your nose smothered by perfect replicas of Leon’s very balls.
“That was fast,” Leon mocks, still fucking you hard, grinning triumphantly like he won a medal for lasting longer than his copy.
“Shut up,” the latter answers as he finally pulls out of your mouth, making you gasp and sputter cum. He slowly lowers himself on his knees and rests your head on the crook of his shoulder so you’re both looking at Leon rearranging your insides while the clone gently caresses your hair, murmuring praises in your ear. “You did so good, sweetheart, you swallowed me whole like a good girl.”
You whimper and sniffle in response, your brain going haywire from the juxtaposition of being used and praised at the same time.
Leon, still wanting every bit of your attention, leans in to place kisses on your neck, “the best girl… God, princess, I don't know how I ever got so lucky.”
The tears that were caused by gagging on cock are now being produced by emotion, and you wrap your legs around him while you move a hand to curl in the duplicate’s locks, your heart feeling full.
“Leon…” you sob weakly, and it undoes him, his hips stuttering with a few final thrusts before he spills inside you, grunting low curses under his breath.
While Leon pants on top of you as he recovers from the high, his double still caresses your hair and whispers softly, “so perfect, so sweet… my baby,” he kisses the tears on your cheeks, “are you okay?”
You nod, letting out a small whimper when Leon pulls out of your cum leaking heat, “yeah, I'm okay…”
“Good,” Leon responds in place of his copy, and he readjusts you both so you’re laying on his side, on the couch, while he runs fingers up and down your arm gently, closing his eyes in contentment, feeling completely relaxed.
The sentiment doesn't last long, however, when the feeling of being watched prompts him to open his eyes, and he startles at the sight of the clone, standing over you both—looming—still very much naked.
“I wanna cuddle her too,” the duplicate grumbles.
Leon immediately scoffs in response, “there's not enough space,”
"Just move over!”
“I’m not moving over,” Leon shakes his head stubbornly and you’re about to intervene, again, when the clone suddenly goes quiet.
You think he finally gave up, but then, Leon looks at him with a warning glare, “don't even think about it!”
That earns a grin from the other man, “you know me so well.”
Suddenly, he’s splaying himself on top of you both, causing Leon to groan and you to giggle as he buries his face in your neck, a cheeky smile plastered on his face.
“For fuck’s sake…” Leon mutters, making an exaggerated grimace and pushing the duplicate’s arm away when it dares touch him.
“To be fair, I think this might be the best solution,” you laugh, hooking a leg over the clone’s.
“I don't expect you to be unbiased here,” Leon retorts.
“Is cuddling with yourself that bad, Kennedy?” his double teases.
“If your dick touches me I’ll twist it off.”
You laugh at the threat and reach out an arm to wrap around Leon’s neck, doing the same with his duplicate and bringing both their heads closer to yours, “fellas, is it gay to touch your own clone’s dick?”
That earns you dramatic groans from both men, their faces scrunching in the exact same adorable manner.
“Please never say that again.”
“I’d rather get deactivated early.”
You giggle some more, placing loud kisses on each of their cheeks, “I think it’s sweet.”
“Sweet? Not only is it incredibly weird, but how fucking narcissistic would I have to be to want to do that?”
“I mean, you could use some narcissism, if you ask me,” you mutter in response.
The two of them look at you with the same questioning look, “what’s that supposed to mean?” they ask in unison, making you laugh, and making them cringe.
“It means that I’d wish you’d love yourself a little more. Not necessarily in this weird context, but just in general… I wish you’d see yourself the way I see you.”
The silence that falls over the room after that is heavy, and you can tell they're both going through the same thought process—the excuses they come up with to indulge in self-criticism.
You sigh heavily and slither away from their embrace, leaving them confused on the sofa as you stand up and place your hands on your hips like a disappointed teacher.
“Alright, I wanna try something.”
With you gone from the cuddle puddle, they move to each sit on the opposite side of the couch, looking up at you with a mix of confusion and curiosity.
“What exactly?” Leon asks, crossing his arms.
Your eyes flicker between them as you divide your plan in your head before you walk back a couple of steps to sit on the coffee table, using it like a bench.
“We’re gonna do a confidence-building exercise.”
“Seriously?” the clone scoffs, mimicking Leon’s defensive posture.
“Yes, seriously. But no worries, I’ll make it sexy,” you grin, placing your hands on the wood under you and leaning your weight back on your palms.
“Okay?” Leon answers even more confused.
You let the silence stretch for a moment longer before finally speaking, “first, I’m gonna touch myself, and I want you both to do the same.”
They look at you surprised and you can tell Leon wants to say something, but his words catch in his throat when you spread your legs wide with a wet sound and your glistening pussy starts leaking the cum he pumped into you moments ago.
“Oh, fuck…” the duplicate groans and reaches a hand to grip his hardening cock.
Leon still resists for a moment, but when you reach down with your fingers to collect the mixture of cum and slick, just to bring it up to your mouth and suck on it obscenely, all control slips from him and he starts jerking himself off too, muttering a low, “fucking hell, honey…”
“Good boys,” you approve after pulling your digits out of your mouth with a wet pop, “now, you're going to stay put and watch me play with my pussy, no touching me until I say so.”
You reach down once again to tease your clit, rubbing little circles and letting out filthy whines, eyes flickering between both Leons steadily pumping their cocks.
You bite your lip, “babe, you’re so fucking sexy, I still can't believe you're letting me do this.”
Leon, the original, moans, “I’d do anything if it leads me here, princess. Fuck, look at that perfect pussy.”
“Prettiest little cunt I’ve ever seen,” the clone agrees, “I’d take a picture and frame it on my desk if I wasn't worried about people seeing it.”
A moan escapes you at the sound of that and Leon chuckles, “yeah, I’ve thought about that before.”
“I know,” his replica grins.
You whimper louder and take in a shaky breath, steadying yourself to get to the part you're looking forward to the most, “alright, I need you to do something for me… I need you to tell me what makes you so out of this world hot.”
Leon’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, his hand slowing down, “what?”
“Is that like a rhetorical question?” the manufactured Leon chimes in, mirroring his confused expression.
“No. It’s not rhetorical at all. I want you to tell me right now—list off everything that makes you so fuckable,” you answer deadpan.
Both of them stare at you with amused bafflement, turning to each other with a ‘you hearing this?’ look before the clone turns back to you with a chuckle, “I know you love complimenting me, sweetheart, but making me do it is something else... But, uh, if it makes you happy, I guess I’ll start… You always say I have a perfect body—the scars, the muscles, the veins on my arms... It gets you worked up.”
You nod in approval and notice Leon tightening his grip on his cock, his thumb dragging over the head, and you decide to direct your question at him, “mhm. What else?”
Feeling put on the spot, Leon takes a shaky breath before answering, “you like my face.”
“I love your face,” you correct him, your middle finger dipping into your sopping cunt, making both men grunt.
“You love my mouth, my eyes—how I look at you like I could eat you alive,” Leon continues, his voice growing rougher.
“You love to sit on my face,” the duplicate adds, “you love how I tongue fuck you just right until you’re creaming all over me.”
You moan and speed up the finger inside you, fucking Leon’s cum back out of you.
“Shit…” the latter rasps, his own hand speeding up when he notices how affected you are, “you love my hands—how rough they are, how they can hurt you or worship you depending on what you need.”
“You love that I can do both. It makes you fucking lose it when I go from begging for your touch to pounding your tight little pussy into the bed,” the clone groans, smearing his precum over his dick to ease up the glide.
“Fuck, yeah, keep going…” you moan, your eyes continuously flickering between them both, feeling like you might lose your mind from how insanely hot this is.
Leon’s eyes grow darker, a small smirk spreading on his lips when he suddenly spits on his cock crudely, making you moan, “you love how fucking filthy I can get, how I could make you cum just by talking in your ear, telling you exactly what kind of a dirty slut you are.”
“Or how much of a perfect girl you’re being,” the replica grins, his eyes flickering to Leon’s spit-glistened dick, “and you love my cock—how it stretches you–”
“How it splits your tight cunt open,” Leon interjects, his voice growing more and more wrecked, “how I fuck you with it so good it makes you actually cry–”
“How I shoot my load so deep in your little womb you stay leaking for hours, making that birth control work extra hard to keep me from breeding you,” the clone chimes back in, thrusting up to meet his fist as he gets close.
By now you’ve turned into a pathetic mess of whines and whimpers, bucking your hips into your own hand as your fingers move to rub your clit furiously, so close to orgasm you can taste it.
“S-so close…” you moan, “just need one more thing… Fuck—need you to look at each other.”
Their eyes widen at the same time, and you would laugh if you weren't on the brink of cumming.
With a frustrated groan, Leon turns first, his double following soon after, their eyes meeting as they continue pumping their leaking cocks—almost like jacking off in front of a mirror but so much worse.
“Didn't know you were into self-cest, sweetheart,” Leon comments without turning to you, his eyes flickering from his clone's face, down to his cock.
The other man moans, his own eyes raking over Leon, “fucking hell, this is…” his words trail off, unsure of how to describe the situation as feelings of embarrassment, frustration, and overwhelming arousal war inside him.
“Insane,” you finish the sentence for him with a whine, your orgasm hitting you like a truck and making you writhe on the coffee table, legs shaking as your eyes roll back.
Seeing you cum just from watching him jerk off to himself ruins Leon, and he’s cumming seconds later as his eyes keep switching between you and his clone, almost like an out of body experience.
And then, the duplicate climaxes too, whimpering while watching you both, messily spilling hot cum all over himself.
The room is then filled only with sounds of panting as the three of you regain your breaths, minds still reeling from whatever the fuck just happened.
Leon looks down at the mess of cum in his lap, and when his brain finally catches up with what just happened, he looks up at you with an unreadable look that sends a shiver down your spine.
“Come here,” his voice rumbles, tone commanding.
You look between him and the clone, who's also looking at you with a similarly neutral expression, before you stand up on shaky legs.
“No, bunny. Crawl.”
Air leaves your lungs at the sudden change in atmosphere, especially when he uses that petname, 'bunny', the one he uses when you're supposed to submit to him completely.
You barely hesitate before getting on your hands and knees to crawl over to him, coming to a stop between his spread legs with a racing heart.
Leon looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, “use your tongue and clean me up, then you’ll do the same for him. Got it?”
You nod and feel your pussy throb at the command, bringing your face closer to start ‘cleaning’ him obediently, the taste and smell of his cum permeating your senses.
Leon doesn't praise you, he doesn't call you a good girl or stroke your hair, he just watches you with cold eyes as your tongue collects every drop it can reach off his skin.
When you’re done, the clone reaches for you and grips you by the upper arm to make you kneel between his legs and serve him the same.
By the time you’re licking the last streaks of tepid semen off his abs, both the duplicate and Leon are getting hard again.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself and your little experiment, but I think it's time we start experimenting too,” Leon’s double speaks before he pats his lap, “get up here.”
You scramble to straddle him, already keen to be touched again, and he promptly rewards your enthusiasm with a condescending slap to your mound, “eager, are we? Then, why don't you ride me, bunny? Fill that pussy up again and show me why you needed two of my cock like the greedy little thing you are.”
You don't need to be told twice to lift your hips to sink down on his fat dick, causing him to grunt and his abs to flex at the feel of your tight hole engulfing him like it was molded for him.
You moan at the fullness, especially when you feel his cockhead nudge your cervix, making your toes curl and your palms slide up his chest for purchase. However, you’re met with rejection when he pushes your hands away, “nuh-uh, no touching. Work that slutty pussy on your own like a big a girl,” he tsks, making you whine.
Leon watches silently from the sideline, but he soon starts moving closer, just to get a better look at the way your cunt stretches around his counterpart.
They keep staring at you while you tire yourself out on the clone’s cock, Leon slowly pumping his own, and if it wasn't for the hungry eyes and occasional groan, you wouldn't know they’re enjoying this because neither makes the effort to praise you, or even touch you.
It makes you feel so vulnerable—and makes your cunt drip even more.
At one point, their knees brush, but neither of them comments nor pulls away, and you watch in real time as a new type of ‘bond’ starts to form between them—one that you're sure you'll be the one to suffer the consequences from.
“I have to say, I’m starting to feel a bit left out,” Leon finally breaks the silence.
Eager to please, you quickly reach a hand towards him, “I-I can suck you off!”
“No. No, you won't, bunny,” he swats your hand away and exchanges a plotting look with his double before turning back to you. “You’re gonna do something else.”
Pausing your movements to catch a break, and to process his words, you look at him curiously, “do what?”
A pinch to your nipple startles you into reprising your rhythm, “no one said you could stop just yet, lazybones” the clone grumbles disapprovingly.
You whine and obey, picking up ryhtmn again when he suddenly moves to lay horizontally on the sofa, still keeping you straddled on top of him, and Leon readjusts to get behind you.
It suddenly dawns on you that they're about to fuck in a way you’ve never been fucked before, and you feel a mixture of panic, nerves, and undeniable excitement at the thought.
“Sweetheart, since you were so adamant about experiencing two of me, we’re happy to oblige,” Leon whispers in your ear, placing his hands on your hips and giving a squeeze.
“W-what do you mean?” you ask in a small moan, still trying your best to keep fucking yourself on the duplicate’s throbbing cock.
“It means we’ll stretch your pretty cunt to fit us both,” the latter answers from under you, tone completely detached like he's discussing weather and not breaking your pussy.
You let out a sob at the sound of their plan and Leon’s hands shift to your lower back, pushing you gently until your torso rests on the clone’s, making him groan.
“Think you can do it, bunny?” Leon caresses your thighs and ass.
"Y-yeah… Want it, please, wanna feel you both,” you cry out, because the very idea of being double filled by your perfect husband sounds like something out of a dream.
“Hm. We’ll see about that, then... Spit," he orders when he brings an open hand in front of your mouth.
You gather saliva with your tongue and let it drip on his palm then watch as he gestures for the clone to do the same, making the latter grin before he also spits crudely.
Leon uses the manmade lubricant to slicken up his throbbing length, causing his veiny cock to glisten as he spreads your left ass cheek with one hand and guides his wet dick with the other to push against your stretched pussy. He spits directly on your stuffed hole for good measure, trying diligently to find the right angle to get himself to fit alongside the other one.
“Damn it, bunny, you need to loosen up,” he gives your ass a little slap when he struggles to fit before trying again, all while you moan loud at every nudge of his cock.
Finally, Leon manages to notch his dick inside you alongside his clone’s with a grunt, and it's all you can do not to absolutely scream at the feeling of being stretched beyond what feels possible.
The duplicate under you starts leaving small kisses on your cheek to get you to relax, momentarily dropping the cold persona as his voice strains, “g-good girl. Fuck, you're doing so fucking good—so tight.”
At the same time, Leon kneads the flesh of your ass as an added distraction, his voice wrecked when he speaks, “didn't think you’d actually do it, especially with that tight little hole that can barely fit just me on most days... Shit, you're gonna make me bust too early, taking two of me like a champ.”
You can barely breathe when they start moving, alternating their motions so you’re constantly being filled to the brim, your cervix getting prodded by a different cock at each thrust, “h-holy fuck—” is all you manage to gasp out as you feel your head spin.
“How’s this for self-cest, bunny? I’m double fucking your sweet cunt and it feels so fucking right,” Leon rasps, his clone grunting in agreement as he fucks up into you, both cocks dragging against each other inside you.
“Still think you can handle two of me?” the second Leon under you taunts, slapping your thigh and pinching your nipple as you continue to completely lose your mind between them, "or are you so fucking filthy you're happy to break this sweet cunt just for me?
After a while going at a steady pace, Leon decides to go a bit faster and grips his double’s shoulder for leverage, which makes you moan obscenely.
Both men laugh at your reaction, and the duplicate comments, “seriously? you’re that much into it?”
Then, when you nod with teary eyes, feeling so much all at once, he grins devilishly before reaching to grab the back of Leon’s neck as a handle to fuck up into you harder and you feel yourself about to burst, especially with your clit grinding down on his pelvis with each filling thrust.
“Look at you, bunny, getting off on the sight of me getting handsy with my clone. You really are a freak, aren't you? Fucked stupid around two cocks. Fucking perfect,” Leon tsks behind you before laughing mockingly, “don't worry, love, we’ll keep using your little pussy to get off against each other. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Oh, f-fuck… Leon, I—fuck!” you curse, feeling yourself about to climax, so they start grinding your hips down to stimulate your clit even more.
“The perfect pocket pussy for a nice wank. This is all you’re good for anyway—obsessing over me and my cock all day long like a desperate whore,” the replica chuckles, rolling your nipple cruelly between his fingers and making you sob.
“You like this, don’t you? Being used, being told what you really are: a filthy little fleshlight of a wife. Absolutely pathetic,” Leon grits behind you, spanking your ass, and that’s the last straw before you break.
You cum so hard your vision whites out, your mind blanks, and the only thing holding back your screams is Leon's hand that clamps against your mouth. Your cunt tries—and fails—to pulse, too stretched out to do so, and you squirt messily over their cocks as they continue to greedily fuck you through every wave of pleasure.
When you finally come down from the high—trembling, dazed—Leon slowly pulls out, making you whimper, before the clone lifts you off his cock too.
You're too fucked out to ask why they stopped. It seems they have talked while you were being launched through the gates of heaven—or maybe they can communicate telepathically now that they’ve touched tips—either way, you’re not left wondering what's happening for long before you’re pushed gently to kneel on the floor.
"Stay put," Leon grunts firmly.
When you look up, you think you might cum again from the sheer sight of two naked Leons—two gorgeous Leons—jerking off over your face like something straight out of the wildest porno from your dreams, starring your very own greek god of a husband.
Holy shit, you think to yourself before greedily opening your mouth, earning a dark chuckle from Leon, “yeah, just like that. Keep that slutty mouth open, babe, you’ve done such a good job at showing us exactly who you are today, you deserve a reward.”
The clone doesn't hesitate to lean in just to spit harshly in your mouth, his saliva hitting the back of your throat with a splat and making you momentarily choke.
“Fucking ridiculous, she'd take anything we give her.”
“Like you said before, should’ve known she’d be a little whore from that first date… So naughty and so, so sweet.”
Leon’s clone cums first, a guttural groan resounding in his throat as he paints your face, "take it, take it—like a badge of fucking honor," he rasps and is soon followed by the original—cum shooting on your waiting tongue, your cheeks, your forehead, and even your damn eyes.
They’re panting as they watch you shiver and try to wipe some of the mess so you can see better, but Leon stops you with a hand on your wrist before grabbing his phone off the sofa to snap a picture, “beautiful,” he smiles fondly, the praise dripping with sincere affection.
The duplicate grabs tissues to wipe your face gently, "you're so cute like this," he coos, smiling the whole time, before both men guide you back to the couch, and this time, they don't hesitate before getting into the snugglefest.
“You feeling okay, princess?” Leon asks softly to check on you, stroking your hair.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more okay,” you reply with a giggle, nuzzling between them.
The clone chuckles and kisses your cheek, “I love you, you little weirdo.”
At that, Leon gives him the side eye, “let’s keep love confessions for non-clones only, bud.”
“Oh, fuck off,” the other man roles his eyes and reaches a hand to flick Leon’s forehead.
You laugh when Leon dramatically rubs the spot, glaring at his counterpart, and you melt between them even more, squeezing them closer to you with what little strength you have left in your limbs, “this was completely insane, and so unbelievably amazing, thank you both. And I love you, both, so no more bickering please.”
“You don't love us both, you love me and he just happens to also be me,” Leon grumbles petulantly before adding softly, “and I love you too…”
You spend the rest of the day resting from the most intense fucking session of your life with both men coddling you, helping you clean up, get dressed in comfy clothes, and then order take out before settling again on the couch (that's been spot cleaned post hazardous mission) so you can all watch a movie together.
Leon and his clone have continued to bicker throughout the day, but it's been a more playful than anything else, making you laugh with their combined stupid jokes.
When the random thriller you’d put on nears the end, the duplicate notices the time on the clock on the wall and turns to you and Leon with a weary smile, “my 12 hours are almost up.”
You feel your chest tighten at the reminder, but before you can say anything he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, “I’m not sad, so I don't want you to be.”
“But you’re leaving…”
He glances at Leon before looking back at you, “well, that’s the thing, I’m kind of not, now, am I?” he chuckles.
His soft laugh makes you smile despite yourself and he murmurs, “there you go. Just know this was a fun day where I got to be something a bit different and had a blast debauching you alongside my second self, that's all. Plus, you can always order another one of me when you get bored,”
Leon groans at that, “not anytime soon, hopefully. I didn't realize how much of a pain in the ass I actually am until today.”
You laugh at that and pinch his cheek teasingly, “you finally figured that out?”
He huffs and turns his face to nibble your fingers, “whatever. I just miss there only being one of me to get all your attention.”
“You just can't handle knowing I’m the upgrade,” the clone grins.
“The knockoff,” Leon instantly retorts and you roll your eyes at their antics.
Then, when the time nears 7 o’clock, the duplicate holds your hand, “I think it's starting.”
You look at him with worried eyes, hoping the ‘standardized biological decommissioning’ isn't painful or uncomfortable, but thankfully he looks calm when little specks of light start to appear all over his body.
“Holy shit…” you mutter as the lights spot his skin, like something straight out of a sci-fi, and he actually laughs at your reaction.
Leon is watching with a mix of amusement and horrification, “this is so fucking weird.”
“You’re telling me?” the clone replies before turning to you to cup your face with a sparkly hand, “try not to miss me too much, princess.”
You nod with a small smile, your eyes flickering between his, and then, he presses a soft kiss to your lips. That earns a petulant groan from Leon, that the replica quickly deflects with a middle finger without breaking the kiss, the specks now covering his whole body and turning him into a dissipating mist of light, until you can no longer feel the touch of his lips.
When you open your eyes, he’s gone, having completely disappeared like he was never there, and Leon wraps his arms around you to reassure you, “you okay, baby?”
“Yeah… That was just really trippy.”
Leon laughs and kisses your cheek lovingly, “and whose idea was this again?”
You turn to look at him with a sheepish smile, “my idea.”
Leon works. Reader works. Somehow, they still manage to have the perfect Fourth of July together.
A/N: Happy Fourth of July! Please stay safe, stay hydrated, and enjoy the holiday responsibly!!! Leon will be mad if you don't!!!
"Well, well, well. I don't remember calling the police." You smile as Leon walks up to you at the Fourth of July event you're helping oversee at Raccoon City's Children's Science Museum. Much to your dismay, both of you had to work the holiday. You had hoped to introduce Leon to your extended family on this day, but duty calls.
Leon waves to your colleagues, many of whom were taking advantage of the food trucks that gave free food to museum staff. You notice little kids looking at Leon in awe, their eyes moving between his patrol car and his uniform.
He walks up to you, hugging you to sneak a kiss on your cheek. Thankfully, your cheeks were already flushed from spending the day outside, so no one would notice the fresh blush his kiss brought to your face.
Leon pulls back, his hands on his belt, "I am doing my job. Making sure everything's alright."
"At a children's event outside a museum?" you look at him incredulously.
"Hey, those kids could get crazy off those lemonades."
You roll your eyes, "Sure, officer. We really do need you here to protect us from sugar highs."
"Anything to protect my lady," he smiles down at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
The two of you look out over the crowd. The lines at each food truck were long, and kids were running around to the bouncy houses or begging their parents to let them get their faces painted. Other children still observe Leon with wide eyes.
"You know," you turn slowly to your boyfriend, "you could go talk to your little fans over there."
"Huh?" Leon looks over to where you were pointing discreetly. "Oh. I could talk to them about fireworks safety and stranger danger. Educating the public is part of my job, you know?" He smirks down at you.
"I know. Maybe you should do that so no one can say you were slacking off today." You turn him around towards the group of kids, "Go have fun and let me work."
He looks back at you, "Work? You were just standing there when I got here—"
"Nope. I was working."
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. With love, of course.
Leon walks to the group of kids. Your heart warms at the sight of their growing smiles, all because a police officer was going to go talk to them.
You hadn't sent Leon away so you could get back to work. Quite the opposite. Your job was mostly making sure the volunteers had everything they needed and stepping in if anything went wrong. As it happened, nothing was going wrong. Which meant you'd spent the better part of the last hour eating hot dogs. Now, you could enjoy watching Leon interact with adorable kids. You never told him, but the few times you saw him around children did something to you. You kept that thought to yourself. If Leon knew just how attractive you found him around children, he'd be talking about baby names before the fireworks even started.
You watch as he crouches down to their height, the setting sun casting a warm glow over his dirty blond hair. They were far away enough for you not to be able to hear them as they spoke rapidly to Leon. Judging by their happy faces, you had a feeling he was answering questions about his patrol car. You couldn't blame them, since you jumped at the chance to ride in it the first time he offered to give you a ride home after work.
As the event continued, you would glance at Leon ever so often when you had the chance. You had been pulled away to help volunteers hand out little goodie bags with museum merchandise and handheld American flags. At some point, you caught Leon playing hopscotch with the flock of children that followed him around. You swore the group grew bigger every time you looked over.
The sun was setting, almost completely gone. It had gotten quieter, with the voices of families barely making a hum over the music that had been playing all day. The kids were getting tuckered out. You instructed the volunteers to guide the families onto the lawn facing the downtown area of Raccoon City in preparation for the city's fireworks show.
Once you were certain the volunteers had everything under control, you walked over to the back of the crowd to sit on a bench.
"Is this seat taken?"
You flinch, looking over at who was talking. Leon, of course, was smiling as he sat next to you, offering his plate of funnel cake.
"Unfortunately, yes, a handsome gentleman was supposed to meet me here," you smirk, taking the fork to eat.
He laughs sarcastically, "Very funny. I will take the funnel cake away."
"No! I'm sorry! Please!" You plead, watching him pull the plate away. Leon knew he could always get back at you with food.
"Thought so," he brought the plate back between you.
You scoot closer to him. His lips form into a soft smile at your closeness, but you really just wanted easier access to the funnel cake. "You know, it's a special day. Our first Fourth of July." Leon's voice was gentle. "Now we just have Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas."
The memory of your first kiss at midnight on New Year's came flooding into your head. He had gone with you to a mutual friend's party to ring in the new year, as a friend, but everyone around the two of you was not surprised when you kissed and left the party together.
"That's half a year already…" You sigh dreamily. Somehow, six months with Leon had become the happiest months of your life.
Leon looks down at his watch, "Mhm, a long half a year."
"Ugh, you know you can't live without me." You flick his arm, earning a small "ow" from him. "Are you sure you won't get in trouble for spending a long time here?" You ask, worried.
He shook his head, looking toward the crowd as you wiped powdered sugar off his cheek. "I am working. They sent me to patrol this area of the city, so I decided to come here. They are always encouraging us to talk with kids so they grow up with a better relationship with law enforcement."
"Yeah…can't blame your higher-ups. Not everyone likes the police. I think most people have negative experiences with cops. Like when your buddy Joshua pulled me over for speeding—"
"You shouldn't be speeding."
"Ugh, you are just like the rest of them." You groan, leaning back on the bench.
Before Leon could scold you any further, a volunteer announced on the megaphone that the firework show would start soon and that people should find their spots to watch. The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, holding one another's hand.
A deafening boom echoed across the lawn as the first firework burst overhead, followed by a chorus of awed gasps from the children around them.
Soon, the sky of Raccoon City was exploding with red, white, and blue fireworks.
You turn to look at your boyfriend, admiring the reflection of the fireworks in his baby blue eyes you adore so much. Your eyes travel down his face to appreciate his cute chin. He admitted to you once how he hated it, but you thought it made him handsome.
"You were great with the kids, you know." You lean against him.
"They were chatty, alright." He sighs. "But adorable."
"You gave their parents much-needed free time." You tell him as a large firework went thoom overhead.
He smirks, "I did, didn't I? I taught the kids about all the problems they can call the police for, gave their parents a break, and saw my gorgeous girlfriend today. Very productive shift."
You rub his arm, your fingers paying special attention to his bicep while your attention is on the show above you.
Then, you feel him give a soft kiss to your head.
"Maybe we should head to my place after this and make fireworks of our own."
Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Leon's obsession with you pushes him to new extremes...and you like it?
Word Count: 2.4k
Tags: stalking, obsessive behavior, voyeurism, somnophilia vibes, yandere Leon
taglist: @cakeofhorrors @rainyxie@venus-in-roses
based on this request
Leon
It was serendipitous, really, how the two of you met. A coffee shop of all places, where your knuckles brushed up against his when you both reached for your drinks at the same time. Like some god forsaken rom-com.
You wrapped those pretty pink lips around the mouth of the cup’s lid, and it only took one sip to realize that the bitter dark roast scalding your tongue was not the vanilla latte, extra sweet, you had ordered at the register.
The baristas had switched up your drinks, scribbling your name on his black coffee and his on your sugary delight. He gave you the drink–your drink–in his hand, untouched and unsipped, and you apologized to him in that honeyed voice of yours, offering to walk up to the counter and ameliorate the mishap with a fresh cup on you.
He didn’t let you pay for another cup of coffee, however, coming up with the age-old excuse of running late for work, which he was, to hide the fact that he was perfectly content to drink from the same lid your luscious mouth had touched. A smudge of glittery lipgloss he couldn’t wait to kiss.
You giggled as you accepted his counter-offer of giving him your number, and you scribbled the digits on a napkin, signing it with your name and a dainty heart beside it.
He swore he could still smell your perfume, lingering in his nostrils for days after the encounter. And every time he shut his lids, for a split second or for the five hours he attempted what he once knew as sleep, he saw your face. That angelic glow of your skin. The way your smile was so wide it made lines appear by your eyes. And your eyes…
So he took you out on a proper date. Dinner under candlelight. A nightcap at a gelato shop your friend or coworker–he can’t remember who–recommended. It wasn’t until your third rendez-vous, a walk around the park during his lunch break because he couldn’t wait for the word day to be over to see you again, when he noticed it. The stares. Leon was a handsome man, and he had experienced his fair share of ogling glances from men and women alike. But this time? These onlookers weren’t staring at him. They were staring at you.
You’re stunning, so of course you would draw attention. A few women muttered twinkling comments in passing. An elderly woman told Leon he was a lucky man to have such a gorgeous woman on his arm. It was all fine and dandy, and in fact, Leon liked it. It filled him with the bubbling warmth of pride. You were his, though he hadn’t explicitly told you yet, and you were beautiful–so beautiful that you made people stop what they were doing to comment on it.
Keep it coming, he thought.
But then a man walking his dog (that you reached down to pet, silly girl), wearing a band on his ring finger, which he tried to hide when he approached–bastard– and complimented you on your “out of this world” good looks.
A predator. A person like that–a man who would walk up to a woman who was so obviously involved with someone, that someone holding her hand–was dangerous. He was bold. And Leon wasn’t going to risk bumping into him on another lap around the pond.
“Let me walk you back to your office,” he suggested with a smile.
He fell hard. Like Alice down the rabbit hole. Bruised and battered. Dumb, drunk, and loopy in love.
Leon would trip every time the two of you stayed up till the witching hour, laughing and talking, exchanging stories of your respective upbringings, the heroic tales of his scars, how you hate your boss and your job and your coworkers, except for one who you get along with very well. You’d tell him about your college days and how you don’t know why you ended up with a dead-end job with no time for the hobbies you oh-so adore as someone with a degree and a steady head on her shoulders. And he’d tell you about how he ended up working for the government, the two of you bonding over broken plans and dreams that never came to fruition.
He’d tumble when you’d scream his name as his tongue lapped at your pussy, sopping wet and dripping just for him. Or when you’d ride him until he was seizing and crying beneath you.
And he just kept falling.
A sick little puppy he was, with all that love and no idea how to express it in a healthy way, or so his therapist said. The watching came first. He’d follow you home from work to make sure you arrived at your apartment safely, and around the grocery store just in case some pervert got the wrong idea and tried to talk you up in the canned goods aisle.
When he actually had to work and didn’t have enough time to properly devote to your guard, he installed the cameras. One in your living room, another in your bedroom, two covering every inch of the hallway between them–one of those facing the front door. They were miniscule, cutting-edge scions of technology. Undetectable.
He’d watch you from the device they came with, having it on-hand throughout the day, only turning it off when you were changing. Leon respected your boundaries, of course. He wasn’t a freak.
He just wanted to make sure you were safe and his.
You were a bit of a loner, just like he was, and he preferred it that way. No risk of any man swooping in to bump him out of the competition. He did have to worry about predators, however, because you were…naive. Too trusting. You’d smile at strangers, divulge personal information to people you’d only known for a day, and as charming as that was, Leon knew the dangers it could bring.
One afternoon, a handyman came by to fix your cable–something about wireless interference that made your television spaz. Leon was watching through the cameras, the device they were connected to propped up on his desk as he tapped away at his computer. Hunnigan had interrupted, knocking on his door to chat about some upcoming assignment he was sure to be put on, he wasn’t really paying attention toward the end of her spiel. Not when there was a strange man in your apartment, and especially not when the cameras had cut to static mid-conversation, and Leon had to muster all the strength in his body not to storm out of the office right then and there.
As soon as the clock struck five, he went straight from work to your place, where you opened the door with a cheshire grin on your lips, extra syrupy sweet when you locked eyes with him, and it washed away all his worries. Just seeing you, in your comfy clothes, completely at peace. It calmed his anxious heart.
Still, anything could have happened to you. Some old, most likely perverted man in your home, with you looking practically edible in those yoga pants…
He couldn’t stand you being so far away, so vulnerable. He had to do something about that. Now.
“Good day at work?” You asked from the kitchen as you prepared dinner for two.
“This place is kind of dingy, don’t you think?” He retorted, changing the subject. You chuckle and mutter something to yourself.
“I make you dinner and you insult my home? Not very nice manners you have there, mister.”
So cheeky. It makes his stomach flutter. He rises from the sofa, huffing a laugh as he steps toward the kitchen, settling on the other side of the counter so he can watch you gracefully chop a bell pepper.
“Oh, you know, I was just thinking. Maybe you’d wanna quit this place and move in with me?”
You swallow hard, your body tensing, and you set the knife down on the cutting board, your eyes falling with the blade.
“Oh,” is all you give him, the tone of your voice undistinguishable. “Wow, that’s…wow.”
“You were telling me how awful your landlord is, raising your rent without warning like that,” he reminds subtly. “What do you say?”
The unreadable expression on your face suddenly contorts into a smile, and you remove your hands from the counter to rest them on your hips. “When can I move in?”
Your job came next. It wasn’t hard for Leon to convince you to finally leave, especially when you were living with him, using the groceries he bought you, wearing the new clothes he surprised you with, not needing to worry about contributing a cent. So you put in your two-weeks notice, and every time you mentioned something about finding another job so you could pull your weight, he would quickly change the subject, or reassure you that he can take care of you both and more if need be.
No rush.
Take your time.
You deserve a break from working anyway.
Think of it like a vacation.
Really…no rush.
“I like coming home to you,” he said, joining you at the dining table, sitting down to a hot meal under the tall taper candles you had bought. And the candle holders. And the tablecloth.
Leon also liked the way you made his cold, bachelor apartment more like a home. It happened almost instantly, when the two of you merged lives and the last box was unpacked and taken down to the recycling bin. Then, bit by bit, you’d buy pillows for the sofa that matched the rug he definitely didn’t pick out himself, and the curtains he helped you hang. A plant or two to breathe life into the stuffy air of his industrial loft. A photo of you and Leon captured in a gilded frame, sitting on the bookshelf among a bunch of the cute trinkets you collect.
“And you cook like a dream,” he mumbled, mouth full of half-chewed food. “I could get used to this.”
You giggle, the twinkling sound bouncing against the sky-high ceilings, the white walls now broken up with framed artwork and photos of the two of you. “Just let me know if you ever get tired of it, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
He stalls, mid-bite, cinching his coarse, dark brows. You lean back in your chair, watching as he swallows hard. “I would never.”
“Get tired of me? Or tell me if you did?”
Leon shakes his head, incredulous. “Baby, no.” His brows release. “You’re not going anywhere, not if I have anything to do with it.”
And he meant it. He tried to not be controlling, like some gargantuan storm cloud hovering over your every move, but he couldn’t help how much he worried every time you left the apartment without him, every time you spoke to someone that wasn’t him.
And for some crazy reason, you didn’t seem to mind.
In fact, it seemed to turn you on every time he let one of his dark thoughts slip through the cracks in his cool exterior. You sank to your knees and sucked the soul out of his dick when he said he’d chop off the hands (and other precious limbs) of any man that so much as touched you. You sat on his face and rode his mouth till you came down his throat when he mentioned that he followed you home in his car after your fourth date, just to make sure you were safe on the road.
What he couldn’t divulge, however, was that he would sometimes sneak into your apartment in the middle of the night, picking the janky lock at the front door until he finally convinced you to get it changed and he could snag a copy of the new key.
He would watch you as you slept, memorizing the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed soundly, the little quiver of your lips as you dreamed. Other times, when his resolve was worn thin and maybe he got hit too hard on a mission and needed soft skin to touch, he’d get into bed with you and hold you tight against him, or sit on the edge of your mattress, and caress the locks of your hair splayed out across your pillowcase. Nothing more, of course. Again, he’s not a monster.
He just…loved…intensely.
Obviously, the next step was marriage, because in order for him to own you, body and soul, he had to put an obnoxiously large ring on your finger. The only thing better would be a fat baby on your hip, half-him, half-you, but for now, the diamond would have to suffice.
You were going to be his forever.
You
It was the building’s handyman that noticed the cameras, and it was an accident at that. Something about the interference with your television’s signal that led him to be suspicious of any other wireless technology in your apartment. He found the first one, tucked into one of the shelves of the bookcase in the corner of your bedroom, angled to give the watcher a perfect view of your bed.
He asked if you knew it was there, which you didn’t, but you said you did.
Because you knew who put it there.
The same man that followed you around the grocery store, on your commute to and from work, the man who shot daggers at anyone who looked at you the wrong way.
You were creeped out at first, sure, but the line between obsessive stalker and protective lover quickly blurred, and you began to find Leon’s little quirks rather charming. All they proved was that the man would do anything for you, to keep you safe, to take care of you, and you weren’t about to push that away.
Not when you had the opportunity to quit your lousy, dead-end job and move into a luxurious penthouse loft in the middle of the city. To be doted on and adored by the most attractive man you ever met. To be taken care of for the rest of your earthly life, never having to so much as lift a finger. So. you’ll keep this information close to your chest and let him continue to obsess.
Plus, Leon ate your pussy like his life depended on it. Ain’t no way you’re lettin’ that go.
Summary: Newly married and missing your family, Leon books you two a flight. It's a long flight though and neither of you can control yourselves.
Word count: 2,377
Notes: I've had this idea for so long and I've been dying to write for this specific era.
Warnings: smut, plane sex, biting, p in v, riding, multiple orgasms, wine drinking,
It had been another night of wedded bliss. Both of you still naked and Leon wrapped around you. His bulky arm thrown over your waist and his chiseled chest pressed into your spine. Your legs are woven together and he's so toasty warm.
His body heat seeps into you pleasantly. His calm, steady breaths caress your skin. It's peaceful and everything you'd been dreaming of. Yet, something felt off. You'd been fighting the feeling.
It felt like life was too good to complain. All your dreams were coming true so why were you feeling sad? Now, wide awake against your will the answer revealed itself. It's your family. You're missing them.
They weren't perfect by any means, but you loved them. When Leon proposed you packed up. A few weeks before the wedding you were settled into his place. Well, his place was in Washington D.C. So, things had to change.
Not that you minded. You were excited for it, really. But its been a few months and you used to see at least one family member every week. Not anymore. You sigh and burrow into your pillow. You really shouldn't be bothered so much by this.
Silent tears begin to fall and small sniffles are muffled into the pillow. You're angry at yourself for being so whiny and ungrateful. You're a grown adult. It's not a big deal to be away from family. Leon's your family now. That should be enough, right?
The warm husk of your husband's voice reaches you. Your name falling from his lips in a concerned tone. "Go to bed, honey. It's nothing." You try to hide the way you swipe at your eyes and erase the wobble from your voice. Leon, of course, is not having it.
"Liar." His muscular arm rolls you over so he can look you in the eyes. Your red-rimmed, watery eyes. His own are soft and searching yours. "Tell me what's wrong."
You sigh, knowing you can't hide from your husband. "I'm just missing my family and feeling stupid for it."
"That's not stupid." His calloused thumb arches over your cheek and his lips meet your brow. You melt, a part of you already soothed by him like you received the loveliest lullaby.
"I could book us a flight. We could leave tomorrow." His kisses trail off. Lips caressing every inch of your face. Right down to your chin and the column of your throat.
"You'd really do that?" He shifts on top of you and your hands glide along his spine. Your head falls back into the pillow, exposing your throat to his affectionate marking. The blanket shifts on top of Leon, barely covering his ass.
"Of course. It's no problem." He mumbles against your skin as if it's the easiest thing in the world. No doubt he'll pull some strings, but your thoughts are drifting. More and more you're focused on the heat building between you two.
His kisses deepen, worshipping the curve of your shoulder and the plains of your chest. You moan, grip tightening on him. His hardening member teases your entrance and in response your legs lock around his waist.
His sultry chuckle in response signals the end of your rest. It's safe to say, you're both whipped for each other. In the morning, he'll have scratches down his back and you'll have bruises on your hips.
The next day Leon wakes you up with a gentle shake of your shoulders and a kiss on your forehead. The sun is high in the sky, revealing that he let you sleep in. You groan, gradually waking and rubbing at your eyes.
"I got your bags packed. Should have time for breakfast and a shower." He sighs, and continues in a sarcastic tone. "And double check what I packed you because apparently I always forget something." He evens adds air quotes. You just laugh in return, grinning at the man you chose to share the rest of your life with.
You leave the comfy bed and head straight towards Leon. Your fingers curl around the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him forward and kissing his prickly jaw. "Thank you, honey."
His lashes flutter and his whole body relaxes. Muscles melting and thoughts narrowed in on you. Before his arms can trap you and his mouth can consume your attention you slip away. "I'm gonna go shower now, okay?"
You walk away but not without leaving a flirty wink. You hear his answered sigh and mumbled complaint.
The afternoon slips by, a filling breakfast and a satisfying shower. It's a struggle to not go at it at least one more time before leaving especially when Leon's eyes are always devouring you. But you somehow manage to keep on track, reaching the airport in time.
Its luxury and opulence is out of this world. It's clearly for the rich and elite. Most of it is too much to process at the moment. "Ready?" Leon's hand is on your lower back, his other one on a suitcase's handle. You nod, smiling up at the ruggedly handsome man.
Some employees in formal outfits guide you along until you're both in a private jet. "Leon, this is insane." Your eyes are wide as you take in the interior. Large leather seats, cushions, flowers, and furnished wood. Only you and your husband as passengers.
He laughs before approaching an iced dish holding a wine bottle. "Only the best for Mrs. Kennedy." His eyes dance over you causing your heart to pick up speed and fire to spread throughout you.
He pours two glasses, handing you one. A voice over the intercom startles you. It declares departure and a necessity to buckle into a seat for lift off. Both of you find seats, Leon claiming one by the window and you naturally finding a spot next to him.
It's a bit bumpy even as a luxury vehicle. You give Leon a shaky smile and his free hand takes yours. His hand large and calloused. Yet his grip is gentle and speaks volumes of his love towards you. You lean into him and peer out the window past his shoulder.
"You like it, huh?" Leon murmurs with a faint smile.
"It's incredible!" You nod and let out a chuckle. It's an indescribable sight. A powerful feeling that swirls in your gut and threatens to affect everything in its reach. Tall buildings becoming specks and cars disappearing all together. The steady green earth is all but abandoned. Clouds rise up all around the flying masterpiece. The second prettiest blue you've ever seen is filling your view.
"So, we got a while up here. How do you want to spend it?" Your husband's voice steals your focus. His wine glass is already empty and his thumb is rubbing over your knuckles.
Your eyes lock on thee prettiest blue which is found in the depths of Leon's eyes. Heat crawls up your spine at his expression. Playful yet intense. He might keep this sweet and wholesome. But clearly he wants to indulge in more lustful things.
You reach out, hand brushing his bangs away before cupping his cheek. His lids fall shut and he leans into your palm. A surge of confidence and joy runs through you like a shot of electricity. It's certainly better than an adrenaline rush or the poor attempts of an energy drink.
"What do you wanna do? What do you usually do on your long trips?"
He groans, snuggling further into your palm before placing a kiss on its surface. "Nothing fun I can assure you. It's just a lot of contemplation."
You hum in acknowledgement and he pulls away. His hypnotizing eyes blink at you almost like a puppy wishing to cling to its owner.
"I don't care what we do. I'm just happy I'm here with you." His reply is sincere and quiet. His low voice is a precious thing vibrating in your chest.
And how can you say no to that? Without hesitation you leave your seat and crawl into his lap. "Oh." He laughs, his arms instantly going to grab you and keep you. There's not much room in the row though and you're sliding off. Both of you are laughing now and with awkward maneuvering he unbuckles.
"Alright, get off for a second." You climb off with a defeated sigh and step into the aisle way. He joins you shortly after and scoops you up. Your legs and arms lock around him like a koala. Giddy noises escape you and bury themselves in his skin.
Leon finds a cozy looking seat that's by itself in the luxury jet. Nothing is in front of it to make things difficult. He settles into place, your body snug on his lap. "So, where were we?" Your husband gives you a devastating grin.
You grin in return. Then, your lips are meeting his and things take off.
You're on fire. His rough, thick fingers are playing with your nipples. You squirm in his lap, freeing yourself from your strapless bra yet keeping your top on. You're breathing heavy, nipples aching and back arching. "Oh, god. Leon, I need you." His hands squeeze and caress your freed breasts.
Your hips meet over and over. Two starving animals, humping on one another. Your nails bite into his large shoulders while he bites at your neck. It's only a brush of pain, but he's always careful and his tongue soothes over the mark. "Beg louder, baby. No one is gonna stop us. They're too busy keeping us in the air."
The reminder of your situation in his deep, hungry voice makes your thighs clamp tighter around him. You're thousands of miles up in the air. Located in a private jet with the only other passengers being pilots. It's you and your husband alone.
"Leon, please. I wanna feel you. I want you all over me. Please, honey. Please." His hand tugs your head back as he ravishes your neck. Drawn out sucking and long licks along sensitive skin. You grind harder on the bulge caged in his jeans.
"All over you, huh?" His husky breath washes over your ear. You're sure he would have had you on your hands and knees in an instant if it wasn't for the limitations of this particular seat. No, you'll have to ride him. The thought alone has you whining with shame but no control.
"All over me, Leon. Please, I want you inside me." Your hands grow frantic, clawing at his denim pants and your own clothes. Your clit is throbbing in anticipation of being skin to skin. Yes, marriage has absolutely been a blessing. And neither of you have any desire to stop this.
Leon growls when cool air hits his freed cock. His mouth moves to capture your own, tongues fighting for dominance and spit being shared. One tasting the other in an endless cycle of pleasure. His large hands clamp down on your hips and you know what's next.
"Leon!" You cry out, breaking the kiss when his tip sinks in. Then, his hips roll again. Again and again until he's buried inside your snug warmth.
He says your name, "Fuck. You feel like heaven. You're too good. I'm not gonna stop. We're not stopping until the plane lands."
When you're finally adjusted there's no mercy.
You cling to him as he thrusts up into you. Your hips shake and jerk, eager to contribute. But he's taking you for the ride. Your cries and his groans grow to a concerning volume. So, that's when his lips crash into yours. He's holding you tight to his chest while thrusting up into you.
He's fast and relentless, strong arms holding you in place. Your eyes roll back as your cunt squeezes his dick ruthlessly. Your orgasm is fierce and all consuming. His mouth leaves your swollen lips and glides down your throat.
"I'm not done yet." His voice is deep and rasping. His dick twitches inside of you, but it's still rock solid and holding you open. You whimper, rolling your hips into his desperate thrusts.
You plant your hands on his chest and get to work. You lift yourself up and drop down. You're shaking something terrible, but he slows down so you can take over. You ride your husband in the belly of a private jet. His hands worshipping your body and his groans music to your ears.
He calls your name again followed by curses. The smell of sex surrounds you and sweat causes your remaining clothes to stick. Slick noises from your pussy meeting his dick is all too mesmerizing. "Baby, I can't . . ." Leon trails off, losing it first.
His teeth sink into the crook of your neck as his hips stutter beneath you. His cum filling you up. Your hands tighten on his shoulders and your head falls back as the second orgasm crashes over you.
Shuttered breaths and trembling limbs are the aftermath. Leon gently brushes kisses where he bit you and mumbles an apology. Your hand curls around his nape, fingers playing in the ends of his hair.
You could stay here forever. Both of you intertwined in every way imaginable. His arms holding you on his muscular thighs. His head buried in your neck like a tired dog.
"So what now? There's a shower . . ." He scoffs, "sorta. Oh, and there's a bed."
You choke out a laugh and pull his head back from you. "If there's a bed, why did you take me here?"
"I don't know. Wasn't thinking with my head." He shrugs, amused and far too proud of himself. You both know what was doing the thinking for him.
"Yeah, okay. Well, let's go to the bed." You just shake your head at him before carefully climbing off.
Before he's even done zipping his jeans back up he's mentioning a round two. "You're crazy." At this point you're laughing. No longer able to fight how giddy he makes you. Leon picks you up bridal style this time.
"Maybe, but something tells me you like it." Leon tilts his head and adds a devious smirk to completely wipe out any reservations you might have.
"Shut up and take me to bed." You flutter your lashes at him, voice lowered in a flirtatious manner.
"Yes, ma'am."
🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬🛬
I'm sorry this took so long. I've been teasing it for it awhile. It's because I was scared of getting his character wrong. 😅
leon’s daughter learns the word no and uses it the whole day. fluff. 0.9k wc.
leon has handled worse in the past. he’s sure of it. he’s been shot at, chased, infected with deadly viruses, and thrown into abysmal situations where the only plan was to survive and improvise. this, however? this shouldn’t be harder than that, right?
he should’ve known today was going to be difficult the second his daughter woke up and discovered the power of the word no. since breakfast, she’d used it for everything. she used it when she was angry. she used it when she was happy. she used it when she agreed with something. sometimes she even used it while actively doing the thing she was supposedly refusing to do.
now, as the evening settled outside the windows and painted the living room gold, the toddler stood by the front door, bouncing excitedly. “outside!”
“yeah, kiddo,” leon said, grabbing her tiny sneakers. “outside. now c’mere.”
the smile on her face immediately vanished. “no.”
“no outside?” he asked, confused.
“outside!” came the enthusiastic reply.
“okay.” leon crouched down in front of her. “then let’s put your shoes on.”
“no!” she declared, jerking her foot away, making leon miss the shoe entirely.
your daughter sat heavily on the floor, arms crossed and bottom lip sticking out in pure stubbornness.
“sweetheart,” he tried again, gentler this time, “can i put your shoes on?”
“no.”
“can mommy put your shoes on?”
“no.”
“can the president of the united states put your shoes on?”
and she actually seemed to consider it for a moment, before the expected reply came, “no.”
“mm, thought so.” for a minute, leon simply sat beside her, scratching the back of his neck and looking at the tiny sneakers as if they held all the answers. leon was beginning to suspect that whoever said toddlers were easy had never actually met one. now that wasn’t to say he didn’t love her. if anything, experience had taught him that trying to out-stubborn a toddler was like trying to fist-fight a tornado. eventually, he gave up and asked, “what shoes do you want to wear?”
now that got her attention and tears stopped before they’d even started. when she pointed to the front door, leon followed her finger, pointing to the pair of black combat boots sitting there. his boots.
“no, bug...” he tried to reason with her.
her tiny finger, however, remained steady. “papa boots.”
he knew there was no trying to reason with her. that simply wouldn’t work. still, leon looked towards you for help. you had a digicam in your hand, recording the whole thing and trying not to laugh. playing this at her highschool graduation dinner and embarrassing her would be so fun. “she’s got a point,” you said.
“how?” he chuckled at the ridiculousness of it.
“i don’t know?? toddler logic.”
your toddler waddled over to the boots and wrapped both her arms around one of them. it looked ridiculous. the boots were as long as her entire leg. leon sighed and gave in.
five minutes later came tantrum number two when leon wouldn’t let her wear his boots without socks.
tantrum number three happened because he put the left boot on first.
tantrum number four occurred because he’d tried to zip up her jacket. “no!” she cried.
“you don’t want to wear your jacket?”
“no.”
“what jacket do you want?”
and at the question, the toddler pointed at the leather jacket leon was wearing. “you want my jacket?” he asked, and she nodded vigorously in reply.
thankfully, there were no more tantrums after that. by the time you three finally made it outside, leon felt like he had survived a boss fight. your toddler, however, was delighted. papa’s boots and papa’s jacket? oh, this was the best day ever.
she waddled down the sidewalk happily and with all the confidence in the world. leon had to fold the sleeves of his jacket up six times, and it still nearly swallowed her whole and the hem nearly touched the ground.
his boots were even worse. every step was an adventure. clomp. pause. wobble. clomp. the boots slid and slipped around her tiny feet so much she looked like a baby duck learning how to walk.
but she was beaming, and that is what mattered. plus leon was careful, helping her each time she wobbled. every few steps, she’d look down at herself, visibly remembering what she was wearing, and wobble.
“papa boots!” she chirped happily.
leon nodded proudly.
“papa jacket!!”
“yes, bug.”
she took another few steps and then she held up her arms dramatically. “papa!”
the declaration was so proud, it made leon laugh warmly. “that’s right, bug. papa.”
she giggled and continued her impossible journey down the sidewalk. after about thirty feet, she got tired and demanded uppies. leon lifted her effortlessly and immediately she curled against his chest, tiny hands grabbing at the collar of his shirt.
“you know,” you said, walking beside them, “she just wanted to match with you.”
“yeah.” leon smiled warmly, looking down at the little girl already getting sleepy against his chest. and then, smugly, to tease you, “my outfits are obviously cooler. she has inherited my fine taste.”
“sure,” you rolled your eyes playfully, cracking a fond smile nonetheless. when you looked at your daughter, she looked ridiculous, really. one boot almost dangling off her foot. ridiculously adorable. but also impossibly happy.
“papa...” your daughter yawned softly, the hold of her tiny hand gripping his collar tightened.
“yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered back, kissing the top of her head.
this time, there was no no. just a content little hum as she snuggled deeper into papa’s jacket, perfectly satisfied now that she looked just like papa.
A triptych of sex pollen one-shots featuring RE2, RE4, and RE9 Leon Kennedy.
Pairing: RE4!Leon Kennedy x Reader
Rating: Explicit
Summary: On a rescue mission, Leon finds his target locked in a decrepit, old castle--easy enough. Things quickly go south, however, when you, the girl he's been sent to save, stab him with a syringe containing a very peculiar drug...in self-defense, of course.
Word Count: 2.5k
A/N: this one is a bit short but has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I kept going back to edit and was losing my mind so here it is...enjoy :)
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry.”
The sound of the skinny metal stem breaking through skin and muscle sends a chill down your spine and you aren’t even the one being stabbed by it. No, that would be the poor man–agent, as he announced aloud one second too late–in front of you, now clutching the tube sticking out of his chest. It’s filled with a sickly green liquid, sloshing against its glass walls as it’s jostled by a quick hand.
“You can say that again,” he groans, pulling the syringe burrowed in his pectoral, keeping it in his grasp to inspect.
“I’m so sorry,” you repeat in a cry, throwing your hands up in defense. “I thought you were one of them.”
You’re referring to the freaks who took you captive and locked you in this god-forsaken place.
“Where did you even find this?” He asks, furrowing his dark brows at the tube. There is a white label pasted onto it, reading a lengthy sequence of numbers below a barcode of sorts.
“In one of the rooms down that hall,” you say, pointing round the corner. “In a cabinet. It was locked but I broke the glass. I’m sorry,” you punctuate with a repetition of your apology. Perhaps you sound gratuitous, repeating it over and over, but you did just stab the man with a mystery syringe.
“It’s fine,” he appeases, though you’re sure he’s lying by the wince spreading across his face.
He turns away from you, hand raising to his ear. “Hunnigan, you there?” A beat of silence. “I got…hit…with something.” He nods and swallows hard, finger still pressed to whatever is in his ear. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’d just like to figure out what it is. If I give you a serial number, do you think you could do that for me?”
“Who is that?” You ask, immediately regretting the way your question interrupted whatever call he’s on with whatever disembodied aid on the other end.
“Can you just–shh–for a moment?” A calming hand cuts through the air, another brings a finger to his lips. You can tell he’s trying to be patient with you, though you’re sure such resolve must be wearing thin by now–it’s evident in the way his jaw tenses beneath gritted teeth, a subsequent flex of the tendon down his neck.
“Right, sorry.”
“What have you found?” He turns around, speaking once more to whoever is in his ear. “A what?” There’s a long stretch of silence before Leon speaks again. “Is there a cure?” Your stomach turns at the phrase, and your mind races to a dark place. What if there isn’t and you just signed this man’s death warrant? “What the fuck?” He hisses, letting his head hang. “Okay, copy that.” Leon glances over his shoulder, waving you toward him. “Come on, let’s go. I’m getting you out of here. We have to be quick.”
Halfway through leading you down the hallway, Leon groans–a deep, rolling sound straight from his chest–and falls against the wall, using an outstretched arm to keep him upright.
“Oh no, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” You approach from behind, reaching out with supportive arms in anticipation of having to steady his swaying body. “Let me help.”
“No,” he barks. “No,” he repeats in a softer, apologetic tone. “Sorry, I just need a minute.”
“Where does it hurt?” You ask, walking around to face him, but he turns away toward the wall, bracketing his head with his forearms, elbows dug into the plaster.
“Don’t touch me,” he whimpers, gulping so hard you can hear the strained squelch from a foot away. His face is flushed, skin clammy as it glows beneath the sheen of the candlelit sconces and the pale light of the moon filtering through the window at the end of the hall. One of his hands trails down to clutch his lower abdomen, and your eyes follow, leading you to the obvious strain against the crotch of his cargo pants.
What the hell was in that syringe?
The guilt begins to gnaw away at your stomach.
“I’m so sorry,” you cry, keeping your voice at a whisper, afraid to draw the attention of your captures, those of which you’re sure are nearby, lurking in the shadows. “Is there anything I can do?”
You are neither inexperienced nor naive, and although you aren’t completely sure what was in the syringe you found in that cabinet, you can see the effect it’s having on him, and you know you’d be able to quell the pain if he’d let you.
“Just. Stop. Talking.” Each word is punctuated by a short, pained breath as Leon digs his forehead into the wall, hands clasping into fists, knuckles drained of all color. “Fuck.” The swear seeps from tight lips as he takes a final inhale before returning to standing, letting his arms fall by his side. “Alright. Let’s keep moving.”
Only a few steps down the corridor later, and Leon is collapsing onto one knee, resting his elbow on the other, his head falling down as he lets out a bellow. Before you can reach out to help him stand, he rises up on his own, sheathing his gun into the holster under his arm.
“What was it?” You ask, voice low and meek.
“Some sort of aphrodisiac,” he confesses quietly, the words slipping out with a sigh. “Apparently, they’re marketing it as a torture device–shit.” Another groan and he’s pressing his back up against the wall. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“Is there a cure?”
He shakes his head. “Not one we can find here.” A deep breath in exchange for a gravely sigh. “I just need a minute.”
“Leon,” you croon, gingerly approaching. “I can make you feel better.”
Mortified, he instantly buries his head in his hands, fingers trembling. “No. I’m not letting you do that.”
“Hey, look at me,” you plead, tugging at his wrists to pull his hands from his face. There’s a sheen of sweat panting his temples, his forehead; a blush flaming his cheeks. His eyes are glassy and strained, dark eyebrows cinched, the heads pulled upward. “I did this to you. Let me help. Please.”
“No.”
“You want to get us out of here, right?” You ask, letting him nod in response. “Well you won’t be able to do anything if you’re in pain. Let me help you.”
After a beat of silence, he finally relents, letting you lead him into the room, closing and locking the door behind you. He has backed himself up against the wall, his clothed back flush to the paint. You approach gingerly, starting with a kiss, planting your lips at the corner of his mouth. He instantly melts, his hands rushing to your sides, digging his digits into the flesh of your waist.
“Fuck, you smell so good,” he whines into your hair, inhaling the scent of your strands, which haven’t been properly cleansed and pampered in a few days. Still, he moans, pressing the length of the locks to his nostrils, eyes screwing shut as he savors the moment.
Glancing over your shoulder, you spot a chaise in the corner of the room, its coral jacquard upholstery is outdated, but the fabric looks clean and the cushions are plush, so you make your way over, pressing Leon down by the shoulders.
You settle between his knees, still standing as you yank your shirt off your chest, along with the thin bra you had on beneath it. A little whimper leaves his lips at the sight of your breasts, free and exposed, and his palms follow if only to cup them for a moment before snatching his own shirt off his back. You expected the rest of him to match the lean definition you noticed in his arms, but nothing could have prepared you for the pure beauty of his form.
“W–What do you need?” You ask, shoving your own pants down until they puddle at your ankles and you step out of them, now bare except for your panties, a plain pair of cotton shorts, which you quickly remove.
Working at the button and zipper of his cargo pants, you pull them down, briefs included, until you see his cock, painfully stiff against his lower abdomen. The sight makes your stomach drop, both in admiration and in bleeding contrition. His balls are tight. The head, red and weeping, on fire with anger.
“I need–oh fuck–I need to be inside you.”
“Okay,” you quickly oblige, crawling onto the chaise, straddling his bare lap. Knees digging into the cushion on either side of Leon’s thighs, you move to line yourself up with the head of his cock, fully prepared to sit yourself onto his length until he stops you with a whine.
“Wait.” He licks his lips, his chest heaving with labored breaths. You watch the rise and fall, intently studying the way his muscles contract with each inhale, as he finds the strength to speak. “I should get you ready for me first–”
“No,” you bite, cutting him off. “We don’t have time. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you su–holy shit,” he cries through closed teeth as you sink down onto him, taking his full length at once. “Oh fuck.”
You shouldn’t enjoy it as much as you do, but you can’t help but revel in the burn as his girth stretches your seam, pushing you to your limit. The sheer beauty of his body, the sweet baritone of his voice–it all makes up for the lack of intentional foreplay, leaving you wet enough to lubricate the friction as you grind down on him.
He winces as you start to find a rhythm, moving your hips back and forth, placing your palms on his chest, your hands met with clammy skin. The apple in his neck bobs as he swallows hard, his eyes closing, head pushing back against the cushion.
“Does it feel good?” You ask, not fully convinced that the man isn’t still in pain by the way his face contorts into a grimace, the weak, primal sounds caught in his throat.
He spits out a string of yeses, his hands flying to the meat around your hips, helping you grind against him. “You feel so good. Ah, that’s it.”
“Is this helping?” You ask, noticing that the animalistic cries of pain you heard earlier have been replaced by sensual moans each time you lower yourself down onto him.
“Yes,” he gasps. “I just need more. I need to–”
You expect the awkward dance that usually takes place when you and a partner change positions in bed: he pulls out and you adjust your body so he can sheath himself once more, limbs getting tangled up with one another if it happens in the dark and the sheets are crumpled between you. With Leon, all it takes is a swift tug and turn, and you’re on your back, not feeling the absence of him inside you for one second as he folds you in half with ardent grace.
He leans on the forearm by your head, using his other hand to wrap your leg around his waist, holding it flush to him as he continues to thrust into you.
“Kiss me,” he commands softly and you urge your head up to meet his lips, taking him in a long, soothing kiss. With your hands cupping his cheeks, you brush away the strands of blonde hair, some falling down like curtains while other pieces are glued to his temples with sweat. Still pulled into a tango with his tongue, you melt into the cushion behind you, far too enraptured in your bliss to keep any tension in your body.
“S–so beautiful,” he stammers, and you’re not sure if he means it or if he’s just sputtering sweet nothings out of habit–as though this is a normal hook-up between two lovers and he’s going through the motions of pillow talk to appease you. “I need–ugh–”
“Whatever you need–take it,” you beg, planting another wet kiss on his lips, pink swollen from thrashing against yours like a wave crashing onto shore after running from the stormy sea.
“Need to finish inside,” he spits out and your eyes grow wide. “Need to.”
“Oh–oh–okay,” you gasp as he hits the button behind your front wall, the spot that makes your vision blur at the corners; a suffocating fists grabs your lungs, punching your sternum. It takes your breath away, the peak of your orgasm, and you nearly bite down on Leon’s lower lip as you cry out for him, for god.
“Shitshitshit,” he swears in a strangled bellow. “I’m close–fuck–I’m coming.” His hips jerk against yours one last time–mean and hard–as he finishes. “Fuck.”
His body is sticky and damp, heavy on top of yours as he collapses, chest pumping out wrung breaths. Your clit is pulsating, the aftershocks of your pleasure still rolling through you as Leon brings a ginger thumb to your cheek to caress your skin.
“So soft,” he mutters in a low whisper and there’s a dolorous glint in his eyes as he cuts them away. “I’m sorry you had to do that for me.”
You grab his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours. “Stop that. It’s me who should say ‘sorry’. I’m the one who acted impulsively and injected you with that thing.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t blame you. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”
“How about we stop apologizing?” You recommend with as much of a giggle as you can muster, your abdomen still sore from contracting through your climax.
Leon gives you a smile–one that shows off his teeth, white and perfect in their imperfection. “Sounds like a plan.”
“We should probably get going now,” you say, prompting Leon to roll off of you so the two of you can clean up the best and redress yourselves, scooping up the articles of clothing sprawled across the floor and shoving them back on your worked bodies.
“Thank you,” he mumbles before clearing the sex out of his throat. “For helping me.”
“Of course, Leon,” you say sweetly, looking at his ear as he turns his head and a swath of hair sweeps across his eye as he dips his head down to zip up his pants. “But, um…Leon?”
“Hm?” He glances up at you, hands still fixing his belt. “What is it?”
“They didn’t hear any of that, right?” You ask, pointing to what you assume is a line of communication in the form of a plastic nub placed snugly in his canal. “Whoever’s in your ear…”
All color quickly drains from his face and his crystal blue eyes grow wide as he instinctively reaches up to the bud.
A triptych of sex pollen one-shots featuring RE2, RE4, and RE9 Leon Kennedy.
Pairing: RE2!Leon Kennedy x CollegeStudent!Reader
Rating: Explicit
Summary: As you search for your roommate amid the chaos of the Raccoon City outbreak, you bump into Leon Kennedy, a Rookie Cop, and the two of you try to find your way into the underground tunnels beneath the RPD. While looking for a flashlight, you cut yourself on a broken ampule, and things turn hot really quick.
Word Count: 3.1k
He found you in the back alley of the police station, huffing and puffing and out of breath from running from those people. Could you even call them people anymore? Did they have consciences? Were they sentient? Did they remember their family members, their loved ones? Did they have thoughts besides eat, bite, kill? They reeked of rotten flesh and singed skin as they chased you, not as sluggish as they looked once they smelled fresh meat.
It was dank and damp and your canvas sneakers were hardly a deterrent to whatever moisture has accumulated in the divots in the concrete path. The chilled breeze spit rain at your face as you panted down the alley. You could hear their growls in your ear, and phantom voices or not, the sound had you looking over your shoulder every few seconds as you sprinted. That’s how you ended up running chest-first into a young man, clad in a police uniform, which was probably at one point, polished and clean, but is now torn in some places, mottled with dirt and grime in others.
His form just appeared, boots standing firm on the rain-drenched asphalt.
“What in the world are you doing out here?” He asked, pinching his brows down at you, gloved hands coming up to the goosebumped flesh of your upper arms.
You were so excited to see a living, breathing person that you didn’t realize you had wrapped your arms around his chest when you started coughing up the tale of why you were in this mess in the first place.
“I’m trying to find my roommate. We were driving through–trying to get back to campus–when the road just…gave out in the middle of nowhere. Sh–she–we split up to find a way out and I got lost.”
You would ask him the same question if it weren’t for the bullet-proof vest he was wearing, branded with the city’s acronym in gray letters across the chest. Once he’s determined there’s no safe way out down either end of the alley, he pulls you inside the building, shutting the door behind you both.
“What’s going on?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I got a call to stay away.”
It’s dark inside what you imagine is a stairwell or some sort of hallway, a draft billowing through the concrete encasement. As your eyes adjust to the change in brightness, you see that the lights lining the walls have been shot out, leaving cracked bulbs attached to gilded sconces, and shattered milky glass on the ground.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I wanted to help.” His eyes, blue and striking, are flooded with sincerity. A hand rests on a gun at his hip. “Though I think I got here too late.”
Your tired, blood-shot eyes flicker up to his shoulder, bandaged with dirty white gauze, tied off haphazardly in a knot. Below it, a blot of red.
“You’re hurt.”
“No, I’m Leon.” A smile splays across his face. White teeth, perfect in their imperfection, brighten up the darkness as he leads you down the hallway, glancing over his shoulder to gauge your reaction.
“Huh?”
He shakes his head and lets out a breathy chuckle. “Sorry, bad timing. I was trying to lighten the mood.” Humor is lost on you at the moment, the chaos you just escaped having left you dumb and fog-brained.
“Oh, right,” you laugh belatedly. “Duh. I get it–uh–sorry, that was funny. Leon.”
You give him your name and he repeats it, trying out the sound on his tongue. “Pretty name.”
Pretty boy.
“Thanks,” you respond, thankful for the lack of light surrounding you so your glowing cheeks go unseen. “Uh, where should we go now?”
“There’s this lab I need to get to, but we have to go through the tunnels below ground. But first I have to find out how to get to them.”
You follow closely behind Leon–Officer Kennedy as you see embroidered across the patch over his heart–as the two of you make your way through the police department, looking for any information that can help you locate the entrance to the tunnels.
There are notes scattered around, telling a harrowing tale of the outbreak that happened here: scribbled updates from officers you assume are long gone, passwords to safes and lockers. Leon looks around one of the rooms, opening and closing the drawers to a metal filing cabinet. You follow suit, searching through one of the desks, for what, you’re not sure, but you hope you’ll know it when you see it. Preferably, you’d like to find a flashlight like the one Leon has–it certainly would help right now, as you attempt to navigate the darkness, the room illuminated only by the streak of light from a lamppost seeping through the window from outside. The shine is chopped up by the open blinds, but it’s better than nothing.
Not better than the beam of a flashlight, though. The search is on.
“Ouch,” you hiss, your hand instinctively retreating from the drawer. Immediately, you try to sooth the cut on your finger with your mouth, suctioning your lips over the digit, the metallic pang of blood acrid on your tongue.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” Leon turns around so fast on the heel of his boot you feel the air shift around you. Eyes wide and frantic, bouncing up and down, side to side, he searches your body, starting at your toes, fluttering all the way up to your face, your hairline, your ears. His hands come next, gripping your upper arms with frantic fingers digging into the flesh.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you promise repeatedly. “Something just scratched me. Something in this drawer. It felt like glass.”
“Where? Show me.”
Pivoting your upper body, you show Leon the pinprick of blood amid the swirls of your fingerprint, holding out your hand for him to examine it.
“It looks like some sort of ampule,” you say, holding up the remnants of the shattered glass tube.
“Shit,” he hisses, not even trying to hide his worry.
Amoralix, the printed label reads. Some of the text is smudged, some illegible in the low light.
“Why would this be in here?” You ask. It’s a question to which neither of you have an answer.
It feels as though hours have passed since you cut yourself, the tiny wound on your finger now bound by a small cloth bandage Leon found in a med kit. The cut throbs, and that’s not the only part of your body taking a beating.
It’s all over–shocks rolling through your veins like electric eels shimmying through a river.
Your skin is on fire, every nerve ending lit like a firecracker on the Fourth of July, threatening to explode and rip through your epidermis. Blood leaves your face, your feet, rushing from both directions straight to the apex of your thighs, pumping plasma to your clit. It burns.
“What the fuck,” you mumble to yourself, the words incoherent to Leon but they grab his attention nonetheless.
He turns around as the two of you make your way to another room, sticking close together–too close, you think. “What was that?”
“Oh, nothing,” you lie, shoving dampened strands of hair from your temples. When did your skin get so clammy?
“Stay right behind me. I have one more room to search.”
“Yeah, sure.”
All you can think about is the musk radiating off his neck, the patch of warm skin peeking out from the collar of his uniform. The button-up shirt, navy and wrinkled, fitting perfectly across his chest. Your mind flips to a mental image of what lies beneath the cotton, and you practically salivate at the thought of his pecs, the slope of his shoulders, the valleys and ridges of his abdominal muscles.
Strong, capable arms extend from tattered sleeves. There’s a slight vein that trails up his right forearm, a sign of virility. Your teeth ache with want at the sight, desiring nothing more than to dig enamel into muscle.
A little moan leaves your parted lips, and you cup a hand to your mouth, as though you could shove the sound abc down your throat.
“Are you alright?” Leon asks, his brows cinched.
“I’m sorry,” you gasp, placing a hot palm over your racing heart, which does nothing to calm the erratic beat thumping against your chest. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I just feel really hot. Like I have a fever or something.”
His eyes cut from side to side, lids blinking. “Do you think it has something to do with that serum…the one from that broken ampule? Maybe some of it got into your bloodstream.”
“Shit, I hope not,” you bite. “We don’t even know what that was, do we?”
“No idea.” Guilt wrecks his face…his beautiful, edible face. He takes a step closer and it’s cataclysmic. You feel your body tearing at the seams with each inch he gains on you. “But I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you. Once we get down to that lab, I’ll figure out what was in that ampule and we’ll find an antidote, okay?”
You know he’s speaking to you, but the words are muffled over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, viciously thumping like a metronome.
There’s a primal urge deep in the marrow of your bones, screaming at you to lunge at him and ravage his body until there’s nothing left but scraps and bones. You want to bite and gnaw and ride and moan into his mouth as his lips suction to yours.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Huh?”
“You don’t look too good.” he reaches out to touch your elbow, and your resolve snaps. There’s no way you can hold it in anymore.
“Leon, can I tell you something?”
His eyes grow wide and he moves to place both hands on your arms. The touch is radioactive on your skin. “Anything,” he promises with the slightest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I think that serum, Amora–whatever, I think it’s making me hot. Like…” A violent blush spreads across your cheeks and your mouth feels as dry as desert sand. “Turned on.”
“Turned on?” He repeats, eyes falling to the ground as he tastes the words on his tongue. “What do you mean?”
You laugh, slightly out of desperation, but mostly out of the humor of the whole situation. A strangling sensation arises on your skin–the feeling of bugs crawling down your arms, up your legs. You shiver beneath the spectre of insects nibbling at your ankles. “Horny, Leon,” you bite, now too impatient to mince words. “I’m so horny.”
Sucking in a deep breath, you try to muster the only strength remaining. It slips through your fingers as you begin to scratch at your neck, leaving raw, red marks in the wake of your fingernails. “I feel so hot. It’s like I can’t breathe.”
Leon pulls you into his grasp, holding your arms down so you can’t claw at your skin anymore. “Shh,” he hushes you, soothing the hair at the back of your head, probably ratty and matted from the rain, the running, the wind that thrashed against your cheeks until they were sore. His thumb caresses your face, sliding back and forth against clammy skin. “It’s okay. I’m gonna help you.”
“Are you sure?” You ask, looking up at him with glassy eyes. Pained tears pool at your lash line, thick and oily, blurring your vision.
He doesn’t answer, not verbally. In lieu of words, his hands make quick work of your shirt, pulling it over your arms. Next, you reach around to unlatch your bra. You sigh at the sudden relief of the fabric, once glued to your skin with sweat, now removed and exposing your upper body to the stagnant air of the small room that holds you captive.
His fingers are trembling as he fumbles with the zipper of your jeans, tanking them down to your ankles as you aid him in lifting each foot so he can discard the denim, tossing it over his shoulder as if the pair is lava on his palms.
You cry out beneath the gurgling in your stomach, nearly tumbling down to the floor as your knees buckle beneath you. Leon’s arms hold you upright before he takes you in his arms, carrying you over to a desk. Your nearly bare ass presses against the cool, lacquered wood–a moment of sweet reprieve from the fever blistering your skin.
“Please,” you yelp, grabbing his shirt in your fists, tugging him closer until his lips are on yours, kissing you deeply. There’s passion behind the kiss, and it sates you if only for a moment before your nailbeds throb and your knuckles tense with how hard you're grabbing at his top. “Take off your clothes.”
He obliges, practically ripping the buttons off his shirt with how quickly he undoes them, moving to the zipper of his pants, then the band of his briefs. Taking in the sight before you, if only for a moment, your eyes begin to water, and saliva pools beneath your tongue. Taut pale skin, smooth and unblemished, stretches across lean, defined muscles begging to be touched.
“You’re–wow,” is all you can manage to say, watching the way his abdomen tenses beneath your stare, his cock twitching as you lower your gaze down to its weeping head.
Leon starts to dip down to his knees.
“No,” you bark, reaching out for him. “N–Need you inside. Please.”
“Oh shit, okay,” he says with a frenzied nod. “Hold on.” He yanks down your panties, and the sound the fabric makes as it slides off your skin is downright lewd. You can feel the moisture between your legs, slick dripping down the flesh of your inner thighs. “Woah.”
His eyes get wide as he stares down at the cascade of arousal leaking from your gushing cunt. You’re sure Leon thought he’d have to warm you up with his tongue or on his fingers, not expecting to see you perfectly ready for him. If only you could get this wet every time you were with a man, minus the searing heat beneath your skin and the boiling acid in your stomach.
“Now, please,” you whimper, reaching out to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into you. His scent is even more intoxicating, the closer he is to you. He smells like dirt and sweat and man. “I need it, Leon.”
He hisses your name like a curse as you help him line himself up at your entrance, your seam soft and malleable, desperate to feel the stretch of his cock as it strains your muscle.
“Holy shit,” he chokes as you buck your hips against the desk, jolting upward to suck in his full length. The sharp pleasure of the crown hitting your cervix has you trying to close your knees, but his body between your thighs keeps them open. “Fuck.”
Immediately, the rash growing up the side of your neck like a vine subsides, and you feel for the first time like you can breathe. You gulp down the air, your lungs expanding to their full capacity.
“More.”
He obeys, pistoning in and out of you. His hips slap against your pelvis so forcefully, you’re sure it’ll leave a bruise. It would take a lot more than that to pull you away from him, however. The sensation of his cock sliding against your walls is both overwhelming and healing–a tornado of paradoxical sensations that push you close to the edge.
“Does that feel good?” He asks, his hands on your waist tethering you to him as he continues to thrust.
“Yes,” you reply, stuttering over the sound as it ambitiously leaps from your tongue. “So good. Don’t stop.”
Leon follows your command, pounding into you, maintaining the same pace as before, only now he’s kissing you again. His tongue lures yours into a tango as he laps at your mouth, eating you with the same heat you still feel in your veins.
“You feel so good,” he whines into your mouth. “I don’t know how much longer–ah shit–I can last like this. I don’t–uh–do this very much and it–oh god–it feels so good.”
Your back arches, offering your breasts up to him. The tip of his tongue finds your pebbled nipple, feeding it in between his lips to suck. He groans against the bud, the vibrations sending electric waves rolling through your body.
So close.
“Harder, Leon,” you command, coming back up to cup his cheeks. He does the same to you, holding your face as he kisses you once more. “Need more.” You bare down on the plush flesh of his lower lip, biting until you taste copper. He winces into your mouth, retreating just slightly to press his forehead against yours. With a string of whimpers, he plunges into you, fucking you will all the strength he has left.
“I’m there,” he whines, palms back at your waist. “I’m gonna come–”
“Inside. Inside me,” you beg, the urge to be filled overriding every logical thought whizzing around in your brain, rationality trudging through the heady fog clouding your judgment. “I’m close too. Come with me.” The nerve endings running from your toes to your fingers, to the vertebrae of your spine–they fire off on all cylinders as your pleasure reaches its peak. The muscles of your abdomen contract and release, your walls clenching around Leon, squeezing him over and over until his hips jerk, finishing with one final thrust.
“Shit, stop–oh fuck,” he bites, seizing as he shoots his orgasm into you, grabbing you to hold your chest flush to his. “Fuck.”
The fever breaks, though you’re still a sweaty, panting mess, your head faulting to Leon’s shoulder as he reaches down to zip his pants back up, the metal of his belt buckle clicking.
“Thank you,” you say as you finally come down from your high, the aftershocks buzzing at your clit finally subsiding. Your skin doesn’t itch anymore, and your heart returns to its normal rhythm. “I’m sorry you had to do that, Leon.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a sweet smile. “I’m at your service, though I typically don’t–um–have sex with someone unless I’m seeing them…you know, like, unless she’s my girlfriend…you know…”
The man who was just fucking you like a rabid animal suddenly gets shy, rubbing the back of his neck like it’s a genie’s lamp and one of his wishes is to disappear.
You giggle, planting a chaste kiss onto his rosy cheek, beneath which he blushes ferociously, face glowing an even deeper shade of red. “Get us out of here and we’ll see what happens, officer.”
synopsis: a quiet, secretive serial killer named seonghwa becomes obsessed with y/n, a girl whose genuine happiness he can’t stand, and begins stalking her with the intent to kill her; however, as he watches her and slowly inserts himself into her life, her unexpected calmness and kindness begin to unravel him, forcing him to confront emotions he’s never felt before, until his plan to destroy her turns into a dangerous attachment that blurs the line between fear, control, and love
genre: thriller, fluff(?)
pairing: serial killer!seonghwa x reader
word count: 2k
notes: this is my first post on this account! i hope you enjoy. also this was entirely inspired by @ihaveamassivegun 's stray kids - dear y/n series. so full creds to her, i love her writing. not proofread so sorry for any spelling mistakes!
the first time seonghwa noticed you, it wasn’t anything dramatic.
no thunder. no cinematic slow motion. no ominous music swelling in the background. just a laugh.
you were standing outside a convenience store, sunlight spilling over your shoulders, head tilted back slightly as if the world had just told you a secret worth keeping. the sound of your laughter, light, unguarded, almost careless, cut through the noise of passing cars and murmuring voices.
seonghwa stopped walking.
he didn’t mean to. his body simply refused to move forward.
because you were… happy.
it wasn’t a fleeting smile or a polite social gesture. it was something deeper. something that lived in your bones. something real.
and seonghwa hated it.
he told himself that was why he followed you. not curiosity. not fascination. certainly not longing.
just necessity. a correction. seonghwa had always believed happiness was a flaw in the human design. a weakness. people who felt too much joy were careless, blind to the rot underneath everything. they trusted too easily. they laughed too loudly. they lived like nothing could ever touch them.
they were wrong. and seonghwa liked to fix things that were wrong.
the first night he followed you home, you didn’t notice him. of course you didn’t. you walked through the quiet streets with earbuds in, humming softly under your breath. every now and then, you’d look up at the sky like you expected the stars to look back at you.
seonghwa stayed just far enough behind, always in shadow. always out of reach.
he noted everything. the rhythm of your steps, the way you checked your phone every few minutes, the slight pause before you crossed the street even when no cars were coming.
habits. patterns. weaknesses.
you lived alone. that made things easier. he didn’t break in that night. seonghwa wasn’t impulsive, he didn’t rush. every act required precision, patience, intention.
instead, he stood across the street, watching your apartment window. your silhouette moved behind the curtains. slow. ordinary. unaware. alive. his fingers twitched slightly.
soon.
days passed, then weeks.
seonghwa learned everything about you without ever speaking a word.
you woke up at 7:12 every morning. not 7:10. not 7:15. always 7:12. you liked your coffee too sweet. you worked at a small bookstore, the kind that smelled like paper and dust and comfort.
you talked to customers like they mattered. you smiled at strangers. you smiled a lot, it irritated him more than it should have.
he started following you more closely. closer than necessary. sometimes just a few steps behind. close enough to hear the soft sound of your breathing when you stood still. close enough to notice the way your shoulders tensed slightly when someone brushed past you.
you weren’t as unaware as he first thought. that made it interesting.
The first time you almost saw him, it was raining. you stood under the awning of the bookstore, waiting for the storm to pass. your hair clung slightly to your face, and you looked smaller somehow. more human.
seonghwa stood across the street, half-hidden behind a lamppost. you glanced up.
for a moment—just a moment—your eyes met his.
something flickered across your expression. not recognition. not fear. just curiosity. then a car passed between you, and when the view cleared, you were gone.
seonghwa didn’t move for a long time.
that night, he changed the plan. originally, it was simple. quick. clean. efficient.
you would disappear like all the others. no trace. no story. just another quiet correction in a broken world.
but now…
now he wanted to understand you first. he started leaving things. small things.
a flower on your doorstep. a book you had mentioned wanting, placed carefully near your window. a note once— just a single word:
“smile.”
you found them. he watched you find them. the confusion. the hesitation. the slight unease creeping into your expression.
but you didn’t stop smiling. even then. especially then. it made something in his chest tighten.
you told someone about it.
he saw you talking on the phone one night, pacing your apartment. your voice was soft, but he could read your lips.
“it’s weird, but," you paused for a moment "not scary.”
seonghwa tilted his head slightly. not scary? you should have been afraid. you should have locked your doors, closed your curtains, changed your routine. but you didn’t.
you kept living like the world was kind. like nothing was watching you. like nothing ever would. he broke into your apartment three nights later.
not to kill you. not yet. just to see.
you were asleep. curled slightly on your side, one arm tucked under your pillow. your breathing was steady, peaceful. seonghwa stood at the foot of your bed. this was the moment.
it always felt the same. stillness. control. the quiet certainty that someone’s life was balanced delicately in his hands.
he had done this before. many times. different faces, different homes, same ending. but this time he didn’t move.
you looked fragile. not weak. just… real.
there was a faint crease between your brows, like you were dreaming about something that mattered. something unresolved. people like you weren’t supposed to have that.
you were supposed to be simple. happy. untouched by the darker edges of the world. but maybe he had been wrong.
your hand shifted slightly in your sleep.
seonghwa froze.
you murmured something under your breath and he leaned closer without thinking.
“stay…” the word was soft. barely there. but it hit him harder than anything else ever had. stay? you weren’t talking to him. you couldn’t have been and yet his chest felt tight again. uncomfortable. unfamiliar. he left without touching you.
that was the first time he failed to complete something he had started. he told himself it didn’t matter, it was just a delay. just adjustment.
but the next time he entered your apartment, he stayed longer. and the next time after that, even longer. he learned the quiet sounds of your space. the hum of your refrigerator. the creak of the floor near your window. the soft rhythm of your breathing as you slept.
he sat in your chair once. touched the spine of your favourite book. ran his fingers lightly over the edge of your desk. everything about your life felt warm, messy, alive. it made his skin feel too tight.
you started noticing things. objects slightly out of place, the faint scent of something unfamiliar, a window that didn’t quite latch the way it used to.
this time, when you spoke on the phone, your expression was different.
“i think someone’s been in here.”
seonghwa watched from across the street. our voice trembled slightly.
finally.
fear.
that was how it was supposed to be. but even then you didn’t leave. instead, you changed. subtly.
you locked your doors more carefully. checked your windows twice. paused longer before turning off the lights.
but you still smiled, still laughed, still lived. it confused him. no, it frustrated him. you were supposed to break that was how this worked. that was how it always worked.
the night everything changed, you were awake when he entered. seonghwa didn’t realize it at first.
you lay still in bed, facing away from him, your breathing slow and even. he stepped closer, silent, careful controlled.
“are you going to keep watching or finally say something?” your voice cut through the darkness. calm, clear, not afraid.
seonghwa stopped and for the first time in years, he didn’t know what to do.
you sat up slowly, turning to face him. the room was dim, but not dark enough to hide him completely.
your eyes met his. no panic, no screaming. just... understanding.
“i knew it,” you said softly. silence stretched between you. heavy. unsteady.
“you’ve been following me for weeks,” you continued. “the gifts, the notes, the presence.” a small pause.
“Why?”
seonghwa opened his mouth. closed it again.
why? he had never needed a reason before. not one he could explain.
“…you were too happy,” he said finally. the words sounded strange out loud, even to him.
you blinked “…what?”
“you shouldn’t be,” he continued, his voice steadier now. “people like you… it’s not real, it doesn’t last.”
a faint crease formed between your brows "you were going to kill me because i smile too much?”
“yes.”
the honesty hung in the air like something fragile, breakable.
and then you laughed, not loudly, not mockingly, just softly. almost incredulously.
“that’s” you shook your head slightly. “that’s the worst reason i’ve ever heard.”
seonghwa frowned "you’re not afraid.”
“i probably should be,” you admitted. “but you’ve had so many chances. you didn’t take them.”
his jaw tightened "that doesn’t mean I won’t.”
you studied him for a moment, really looked at him, not the shadow, not the threat. him.
“you don’t want to,” you said quietly. the words hit harder than they should have. seonghwa stepped closer "you don’t know anything about me.”
“then tell me,” you replied. another pause, longer this time.
“i don’t feel things,” he said finally. you tilted your head slightly "everyone feels things.”
“not like you.”
silence again. you shifted slightly on the bed, pulling your knees closer “…what if i showed you?” his expression hardened, "that’s not how it works.”
“then why are you still here?”
he didn’t have an answer, and that terrified him more than anything else ever had.
days turned into something else after that, not normal, not safe, but different.
seonghwa didn’t stop watching you. but now sometimes, you watched him back. you started leaving things too, cup of coffee on the windowsill, a note: "you should try this. it’s too sweet but you might like it.”
he didn’t touch it the first time. or the second.
but the third time he did.
it was too sweet just like you said and for some reason he didn’t hate it. he still told himself this would end. it had to. people like him didn’t change, didn’t soften, didn’t fall.
but every time you smiled at him. really smiled, like you weren’t afraid of what he was something inside him shifted, just slightly. just enough.
the night he realized it, he was standing in your apartment again. you were awake sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading.
you didn’t look up when he entered. “you’re late,” you said.
late. like he was expected.
like he belonged.
seonghwa exhaled slowly "i was going to kill you.” you turned the page, "i know.”
“I still might.”
you finally looked up and smiled, "then why haven’t you?” he stepped closer. closer than ever before. close enough to see the tiny details in your expression. the softness, the warmth, the life.
“because you make me feel something,” he said quietly.
your smile didn’t fade "good,” you replied. and for the first time in his life, seonghwa wasn’t sure if that was a good thing,
or the most dangerous thing that had ever happened to him.
re4r!Leon Kennedy x f!reader
summary: when a routine gets broken before leon leaves for a mission, it leaves you frustrated and worried.
wc: 3.6k
content warning: brief use of y/n, mostly angst, reader worrying herself over leon, miscommunication between these two, happy ending
Every mission that Leon was assigned to, you always had to bid him goodbye before he left. Call it a routine, or even a superstition; but no matter what type of mission or how early in the morning he had to leave, you would kiss him, make him promise to come back safe, and watch him leave.
It felt like the least that you could do. Leon doesn’t tell you the full extent of what he does on his missions, as he doesn’t even like to recall the memories himself. So it felt like for you, that something as simple as a goodbye kiss and a be safe remark would settle your anxiety for the time he’s gone.
This particular night, you and Leon were cuddled in bed relatively early, as he had to leave at two in the morning for his mission. The room was dark, minus the dim lamp on your bedside table, emitting a warm glow on your faces.
Leon had the briefing in his lap, looking over the details a final time before he drifted off to a restless sleep. He never slept well the night before a mission. Whether it was because he knew what he was getting himself into each time, or it was the too real possibility of the fact that he might never see your face again.
You, curled up into Leon’s side, back resting against the headboard as you watched his face focus on the papers in front of him, tilted your head down to plant a kiss on his bare shoulder.
“Hey, you’ve read that thing ten times front to back now. You need to sleep,” your lips murmured against his skin, a hand rubbing his chest in soft circles. Leon sighed, and folded up the briefing and placed it on his nightside table.
“Yeah okay,” he muttered tiredly, a yawn escaping out his mouth as he spoke. He switched off the lamp next to him and settled further into bed, you doing the same.
Leon was on his side, arms wrapped around your waist as you snuggled deep into his chest, your nose digging into his collarbone. Leon always held you tighter before parting; memorizing every dip and curve of your body, the smell of your shampoo, the soft sound of your voice in his ear.
You inhaled the scent of Leon’s skin, freshly clean from a shower but still had a hint of his pheromones that drove you wild. You nudged your nose against his neck, placing a gentle kiss to his pulse.
“If I don’t hear your alarm wake me when you get up, okay?” You whispered against his neck, exhaustion beginning to creep into your body. Leon kissed the top of your head, keeping his face nestled in your hair.
“It’ll be too early for you, baby. I’ll let you sleep,” he whispered back, another sigh escaping his nose as he went to shut his eyes. You pulled your head back just enough to look at his face, and frowned.
“I have to say goodbye, I’ll fall back asleep once you leave.” Leon’s head rolled when you pulled yours back, his eyes blinking back open only slightly. He was exhausted, to say the least. His brain was consumed with the case, under eyes dark from lack of sleep. All he could do was lean in, slotting his lips into yours like they were made for each other.
The kiss was deep, trying to communicate the words he couldn’t come up with. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his arms pulling you impossibly closer to his body.
“Love you so much,” Leon whispered, words trailing off as he succumbed to sleep. You only kissed the tip of his nose, nestling your head back into the crook of his neck before allowing sleep to pull you in.
Your head was buried in your pillow when you began to stir awake. Face practically suffocating in the silk pillowcase, hair in all different directions on your head. You felt strangely well rested, muscles relaxed and battery fully recharged.
Your eyes still closed, you flipped over in bed and extended your arms to reach for Leon, and was met with the cold mattress. You frowned, arms flailing as you tried to search for even a little bit of warmth.
That was when you opened your eyes, immediately squinting from the morning sun.
Wait, the sun? What time is it?
You lifted your head, eyes adjusting just enough to read the digital clock on Leon’s nightstand. The time read 8:57am.
You sat right up, head whipping across the room as you noticed Leon’s duffle bag was gone, briefing missing from the nightstand, and jacket removed from the back of the door.
Leon had left. And didn’t say goodbye.
Your immediate reaction was to be enraged. You had told him to wake you up if you couldn’t yourself, and now you’ve been left to wake up alone without giving him that comforting farewell you always did. You felt your face get hot, eyes filling up with angry tears.
You hopped out of bed, and made a direct route to the phone. You knew that you shouldn’t be doing this as you dialed Hunnigan’s number, but your mind was too groggy and frustrated to think clearly.
It only took two rings for Hunnigan to answer her headset, “y/n, what are you-”
“-What’s Leon’s status.” Your tone was flat and direct, not daring to let your voice crack as those hot tears fell from your eyes.
“He said this might happen,” Ingrid muttered to herself, “you know I can’t tell you that, y/n.”
“I’m not asking, Ingrid. What’s. Leon’s. Status.”
The line is silent for a moment, you almost thought she had just hung up until you heard a deep sigh from the other end.
“He is on route to the location. If everything goes accordingly, he should be back to base by the end of the night. You really don’t need to worry-”
“-Thank you,” you hang up the phone before Hunnigan is able to finish her sentence. You let go a shaky breath, and wipe the tears off your cheeks with the back of your hand.
The anger subsides as you stand in your bedroom, fingers running through your hair, and the fear settles in.
Maybe the reason why waking up alone hurt you so much is because of the first time he ever came back home to you. The first time Leon came back injured, you hadn’t even known he was on a mission.
You were sitting on the couch in your apartment, halfway through a movie you’d already watched twice because Leon was supposed to be home three hours ago. At the time, you were still learning what it meant to love someone like Leon Kennedy.
You knew he worked for the government, that he traveled, and you also knew there were things he couldn’t tell you. But you didn’t understand what that really meant.
Every time he left, he’d brush a kiss against your forehead and tell you he’d be back in a few days, and every time, you’d believe him.
That night, the knock at your door came just after midnight. You remember being more annoyed than anything; annoyed he’d forgotten his keys, annoyed he scared you, that he made you wait.
You marched across the apartment ready to lecture him, and opened the door.
You froze.
Leon was standing there swaying on his feet, shirt torn, blood stained sleeve of his jacket. There was a cut across his cheek, and another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His face was pale and exhausted.
The moment he saw you, some invisible thread holding him upright snapped. He stumbled forward, and you barely caught him.
“Leon?” Your voice had sounded strange; small and terrified. You helped him inside, heart pounding so hard you could hear it. He kept saying, “It’s not as bad as it looks,” which only made the vision of your eyes get blurrier and blurrier.
You remembered kneeling on the bathroom floor while he sat on the edge of the bathtub, your hands shook so badly you almost dropped the antiseptic. Leon had laughed softly, actually laughed despite the blood and bruises, despite the split skin over his eyebrow.
You’d glared at him through tears, “Stop laughing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You could’ve died,” the words escaped before you could stop them. Leon stared at the floor as the bathroom went quiet. For the first time that night, he had nothing to say.
Because you were right. You sat between his knees, still clutching the first aid kit. After a long moment, Leon reached out and brushed away a tear rolling down your cheek.
“I’m here, though.”
You hated how broken your voice sounded when you answered, “But what if next time you aren’t?”
The question lingered between you too honestly, too uncomfortably. Because you both knew that it was a real possibility. Leon didn’t answer immediately, instead he leaned forward and pressed a tired kiss to your forehead. Then another, as though trying to prove that he was real. Still breathing, still alive.
You remembered grabbing the front of his shirt before he could pull away, holding him close to you like you needed to feel him.
“Then promise you’ll always come home,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut as you rested your forehead on his. Leon had smiled, small, tired, but genuine.
“I promise.”
The next time he left for a mission, you’d kissed him goodbye at the door. And every mission after that. Neither of you said it out loud, but somewhere along the way, the goodbye kiss stopped feeling like a habit. And started feeling like a promise.
You stared at the silent phone in your hand. Leon had kept that promise every single time, until this morning.
It was Leon’s first mission back from the events in Spain. He had been forced on a leave for a month after suffering from night terrors every night the moment he came back. Even after the leave, they had put him on straight office work for a few weeks to make sure he didn’t lose all of his progress; they can’t ruin their best agent, right?
You spent every night taking care of Leon; calming him down after each nightmare, making sure he ate and showered, even hid all of the knives and unloaded his guns in case he sleepwalked again.
You had been told that this mission wasn’t anything compared to the one in Spain. It was a simple gathering of intel, he shouldn’t have any need to even fire a weapon. But after everything you watched Leon go through, and the very little he told you that happened, you were still apprehensive about this mission.
That was why when you woke up alone this morning it pained you more than usual. You were afraid that Leon would lose all his progress, something could trigger a memory or feeling and he could lose his guard and then-
Before your own thoughts could spiral further you shook your head vigorously, and decided that there’s no good in dwelling on what’s already been done. All you could do was try to distract yourself until Leon came home, supposedly by the end of the night.
So that’s what you did. You did everything imaginable to keep yourself busy; got showered and dressed, cooked breakfast, started a load of laundry, got groceries, cleaned the whole house, did more laundry, even washed your bedsheets so Leon could come home to a clean bed.
You were washing the dishes from dinner when your mind started to betray you again. The sun was just about set, the sky glowing shades of pink and orange, and all you could think about was what if Leon didn’t come home tonight.
You thought about calling Hunnigan again, but decided against it as you really weren’t supposed to ask for his status and you wanted to trust that she would be right about his departure home. You packed up the leftovers, making a plate and leaving it on the stovetop just in case Leon came home hungry.
You settled on the couch in the living room, pyjamas on and wrapped in a fluffy blanket with a movie playing on the tv. You could hardly focus on the screen as you constantly checked the time, and twisting your head to the front door at every car that drove by or every creak you heard.
The clock only read nine pm, meaning it would be quite a few more hours until Leon would be expected home. You thought about going to bed, skipping the agonizing hours and getting right to the part where Leon was pressed close against your back and head nuzzled deep in your neck.
But your brain felt so wired that sleep wasn’t even an option. You could feel your muscles aching to rest but your thoughts were so all over the place that it couldn’t shut off. You also weren’t sure how to handle the situation when he did come home.
Your first initial feelings were angry. You wanted to yell, interrogate him as to why he would break a routine that was so important to you. But you also knew that Leon would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Maybe his alarm never went off and he slept in? Or he was still half asleep as he walked out the front door and forgot?
After all, this was Leon’s job. You didn’t expect him to dote around every time you left for work, so maybe it was the same thing? Did you feel like a hindrance to him? So many conspiracies encircling your mind it began to create a pounding in your head.
You laid sideways on the couch, blanket covering everything but your eyes as you tried to focus on the tv again. A tear betrayingly slipped past your eyes, all you could do was count down the hours until all of this would be over.
Your body jolted awake the second Leon’s keys fiddled with the front door. You didn’t remember falling asleep, or even how long you had stayed up prior. The sky outside was still dark, a quiet rain trickling down the windows.
You sat up as you heard the front door open, but didn’t turn to look. You could hear the squeak of Leon’s boots as he kicked them off, duffle bag being dropped to the floor, and jacket hung up on the coat rack.
Leon’s feet padded quietly on the hardwood floor, trying to make sure he didn’t wake you. It wasn’t until he rounded the corner when he stopped, seeing your back upright on the couch.
“Hey,” he sighed, walking closer to the couch. You almost flinched at his voice, your brain already trying to convince you that this wasn’t real. Finally, you rose from the couch, and turned to face him.
And there he was. Tired, hair messy like he had been playing with it, clothes a little wrinkled, but he was here. Alive, and not even a scratch that you could see. It almost made you more upset that he was fine. Like the routine that you had set up in your head actually didn’t mean anything.
Your arms hugged around your chest tight, eyes already starting to brim with tears, “You didn’t say goodbye.”
Leon’s shoulders tensed, eyebrows knitting together on his forehead. He attempted to take a step closer, but you took a step back.
“Sweetheart, please-”
“I asked you to wake me before you left, and you didn’t,” your voice cracked for the first time all day, not ashamed of showing how hurt you were, “I kiss you goodbye every time you leave.”
Tears spilled down your cheeks, arms tightening around your chest to stifle a sob. Leon sighed again, running a hand through his hair, your eye catching that faded scar over his eyebrow.
“It’s four in the morning, y/n. I’m tired, you’re tired, can we talk about this in the morning-”
“-No, Leon!” The words came out sharper than you intended. “I waited all day for you.”
Leon tensed, you could see the exact moment the frustration drained out of his face and the realization settled in.
“I called Hunnigan,” you murmured, now suddenly feeling embarrassed of what you did. Leon’s eyes widened, head tilting to the side.
“You did what?” That got Leon’s attention immediately. He had given you Ingrid’s number in case of an emergency. If he didn’t show up when he was supposed to, or god forbid something happened to him during a mission.
So him finding out that you had called her made him put together just how terrified you were. Leon forced himself to stay put in front of you, you had already backed away once and he didn’t want to stress you any more than you were.
So he watched, watched as you rocked on the heels of your feet, nose sniffling as more tears fell down your face.
“I thought something happened to you.” The words felt like something you had been avoiding to admit all day. You never usually think of the worst when Leon would leave, especially when you’d be reassured with that goodbye kiss and the promise that he would make it back safe. So when you didn’t have that safety net to fall back on, it triggered something horrifying inside you.
Your arms unfolded, dropping to your sides defeatedly before a choked sob escaped you. All it took was you shifting closer to Leon that had him breaking free of his stance, barreling towards you and wrapping his arms tightly around you.
He cradled the back of your head as you sobbed into his chest, your arms squished at your sides from Leon holding you so tight. You could feel his shirt dampening from your tears but you didn’t care; the mixture of anger and hurt only formed into relief knowing you no longer had anything to worry about.
Leon shushed you comfortingly, brushing your hair with his fingers to soothe your cries, and once all that remained were quiet whimpers and sniffles was when he finally spoke.
“You finally fell asleep.” His voice was just above a whisper, brushing against the shell of your ear. You pulled your head back just enough to meet his gaze, brows furrowing in confusion.
“What?”
“You were sleeping,” Leon’s hand moved from the back of your head to cup the side of your face, “for the first time in weeks.”
That’s when it clicked for you. While you were so busy taking care of Leon ever since he came home from Spain, you were forgetting to take care of yourself.
You lost countless hours of sleep making sure he wouldn’t have another night terror, skipping meals when you were watching Leon make sure he ate everything off his plate, and only giving yourself enough time in the shower to clean your hair and body.
So when Leon woke up before his alarm actually went off, and saw you sound asleep next to him, he didn’t bother you. Leon had a hard time showing his gratitude with words, and he was extremely grateful he had someone like you to hold him together in one of his darkest moments. He figured the least he could do was let you get a full night's rest.
“You looked so peaceful, and you haven’t been sleeping well because of me. So I didn’t wake you.” Leon stared deep into your eyes as he spoke, making sure you could read his genuine expression, how he would never do anything to purposely harm you.
You looked at him through your damp eyelashes, your face relaxing enough to understand why he did what he did.
“That wasn’t your choice to make,” you whispered, “I always say goodbye.”
Leon clicked his tongue at your words, his heart aching so badly over how distraught you had been.
“I know, I’m sorry,” he muffled into your hair, kissing the top of your head. You finally wriggled your arms out of his grasp to wrap them around his back, squishing your face deeper into his chest.
“I hated leaving you without saying goodbye.” Leon confessed, rubbing gentle circles between your shoulder blades. You hummed in question, tilting your head to rest your chin on his chest. “I stood in the doorway for ten minutes. Because it means a lot to me, too.”
You could almost start sobbing again. You had gone all day contemplating whether this silly superstition you have actually made a difference to Leon, if a simple goodbye was enough to put both your worries at ease. Now that you knew it not only meant a great deal to him, and how he forced himself not to wake you this morning, it filled your heart right back where it was meant to be.
You gave him a quivering smile, body straightening to have your head reach closer to his. One of your hands reached to his face, your thumb grazing along his jaw.
“Well, I think you forgot something this morning.”
Before Leon could answer you leaned in and softly kissed Leon’s lips. It wasn’t anything intense; just your lips slotting perfectly into his and taking in everything you missed while he was gone.
Leon sighed into the kiss, shoulders relaxing and pulling you closer to his chest as he deepened the kiss. Everything you had been so worried about flew out the window. All you knew was that Leon was home, he was safe, and he cared about your silly routine just as much as you did.
It was a rainy afternoon. Your boyfriend, San, was sitting in his desk chair and playing video games when you walked into his room, your eyes half closed— the pitter patter of the rain on the windows was making you extremely sleepy, and rainy weather always made you just want to bundle up and sleep the day away. You trudged up to him and rested your chin on his head before letting out a little sigh.
“What’s wrong, baby?” San asked while still heavily invested in his game.
“I’m so sleepy…”
San paused his game and turned around in his chair. He held his arms out, and you immediately moved into his embrace, his thick arms making you feel very secure and even more sleepy.
“Do you want to take a nap?” he whispered.
You nodded and stifled a yawn.
“You can sleep in my bed, baby.”
“…Can you be there with me?”
“I don’t want to take a nap, though—”
“No, just lay in bed with me. You can keep playing your video game,” you told him, hoping that would be enough for him to at least sit next to you while you napped.
“Okay, then can you nap in the living room? That way I can still play.”
You nodded before the two of you went to the living room. San turned on his console and took a seat. You then immediately laid down on the couch, your head resting on your boyfriend’s comfortable thighs. San resumed playing his game, the sounds of his controller clicking slowly lulling you to sleep.
Yeah, right.
You were trying to sleep, and you were so tired that you thought you were actually going to fall asleep the second your head hit his thigh, but you were still awake. You kept your eyes shut as you fidgeted a little, trying to get into a more comfortable position. You were originally facing the tv, but that position wasn’t doing it, so you turned and faced the sofa.
When you faced the sofa, though, you faced San’s crotch. At first, your goal was to scoot away from his crotch so that you didn’t make him uncomfortable, but when you moved your head again, you saw it twitch. Amused, you shifted again, and it twitched again. At that point, you were definitely not asleep, and you desperately wanted to see the expression on San’s face, but you couldn’t without him realizing you were awake.
San, meanwhile, could barely fucking focus. You were getting dangerously close to his crotch, and he was getting harder with every movement. He didn’t think much of it when you laid down on his lap because you had done so in the past, but maybe it was because you were dressed in nothing but a long t-shirt and panties that made this situation slightly different. From the corner of his eye, he could see the shirt ride up a little bit whenever you moved, and at some point, he could see the hem of your black panties peek out from under the shirt. Yep, he was rock solid now.
You wanted to tease him further— since you were wide awake, you figured you’d have some fun. You brought your hands up to your chest and curled slightly into fetal position while whining quietly. You heard San suck in a breath and exhale slowly, his cock pressing against his pants more and more with every passing movement of yours.
San finally broke when you arched your back to stretch it out. It wasn’t just the stretch that got him, no— it was the stretch, the way you pushed your ass out, and the fucking moan that left your lips as you did so.
Carefully, San set his controller aside. He pressed his lips together as he tried to move away from your head so he could go situate himself, but when you whined again, he stayed put. He did the next best thing he could think of and tried to think of things that would turn him off, but that definitely did not work because you were still teasing him, and his cock was twitching like crazy.
At that point, San felt like he only had one option left (if he didn’t want to wake you from your “peaceful slumber”), and that was to take care of it right then and there. Luckily, your head was far enough from his crotch that he was able to slowly pull his stiff cock out of his pants, a slight sigh of relief escaping his body when the tension released slightly. That being said, he was still hard and throbbing, and he needed to do something about it.
You kept your eyes as closed as possible but opened them slightly to see San start to jerk himself off. He was trying his best to keep his breathing quiet, but he would grunt and groan every so often as rubbed himself. His hips were subtly bucking upwards when his hand sped up, so he had to slow himself down to keep you from waking up. You could tell he was getting more frustrated and that he was practically edging himself every time he slowed down.
San looked down at your face. The darkest thought entered his mind, and he immediately tried to push it out, but the thought of him fucking your mouth while you were asleep was just too appealing. Plus, the two of you had set boundaries in the past agreeing that waking up to being fucked was okay— this was mainly because you liked the idea of him eating you out first thing in the morning.
You felt San tap his cock on your cheek, a longer (and still soft) groan leaving his being. He inhaled sharply before gently moving your head and pulling your chin down to open your mouth. Heat flushed through your body when he slid his thick cock into your mouth. San whimpered when your lips got tighter, his breath shuddering. Your mouth felt so good— so much better than his fist— but it still was not enough.
San kept rolling his hips upwards gently as he moved his cock subtly in and out of your mouth, but he was moving so freaking slowly because he was still worried about waking you up. Finally, you decided to cut the act. Well, not entirely. You “woke up,” your eyes fluttering open before slowly looking up to San’s red face. He was biting down on his lower lip, and he looked guilty as fuck.
You didn’t give him time to move or apologize or anything. You turned so that you were on your hands and knees, and you started sucking him off properly, a long groan leaving him as he flung his head back, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. When he brought his head back, he placed his hand on your head and began guiding you the way he wanted. You went from sucking prim and properly to loud and sloppily.
“Fuck, baby,” San groaned. “Ah— Oh!”
San let go of your head to grip the couch cushions, his hips raising as he felt himself nearing his release. The second you heard his loud, low groan, he came, his cum spurting into your mouth. His breathing was still shaky as he finished completely, and even after you slurped up everything and took his cock out of your mouth, he was still red, erect, and twitching; and it only got worse when you swallowed and cleaned the edges of your mouth with the tips of your fingers.
“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he whispered.
“I know, Sannie,” you whispered back as you sat up.
“Well, now that you’re up…”
You smiled. You held onto his shoulders and straddled him, a giddy smile spreading across his face as he wrapped his arms around your waist. You slipped your panties off, and you held his cock gently, moving it so that it was lined up with your entrance. Both you and San moaned softly as you sat on his lap, his thick cock spreading you wide and filling you up.
“Baby, you’re so wet,” San teased as he pushed his head into the nook of your neck. “Sucking my cock did that much for you?”
Hearing him sensually mutter and say the word “cock” made you tingle all over. You gripped his shoulders a little more tightly and gave him a tiny nod, making him chuckle. He pressed a soft kiss into your neck before rubbing his nose against your skin and softly humming.
You simply sat on San’s lap with his cock deep inside you as he peppered kisses all over your exposed skin. His hands went under your oversized shirt, his fingers leaving blazing trails along your back. When his hands made their way up to your ribs, he withdrew his hands to lift the end of your shirt up. He held the end to your mouth, prompting you to bite the fabric so your breasts were exposed to the air. San grunted gently when he saw them, a smirk rising to his face. He moved forward slightly, making you lean back so that he had easier access to your breasts. He took one breast into his mouth and sucked hard, your toes curling and your hold on his sweater getting so tight that you nearly tore holes into the fabric.
“Mmm, baby, don’t tear this sweatshirt,” San chuckled. “This is a new one.”
“Oh, really?” you asked slightly sarcastically; as if you didn’t know that information earlier.
“Wait, let me just take it off—”
“No, don’t,” you stopped him. You moved your hands to his neck and said, “You look sexy in it.”
San’s face got a little pinker as he blinked at you in surprise.
“I thought you liked me when I was naked?” he asked in a teasing voice.
“Mmm, I like you in all forms, Sannie,” you replied as you leaned forward, making him lean back into the couch.
San grinned. You tilted his face up to meet yours, and he for sure thought you were going to kiss him, so he was mildly surprised when you started to leave kisses on his neck. You ran your tongue up the side of his neck before leaving a wet kiss, your lips sucking hard on his skin to leave a mark.
While you focused on leaving hickeys all over his thick neck, San moved his hands down to your ass. He moved you up and down so that you were slowly bouncing on his cock, the man stifling soft gasps when you sat all the way down. You held the back of San’s neck and tried to keep your grip on sanity as the friction of his cock rubbing against your tight walls made the tension in your stomach build rapidly.
San couldn’t hold back his groans at some point. You were getting tighter, and he was losing his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing getting shallower and his gasps getting higher in pitch. His waist was snapping upwards, making his thrusts way stronger. He was fucking you roughly, but it wasn’t quite enough for either of you.
Suddenly, San pinned you on the couch, and he fucked you way faster, the intensity of his thrusts not letting up in the slightest. You flung your head back and moaned loudly as San thrust into you so far and hard that he hit your cervix. Your thighs trembled as you creamed around San’s cock, the pleasure too much for you to handle.
You got so freakishly tight when you came that San ended up cumming too. He slammed his waist into yours and groaned, his cum spurting inside you. You felt his cock twitch inside you multiple times, before he pulled out; and just like earlier, his cock was still hard and eager.
“Sannie, you’re really pent up, huh?” you couldn’t help but chuckle as you reached for his cock and stroked him gently.
San chuckled as well before leaning down and whispering in your ear.
“Fuck video games— I’m going to play with you for the rest of the day.”
↳ A class project requires you to interview the most successful entrepreneur in the city; a man whose reputation is as shaded as his heart. What to do then, when the attraction is so magnetic?
↳ Bang Chan x female reader
↳ 8.2k
↳ A mini '50 Shades'-ish, strangers to lovers, love/lust at first sight, ceo Chan, economics student reader, whirlwind romance, smut throughout
! Explicit content, adult themes, suitable for 18+ readers only !
“On a scale of minor inconvenience to apocalyptic disaster, how crucial is it that I go today?”
Gina regards you with pure contempt from over the café table, which; valid. This might be your dozenth complaint.
“If you were so set against going through with this, why did you agree?” she gripes.
“I didn’t. You elected me in my absence and informed me by text message.”
Gina shrugs amidst an ornery grin. “Should have made it to class then.”
“My car broke down—”
“And my mental state will be soon to follow if you don’t stop complaining. You know how important this interview is for us. Professor Sims is already chomping at the bit for the finished project.”
One of the busy baristas calls a customer’s name from the counter, the rumble of coffee machines drowning out the inoffensive background indie music.
“That’s because you hyped it up,” you remind her, sitting upright to mimic her pose and voice with more nasal inflection than is probably accurate: “‘We’re going to interview the Chan Christopher Bang for our economics project, it’ll be the best!’”
Gina grimaces into her latte. “Yeah, alright. Point taken.”
You sag back into your seat. “I still don’t even know how you managed it.”
“The appointment? I have my ways.”
The look you afford her is dubious at best; she leans over the table, determination in her green eyes.
“I know what you’re worried about,” she intuits. “He’s really not all that bad.”
Your stomach churns uncomfortably. That she even feels compelled to offer such reassurances speaks to the dire magnitude of things.
“You can’t possibly know that for a fact.”
She rolls her eyes.
“The rumours around this guy are shady, Gina,” you add.
“Oh, please.”
“There’s no smoke without fire, is all I’m saying.” Your hands come up in defence.
“I don’t understand why you let it bother you,” Gina sighs. “Even if all the petty rumours are true, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a literal Tony Stark in the flesh and that interviewing him will give us so much extra credit we’ll be drowning in it until graduation. Not to mention the clout we’ll get just for having his name attached to us.”
You huff indignantly, as irritated by her insight as with your own sour mood. “I don’t want the name of a psycho attached to me, thank you very much.”
“Oh my god, spare me from the morally upright of this world,” Gina groans into the air. “Dude’s allegedly into a bit of bondage and that makes him a psycho?”
Your cheeks heat with embarrassment; you cast a mortified glance around the café, glad that nobody appears to have caught that.
“Keep your damn voice down,” you hiss.
Gina finishes her latte, swiping the foam from her top lip. “Appointment is for twelve tomorrow,” she says flatly. “Don't forget the Dictaphone and make sure whatever notes you take are readable.”
She rises from her chair, stepping out from around the table. “If you unclench enough to make it there, that is.”
With a cackle and a flourish, she about-faces and leaves the café, leaving you to stew in nerves. In one thing, she’s not so wrong. Chan Christopher Bang is the billionaire playboy philanthropist of the nonfiction world, and there’s not a self-respecting economics student that doesn’t know his name, much less one that wouldn’t tear your arm off for a chance to interview him in your place.
A mug smashes behind the counter, the crack of porcelain ringing shrill through the café. A young, overworked barista apologises profusely, going about collecting the scraps from the floor.
There’s something unsettlingly portentous about it.
***
The corporate offices of B.C.C. Holdings are a monolith; a statement of power and money amongst the pond life of the city.
Stepping into the sleek marble lobby, the first and most prominent sensation is nausea. It seems that even despite your attempts to look the part with a (wholly uncharacteristic) pencil skirt and smart blouse, you very much don’t feel it, and that’ll doubtless be the first thing anyone in this bloodhound kennel will notice about you.
Approaching the reception desk manned by a woman that can only have been poached from a Vogue editorial, you summon your courage.
“Hello,” you smile. She glances up from her computer. “I’m here to see Mr. Bang.”
“Mr. Bang sees people by appointment only.” She turns back to her computer.
“R— Right, of course. Sorry; I do have an appointment? Twelve o’clock?” Quite why the irrefutable fact comes out like a question, you’re not sure, but the woman quirks a groomed brow and asks for your name. A few tip-taps on her keyboard, and she says, “Elevator to the top floor, take a seat in the waiting room.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
The top floor, it transpires, is the thirtieth floor, and the vertigo of the elevator does nothing to ease the rising sickness that pangs your gut. Glad to be free of it when the doors glide open to reveal a neat and minimalist seating area, you teeter to the nearest cushioned chair and slump into it. The relief on your aching soles is pleasant—you’re not so practiced in the art of wearing heels—but after ten minutes of waiting ticks to twenty minutes, then thirty-five, your impatience begins to make reckless suggestions.
You send a text to Gina to immortalise the moment; you want this on record.
<< still waiting for this asshole. even tony stark was punctual.
And as you send it, the elevator doors ping and slide smoothly open for the same model as was on reception. She smiles, looking over the top of your head as she says, “Mr. Bang will see you now.”
You think about voicing a complaint for the tardiness, but are instead forced to hop up from your chair and jog down the connecting hallway after her hasty pace, just narrowly avoiding stumbling over your heels. At the end of it, she stops before a set of rich mahogany doors, knocking twice.
A voice comes from the other side: “Enter.”
She does so, pushing and holding the left door open for you. Hand in hand with trepidation, you step inside, and find you can no longer recall the image your expectations had created of this very place; how should the office of a man such as Chan Christopher Bang look? Well: floor to ceiling glass walls run the front and left-hand of the room, the view of the city from such lofty heights uninterrupted. On the plush crimson carpet rests luxurious furniture; a leather suite of armchairs around a short glass table, shelving built into the right-hand wall displaying a selection of books, liquors and crystal. A fireplace sits unlit near the leather suite, a rug of tiger skin sprawled out before it. Concealed spotlights track the length of the ceiling, the daytime hours rendering them surplus to requirement, but you imagine their glow to be soft come nightfall.
The clicking of the closing door accompanies the harsh click of your dry swallow.
“Do come in. Don’t be shy.”
At the head of the room and seated at a grand desk of pristine burlwood is the man himself. Striking in every way one may strike—and he does; make no mistake—the first impression is one of dripping expense. His dark tailored suit compliments the dewy pale of his complexion, the waves of his thick blonde hair reveal his high forehead. His features are strong; sharp nose, plush lips, deep cheekbones all unthinkably defined, and his fingers are beringed, his wrist adorned with a Rolex.
“You must be my twelve o’clock,” he says, rising from his desk chair.
It says something to your addled state that on his statement, you scoff out loud. He stops his approach, face drawn with amusement as your mortification registers stiltedly. “I suppose we are late getting started, yes,” he smiles. “My conference call ran over. Turns out doing business abroad takes some fine communication.”
Ground, swallow.
He crosses the rest of the office, hand outstretched when he’s close enough, which you take amicably.
“I— It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.” God, your voice is chalky.
“Chan, please.” He shakes your hand gently, an all-encompassing grip that might make your stomach clench just a little. In closer proximity, he appears even more attractive; kind eyes, you note. A slight slant to his smile. Veiny hands.
“Would you like to take a seat?” he then asks, gesturing with his other hand to the armchairs at his desk.
“Sure.”
Moving to the designated area is done so under his (watchful?) gaze burning something of a hole into your back until you’re seated, and it’s with muted disdain that you narrowly stop from falling back into the sheer size of it; were you to sit with posture in mind, spine straight against the seat, your feet wouldn’t touch the floor. Perching on the edge with legs crossed is as comfortable a position as you can manage.
Chan takes up seat at his desk, chin propped on his knuckles as he watches you fish your notepad and Dictaphone from your little bag.
“Is it okay to record this?” you ask as an afterthought.
Chan nods flatly, eyes trained to you. Something warm curls around your chest.
“A— And I'll be taking notes too, if that’s—”
“That’s fine.”
Do you imagine the way his gaze drops briefly—almost accidentally—to your legs? You clear your throat, pulse spiking. God.
“This interview is for...?” he then asks.
Glad of an excuse to talk (if a little miffed at his apparent ignorance) you do just that: “A school project; our final project, I mean.”
“I see. What are you studying?”
“Business and economics.”
“Undergrad?”
You nod. “Graduating this year. This project makes up thirty percent of our final grade.”
“Thirty percent, huh?” he muses softly, running his fingers absentmindedly under his jaw. You tear your eyes from him, down to your notepad.
“S— So, if you don’t mind, may I ask you some questions?”
He smiles. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
“Alright,” you shift, balancing the pad on your knee, clicking the Dictaphone to record. “Mr. Bang,” you begin. Chan purses his lips in something akin to disapproval; you continue regardless. “Could you tell me what inspired you to start a company?”
“I wanted to be rich.”
You glance at the Dictaphone, as though it’s an active audience. “Of course,” you indulge him. “Let me rephrase that: aside from financial gain, what was your motivation?”
“I wanted to be powerful,” he deadpans.
Irritation simmers under your skin. “Could you elaborate?”
Chan sinks into his chair, beringed fingers linked at his chest. “Doesn't everyone crave power?” he asks rhetorically. “Power brings control, and control is everything.”
You scribble that down in the notepad. “I see.”
“Not profound enough for you?”
Looking up at him, eyes lock over the desk; your pulse throbs. “It’s fine. Thank you.”
He drops into a smirk, though what precisely is so amusing to him escapes you. It strikes you that he’s not taking this all that seriously, which you would more fully be able to appreciate were it not for the taut knot of tension in your gut: he’s a powerful entrepreneur, you’re a pestering student, the worlds of which don’t—and shouldn’t—collide. And that’s the only reason you’re so out of sorts, you suppose. What other could there be?
Running too hot to be comfortable, blouse sticking to your clammy back, you shrug off your suit jacket quickly. “Next question,” you preface, glancing up at the man whose chin now rests on a formed fist. He lifts a groomed brow expectantly.
“Do you have a mantra, Mr. Bang? Or a motto? Something you live or do business by?” you ask.
He shakes his head slightly. “No.”
“No?”
“I make my own way.”
“As in...?”
He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Business is a brutal world. If you end up in it, you’ll understand what I mean by that, but until then rest assured that the one thing that’ll serve you well is loyalty. Whether that’s to yourself or someone else is your choice, but whatever path you take, stick to it. Die on it. That consistency will earn you respect; it’ll earn you anything you want. Those that work under me—that are loyal—are rewarded handsomely for their services. Those that aren’t? Well...” he shrugs gently. Ominously. Your pulse spikes again.
“I adopt the same philosophy in my personal life,” he then adds, and the voice at the back of your mind that pleads with you not to ask goes pitifully ignored.
“How so?”
His teeth indent his plush lower lip, and then he says, “Within sex, mostly.”
The illicit word rolling from his tongue sinks over you like sun-warmed honey; he rises slowly from his chair, rounding the burlwood desk, fingertips dragging across the polished surface as he goes. Perching on the lip of it and positioned right before you, the elegant length of his thick legs hugged by expensive fabric is apparent, the pinch of the suit accentuating his slim waist, further revealed when he undoes the single jacket button for it to fall open on him. Carefully—as though aware the kitten he stares down may yet scarper—he reaches across to click off the Dictaphone. Your breath hitches tightly, gut swirling a mix of emotions and wanting that are not only unfamiliar, but so heavily immediate it’s more a cause for concern than a sensation you dare to embrace.
And to that end:
“I, uh... I think that’s everything, Mr. Bang. Thank you for giving me your time.”
Rising from the chair to haphazardly gather your belongings, your notepad slips from your hand as you hastily cross the office. Turning to retrieve it, he gets there before you do.
“You hardly wrote a thing down,” he says thoughtfully, examining the page.
You laugh nervously. “It’s all up here,” you tap your temple, then reach for the notepad. Chan holds it still, his scrutiny moved from the item to you.
“M— May I have it back, please?”
“Are you sure you have enough content?”
“Yes. Plenty. Of course. So much. Thank you, Mr. Bang.”
His jaw ticks. “Didn’t I ask you to call me Chan?”
“Did you?”
“My; what a short attention span. That sort of thing can be trained, you know.”
He steps towards you, all authority and dark intent and inexplicable pull that only marginally has you fearing for your mortal soul; curse the rumours about him. Curse that you know anything about him, because it’s only that which stops you from—
“My next engagement is in an hour,” he breathes, weighted gaze under thick lashes recognising the inchoate sparks in your own. He drops the notepad with a light thump, from his pocket retrieving a tiny remote control that he lifts to your eyes. A sharp click on the device and an electronic lock rings off; the doors?
Your bag falls from your arm, jacket and Dictaphone following promptly. It’s harder to breathe in his space, and perhaps that poses the reason for your head spinning. In stepping towards him, he opens his arms to you; colliding with his broad chest and sinking into his embrace spells the end of the pretence.
You wonder if this is what is meant by ‘the spark’; the tight coil of hunger that compels you to open to this stranger in ways you’d never ordinarily entertain with a regular person, let alone one so obscure.
Chan kisses you with the caution a child might possess in opening a new toy; they’re fearful of breaking it, yet desperately keen to get beyond the plastic packaging. Soft and pliant against your mouth, you burn with the urge to have him fiercer, your clutching of his jacket lapels intended to that effect, but Chan resists it. Rather, he breaks away and seems so vastly put together in contrast to your gradually slipping state of mind. He licks his lips, takes your hand to lead you back to the seat previously occupied. Guiding you into it—feet off the floor and spine against the seat—you watch breathlessly as he shrugs off the jacket, folding it over his arm and to the desk.
“You’ll answer some of my questions, now,” he says, attention turned to his shirt as he untucks it roughly from his trousers. A slow undoing of the buttons from hem to chest reveal the definition of his abdomen; hard ridges, smooth planes, all strength. Wanting throbs in all unmentionable places. “How do you like to do business?”
Sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to expose thick forearms, he unclasps his Rolex, dumps it to the desk. Hands outstretched—first left, then right—he peels the rings from each slim finger, similarly reckless in his depositing of them.
“I... I don’t know. I don’t really... do business.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Shame.” And sinks to his knees, hands curled around the chair armrests for veins to protrude. “You could strike a wicked deal or two.”
“I could...?” you ask uselessly.
He nods, and then rasps, “With me.”
The metaphor clearly having transgressed to more intimate realms, the proposition is a blatant one; as bold as the man who seeks control in all facets of his life.
“You intrigue me. Not much does anymore.”
Unsure what to say, the relief of his touch at your ankle purges you of need to speak anyway; you draw tight, biting back a breathless sigh. From ankle to calf he maps out a path, when at your knee he stops on the hem of your pencil skirt. Your body feels alight. Seconds away from outright pleading for it, he cranes up and leans towards you, voice kept low as he says:
“With your agreement, I’d like to make you come on my fingers, then my tongue, then my cock. I’d like to make you come at my leisure, at my beck and call, at my convenience. I’d like you to submit to me, darling, and I’ll reward you so lusciously you won’t even recall your life before me.”
The spreading of your legs is your non-verbal agreement; Chan seeks it anyway, your chin held by thumb and forefinger.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
And the kiss is so true to his promise; a reward, firm enough to drag a longing sigh from you when he breaks it. Back to his knees he sinks, your legs hooked over his shoulders for heels to dangle from your toes. Skirt pushed up and the annoyance of underwear pulled aside, you’re barely permitted to catch a breath when he sucks his own middle finger, the digit slick for the glide of entrance to be just so: he fills you slowly, carefully, the ridges and bumps of knuckle and joint felt intimately.
“So wet already,” he muses, and then, “How does that feel?”
“G— Good...”
Warmth coils around you, blooms out from the lower depths of your belly and in your groin. Chan works you patiently, a steady pace of fingering set to ease you into the freefall.
“You’re tight, darling. So tight.” His index finger joins the effort. “Can feel you opening for me.”
Your moan is obscene; there’s something to be said for the efficacy of Chan’s mouth, his voice, his words that accompany the building of pressure his fingers coax.
“Good girl.”
The consistent drag is delicious, your chasing of the sensation enacted by driving your hips down and grinding. Unabashed eye contact is held when Chan presses a kiss to your inner thigh, a high blush on his cheekbones, across his nose. The rolling pleasure peaks to a sharp spike; you gasp, then liquefy, managing only to choke out, “W— What...?”
Chan grins, white and wolfish. “Right here?” He does it again; curls fingers up and presses gently, holding the pressure. Your body spasms, your moans come broken, and he hums in delight. “Yeah. Right there.”
“Chan—”
“Your g-spot,” he informs softly, as though the information be some grand revelation that should change the course of things. In a way, it is. You’ve never found it by yourself. How is that a man you met a little under an hour ago knows you better than your practiced hand?
And as the peaking pleasure orders your limbs to tremble, your pants to break, Chan presses his tongue to your centre, a wet drag across his fingers and your sensitivity.
“Taste good, darling.”
“Oh, Jesus—”
The onslaught is near unbearable, and it is the perfect management of it that makes it so. The man knows beyond all reason when too much is just that, easing on fingers or tongue when one threatens to outdo the other in overstimulation. Buried between your thighs in a manner that would suggest he’s comfortable to call it home, it’s with lightheaded surrender you begin to fall into euphoria.
A strong, veined hand keeps your thighs spread and pliant, the fingers of the other still buried warm and snug. His attentive licking and mouthing of your centre muffles the exclamations of pleasure he himself emits; when you feel it coming, you warn him.
“Chan... Chan, I—”
He hushes you. “I know. Let it go. That was our agreement, wasn’t it?”
And amidst convulsions that wrack you with more violence than grace, a rush of pressure is relieved by fluid that drips and gushes from you—somehow—over his fingers, his chin. Chan pulls back, eyes ablaze with satisfaction and awe, the broken staccato of his name echoing around the office.
“Fuck me,” he mumbles absently when the aftershocks are passed, when you’re more able to open your eyes, to be present. Up from his knees and over you he looms, a wet kiss planted on dry lips.
“Pleasure doing business with you, darling.”
***
And a pleasure it is, doing business with Chan Christopher Bang.
A three-month long pleasure, to be precise about it, and when the man had so brazenly promised that life after him would be different, he had been sorely correct.
Living something of a double life came almost too easily, for it was as much a necessity in accommodating the man’s need for discretion as it was a thrill you took quietly. By day, the astute and studious economics student approaches the milestone that is her graduation. By night, the proverbial skin is shed and like a snake coaxed from its wicker, she wakes and slithers to her master, curling around him until her hold threatens to choke.
Yet such routine wasn’t without effort: after the initial encounter in his office, you tumbled down the predictable spiral of crisis and regret. He was a stranger; how could you do such a thing with a stranger? He was a powerful man; a statement against everything the feminist in you stood for. So why, then, did she not raise her voice in protest when you fell to your knees for him? Why did she not drag you away by the collar when you fell into him? Why did she not slam the door on him when he turned up at your house a fortnight after the illicit event, a bouquet of delicate crimson in one hand and bottle of chilled Cristal in the other?
“Business requires an adaptive approach,” he’d said warmly and on your questioning as to how he’d found you, though in truth you suspected tracking someone down was not least among his many capabilities.
Regardless, the feminist had looked on with dissociative acceptance as the man in the suit worth more than your car ravaged you on the sofa, against the countertops, in your bed. Whatever of your dignity remained was left only by his grace; for all his persistence, Chan’s respect was apparent in his handling of you, both physically and emotionally. In tearing you to pieces he was allowed to put you back together, and now, at the three-month mark, you suppose protesting any longer is a waste of precious energy.
You are his; he is yours.
Thus your life—newly unpackaged and box fresh—goes on.
***
The raw obscenity of the moan you fill Chan’s office with might be apt to draw outside attention were it not for the (recently installed) soundproofing.
“Goodness,” he grins. “Extra vocal for me today, hm?”
Too highly strung to entertain being verbal, trembling around the rampant rabbit the man holds steady inside you, your clenched fists are forced undone when with a quiet click, he ramps up the intensity of vibration.
He watches the way your eyes roll back with quiet awe, then turns attention back to his work. You wonder how it is that he has such a knack for stripping you down to skin whilst remaining fully clothed himself; poised on his expensive burlwood desk, legs spread and vulnerable, the feminist shakes her head at you in dire disapproval.
You ignore her.
With one hand he taps and clicks the laptop, with the other sets a slow pace of aided fucking possibly designed to drive you mad before it drives you to any semblance of orgasm, and that’s no product of inattention; Chan knows very well what he does, and why he does it.
“Chan—”
He glances at you, all perfect nonchalance.
“Please...”
“Please?” he mimics. “What are we pleading for now?” The toy glides deeper; you liquefy inside.
“Want to— Need to—”
“Oh, you want to come?” He hums, then purses his lips. “For such a vocal little thing you have an awfully hard time articulating, darling.”
He twists the toy, your sensitivity clenching around it.
“Fuck... I won’t have a hard time soaking that laptop and your dumb suit in a minute—”
Chan scoffs, eyes alight. “So she does speak. Shame that it’s backchat.” He withdraws the toy carefully, slowly, the emptiness of sensation leaving you a deflated ruin. “Maybe I’ve spoiled you, darling. Been too generous in my affections. I have an empire to run, yet here I am, making sure you’re looked after.”
You swallow with a harsh click, his careless tossing of the rampant rabbit to the desk preceded by the way he grabs your ankles and drags you into his lap, straddling him. Strong hand closes around your throat gently, the pad of his thumb under your chin ensures your rapt attention. Plush lips speak against yours:
“Take my belt off.”
Your compliance is immediate; Chan noses down your jaw as you strip the leather from his waist. He takes it from you and says softly, “Hands behind your back.”
In doing so, the belt is wrapped carefully around your wrists, secured by metal buckle. Unable to touch him or balance yourself or use them at all, Chan supports you by an arm wrapped around your body, lifting you briefly to free himself from his trousers.
“I should be more selfish,” he breathes, the blushed head of his cock a prod against your centre. “Take what I want.”
And in lowering you gently, he impales you. Gradual fullness renders you lightheaded, the stretch just shy of painful with the girth he offers; Chan is a powerhouse in all ways that matter. He draws tight and with a tug on the belt at your wrists, your back is bowed from him, your chest exposed. He licks a slow stripe through the chasm of your cleavage, a thrust of finality snapping him to full sheath.
“Fuck—”
And the pace he sets is relentless, your bouncing in his lap and on his cock only controlled by the hand he keeps around your throat, anchoring you.
“That better, baby?” he grunts. “This what you wanted? To be stuffed so full you can’t think?”
“Ngh— Yes—”
“Such a pretty little toy for me to play with, huh?” He snaps upwards, thrusts deep. “Fit around me so well—”
Weak in his arms and plummeting towards orgasm—the tenderness of his earlier ministrations exacerbating the fall—your chin is held up, hot lips speak against your mouth: “Look at me.”
Though glassy his visage is, the beauty of the man is unmistakable. Even when so steeped in his rampant lust, he maintains a level of composure that serves as a perpetual reminder of who he is, what he has, the things he’s done. Touched by hands that shaped the city, kissed by lips that commandeer thousands, it’s a head spinning notion to know that of everything he possesses, in this moment, he craves only you.
Held close, Chan urges you into collapse. “Finish with me, darling. Want to feel you.”
Breaths and groans amalgamating so that one voice may not be distinguished from the other, you find ruin in his embrace. Chan swiftly unwinds the belt from your wrists; your arms slung up and around his neck bring the satisfaction of soft blonde between your fingers, of his head buried in your neck amidst his firm thrusts that slow, that falter, that bring him to crumble just enough so his perfect countenance slips when he kisses your sweat slick skin and whispers, “Thank you.”
A bittersweet thing that the weight of the statement is unknown to you.
***
With as much enthusiasm as you possess for economics, even you are inclined to admit that the lectures may induce occasional daydreams.
Notepad defiled with meaningless inky doodles and nonsensical words picked up from your Professor’s monologue, it’s a small joy when your phone on the desk buzzes for your attention. In checking it, a text message reads:
>> We have a thing tonight.
As presumptuous as ever, you inwardly grin.
<< we do?
>> Yes. Black tie, so wear something nice.
<< got a tie i can borrow then? lol
You chew your bottom lip as the response comes in:
>> No, but I’ve a few shirts I’d love to see you naked in.
Giddy delight whirls through your gut; you pinch your forearm surreptitiously.
>> Car will come for you at 8.
Time enough to pop to one of the boutiques in the city and pick something decent to wear up, at least.
<< ok. see u later Mr. B
>> ♥
***
With class finished and all present making their respective rushes to the exit, you’re no exception, gathering your things and slinging them into your backpack. Hitched over your shoulder and on your way out, your name is called across the lecture hall. In turning to it, Gina is barrelling towards you.
“Hey! Wait just a damn minute!”
“Gina, I really have to go—”
She grabs your wrist before you can scarper too far, the sudden and harsh contact on the—until now, pleasantly—sore skin a shock to your system. You yank it from her; Gina stares dumbfounded until disapproval glooms her expression.
“What’s going on?”
“Wh— Nothing!”
“Girl, you better not think I’m fool enough to believe your dirty lies—”
You reach out to her. “Alright. Okay. Something is, but I can’t really give you details.”
She eyes you dubiously. You half expect the tantrum, but it doesn’t come. She simply sighs, “But you’re okay, right?”
“I am.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” you reassure her.
She rolls her eyes, pulls you into a warm hug and on release, spins you about-face by the shoulders. “Go get yours, then!” she hollers, shoving you towards the door.
“I’ll call you!” you grin.
“Better had!”
***
Laden with shopping bags full of clothes on return to your modest one-bedroom house, you wonder if it’s as much the obvious testament to your indecisiveness as it looks.
With just enough time to shower and dress, you move to do just that, taking your treasures through to the bedroom.
Yet the bedroom isn’t quite how you left it. Atop the neatly made bed and looking every inch the trap, is a flat, square red box finished with a black silk bow. Sufficiently dumbfounded and within the span of several seconds, you consider ringing emergency services (can you call for a bomb squad?), arming yourself or running away. If only you weren’t already gravitating towards it. Unlacing the silk bow and lifting the lid, a neatly folded sheaf of chiffon paper is adorned with rose petals. A small card rests atop it, a handwritten message reads: ‘In celebration of the best business deal I ever made. Wear this tonight. - Mr. B.’
Heart in your throat and moving it all aside reveals a dress: glossy, black silk runs down in waves as you lift it, the design a covered halter neck with exposed back. Nothing like any of the clothes you’d eventually settled on in the boutique, in other words. Material soft under your hands, your mind races lanes of thought that all arrive at the same finish line: however he managed it, he did it for you.
***
Eight o’clock on the dot sees a sharp knock on your front door.
Abound with nerves and feeling not unlike a fish out of water with your state of dress, you quickly answer it.
Chan leans comfortably against the porch wall, every inch the classic gentleman in a fitted tuxedo that does him so many wonders you can’t bear to count them all. His hair swept back and styled neatly, silver glints in his lobes and at his neck betray the man’s inclinations to extravagance; he doesn’t need the bling to shine, but covets it anyway. The subtlest smudge of dark eye makeup brings out the intensity of them; their smoulder, their life.
Stunted is the realisation that your awe is mutual; the silence holds as he takes you in from top to toe, his jaw clenching when he meets your gaze.
“It seems I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he huffs as he stands from the wall.
“How so?”
He quirks a groomed brow, gestures vaguely in your direction.
“You don’t like it?” you ask, knowing so much better.
“I’m rather inclined to tear it to shreds, actually.”
Deep arousal rolls through you; you hum thoughtfully, stepping out to join him. “Maybe later, love.”
There’s a black Bentley parked on the street, its headlights slicing through the dark. “Yours?” you point to it and ask him.
He nods stiffly.
“Shall we, then?”
A deep breath and puff of resignation, and Chan starts towards the vehicle, guiding hand at the small of your bare back.
“Are you going to tell me how you got this into my house?” you ask.
“No.”
“Are you going to show me? When I least expect it? When I’m fresh from the shower, perhaps?”
He grins down at you, mirth in his eyes. “Would you like that?”
You shrug. “I wouldn’t hate it.”
The feminist watches from the lawn as you stride past her, her head in her hands, despair in her wailing.
Chan bends towards you, speaks into your ear, “Your wish for ravishment is my command, darling.”
***
Drawn close to Chan’s side in the back of the Bentley, the passing city is a melty haze of red, white and amber. The vehicle is equipped as fitting a man of unthinkable wealth and power; Cristal on tap and heated seats, armour plating (so Chan informed you) and a horsepower of needless strength.
None of it can compare though, you think, to the way his hand is linked loosely with yours, to the way he absently maps out the knuckles and joints of your fingers.
“Can I ask where we’re going now?”
Chan exhales softly. “It’s a charity dinner.”
“Charity?” you repeat, surprised. “I thought you didn’t do charity.”
“Not publicly, no. I neither need nor can stand the clout of it all.” He sighs then. “Still, there are a few causes dear to my heart that I support behind the scenes. One such cause personally requested I make an appearance tonight. I couldn’t well refuse.”
“Dear to your heart...?”
Chan smiles; squeezes your hand. “Another time, perhaps. We’re almost there.”
What does the man who has everything hold dear? What pulls his heartstrings enough to bring him to dip into that which he has so ruthlessly earned and give it away? What does he value? All questions you ask yourself silently, with intent to one day ask him. You file them away alongside the dusty cabinet marked ‘rumours’, for those hold all the weight of summer rain by now.
The car rolls to a gentle stop; through the tinted windows and alongside the vehicle is a grandiose building reminiscent of a theatre. Old marble and high pillars, etched carvings in the stonework and a shallow flight of stairs carpeted red stretch out regally. Spotlights shadow the length of the building, an air of the dramatic lingers. The driver, on exiting the vehicle, opens your door politely, the chill night breeze nipping your skin. Thanking him quietly as Chan lets himself out of his side, he rounds the vehicle and offers you his arm.
“Okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
And with that, he guides you up the carpeted stairs to be greeted by smartly suited staff at the door: “Good evening, Mr. Bang.”
Chaperoned inside, the hall is as opulent as the exterior suggests it should be. Dazzling chandeliers illuminate the intricately painted domed ceiling, scenes and murals depict angels and creatures locked in fierce battles of romantic pursuit. Gilded and ornate, the round tables and cushioned chairs match the décor, their white covering cloths pristine. People as beautiful as you’ve ever seen linger and mingle, their attention diverted by the man at your arm. You swallow over the nerves, guided by another suited individual to a table where the dainty name plates dictate the seating arrangement.
“Thank you,” Chan says amicably, pulling a seat out by the back. “Sit, darling.” And then he gathers the other nameplates, handing them to the—now appropriately flustered—member of staff. “That’ll be all.”
He drags a second chair beside yours and sits close, longs legs crossed elegantly.
“Are we gatekeeping an entire table?” you ask quietly, still somewhat perturbed by the eyes on you.
“If you’d rather be seated with the leeches of this city, I can call him back.”
“No,” you laugh softly. “No, that’s quite alright.”
He reaches to your hand, pulls it into his lap where he holds it warmly. “Good.”
While glad of his confidence and apparent unshaking faith in you to handle this, the scrutiny with which you’re being examined is doing far more to keep you on edge. You’re reminded, on looking around, that the occupants of this room are the very elite; the one percent. What place does an economics student have among them? What place does an economics student have beside him?
Chan’s hand finds your knee. “Relax.” He squeezes it gently; you hadn’t even realised your nerves were bouncing it. “We’ll be out of here the moment the speeches are done.”
And you’re about to voice your gratitude when an uncomfortably shrill calling of Chan’s name pierces the moment: “Christopher! Oh my god, is that you?!”
In turning to the hollering, a wildly flailing woman approaches the table. Her dress is skin-tight, bust begging to be set free, long brunette locks falling to her waist. You withdraw your hand from Chan’s immediately.
When close enough she leans over the table, cleavage swelling to near disastrous results. Chan remains seated, blinks and says flatly, “Gemma.”
‘Gemma’ squeals; your teeth ache. “I thought Hell’d freeze over before I ever saw you at one of these things. How crazy!”
“Just keeping up appearances.”
“Oh, I know all about that, babe,” she grins bleached white, and then twirls a strand of brown around her manicured finger. “We should catch up some time. I’ve missed you!”
Chan’s jaw locks.
“How about I swing by your office this weekend?” she proposes, her blatant ignorance of you an abject insult. “I’ll bring a bottle of Cristal. That’s still your favourite, right? Do you still have that old tiger skin—”
“Excuse me.”
Unable to take much more of the gratuitous preening, feeling adequately sick to your stomach, you rise and walk away across the hall. Your name is called, yet in need of space and room to breathe, you don’t stop to entertain it.
You rush to the nearest most obvious member of staff. “Bathroom?”
“Up the stairs, madam. Third floor.”
“Thank you.”
Gilded railing is cool under your palm as you swiftly traverse the carpeted flights; your name is called again. Rounding a landing and glancing down the central aisle reveals Chan’s figure bounding up the stairs after you; alight with trepidation you hastily make your way to the third floor, starting down the darkened corridor and ducking into one of many rooms whose doors all look the same, bathroom or not.
It’s warmer in here; stuffy, the air thick with dust that brings you to a light cough. When the thump of steady footsteps passes by, you catch your breath, taking in the surroundings. A storage room, it becomes immediately apparent; the ghosts of furniture draped in cloth haunt the space, their shapes reminiscent of their purpose. A window is covered by wooden shutters at the right-hand of the room; you approach it and unclasp them, inviting in the sliver of pale moonlight. Looking out at the urban nightscape, your forehead pressed to the cool glass, you wonder on the reason for your overreaction; for your wanting to run. Indeed, it’s not so daunting a revelation that the man has a past; of course, there was a life he had before you, just as you had before him. But it is perhaps the differences in vibrancy which inspired such sickness. Chan has never been short of the beautiful things, the luxurious things, and to believe yourself among them makes you just another hopeless heart in the collection he’s surely amassed. You intrigue him, he once told you. And what should happen when that intrigue wears off? Will you, like Gemma and so many others, preen and hold out until the next chance encounter?
It’s with these thoughts rolling around that the door opens slowly, that you’re finally found. Peeling away from the window to turn to him, Chan steps into the moonlight, his blonde iridescent with silver, his complexion a flawless, lucent canvas of beauty.
It is his expression, however, that renders you mute with shock; his brows are pinched together, his eyes wracked with pain. With a rushed few final paces, you’re taken into his arms, pulled close against his frame for him to curl around you.
“You ran from me,” he whispers.
“Chan...”
He pulls back enough that he can search your face, and what he finds brings him to say, “Please, don’t. Not now.”
“I just... I needed some space, was all. I couldn’t—”
“I know.” He trails a touch up your arm. “I know I asked a lot of you tonight. I’d hoped to spare you from running into any of my... previous associates, but I—”
“Is that what she is?” you ask.
Chan blinks, falters. “It was a long time ago.”
And the way your heart sinks is testament to the depth of your feelings; why does it take this for you to see them?
“I’m not that person anymore,” he adds.
You wait, expectant. Chan inhales slowly, lips parting and closing around the words before courage enough is summoned.
“I hear the things people say about me,” he says. “They think that because I’m rich and beautiful, everything else about me must be rotten. In some ways, they’re not entirely wrong. I sacrificed a lot to get to where I am; things that better people wouldn’t have. In starting out I made some poor deals with bad people, and despite how far I’ve come since then, the stain won’t ever wash out.”
You reach up to cup his cheeks, thumbs running the angular bones. “Everyone has a past, Chan. It doesn’t define you.”
He leans into your touch. “Maybe it should.”
“It wouldn’t change anything.”
His brow furrows.
“Knowing all the details of your past, no matter how grisly. It wouldn’t change how I... how I feel about you.”
Chan’s eyes glisten in the moonlight, reflective pools of tender hope. “How you feel about me?”
Your gaze drops; he lifts your chin to return it. “Say it.”
Heart thrumming to a new and giddy tune, so conditioned to practice obedience with the man, you suppose this one thing might be nice to keep to yourself for just a little longer. Clutching the lapels of his tuxedo, a brief kiss pressed to lips and a promise spoken, “I’ll never run from you again.”
Chan simpers; your heart near bursts. Swept up into a carry of strong arms, you’re deposited on the nearest hard surface; a classic grand piano, the sleek ivory keys glinting temptingly, voicing their erratic and melodic complaints when Chan climbs over you. Cool surface against your bare and naked back, Chan tucks his arm beneath you amidst claiming your mouth. Tongues and teeth exchange groans of wanting when, with his free arm, Chan hikes the silk up your legs, calloused palms running the smooth expanse of your fleshy thighs. Tearing his bowtie to ruin and shoving his jacket from shoulders, the undress is a frantic affair, but all the more rewarding when topless and kissed by silver glow, Chan looms above you.
Pulling him back to you with a breathless sigh, Chan wanders under your dress, eyes flashing when skin meets skin and he hums, “No underwear, darling?”
“The dress doesn’t really allow for— Oh—” Sinking into your arousal with two slim digits, Chan hums nonchalantly. His working of you is practiced, patient, for the man is intimately familiar with what it is makes you tick; and really, that’s not much more than him.
Withdrawing fingers and sucking them clean as an afterthought to the undoing of his trousers, Chan keeps a watchful eye on you. A sight you must be, you suppose: hot and bothered, in an embarrassing state of mid-dress, exposed and stripped back to rawest wants.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the compliment sinks over you with heft.
Freeing himself from the suit, Chan keeps his strokes brief; unnecessary, really, when he throbs so temptingly. A comfortable angle found with arm tucked under and around you, and the man holds his breath until the initial breach is passed; he draws tight and groans gently, so taken with the way you wrap around him, velvety soft.
“God, baby—”
A steady pace is set by his thrusts; the piano creaks but yet feels sturdy underneath you, the gathering of silk at your middle a luxurious sensation on your skin. The drag of his thickness is almost too effective, your helpless exclamations are muffled by the man’s mouth, as possessive of them as he is.
You wonder what it is that lives behind his eyes so warm and alive as he regards you with his weight on his forearms; your every micro expression. While sex has always been phenomenal, it strikes you that the tenderness in his fluidity, the closeness he seeks to you has never before been so important to him as simply seeing you to your crisis; he is enjoying this, savouring it.
Mapping out the slope of his broad shoulders and the swell of his biceps, Chan’s skin breaks to goose flesh. A high flush on his cheeks and across chest colour him rose under the waning light, and where once there was a man of power, there is now a man of desperation. A kiss to his parted lips, a slip of tongue sees his thrusts strengthen; Chan buries his head to your neck, his gravelly expletives muffled by skin.
He throbs inside you, the slick glide painting stars behind your eyes.
“Finish with me,” you instruct breathlessly, as you were once so instructed yourself. “Want to feel you.”
And Chan falters; veins in his forearms and neck speak to his exertion, to the precipice he tips over when your orgasm brings you to tighten.
He whimpers your name. “Fuck, fuck—” and curls around you, the tremors of your euphoria melting into his. Silent, hot moments of weightless glow follow, and as breaths even out to allow for composure, the static crackle of a speaker sounds off outside:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Tonight’s event is about to begin.”
Chan laughs; weighted and thick, his chest rumbling atop yours. And this time, you’re not so stumped by what it is he finds amusing, your giggles filling the stuffy, sex-drenched room.
He clambers off you, lowers you gently from the defiled grand piano. Though legs are unsteady and your state of mind leaves something to be desired, your dress is rearranged to be outwardly presentable, your hands gathered to be kissed sweetly.
Chan is the image of fantasy: tuxedo trousers undone and loose on his svelte hips, chiselled abdomen heaving and flushed. He grabs his bowtie from the floor, slings it around his neck.
“Would I be crazy for suggesting we bail on this thing?” he sighs.
“You’d be crazier for suggesting we stay.”
He offers his hand to you; the hand that shapes the city. He grins sincerely; the lips that commandeer thousands.
And he asks of you the one thing that obedience never came shyly for:
Synopsis: when a terrifying, highly calculated stalker upends your life, you turn to a handsome police lieutenant who promises to keep you safe from harm. But as he isolates you in a remote cabin far from civilization, a horrifying truth begins to dawn on you—the protector you trusted is the very monster you have been running from.
CW: Dark romance themes featuring extreme stalking, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, and heavy weapon threats. [wc: 12.4k]
Masterlist
Looking back, you couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the feeling started.
If someone asked you for a date or a specific moment, you wouldn’t be able to give one. It wasn’t as though you woke up one morning and suddenly felt like something was wrong. It had happened gradually, over months—maybe even years. Small things would occur every now and then, things strange enough to catch your attention but never strange enough to make you truly worry. A package arriving at your apartment when you didn’t remember ordering anything. Finding an item you had spent weeks searching for suddenly back in stock at the exact store you visited. Realizing your keys weren’t where you remembered leaving them, only to find them somewhere else later and convince yourself you had simply forgotten.
At first, you brushed everything off as coincidence. Because what else could it be? Life was full of little oddities. People forgot things. Memories weren’t perfect. Sometimes weird things just happened. And yet, as time passed, the feeling never quite left.
It lingered in the back of your mind, surfacing at the strangest moments. You would walk home from work and suddenly feel as though someone was watching you from across the street. You would turn around and find nobody there. Sometimes you would wake up in the middle of the night for no reason at all, your heart racing despite the complete silence in your apartment. There was never any proof. Never anything concrete. Just a persistent sense of unease that you could never properly explain. Still, you managed to ignore it.
Mostly.
The first person who ever made you seriously think about it was your friend. The two of you were sitting in your usual café after work, occupying the same corner booth you always did. The conversation had drifted toward relationships, which unfortunately meant you had once again found yourself complaining about your terrible luck with dating. “I swear something is wrong with me,” you groaned, stirring your drink absentmindedly. “At this point, I should just give up.”
Your friend laughed. “You say that every single time.”
“Because every single time proves me right.” She rolled her eyes, and you leaned back in your chair with a sigh. “I’m serious. Every time I start talking to someone, something happens. Either they suddenly lose interest, disappear completely, or circumstances just get weird.”
Your friend tilted her head. “Weird how?”
You frowned. “I don’t know.” And that was the problem. You really didn’t know.
The last man you’d gone on a few dates with had seemed genuinely interested before abruptly cutting off contact. Before him, there had been someone who unexpectedly moved to another city. Another who quit his job and left without warning. Another who had simply vanished from social media altogether. Individually, none of those things were suspicious. Together, though…You weren’t sure.
“You know,” your friend said after a moment, a grin spreading across her face, “this is starting to sound less like bad luck and more like you have a stalker.”
You laughed immediately. The idea was ridiculous. “A stalker?”
“Yeah.” She pointed at you dramatically. “One of those obsessive movie or book stalkers. Secretly in love with you. Watching your every move. Scaring off every guy that comes near you.”
You shook your head. “Please stop reading dark romance.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re insane.”
“Am I?” she asked, clearly amused with herself. “Think about it. Every guy disappears. Problems in your life randomly solve themselves. Maybe some mysterious billionaire is secretly controlling your entire existence.”
You snorted into your drink. The conversation moved on after that. You talked about work, mutual friends, and weekend plans. By the time you left the café, the joke had already faded from your mind. Or at least you thought it had.
Because later that night, after you’d changed into comfortable clothes and climbed into bed- for first time bothering to draw curtains before changing, you found yourself thinking about it again. Not because you believed it. You didn’t. The idea was absurd. But once someone says something out loud, it becomes difficult to completely ignore. Lying in the darkness of your apartment, your friend’s words replayed in your head. And for the first time, you found yourself looking back at all those little incidents you had spent years dismissing.
The strange coincidences. The people who disappeared from your life without explanation. The constant feeling that someone was watching. The way your problems always seemed to solve themselves before you could deal with them. None of it proved anything. None of it meant anything. And yet, as you stared at the ceiling, sleep refusing to come, a thought quietly settled into the back of your mind. What if it wasn’t all coincidence? The possibility was ridiculous. So ridiculous that you almost laughed at yourself for even considering it. But despite that, you found yourself checking that your front door was locked before going to sleep.
A few days after the conversation with your friend, the calls started. At first, you didn’t think much of them.Unknown numbers weren’t exactly rare. Half the time it was spam, telemarketers, or someone who had dialed the wrong number. The first call came while you were making dinner. You almost ignored it. Almost. Instead, you wiped your hands on a towel and picked up your phone. “Hello?” Silence. You frowned. “Hello?”
For a second, you thought the call had disconnected. Then you heard it. Breathing. Slow. Heavy. Uneven. The sound was faint, but unmistakable. Your grip tightened around the phone. “Who is this?” Nothing. No answer. No movement. Just breathing. As though someone was standing perfectly still on the other end of the line, listening. A strange feeling settled in your stomach. You waited another few seconds before hanging up. The entire thing was unsettling, but by the time you went to bed, you’d mostly convinced yourself it was a prank call. People were weird. That was all. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Then it happened again. A week later. This time just after midnight. The sound of your ringtone cut through the silence of your apartment, pulling you awake. Still half-asleep, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand. Unknown number. Your heart immediately sank. “Hello?” Silence. And then— Breathing. The exact same breathing.
For a moment, you couldn’t speak. You simply sat there in bed, staring into the darkness of your room while the sound continued through the speaker. Slow. Steady. Almost patient. Like whoever was on the other end knew you weren’t going anywhere. You ended the call. A few seconds later, your screen lit up again.
The same number. Your stomach twisted. You let it ring until it stopped. Then you switched your phone onto silent and spent the rest of the night staring at your ceiling instead of sleeping. The worst part wasn’t the calls themselves. It was the fact that they never spoke. You almost wished they would. A threat. An insult. Anything. At least then it would make sense. Instead, there was only silence and breathing. As though someone wasn’t calling to talk to you. As though they were calling simply to hear your voice.
By the time morning came, you were exhausted. You hadn’t slept properly in days. Every creak of your apartment made you tense. Every vibration from your phone made your stomach drop. Even after convincing yourself the calls were probably harmless, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
Part of you had even started wondering if your friend was behind it. It sounded ridiculous, but she was the only person you’d told about the stalker joke. The only person who knew how much it had gotten into your head. So when you spotted her walking down the street on your way to work, you didn’t even think. You hurried after her. “Hey!” She turned around, startled. You stopped in front of her, slightly out of breath. “What is this prank?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“The calls.”
“What calls?”
“The unknown numbers. The breathing. All of it.” Your voice came out more strained than you intended. “I told you about the stalker thing and now I keep getting these weird calls. If this is some joke, it’s not funny anymore.”
For a moment, she simply stared at you. Then her expression softened. “Oh.” Immediately, guilt flickered through you. Because she genuinely looked confused. “I didn’t do that.”
You looked away. “I know it sounds stupid—”
“No.” She shook her head. “Come here.”
Before you could protest, she guided you toward a nearby bench. You sat down heavily. Only then did you realize how tense your entire body felt. Your hands were clenched. Your shoulders hurt. You hadn’t relaxed once all morning. Your friend dug a bottle of water out of her bag and handed it to you. “Drink.” You accepted it reluctantly. She watched you for a moment. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious.”
You sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re scaring yourself.” Maybe she was right. Maybe you were. She leaned back against the bench. “Look, it’s probably some random creep.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Some old guy with too much free time who enjoys making girls uncomfortable.” The grimace on your face made her laugh. “I’m serious. People are weird.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, but it makes more sense than whatever you’ve been imagining.” You stared at the bottle in your hands. After a moment, she continued. “Just stop answering unknown numbers.”
“And if they keep calling?”
“Then go to the police.” You looked up. She shrugged. “I mean it. If someone’s actually bothering you, report it. That’s literally their job.”
You considered it. Maybe she was right. Maybe you were making this bigger than it was. “…Okay.”
“Good.” She checked the time on her phone and immediately groaned. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“I’m late.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Again?”
“Again.” She stood up quickly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Then she pointed a finger at you. “No answering weird calls.”
“Yes, mom.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
She smiled. “I’ll walk with you for a bit.” The two of you headed toward your office building together. The conversation drifted to safer topics, and by the time she left, some of the tension had eased from your chest. Not all of it. But enough.
“Take care of yourself,” she called.
“You too.” Then she disappeared into the crowd.
By the time you entered the office building, the strange feeling had returned. Not fear exactly. Just exhaustion.
As though the constant worrying was draining you little by little. Your bag felt heavier than usual on your shoulder. One hand held your boss’s coffee while the other pushed through the lobby doors. Halfway to the elevators, your phone buzzed inside your bag. You ignored it. A few seconds later, it buzzed again. Then again. You clenched your jaw. Not now. You were already late. The elevator doors opened. You stepped inside. The phone buzzed once more. By the time you reached your floor, frustration had completely replaced anxiety.
You walked straight to your boss’s office. He was in the middle of a call when you entered. Without looking up, he gestured toward his desk. You placed the coffee down. He acknowledged you with a brief nod before returning to his conversation. A stack of paperwork sat neatly organized beside him. Your work for the morning. Perfect. You gathered the files and returned to your desk. The moment you sat down, your phone buzzed again. You stared at your bag.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Your patience snapped. You pulled out the phone and answered immediately. “Whoever you are, stop calling me or I’m reporting you to the police.” Silence. Your heart hammered.
Then a confused voice replied. “Ma’am, I’m calling regarding the designer courses you were interested in—”
Your eyes widened. “Oh.”
There was an awkward pause. You ended the call. Immediately. Heat flooded your face. For several seconds, you simply sat there staring at your desk. Then you slowly lowered your head into your hands. Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
You had just threatened an innocent marketing representative. With a groan, you switched your phone to silent and putting it on your desk. The embarrassment lingered for the rest of the morning. Though, if there was one positive thing, it was that no more unknown numbers appeared. Every time you checked your phone, there were no missed calls. No strange messages. Nothing.
By lunchtime, you found yourself relaxing for the first time in days. Maybe your friend had been right. Maybe you were letting your imagination run away with you. Maybe the prank caller was just some nocturnal weirdo who only came out at night. And maybe, finally, you’d get a little peace.
For a few days after the incident with the marketing caller, nothing happened. No breathing on the other end of the line. No unknown numbers calling at midnight. No strange messages.
Nothing.
At first, you found yourself waiting for it. Every time your phone buzzed, your stomach tightened. Every unknown number made your pulse jump.
But eventually, even that began to fade.
Maybe your friend had been right. Maybe it had been some random creep who got bored and moved on. Maybe you had spent the last week frightening yourself over nothing. Life slowly settled back into something normal. You went to work. You came home. You paid your bills. You worried about groceries and rent and all the usual things that occupied your mind. By the end of the week, you felt almost embarrassed by how paranoid you’d become.
That evening, you stopped by a department store on your way home. Nothing exciting. You needed groceries, a few household supplies, and a couple of other necessities. The store was busy enough that nobody paid much attention to anyone else. Just the way you liked it. You moved through the aisles absentmindedly, grabbing what you needed before eventually wandering toward the clothing section. Most of your clothes were practical. Comfortable. Affordable. But a girl cant help look at something sexy and alluring- a set of lingerie caught your eye but the price tag made you wince. There wasn’t anyone you were trying to impress anyway. So when you found yourself looking through a rack of undergarments, your decision process was fairly simple. You checked the prices. Winced. Checked them again. Then grabbed the cheapest plain cotton ones you could find. Nothing fancy. Nothing special. Just something comfortable.
A few minutes later, you paid for everything at the register. The cashier guy gave you a polite smile. You returned it automatically. Then you gathered your bags and headed home. The entire trip was completely ordinary. Forgettable, even. Which was exactly why the text message terrified you later that night. You were lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. A loose camisole hung from your shoulders. Comfortable shorts. The television murmuring quietly in the background. For the first time in days, you actually felt relaxed. Then your phone vibrated. You glanced down.
Unknown number.
Immediately, your stomach dropped. The calm you’d spent days rebuilding vanished. Slowly, you opened the message. At first, it didn’t make sense.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: shouldve gotten lace ones you shouldn’t even bother with the cheap ones, pretty.
You stared at the screen. Confused. What? You reread it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Your mind searched for context. Then suddenly— The store. The clothing section. The undergarments. The plain cotton ones. A cold wave swept through your body. You sat upright.
No.
No, no, no.
There was no way.
Your friend knew about the calls. But she hadn’t been at the store. Nobody you knew had been there. Nobody should know what you’d bought. Especially not something so specific. For several seconds, you simply stared at the message. Then another text appeared. This one came almost immediately.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Sleep well now, my pretty.
Your blood ran cold. You were out of bed before you even realized you’d moved. The curtains were yanked open. You peered outside. Darkness. Streetlights. Parked cars. Nothing unusual. Nobody staring up at your window. Nobody watching. At least, nobody you could see. That somehow made it worse. You quickly shut the curtains again. Locked the window. Then checked it a second time just to make sure. Your heart wouldn’t stop racing. You didn’t own a weapon. The realization hit almost immediately. If someone was outside— If someone got inside—What exactly were you supposed to do? You looked around frantically. The nearest thing within reach was a pen. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. And yet you snatched it up anyway. Holding it tightly enough that your fingers hurt. The next half hour became a blur. You checked every window. Locked every latch. Pulled every curtain shut. Then checked everything again. And again. By the time you finally reached the front door, your hands were shaking. You locked it. Unlocked it. Locked it again. Then physically pulled on the handle just to make sure. Only after that did you retreat back toward your bedroom.
The movies made everything worse. You knew they did. Yet your brain insisted on replaying every horror film you’d ever seen. Every story where the intruder wasn’t outside. Every story where they were already inside.
Hidden.
Waiting.
Watching.
The thought was enough to make you lock your bedroom door too. Only then did you crawl onto your bed. Phone clenched in one hand. Pen still in the other. You didn’t sleep. Not really. Every sound made you jump.The creak of old pipes. The hum of appliances. Something scratching outside. At one point you were almost certain you heard footsteps and spent twenty minutes staring at your bedroom door. Nothing happened. Yet your body refused to believe it.
By morning, you looked terrible. Dark circles sat beneath your eyes. Your head pounded. Every muscle in your body felt tight. The first thing you did was check your phone. The messages were still there. You weren’t imagining them. You hadn’t hallucinated them. They were real. And suddenly that made everything feel worse.
You’d texted your friend during the night. Several messages. No response. Which wasn’t surprising. She’d probably been asleep. Still, when someone rung bell of your house that morning, panic shot through you immediately. Your heart practically stopped. Who was that? How did they know where you lived? For one awful second, your mind went somewhere dark. You grabbed the kitchen knife you’d left nearby during the night and approached the door cautiously. Every step felt too loud. The bell rang again. You swallowed hard. Then carefully unlocked the door.
Your friend stood on the other side. The moment you saw her, relief nearly made your knees give out. “Oh my God.” She blinked. Then looked you up and down. “Jeez.” You probably looked as bad as you felt. Messy hair. Dark circles. Exhaustion written all over your face. Her gaze dropped. “Put the knife down.”
You looked at the knife. “…Right.”
She stepped inside and immediately frowned. Every curtain was closed. The apartment was dark despite the morning sunlight outside. Without hesitation, she walked over and turned on a light. The room brightened instantly. “You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
A few minutes later, she was standing in your kitchen. “Have you eaten?”
You shook your head. “No.”
“Why?”
You hesitated. Then admitted quietly “I was scared to leave my room.” That earned a look. Not judgment. Concern. Real concern.
“Okay,” she said firmly. “We’re going to the police.” You nodded. This time there wasn’t any argument. You were past the point of dismissing things. “I can drop you off.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But I can’t stay all day. You know how my job is.” You nodded again. She wasn’t wrong. She’d worked hard for that job. Missing work wasn’t really an option. “But I’ll take you there.”
While she made tea and put together a quick sandwich, she practically ordered you to get cleaned up. You didn’t have the energy to argue. The thought of taking a shower made you uncomfortable anyway. You felt too exposed. Too vulnerable. So you simply washed your face and changed clothes. A casual blue shirt. Jeans. Nothing complicated. After brushing your hair, you checked your phone again. Immediately. The messages were still there. You read them twice. Just to make sure.
When you returned to the kitchen, your friend shoved a plate toward you. “Eat.”
Then a mug of tea.
“Drink.” You obeyed. Mostly because your body needed something after being awake all night.
Less than half an hour later, the two of you were leaving. You grabbed your purse. Made sure your phone was inside. Then locked your bedroom. Locked the apartment. Checked the lock. Checked it again. Only then did you finally leave. The ride to the police station felt far too short. Your friend stayed beside you until the entrance. “You’ll be okay.” You hoped she was right. After a final reassuring squeeze to your shoulder, she headed off toward work.
And suddenly you were alone. Standing outside the police station. Staring at the entrance. Trying to gather the courage to walk inside. Eventually, you forced yourself to move. The station wasn’t nearly as intimidating as you’d imagined. People came and went. Phones rang. Officers talked among themselves. Life continued normally. Which somehow made your own situation feel strange. Unreal.
You approached the front desk. A woman around 30, her blond hair tied in a sleek bun looked up. “Yes?”
You swallowed. “I… I think someone is stalking me.”
The woman nodded professionally. As though she’d heard worse. “Alright. Tell me what happened.”
The receptionist listened while you awkwardly explained why you’d come. “I know it sounds strange,” you said, clutching your purse a little tighter. “But I think someone’s been stalking me.”
The woman nodded. “Alright. Do you have any evidence? Messages? Call logs?”
You opened your mouth to answer. “Morning.” The voice came from behind you. You turned instinctively. A man had just entered the station. The first thing you noticed wasn’t his face. It was his scent.
Leather.
Dark, rich leather mixed with something smoky and expensive. The kind of fragrance that lingered in the air even after someone moved away. For some reason, it made you immediately aware of his presence. The receptionist looked up. “Oh, good morning, Lieutenant Kennedy.”
His gaze moved from her to you. “We got our first case of the day already?”
The receptionist smiled. “Looks like it.”
“What can we help with?”
You hesitated. Then cleared your throat. “I think someone’s stalking me.”
For a moment, he simply looked at you. His expression didn’t change. Then he nodded. “Come with me.”
The receptionist blinked. “Lieutenant—”
“It’s alright.” His voice remained calm. “I’ll take care of it.”
Something flickered across the receptionist’s face. Surprise. But she nodded. “Of course.”
You followed him through the station. Past several offices. Past people working behind desks. Until he stopped outside a private office. He opened the door. “After you.” You stepped inside. The room felt colder than the rest of the station. Neat. Organized. A large desk stood between two chairs. A small nameplate sat near the edge.
Lieutenant Leon S Kennedy.
“Please.” He gestured toward the chair. “Sit.”
You sat. He took the seat opposite you. Then leaned back slightly. One arm resting on the armrest. Patient. Waiting. The silence stretched. Long enough to make you nervous. “It probably sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
His answer came immediately. You swallowed. “It just feels weird saying it out loud.”
“Take your time.”
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Trying not to fidget. Trying not to feel ridiculous. “I think somebody’s been watching me.”
“What makes you think that?” The question was simple. Direct. His expression remained completely neutral. Somehow that made you even more nervous. The office felt too quiet. Too still.
“Well…” You shifted in your seat. “There were these calls.”
“What kind of calls?”
“Unknown numbers.”
“How long?”
“A few weeks.” You glanced down. “When I answer, nobody talks.”
His eyes never left you. “Nobody?”
You shook your head. “Just breathing.”
He gave a slow nod. “Go on.”
You found yourself rambling. Explaining everything. The calls. The texts. The strange feeling of being watched. The message about the items you’d bought at the store. The fact that whoever it was somehow knew things they shouldn’t know. By the end, you felt embarrassed by how much you’d said.
While you were busy rambling to Lieutenant Kennedy, his attention was completely elsewhere. Hidden safely behind the boundary of his wooden desk, his hand moved with a lazy, deliberate slow motion. He traced his fingers over the fabric of his pants, highly aroused by the sheer intensity of your rant. You remained entirely oblivious to the thick tension building right out of your line of sight, focused only on getting your words out while he secretly enjoyed the view.
“He even asked me to buy specific kind of garments-“
“Did you?”
You blinked. “Sorry?”
“The messages.” His voice remained calm. “Did you reply to them?”
“Oh.” You shook your head immediately. “No. God, no.”
“Do you still have the messages?”
“Yes.” You quickly unlocked your phone and slid it across the desk. He picked it up. His fingers brushed yours briefly. The contact lasted less than a second. Yet somehow it felt strangely noticeable. You immediately pulled your hand back. Leon studied the screen. Reading each message carefully.Far more carefully than he needed to. As though every detail mattered. When he finally looked up, his expression remained thoughtful. Then he nodded. He placed the phone back on the desk. “We’ll look into it.”
Relief immediately flooded through you.“You will?”
“Of course.”
The answer came without hesitation. “You’re doing the right thing by reporting it.” For the first time since arriving, your shoulders relaxed slightly. Leon reached for a notepad. Wrote something down. Then tore off the page. “Here.” You looked down. A phone number. Not the station’s. His. “If anything happens again, call me.”
You looked up. “Really?”
“Any time.” His gaze held yours steadily. “If he contacts you again, I want to know immediately.”
The reassurance in his voice was almost comforting. Almost. “Thank you, Lieutenant Kennedy.”
Something faintly amused flickered across his face. “Leon is fine.”
“Oh.” You laughed nervously. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” A little later, after the report was finished, he stood. “I’ll walk you out.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” His smile was easy. Professional. “Humor me.”
As you walked toward the elevators, the knot in your stomach felt slightly lighter. The crowded elevator offered no breathing room, forcing you back directly against Leon’s chest. The tight space immediately amplified everything, trapping him in the sweet, intoxicating scent of your shampoo. Because of his height, he could look straight down, his eyes easily catching the hint of cleavage exposed by your baby blue shirt. The view made him come completely undone, sending a surge of adrenaline through him that he had to fight desperately to hide.Once the elevator doors finally slid open, he used the rush of the crowd to his absolute advantage. He placed a firm, grounding hand on the small of your back, guiding you out into the open corridor. The combination of your scent, the view, and the sudden physical touch sent his pulse into overdrive, but he kept his face completely blank, concealing the inner chaos perfectly from the public eye.
As for you it was first time in days, you felt like somebody was actually taking you seriously. Like somebody was helping. Like somebody was on your side. You never noticed the way Leon watched you when you weren’t looking. Or how his expression changed the moment your back was turned. Because by then, you’d already started trusting him. And that was exactly what he wanted.
After leaving the station, you blocked the number. Every unknown number. Every suspicious call. Every message. You told yourself that if anything happened again, you would contact Leon. That was what he had told you to do. For some reason, that thought made you feel slightly better. Not safe. Just… less alone. A few days passed. Nothing happened.
No calls.
No texts.
No breathing on the other end of the line. You still checked your phone more often than before. Still glanced over your shoulder while walking home. Still made sure your curtains were closed every night. But gradually, the panic began to settle. That evening, you were in your kitchen making dinner while talking to your friend on speakerphone. The conversation started exactly where it always did. With her demanding details. “So?”
“So what?”
“So how was your mysterious police officer?”
You nearly dropped the spoon you were holding. “Oh my God.”
“What?” she laughed.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? He gave you his number hmm?”
You rolled your eyes despite the smile tugging at your lips. “He was just doing his job.”
“Mhm.”
“Stop.”
“I’m just saying.”
You stirred the food in the pan. “He seemed nice.”
“Nice?”
“Professional.”
“That’s not what I asked.” You groaned.
Eventually the conversation drifted away from your situation. As it always did. Soon she was talking about her own life instead. Specifically the coworker she’d been seeing. The one she kept insisting wasn’t a date. Even though it was very obviously a date. “It is not a date.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It isn’t.”
“You’re literally meeting him for dinner.”
“That means nothing.”
You laughed. “It means you’re delusional.”
Your friend gasped dramatically. Then she paused glancing at her phone. “Oh. Someone is calling.”
You immediately knew. “The coworker?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe.”
You laughed again. “Go.”
“Fine.” She paused. “Call you later?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t get murdered.”
“Very comforting.”
“I try my best.” The call disconnected. Silence settled over the apartment. Immediate. Heavy. The kind you never noticed while someone else was talking. The only sound came from the food cooking on the stove. A faint sizzling noise. The hum of the refrigerator. Nothing else. You suddenly found yourself missing the conversation. Missing the distraction. The apartment felt larger when it was quiet. Emptier. Then the doorbell rang. You jumped. The spoon nearly slipped from your hand.
For a second, you simply stared toward the hallway. The bell rang only once. Who would be visiting? Nobody had told you they were coming. You turned off the stove and slowly walked toward the door. Your pulse felt strangely loud. You checked the peephole. Nothing.
Frowning, you unlocked the door. The hallway outside was empty. No delivery driver. No neighbor. Nobody. You stepped out slightly and looked both ways. Still nothing. The streets stretched empty in both directions. Then your eyes dropped.
A basket sat directly outside your door. Your stomach tightened. You froze. Every instinct screamed not to touch it. Not to go near it. Not to even look at it. Slowly, you glanced around again. Nothing. Nobody watching. At least nobody you could see. You retreated back inside and immediately grabbed a handful of paper towels from the kitchen. The gesture felt ridiculous. But somehow touching the basket with your bare hands felt worse.
Using the paper towels, you carefully lifted it. The basket wasn’t heavy. You carried it straight to the kitchen counter and set it down. Then you stared. Inside were snacks. Normal snacks. Ordinary snacks. The exact brands you bought occasionally. The exact ones you always reached for when you had a bad day. Your mouth went dry. Because those weren’t popular snacks. Not really. Not specific enough for a stranger to guess. Your hands began trembling. Tucked beneath one of the packages was a folded note. For several seconds, you simply looked at it. Not wanting to open it. Already knowing you shouldn’t. Eventually you unfolded the paper. Written neatly.
‘Ouch. You wound me, darling girl.’
The note fluttered onto the counter. A cold wave swept through your entire body. Because you knew exactly what it meant. The blocked number. The police report. The messages. He knew.
Whoever had been watching you knew. And somehow, impossibly, he wanted you to know that he knew. For the first time since this whole thing began, the reality hit you with full force.
You weren’t dealing with prank calls anymore. You weren’t dealing with some random creep dialing numbers for fun. This person knew where you lived. Knew what you ate. Knew when you were home. And worst of all— He knew you’d gone looking for help. And somewhere, though you couldn’t see him, that thought seemed to make him very happy.
For several seconds, you simply stood there staring at the note. Your pulse hammered against your ribs. The words seemed burned into your mind. Your first instinct was to call your friend. Immediately. You grabbed your phone and dialed. The line rang once. Then stopped. Busy. You frowned.
Of course. She was probably talking to her coworker. The coworker who definitely wasn’t a date. You tried again. The same thing happened. Busy. A frustrated sound escaped your throat. You ended the call before it could ring any longer. Your heart was beating so hard it almost hurt. What were you supposed to do? Stay here? Wait? Call the police station? Then you remembered.
Leon.
Your thumb immediately moved toward your contacts. You opened the recently saved numbers. There it was.
Lt. Leon Kennedy
For a second, you hesitated. You didn’t want to bother him. He was probably busy. He probably had actual cases to deal with. Real emergencies. Not— Your eyes flickered back toward the basket. Toward the note. Toward the snacks. The exact snacks you bought. You pressed call. The phone rang once. Twice. Then connected.
“Lieutenant Kennedy speaking.” His voice was calm. Professional. Steady. “How may I help you?”
You swallowed. Suddenly aware of how ridiculous you might sound. “Hi.” A pause. “It’s… me. I came by this morning about-”
The moment the words left your mouth, you felt stupid. Of course he wouldn’t know who you were. But his response came immediately. “I remember.”
Something about those two words eased a little of the panic twisting in your chest. “You do?”
“Of course.” His tone softened slightly. “What’s wrong?”
And just like that, the words came pouring out. The basket. The snacks. The note. The fact that it had been left outside your door. The fact that nobody had been there when you opened it. You spoke too quickly. Tripping over your own words. Your thoughts were running faster than your mouth could keep up. Leon listened without interrupting. Not once. When you finally stopped talking, the apartment felt painfully quiet again.
“Okay.” His voice remained calm. Composed. As though he dealt with things like this every day. “First, I need you to take a breath.”
You nodded automatically before realizing he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”
Your voice came out much smaller than intended. “Good.” A brief pause. “Now listen carefully.” You found yourself gripping the phone tighter. “I want you to lock every door.”
“They already are.”
“Check them again.”
You immediately stood.
“And the windows?”
“I locked those too.”
“Check them again.”
Something about the certainty in his voice made you obey without question. You moved through the apartment. Checking each lock. Each window. Each latch. The phone remained pressed against your ear the entire time. “Done.”
“Good.” Another pause. Then “Text me your address.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I’m coming over.”
The answer was immediate. Matter-of-fact. As though there had never been another option. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice remained calm. “But I’m coming anyway.”
You found yourself nodding again. “Okay.”
“I want you to stay on the phone with me until I arrive.”
Your eyes drifted toward the basket sitting on the counter. Toward the folded note beside it.
“Okay.”
“Good.” The call remained connected. Neither of you spoke for a while. You sat on the couch. Phone clutched tightly in your hands. Every sound in the apartment suddenly seemed amplified. The hum of the refrigerator. The ticking of a clock. The occasional noise from the hallway outside. Every few minutes, Leon would check in. “You doing alright?”
“Yeah.”
Even when the answer wasn’t entirely true. A few minutes later “You still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The simple exchanges shouldn’t have helped. Yet somehow they did. The apartment felt less empty knowing someone was on the other end of the line. Meanwhile, several streets away, Leon guided his vehicle through traffic. One hand rested on the steering wheel. The other held the phone. His expression remained calm. Controlled.
Exactly the same as it had been during the call. No one looking at him would have guessed that he’d already known where you lived. Or that he could have reached your apartment without needing the address at all. Still, he glanced at the text you’d sent. Reading the address anyway. A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Just a few more minutes,” he said. You exhaled slowly. For the first time since finding the basket, you felt something close to relief. You had no idea that the person driving toward your apartment was the very reason you were afraid to be there.
You practically ripped the door open the second the bell rang. Relief hit so hard your knees nearly gave out. “Leon.”
“There you are.” His gaze swept over you immediately. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The trembling hands. The way your shoulders were drawn tight with anxiety. You looked exhausted.Frightened. Like you’d spent the last hour convincing yourself someone was standing outside your apartment waiting for you. Exactly as he’d expected. “Can I come in?”
You stepped aside immediately. “Yeah. Sorry.”
The moment he entered, the familiar scent of leather followed him inside. Suddenly the apartment didn’t feel quite so empty anymore. You closed and locked the door behind him. Checking the lock twice. Leon noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything. The way your hands trembled- and how you visibly looked shaken to care. If anything this aroused him the entire situation it aroused him, “Still scared?”
You laughed nervously. “I think that’s an understatement.”
His eyes drifted toward the basket sitting on the counter. The note beside it. The snacks. His expression remained perfectly neutral. As though he wasn’t looking at something he’d carefully assembled only an hour earlier. You hovered nearby. Watching. Waiting. Unsure what to do. Leon picked up one of the snack packets. Turning it over casually. “You like these?”
You blinked. “What?”
He looked up. “These.” He gestured vaguely toward the basket. “Nothing fancy. Just snacks.” His voice remained easy. Conversational. “Do you actually like them?”
You frowned slightly. “Yeah.”
A pause.
“Why?”
Leon set the packet back down. “Then whoever this stalker is…” His eyes returned to the basket. “…he’s watching you pretty closely.”
A chill crawled down your spine. Because he was right. The reality of it settled heavily in your stomach again. The snacks. The note. The timing. None of it was random. Leon looked away from the basket. His gaze landed on the kitchen. Specifically the half-prepared dinner sitting abandoned on the stove. “You haven’t eaten.” It wasn’t a question.
You followed his gaze. “Oh.” You’d completely forgotten. “I was cooking when this happened.”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe forty minutes.”
His eyebrows lifted. “So you’ve been panicking for forty minutes and haven’t eaten.” When he put it like that, it sounded ridiculous.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“That’s not how stress works.” You couldn’t help a small laugh. The first one you’d managed all evening. Leon nodded toward the stove. “Heat it up.”
You immediately shook your head. “No, no, I can do it.”
“I know.” His voice remained calm.
“I’m saying you should.” You hesitated. Then finally nodded. While you moved around the kitchen, Leon wandered through the apartment. Appearing casual. Unhurried. Just taking a look around. Your bedroom. The hallway. The living room. The bathroom.
To you, it looked like he was checking the apartment. Making sure nobody had broken in. Making sure you were safe. The reality was much darker. Because every room held another piece of you. Books. Photographs. Favorite blankets. Hair products sitting neatly on a shelf. A half-finished novel beside your bed with a random receipt as bookmark. Little details. Pieces of a life he’d spent months observing from afar. Now he was finally seeing them up close.
By the time he returned, dinner was ready. The two of you sat at the table. The conversation drifted naturally. Back to the messages. Back to the calls. Back to the note.
For the first time all day, you felt yourself relaxing. Not completely. But enough to breathe. Enough to eat. Enough to stop jumping at every sound. The apartment felt different with another person inside. Safer. Which was why, later that night, when Leon stood to leave, panic immediately returned. You hated how obvious it was. Hated how quickly the fear came back. He noticed anyway. Of course he did. “You don’t want to stay here alone tonight.”
It wasn’t a question. You looked down. Embarrassed. “Not really.”
A moment passed. Then Leon spoke. “If it would make you feel better, I can stay until morning.”
Your head snapped up. “Really?”
“Really.”
Relief washed over you immediately. So quickly it almost made you dizzy. “Thank you.”
A small smile appeared on his face. “You’re welcome.” The couch became his. You insisted. Several times. But he refused to take your bed. Yet atlesst.
You closed the door. Checked the lock. Then checked it again. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, you felt like you might actually sleep. Out in the living room, Leon sat quietly in the darkness.
Listening.
The apartment was silent. Except for the occasional creak of floorboards. And the slow, steady sound of your breathing from the other side of the wall. A sound he’d become very familiar with. And now, for now, he didn’t need a phone call or a surveillance feed to hear it.
He lay on the couch while you were sound asleep, holding the phone you had forgotten on the kitchen counter. Since you had no password set, it opened instantly to a casual picture of you looking effortlessly beautiful.
Leon’s thumb glided over your touch screen, the blue light casting sharp, predatory shadows across his face in the pitch-black living room.
As the head of police, he had the power to access anyone's communication history, and he took full advantage of his position. He knew exactly who you had been talking to and when. He felt a strong temptation to block the friend you called so frequently, but he controlled the urge, knowing he couldn't do that just yet. Instead, he opened your photo gallery, scrolling through the images and lingering on every picture of you. A familiar, intense fixation took hold of him, one that had occupied his thoughts throughout the day. He felt hard. He remained there on the couch, lost in his obsession as he continued to go through your private photographs while you slept peacefully in the other room. Stroking his cock through his pants while being fully aware of you sleeping in next room yet that did nothing but excite him even more.
He didn't just look at your photographs. He tapped into your text messages. He looked at the frantic messages you had sent your friend during the night—the ones she hadn't replied to yet. With a few quick, cold swipes, Leon deleted them. Every single one. If your friend checked her phone later, there would be no record that you had been panicking. No record that you were afraid.Then, he went into your call logs. He selected his own burner number—the one you had blocked earlier. He unblocked it. Then, he deleted the entire text history from that number. The message about the lace lingerie? Gone. The text about sleeping well? Erased. He scrubbed every single digital footprint he had left behind.
If you tried to show any other cop your phone tomorrow, there would be nothing to see. No threats. No stalker. Just an empty inbox. You would look completely insane to anyone else. You would have no evidence left.
Except for him. He would be your only witness. Your only truth.
Leon let out a low, breathy chuckle, his chest vibrating against the couch cushion as he slipped your phone into his pocket. He would put it back on the kitchen counter before you woke up, making you think you had simply misplaced it in your panic.
The morning sun didn't bring relief it only exposed how trapped you truly were.When you opened your bedroom door, the smell of fresh coffee and rich leather met you immediately. Leon was standing by the stove, his uniform perfectly pressed, looking entirely at home in your small kitchen. He turned to you, his blue eyes instantly locking onto yours with a terrifyingly intense focus masked as concern."Sleep well?" he asked, his voice low and smooth.
"Better than layout out alone," you admitted, rubbing your eyes. You looked around the kitchen counter. "Hey, did you see my phone? I thought I left it in my room."
Leon casually slid your phone across the counter toward you. His face was a mask of perfect, professional gravity. "It was out here. Actually, I'm glad you're awake. We have a problem."
Your stomach dropped instantly. "What is it?"
Leon walked over to the front door and gestured to the wood near the deadbolt. Deep, fresh scratches marred the paint, and the safety chain looked slightly bent. "He tried to come in last night. Around 3:00 AM. I heard him from the couch."
You stared at the scratches, the color completely draining from your face. "He... he was inside the building? While we were asleep?"
"I tried chasing after him also he tried to get in and god knows how many other times he might have tried and- succeeded," Leon said, stepping closer to you. He loomed over you, his tall frame completely blocking out the light from the hallway window.
He reached out, his leather-gloved hand gently clasping at your shoulder, making you to look up into his dark, unblinking eyes. "Your apartment isn't safe anymore. He's too bold. He knows your routine, and he isn't afraid of a lock."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" your voice trembled, a tear finally slipping down your cheek.Leon's thumb wiped the tear away, the rough leather of his glove scraping softly against your skin. A dark, possessive satisfaction flared in his eyes.
"You're coming with me. I have a private cabin just outside the district. No records, no state registry. He won't find you there."
You hesitated, a faint alarm bell ringing in the back of your mind. "A cabin? But what about my job? My friend—"
"I'll handle your office. And your friend is safe," Leon interrupted smoothly, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to command absolute obedience. His voice dropped to a dark, dangerous whisper. "Right now, your life belongs to this investigation. Which means you belong under my roof. Pack a bag, sweetheart. We're leaving."
The zipper of your suitcase sounded deafeningly loud in the quiet bedroom. Your hands were still unsteady as you folded a few casual shirts, a pair of jeans, and some basic necessities, tossing them into the bag without much thought. Every couple of minutes, your eyes would dart toward the bedroom door.
Through the slight crack in the frame, you could see Leon.He was standing in your small kitchen area, completely at ease. He had taken off his heavy tactical vest, leaving him in his dark blue police shirt, the fabric stretching tightly across his broad shoulders. He was idly flipping through the small stack of mail you'd left on the counter, his touch casual, almost domestic. He opened your electric bill, glanced at it, and set it down before picking up a stray grocery receipt. He wasn't rushing you. He was patient. Waiting."Take your time, sweetheart," Leon called out, his deep voice carrying smoothly into the bedroom. "Make sure you grab whatever you need for a couple of weeks."
"Okay," you murmured, swallowing the lump in your throat.You reached for your phone on the nightstand, sliding it into your pocket. You didn't feel safe, but looking at Leon—a decorated Lieutenant, calm and collected—you forced yourself to believe this was the right choice. He was a cop. He was the law. If you couldn't trust him, who could you trust? You zipped the suitcase shut, took one last look at your empty room, and walked out into the living room.
Leon looked up immediately, a polite, reassuring smile touching his lips. He walked over, his boots thudding softly against the floor, and easily took the heavy suitcase from your hand. "Ready?"
"Ready," you whispered.
He placed a firm, grounding hand on the small of your back, guiding you out of the apartment. As you locked the door behind you, a heavy weight settled in your chest. You were leaving your home behind, but at least you weren't alone. The drive started out normal. Leon guided his unmarked police vehicle through the city traffic with effortless control, the hum of the engine a steady, comforting vibration. You watched the familiar streets roll past, the storefronts and traffic lights giving you a lingering sense of reality.
But as the minutes ticked by, the scenery began to blur. The bright city lights gradually faded, replaced by the bleak, grey stretch of an unfamiliar highway. The afternoon sky was darkening, heavy rain clouds rolling in to swallow the remaining daylight.The silence inside the car began to feel thick. Heavy.
Seeking a distraction, you pulled your phone out of your purse. You wanted to text your friend, to let her know you were safe and heading out of the city with the Lieutenant. You unlocked the screen and glanced at the top right corner.The signal bars blinked once, dropped to a single line, and then completely vanished. No Service.You frowned, a small prickle of unease hitting your skin. "Hey, Leon? My phone completely lost signal. Is reception bad out here?"
"Yeah," Leon replied smoothly, keeping his eyes locked onto the dark road ahead. One hand rested on the steering wheel, his posture completely relaxed. "We're moving past the main cell towers. Don't worry about it. You won't need it where we're going."
His tone was entirely casual, but the words sent a faint, icy chill down your spine. You won't need it. The Missing TruthYou stared down at the screen anyway, tapping into your text messages just to look at the stalker's threats again. You needed to read them. You needed to remind yourself why you were fleeing your life in the middle of the day.
You opened the app. Your inbox was completely empty.You blinked, your heart skipping a beat. You tapped out, closed the app, and opened it again. Nothing. You scrolled down frantically, searching for the terrifying message about the lace lingerie. Gone. You checked your recent logs for the midnight messages you had sent to your friend. Erased.
Every single digital trace of your trauma had been completely wiped clean. It was as if the last few weeks of your life had never happened."Leon..." your voice came out breathless, a sudden, tight knot forming in your stomach. "My messages. They're gone. The texts from the stalker, the ones I sent my friend last night... everything is deleted."
Leon didn't look surprised. He didn't tense up. He merely adjusted his grip on the wheel, his face a mask of calm, professional gravity."I was afraid of that," he murmured, his tone dripping with a dark, soothing sympathy. "A hacker capable of tracking your routine can easily clone your SIM card. He remotely wiped your device to destroy the evidence. He's covering his tracks because he knows I'm on to him."
"But now nobody will believe me," you whispered, a cold, suffocating dread settling deep into your chest. "I have no proof. If I go to another cop, I'll look insane."
Leon finally turned his head, his striking blue eyes locking onto yours in the dim light of the dashboard. A faint, deeply satisfied shadow of a smile touched the corner of his lips, completely hidden by the darkness of the car."You don't need to worry about other cops, sweetheart," he said softly, his voice dropping into a possessive, dangerous register. "You have me. I'm your witness. I saw the notes. I saw the door." He reached over the center console, his large, leather-gloved hand resting heavily over yours, pinning your phone against your lap. The weight of his hand felt absolute. Unyielding."Without that phone data, the precinct officially closed the file an hour ago," Leon lied smoothly, his fingers tightening over yours just enough to make you ache. "You have no case anymore. No paper trail. As far as the system is concerned, you don't exist right now. You only have me to keep you safe."
You stared at his gloved hand on yours, a sudden, sharp alarm bell ringing loudly in your mind. No signal. No text history. No police file. No one in the world knew where you were, or who you were with.
You looked out the window as the car veered off the highway, turning onto a rough, unpaved dirt road that bled directly into the thick, black woods. The medium pace of the drive had completely hidden the truth until it was far too late you hadn't been rescued. You had been collected.
The car bumped along the unpaved dirt road, the thick canopy of trees swallowing what little afternoon light remained. Finally, the vehicle came to a stop in a small, isolated clearing. Tucked away against the dense backdrop of the woods sat a secluded cabin. It looked rustic, solid, and completely removed from civilization.
Leon turned off the engine. The sudden silence inside the car was heavy, broken only by the steady rain drumming against the roof.
Leon stepped out of the car, retrieved your suitcase from the boot, and walked around to open your door. He offered his hand, his grip firm and warm through his leather gloves. "We're here. Come on inside out of the rain."
You walked up the wooden steps of the porch, your muscles tight with a lingering sense of unease. Leon unlocked the front door and stepped aside to let you enter first. The interior was cozy but simple—hardwood floors, a stone fireplace, a small kitchen area, and a single hallway leading to the bedrooms. It felt safe on the surface, yet completely cut off from the rest of the world.
Leon set your suitcase down by the door and took off his heavy leather jacket, hanging it up. He turned to you with a calm, reassuring smile. "I know this isn't what you're used to, but it's the safest place for you right now."
You swallowed hard, looking around the quiet space. "It's... nice. Thank you, Leon. Really. I don't know what I would have done without your help."
"Don't worry about it," Leon said smoothly, his blue eyes tracking your movements. He stepped a bit closer, his tone dropping into something deeply comforting yet intensely possessive. "You don't have to face any of this alone. I'll be right here keeping you company, making sure you don't run into any trouble. No one can get to you here."
"Thank you," you murmured, offering a small, weak smile. "I think I just need a moment to unpack and settle in."
"Take all the time you need," he replied easily, gesturing toward the bedroom down the hall. "I'll be out here checking the perimeter secure points."
The moment you stepped into the privacy of the bedroom and closed the door, the heavy silence of the cabin seemed to press against your ears. Your chest felt tight. You sat down on the edge of the bed and immediately pulled your phone out of your pocket.
Your fingers were trembling as you pressed the power button, turning the screen back on. Maybe it was just a temporary glitch, you thought desperately. 'Maybe the signal will come back now that the car is stopped.'
You stared at the top corner of the screen, waiting for the little bars to light up.
Nothing.
The screen read No Service. The inbox remained a completely blank, terrifying void.
A cold wave of anxiety washed over you. The realization began to sink in with full force. You couldn't call your mother. You couldn't text your friend to let her know you were okay. Your family, your friends, your job—everyone you knew was on the other side of those dark woods, and you had absolutely no way to reach them. You were entirely dependent on the man sitting in the next room.
You stared down at the blank screen, and as the initial panic began to settle into a cold, sharp focus, your mind started to race. The sheer speed of everything that had happened over the past few hours began to feel wrong.
A heavy, suffocating doubt crept into your mind, and suddenly, questions you hadn't thought to ask before began to surface, one after another-
How could a hacker clone your SIM card and wipe your phone exactly when you were with a police officer, without triggering any security alerts on your account?
Why would the police station close a stalking case just because the phone logs were wiped, especially after a Lieutenant personally witnessed a forced entry attempt and a threatening note at your apartment?
How did Leon manage to drive across the city to your apartment in less than ten minutes during the rush hour traffic, acting as if he already knew exactly where to turn before you even texted the address?
Why was a high-ranking Lieutenant handling a routine harassment case entirely by himself, breaking protocol, and taking you to an unlisted private cabin without filing a single piece of official protective custody paperwork?
You gripped the silent phone tightly in your hand, your heart hammering against your ribs. The pieces of the puzzle were no longer fitting together the way Leon had explained them. You looked toward the closed bedroom door, hearing the faint, steady sound of his boots pacing around the living room outside.
You had spent weeks wondering who the stalker was, terrified of a ghost. But as you sat alone in the silent cabin, a horrifying truth began to dawn on you, the person who knew everything about you might be the very man who just locked you inside his house.
The bedroom door creaked open just an inch. You held your breath, listening intently over the quiet hum of the cabin. From the kitchen area downstairs, the faint sound of clinking cookware and the rich, savory aroma of dinner began to drift up the stairs. Leon was busy cooking.
This was your only chance.
Padding across the floor in your socks, you slipped out into the hallway. Your heart hammered against your ribs, each step feeling like a gamble. You moved like a ghost, quietly checking each room you passed. A dusty storage closet. A pristine, unused bathroom. Nothing.
Finally, you stood before the door at the very end of the hall. His room.
You turned the brass knob, your palms slick with sweat, and stepped inside. The room was immaculate, dark, and heavily scented with his familiar leather and expensive cologne. It was meticulously organized, almost devoid of personal touches—except for one thing. Hanging on the wall directly opposite his bed was a large, heavy painting of a bleak, foggy forest landscape
As you turned to scan his desk, something caught the corner of your eye. A tiny, sharp white edge was sticking out from behind the heavy wooden frame of the painting.
Your instincts screamed at you to look closer. Swallowing the knot of dread in your throat, you carefully stepped onto the edge of his mattress, your knees shaking. You reached up, your fingers gripping the cold edges of the ridiculously large photo frame, and slowly lifted it off its hook.
The moment the heavy frame shifted, your breath completely left your body. Taped directly to the wall behind the canvas, hidden in the dark, were rows and rows of photographs. Your mind went entirely blank as you stared at them. They were all pictures of you.
You sitting at your usual corner booth, laughing with your friend, taken from across the street through a long-distance lens.
You sleeping peacefully in your bed, the angle taken from inside your own bedroom doorway while you were completely unconscious.
Another one of you in your bed room this time you were in window frame- you changing into night clothes.
Your hands trembled so violently that the heavy frame nearly slipped from your fingers. The realization hit you like a physical blow, turning your blood to pure ice. It wasn't a hacker. It wasn't a random nocturnal creep.
The stalker, the protector, and the Lieutenant were all the exact same person. And you were trapped in his house, miles away from anyone who knew your name, while he was downstairs cooking your dinner.
The click of the bedroom door latch locking from the inside sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.
Your body froze, your hands still trembling against the heavy wooden frame. Slowly, with pure dread anchoring your feet to the mattress, you turned your head toward the doorway.
Leon was there.
He was leaning casually against the door frame, his massive shoulder resting against the wood, blocking the only exit completely. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his uniform shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the collar. He looked entirely at ease, completely unbothered, as if he had been standing there watching you for minutes.
His striking blue eyes weren't warm anymore. They were dark, intense, and fixed entirely on your shaking form."Find what you were looking for, pretty girl?" Leon asked, his voice low, smooth, and terrifyingly calm.
You couldn't move. You couldn't breathe. Your fingers finally lost their grip, and the heavy painting slipped, clattering loudly against the mattress. The rows of stolen photographs—your face, your bedroom, your private moments—sat exposed between the two of you in the dim light.
Leon didn't flinch. He didn't look angry. Instead, a slow, deeply satisfied smile touched the corner of his lips. He tilted his head, his gaze tracking a tear that had just escaped your eye and traveled down your pale cheek.
“I didn't want to bring you here so soon," he murmured, finally straightening up and taking a slow, heavy step into the room. The familiar scent of leather and expensive cologne suddenly felt suffocating. "But you just wouldn't stop trying to block me out. You forced my hand, darling girl."
Your limbs moved on pure instinct. You scrambled off the bed, the heavy frame clattering to the floor behind you, and dashed toward the adjoining bathroom. Leon lunged, his fingers grazing the fabric of your shirt, but you managed to slam the door shut and throw the deadbolt.
A heavy thump rattled the frame as he threw his weight against the wood.
"Be a good girl and open the door," Leon's voice boomed from the other side, stripped of all professional warmth. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be, sweetheart."
You slid down the door, tears streaming down your face as terror locked your throat. The walls felt like they were closing in. You knew the lock wouldn't hold him for long. Looking around frantically, your eyes landed on the small window high above the toilet seat. It was tight, but it was your only exit.
Slimming the toilet lid down, you stepped up, your hands shaking. You grabbed the heavy ceramic lid of the toilet tank—the sturdiest object in reach—and smashed it hard against the window pane. The glass shattered, rain and cold air rushing through the broken frame. At that exact moment, a deafening crack echoed behind you.
Leon had fetched an axe from the cabin. The sharp blade bit entirely through the center of the wooden door, splintering the panel. He swung again, creating a gaping hole wide enough for him to peer through. His dark, unblinking eyes locked onto you just as you were forcing your upper body through the broken window frame.
"Running away from me?" he murmured, his tone a terrifying mix of amusement and anger. You squeezed through the jagged opening, tumbling out onto the wet, muddy ground outside. A sharp, stinging pain shot up your leg as you landed awkwardly on your bare foot, having left your shoes in the bedroom. Cursing through your tears, you yanked off your wet socks so they wouldn't slick against the mud, and bolted into the dense, black woods.
The cold ground cut into your bare skin, but the adrenaline overrode the pain. Behind you, the cabin door slammed open.
You risked a glance over your shoulder. Leon had stepped out onto the porch. He didn't run. He didn't rush. He held the axe loosely at his side, his striking blue eyes locking onto your form in the distance. He knew the terrain, and he knew you couldn't go far without shoes. He simply began to walk.
The chase felt like a waking nightmare. No matter how fast you forced your burning lungs and aching stomach to move, every time you looked back, Leon was there. He moved with a steady, relentless pace, tracking you through the trees like a predator who knew the prey was already spent.
Suddenly, the trees thinned out, and you stumbled onto a deserted asphalt road. It looked completely empty until a pair of headlights cut through the gloom. A single car was approaching.
Desperate, you sprinted into the center of the lane, waving your arms frantically. The car screeched to a halt, the tires smoking against the wet pavement. The driver, looking confused and startled, opened his door and stepped out. "Hey! What's wrong with you? What are you doing out here?"
"Please, help me!" you screamed, rushing toward him, pointing back at the wood line. "He's following me! He's going to—" A deafening crack echoed through the air.
The driver didn't have time to react before Leon emerged from the treeline, far yet his aim precise blowing that guy’s head right off the blood splattered on you leaving you in shock and terror. You stood alone-if you dont count the dead body on ground- on the dark pavement.
Your voice trapped in your throat, you whirled around. Leon was stepping out from the shadow of the trees his gun now back in its hostler. He kept his eyes fixed entirely on you as he walked forward, completely undeterred by the distance between you.
The horror paralyzed you for a split second before the adrenaline kicked in again. You took off into the woods on the opposite side of the road, your vision blurred by tears.
Behind you, a dark, low chuckle escaped his chest. He wasn't running; he didn't need to. He followed the trail you left in the mud with practiced ease.
Your chest felt like it was on fire, and a sharp cramp seized your stomach from the relentless sprinting. Up ahead, you spotted a massive, hollowed-out fallen log half-hidden by thick brush. With the last ounce of your strength, you scrambled inside, curling into a tight ball and pressing your hands over your mouth to stifle your ragged breathing. You closed your eyes tight, praying the darkness would hide you.
The heavy thud of his boots grew louder, crushing the wet leaves outside, before stopping right beside your hiding spot.
"A bunny chase and then hiding? Really?" Leon’s smooth, dark voice cut through the silence, dripping with an unsettling calm. "You think this log is going to keep you away from me?"
You squeezed your eyes shut harder, tears leaking through your lashes. Outside, everything went deathly quiet. The silence stretched for several agonizing seconds.
Suddenly, a heavy hand gripped your lev, and you were hurriedly pulled out of the cramped space your shirt riding up in process exposing your white bra. Before you could get up and run away, Leon held you down sitting on you caging you between his legs, his shadow looming over you and pinning you against the rough ground.
His gaze traveled down, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. He was leaning in close enough for you to feel his hot, stale breath. Panic surged, but you bit down hard on your tongue, tasting blood, anything to keep from screaming.
Terrified, you whimpered, "Not so brave now, are you?" he mocked, tracing the edge of your bra with the blunt side of his axe. You shivered, not from cold, but from the chilling promise in his touch. Then, as suddenly as it had started, he stopped. "You know what? This is boring," he declared, while the situation aroused him he couldnt help but be bothered by blood of another man on you. He held down your hands above your head and brought his hand up which held axe up your tear streaked face twisted up in panic and you closed your eyes shut waiting for the impact yet none came instead he slammed the axe down on ground beside your head yet it didnt help you started sobbing.
He looked down at you with a heavy, unbothered expression, as if the entire ordeal had bored him. Moving with a slow, deliberate calmness that defied the absolute chaos of the moment, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He sparked it effortlessly, the small flame casting a brief glow over his sharp features before he leaned a bit back and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He sat there, quietly smoking in the dark woods, acting as if he had no interest in your terror at all—as if chasing you down was nothing more than a routine chore.
He took one last drag, dropped the cigarette into the mud, and crushed it beneath the heel of his heavy boot.
"Get up," he said, his voice stripped of any warmth. "Let's get you cleaned up."
You couldn't even fight him anymore. Your body was entirely spent, your muscles trembling from the burning exhaustion and the freezing rain. When he reached down and pulled you out of the mud, your knees completely gave out. Without a word, Leon easily lifted you into his arms, holding your shivering frame tightly against his leather jacket. You hid your tear-streaked face against his chest, completely defeated, as he carried you back through the dark, silent woods toward the cabin.
The heavy glass doors of the police station swung open, the familiar scent of stale coffee and floor wax greeting Lieutenant Leon S. Kennedy as he stepped inside. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, looking completely refreshed. On paper, he had just returned from a relaxing, five-day out-of-district vacation. No one at the precinct had any reason to question it.As he walked past the front desks, the sharp, frantic sound of a woman’s voice cut through the morning chatter of the lobby.
"What do you mean there's no record?!" she demanded, her voice cracking with pure panic as she slammed her hand against the high counter. "I dropped her here myself! She came in to report a stalker, and now she’s completely disappeared! Her phone is disconnected, she hasn't been to work, and you're telling me you didn't even log the case?!"
The desk officer sighed, rubbing his temples. "Ma'am, like I said, we've searched the system. There is no active file under that name. People leave town all the time—"
"She didn't just leave town!"Recognizing the voice instantly, Leon smoothly stepped into the fray. He put on his best professional mask, his blue eyes softening with deep, fabricated concern as he approached the counter.
"Is there a problem here, Officer?" Leon asked, his deep voice instantly commanding the room.
The desk officer looked up, relieved. "Lieutenant Kennedy. Thank God you're back. This woman is causing a scene about a missing person, but we don't have any paperwork matching her story."
Leon turned his attention to the woman. He recognized her instantly from the long-distance photographs he had taken at the café. It was your best friend.
"Hey, hey, calm down," Leon said gently, stepping closer and placing a reassuring, authoritative hand near her shoulder. "Take a breath. I’m Lieutenant Kennedy. Tell me exactly what happened, and I'll help you."
Your friend looked at him, her eyes red, puffy, and completely desperate. "My friend... she's missing. She was terrified because some creep was stalking her, sending her texts, leaving things at her door. I made her come here a week or two ago to report it. She told me a Lieutenant was handling it, but now she’s gone, and they're telling me there's no record!"
A profound wave of dark, twisted satisfaction rushed through Leon's chest, sending an intoxicating surge of adrenaline through his veins. He kept his face perfectly blank, a masterclass in deception. Of course there was no record. He had personally deleted the file, wiped your digital footprint, and ensured that on paper, you had simply vanished into thin air.
"Hey. Look at me," Leon murmured, his voice dripping with a comforting, protective warmth that completely fooled your desperate friend. "I promise you, I will look into this personally. I'll take over the search myself, and we will find out where she is."
"Thank you," your friend sobbed, completely blind to the monster standing right in front of her. "Please find her."
"I will," Leon promised softly, a faint, predatory smirk threatening to touch the very edge of his lips as he turned his back. In reality, he knew exactly where you were. You weren't missing. You were right where nobody on Earth would ever be able to find you—completely isolated, locked away, and entirely dependent on him. Safe, protected, and kept all to himself.
first time writing for leon i know its dark wasnt so sure about posting it because i felt it would get taken down or something only smut i could add here would be non con not sure if that is suitable for tumblr lemme know if it is and i can make a part two
credits to the person you made that leon poster and dividers everything else is my original work please dont upload it or translate it on any other platform other than that i hope you all enjoy reading
hey can i request leon x reader that people find out their relationship and takes photos of them and it goes all over tiktok and instagram? something cute about this story.
𝕸𝖗𝖘. 𝕶𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖉𝖞 ✦ Older! Leon Kennedy x wife!Reader ✦ Rating: M ✦
𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Five years ago when you were saved from a bioterror attack by a government agent, the last thing you expected was to see him again. The internet thought you were just an uprising CEO and he was just an agent who'd saved you once. The two of you were old news now.
At least until someone films you at a charity gala, kissing on a balcony.
Warnings/Notes: Canon Divergence AU, Strangers to Lovers, Established Relationship, Violence, Trauma & PTSD, Sexual Content, Public Display of Affection, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Leon Being Soft™, Bullshit Science and Medical Jargon, Banter & Teasing, Protective Leon Kennedy, Age Gap, Secret Relationship Reveal, Marriage Kink, Leon Can't Keep His Hands To Himself, Reader Is A Successful CEO, Happy Ending, These Two Are Disgustingly In Love, good for them, Leon has no Media Training, The Internet Ships Them Hard, Leon Doesn't Understand Social Media, Domestic Bliss, Morning After, Husband!Leon, Leon In grey Sweatpants (A Warning fr my heart can't handle that).
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Five Years Ago - Johannesburg International Airport
The departure lounge had been peaceful a mere ten minutes ago. You'd been sitting near gate A4, laptop balanced on your knees, making last-minute adjustments to the presentation you'd be giving in Singapore. The tech conference was meant to be Helix's big break, your startup's chance to showcase the immune system repair technology you'd developed, groundbreaking work that could help millions of people affected by autoimmune disorders and immunodeficiency diseases.
Twenty-six years old, running on caffeine and ambition, you were convinced you were going to change the world. The PowerPoint slide on your screen showed a complex diagram of T-cell regeneration pathways. You'd been tweaking the color scheme, blue or green for the cellular markers, when movement in your peripheral vision made you glance up.
A woman near the coffee kiosk was coughing hard, wet coughs that doubled her over. You frowned, concern rushing through you as you watched her continue to cough. Should someone help her? You jumped up, your laptop sliding precariously on the seat. Being a company that specialized in medical technology, you had the medical knowledge to help in most medical emergencies and you were always ready to jump in to help those in need.
Before you could step toward her, she straightened up in a sharp jerk like a string attached to the top of her head was pulled taught. You jerked to a stop as you observed her, you could see something was wrong with her eyes. They were bloodshot, the whites gone completely red, and when she opened her mouth, blood trickled from her lips.
Then everything went to hell and the screaming started.
Gunfire echoed through the Wide open terminal, Sharp bursts that made your ears ring. People started running, a stampede of bodies that slammed into you from all directions. Someone's elbow caught you in the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. A child was crying, having been separated from a parent and caught in the riptide of bodies. A man in a business suit went down hard, and was trampled by the crowd, and you couldn't tell if he'd been shot or just fallen.
Passengers were on the ground, bleeding from wounds you couldn't quite see clearly through the chaos. Something that looked like smoke grenades rolled across the polished floor, spewing clouds of yellowish gas that smelled slightly sour. It burned your eyes and throat as you covered your mouth with your sleeve, coughing, tears streaming down your face.
Your brain couldn't process it and you were frozen to the spot as throngs of people ran and screamed, pushing past you, their faces contorted with terror. A woman grabbed your arm, saying something in a language you didn't understand, her eyes pleading. Then she was gone, swept away by the crowd. An older man stumbled, going to his knees right in front of you, and you reached for him instinctively, but someone else crashed into you from behind, and when you looked back, he was gone, swallowed by the stampede of people.
The coughing woman from before was closer to you now. Moving toward you with jerky and uncoordinated steps, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. Her fingers were curled into claws, nails broken and bleeding. When she opened her mouth, the sound that came out wasn't human anymore, a wet, rattling moan that made your skin crawl.
"Run!" someone shouted, and you wanted to, you needed to, but your legs wouldn't obey. It was like being in a nightmare where you try to scream and nothing comes out and your feet are stuck in concrete. Someone grabbed your arm, yanking you so hard you nearly fell forward.
An airport security guard, young, barely older than you, with brown and wide terrified eyes. His name tag read "Murdock" in neat block letters. There was blood on his uniform shirt, but you couldn't tell if it was his.
"Come with me," he barked, dragging you away from the crowd and the woman who was still advancing with that strange jerking gait. "Now!"
You stumbled after him, your carry-on abandoned somewhere in the chaos along with your laptop and your phone charger and the little bag of duty-free chocolate you'd bought to eat all to yourself in your hotel room later once you had landed in Singapore.
He pulled you through a service door marked "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY," a door you'd walked past a thousand times in airports without ever really seeing. The corridor beyond was a long concrete hall filled with fluorescent lights. Behind you, the sounds of chaos were muffled but still audible, gunfire, screaming, a wet moaning sound that made your stomach turn.
"What's happening?" Your voice was small and childlike, nothing like the confident pitch you'd been preparing to give in Singapore. You were scared beyond belief and didn't know what to do with yourself, your body shaking in his grip, thoughts racing a mile a minute you felt like you were on the verge of hyperventilating.
"I-I'm not sure!" Murdock didn't slow down, his grip on your wrist turning the skin white as he hauled you along the corridor. He was breathing hard, and there was a tremor in his voice that didn't help calm the fear that was boiling up. If the security guard was scared, how bad was it really? "It was strange—people just started coughing and getting sick. They were going crazy and attacking each other, a—almost like—"
"Like what?" you demanded, your voice tight and high with terror. "Like what?!" You urged him.
He looked back at you, and the expression on his face made your blood run cold. "Like zombies..." he said under his breath.
"What?—"
"Lady, listen!" He shoved open another door, revealing what looked like a server maintenance room. Racks of equipment against the walls, filling the cramped space with a low electrical buzz and warm electronics. There was barely enough room for both of you between the racks and the tangle of cables on the floor. A single overhead light flickered intermittently. "I don't know, but we need to get to a safe spot, okay?!"
Murdock pushed you inside, more gently than his earlier manhandling but still urgent. The room was warm from all the equipment, stuffy, the air stale. You turned back to him, questions on the tip of your tongue. What do I do? how long do I stay here? what if something happens to you? what if no one comes bac—
But he was already backing toward the door. "Stay here I’m going to try and go and find others that aren’t infected," he ordered, one hand on the door handle. His other hand rested on the gun at his hip, it was a sobering thought that he feared he might actually have to use the gun... "Don't open this door for anyone, I’ll be back. Understand?"
You nodded, mute with terror, your throat too tight to form words. He pulled the door shut with a heavy thump. You heard the lock click from the outside, then you were all alone.
The first hour, you tried to stay calm. You sat on the floor with your back against the server racks, the metal warming you through your blouse, knees pulled to your chest like a child hiding from monsters. You listened to the muffled sounds of chaos beyond the door, gunfire, screaming, a deep rumble that might have been an explosion.
You checked your phone with shaking hands. No signal. Of course there wasn't. You were in a concrete room surrounded by electronic equipment, probably in the basement level of the terminal. Even if the cell towers were still working, and who knew if they were, with whatever was happening out there, the signal wouldn't reach you here.
You pulled up your photos, scrolling through them to pass the time and try to distract yourself from what was happening outside those doors. Your apartment in Cape Town, small but sunny, with the succulent garden on your balcony. Your lab at Helix, the whiteboard covered in your handwriting, equations and diagrams and notes to yourself. Your best friend making a ridiculous face at the camera. Your mom's last birthday, the cake you'd baked that had come out lopsided but delicious.
The second hour, you cried. Quietly, because some irrational part of your brain was afraid someone or something, would hear you. You pressed your face against your knees and let the tears silently run down your face, your shoulders shaking with sobs. Your throat was tight from holding back the sounds. Snot ran from your nose and you wiped it on your sleeve like a kid, past caring about dignity or appearances.
What if you died here? What if this was it, twenty-six years old, your life barely started, all your plans and dreams and ambitions ending in a concrete room far from home and all that you loved? Your presentation would never be given. Your technology would never help anyone. Your mom would get a call from some government official, your body would be shipped home in a box, and that would be the end of everything you'd worked for.
The thought made you cry harder, gasping for breath, your chest heaving. It wasn't fair. You'd worked so hard, sacrificed so much for your dream. Sleepless nights in the lab. Maxed-out credit cards. Relationships that had withered because you were always working, always focused on the next milestone. And for what? To die alone in a small windowless room by yourself while the world possibly ended outside?
The third hour, you heard scratching at the door, nails dragging across metal in a sound that was like nails on a chalkboard. You pressed yourself further into the corner, making yourself as small as possible, barely breathing. Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your throat. The scratching continued, accompanied by a low labored breathing and moaning. A wet and gurgling sound, like blood pooling up from the lungs to bubble in the throat. It was the same sound you'd heard from the coughing woman in the terminal.
By the time the tenth hour rolled around, you heard groaning that sounded familiar and that's when you realized Murdock wasn't coming back. You pressed your hands over your mouth to muffle your breathing, tears streaming silently down your face. The scratching went on and on, sometimes stopping for a few minutes before starting again, like the thing on the other side was patient. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to think of something else, anything else, the equation for T-cell regeneration, the lyrics to your favorite song, the recipe for your grandmother's cooking, but all you could hear was scratch, scratch, scraaatccch, scccraaatcccchhhh…
You lost track of time after that. Could've been hours or even days. The room had no windows, no way to mark the passage of time except the growing thirst that made your throat feel like sandpaper and the exhaustion that weighted your limbs like lead. Your phone battery died, the screen going black, leaving you in the room with nothing but your thoughts and your fear.
You dozed in fits and starts, jerking awake at every sound. Your mind played tricks on you, phantom footsteps in the corridor, voices calling your name in familiar tones, the scratch. scratch. scratch that might have been real or might have been your imagination.
You dreamed of the coughing woman, her red eyes and bloody mouth, reaching for you with clawed hands. You dreamed of Murdock, his throat torn out, stumbling toward you with the same jerking and uncoordinated gait. You dreamed of your lab burning, your research destroyed, everything you'd worked for reduced to ash.
When you were awake, and you were pretty sure you were awake, though the line was getting blurry, you thought about your mom. About how she'd begged you not to go to Singapore, had a bad feeling about it, she'd said. Mother's intuition that you'd laughed it off, before you kissed her cheek and promised to call when you landed. You thought about your best friend, who was supposed to pick you up from the airport when you got back, who'd probably already heard about the attack by now, who might think you were dead.
You thought about dying. Really thought about it, in a way you never had before. What it would feel like. If it would hurt. If there was anything after, or just nothing, an endless void where your consciousness used to be.
The scratching at the door had stopped at some point, you weren't sure when, but The silence was almost worse. At least the scratching meant you knew where the threat was.
Your lips were cracked and bleeding from dehydration. Your head pounded. You'd peed in the corner of the room hours ago, or was it days ago? You had gone past shame and caring, your body's needs overriding your dignity. The smell made you gag, but there was nothing in your stomach to throw up.
When the door finally burst open, you were so far gone you almost didn't react. Your brain registered the sound, metal slamming, the lock breaking, but your body was too exhausted to do anything but stare with dull and lifeless eyes.
The man who bust through the door was dressed head to toe in matte black Tactical gear, body armor that looked military, weapons that you couldn't even name. He moved with movement that spoke of serious military training. He swept the room with his gun, some kind of rifle, his finger along the trigger guard, not on the trigger itself.
His eyes landed on you, and he froze for a fraction of a second. His eyes were a beautiful blue like the sky that you had missed gazing upon every hour you were trapped in this windowless prison.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was rough, with an American accent.
You shook your head, the movement small and weak. You didn't trust yourself to speak. Wasn't sure you could speak; your throat was so dry.
He crossed the room and knelt in front of you. Up close, you could see he was young, early thirties, maybe, with dark blonde hair that was slightly too long, falling across his forehead.
"I'm with the U.S. government," he said, already checking you over for injuries with quick, efficient movements. His hands were gloved, the material rough against your skin as he tilted your head, checking your pupils, feeling along your neck and arms for wounds. His touch was impersonal but not unkind. "We're evacuating survivors. Can you walk?"
"I think so." You quietly said as he helped you to your feet, his hand on your elbow. When your legs threatened to give out, as you'd been sitting for so long that pins and needles shot through your calves, his arm went around your waist, taking most of your weight without any visible effort.
"Easy," he murmured, a softness in his voice that seemed at odds with the weapons and the tactical gear. "I've got you."
You leaned into him because you had no choice, your body betraying you, weak and shaky. He was the first human contact you'd had in…how long? You'd lost count.
"Stay close to me," he instructed, his voice more professional. "Don't look at anything, just keep your eyes on me. Understand?"
You nodded against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him.
He was right to warn you. Even keeping your gaze fixed on the patch that read "KENNEDY" in block letters, on the way his muscles moved under the bulletproof vest and black compression shirt. Despite your best efforts to look only at him you caught glimpses of the carnage in your peripheral vision.
So many bodies, slumped against walls, sprawled on the floor, twisted into strange positions. Blood, dried to rust-brown on the concrete, splattered on the walls in patterns. You made a small sound of distress, a whimper that you couldn't hold back, and his hand found yours and squeezed.
"Almost there," he murmured, and you focused on his voice. "You're doing great."
You weren't doing great. You were barely holding it together, your mind was a mess, but his hand was warm in yours, and he was leading you forward, and you could do this. One foot in front of the other. Don't look. Don't think. Just keep moving forward.
The fresh air was like fresh spring water to your lungs when you finally emerged. After the stale air of the warm server room and the chemical stench of the corridors, it was overwhelming, sunshine and wind and the smell of grass and jet fuel and smoke. You gasped, drawing it into your lungs, and promptly started coughing, your body rejecting the sudden influx of oxygen.
"Easy, easy," Kennedy said, his hand on your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "Slow breaths."
You forced yourself to breathe slower, until the coughing subsided and you could look around. The scene outside was organized chaos. Military vehicles, Humvees and trucks with mounted guns, formed a perimeter around the terminal. Medical tents had been set up on the tarmac, white canvas bright against the gray concrete. People in hazmat suits moved between them. Soldiers with rifles stood guard, their faces hidden behind gas masks, It looked like a war zone.
Kennedy carried you to an ambulance and helped you sit on the back bumper. Your legs dangled, not quite reaching the ground, a medic appeared almost immediately, a woman with kind eyes visible above her surgical mask. She had a bottle of water in her hand, and you reached for it with shaking fingers.
You drank it so fast you nearly choked, water spilling down your chin, soaking into your blouse.
"Easy," Kennedy said again, his hand on your back, steadying you. "Slow down. You'll make yourself sick."
You forced yourself to take smaller sips, even though every cell in your body was screaming for more, more, more. Your hands were shaking so badly that water sloshed over the rim of the bottle, dripping onto your jeans. You couldn't make them stop, the shaking, the tears that were starting again, your breath trapped in your chest.
"Thank you," you managed, looking up at Kennedy. Up close, in the sunlight, you could see more details, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of exhaustion on his face, a smudge of something dark on his jaw that might have been blood. "For getting me out. I thought—I didn't think anyone was coming."
A deep darkness flickered in those blue eyes, guilt and sadness, maybe. "We don't leave people behind."
The medic wanted to check you over, pulling out a blood pressure cuff and a penlight, but you couldn't stop looking at Kennedy. Memorizing his face, the way his gaze kept scanning the perimeter even while talking to you. Like he was always alert, always ready for the next threat, It made you feel safer.
"What's your name?" you asked.
He hesitated, and you saw the internal debate play out on his face. Some kind of protocol, probably, about not giving out personal information. But then his expression softened as he searched your face looking into your tearful eyes and he said, "Leon. Leon Kennedy."
"I'm—"
"I know who you are," he interrupted, and there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I came for you."
You blinked, confused, your exhausted brain struggling to process his words. "What?"
He crouched in front of you, putting himself at eye level, and the full force of his gaze made your breath catch. "Someone caused this incident to destroy your tech before it could get off the ground."
You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, for the explanation that would make it make sense. But he just looked back at you, and slowly, the meaning sank in.
"No," you whispered. "No, that's not—that can't be—"
"We're still piecing together the details," Leon continued, his voice gentle but firm, like he was delivering bad news to a patient. "But the attack was coordinated. They released a gas agent in the terminal, something that causes rapid onset of aggression and psychosis. The timing, the location, the fact that they specifically targeted this terminal at this time..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "We believe you were the target."
You felt like you might throw up. All that water you'd just drunk was sitting heavy in your stomach, threatening to come back up. Your vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision.
"W-why— Wait, I created that tech to help people," you said, and your voice sounded very far away, like it was coming from someone else. "To save lives. Why would someone—No?! Who? I was going to—"
Your breath was coming too fast now, shallow and rapid, your chest tight. Panic attack, some distant part of your brain supplied. You were having a panic attack.
Leon must have seen it on your face because his hands came up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. His palms were warm against your cheeks, his touch grounding you in reality and stoping the panic in its tracks. "Hey. Hey, look at me. You're safe now. We've got protection set up, and we're going to find who did this."
"There is no way you can't promise that!" The words were bitter and angry. All those people in the terminal. Murdock, who'd tried to save you. The woman. The old man who'd fallen. All dead because of you, because of your work, because you thought you could make a difference.
"No," Leon admitted, and you appreciated the honesty even as it made your heart sink. "But I can promise everyone here will do everything possible to keep you safe."
The medic interrupted you and was insistent about taking you to the hospital. Something about dehydration and possible exposure to the bioweapon, though she said it in medical jargon that you were too out of it to fully understand.
Leon helped you into the ambulance fully, his hand under your elbow as you climbed up. The interior was clean and bright, smelling like antiseptic. There was another patient on a gurney, unconscious, with an IV in their arm.
Before Leon could step away, you grabbed his hand, your fingers closing around his wrist with desperate strength reluctant to let him go. "Will I see you again?"
You barely knew this man, but he'd just pulled you out of hell, and now you were clinging to him like a toddler.
He looked at your hand gripping his wrist, your fingers were white-knuckled with tension, then back at your face. His face softened as he smiled in a reassuring manner, the hard lines in his face easing.
"Yeah," he said, and his other hand came up to cover yours. "I'll check in on you. Make sure you're okay."
You wanted to believe him, but you'd seen enough movies to know how this went. The hero saves the damsel, then disappears back into whatever world he came from. You'd probably never see Leon Kennedy again. He'd move on to the next crisis, the next mission, and you'd be just another survivor in a file somewhere, a name on a report.
"Do you swear?" you whispered, the chaos of the field hospital around you almost covering up your voice.
His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping under stubble-darkened skin, and for a moment you thought he'd pull away, retreat behind that carefully constructed wall of professional detachment. But then he chuckled before he nodded. "Yeah. I swear."
He caught your pinky with his, hooking them together. His hand dwarfed yours, but the way he held your pinky was gentle.
The medic cleared her throat pointedly, impatient, her supplies rattling as she shifted. "Mr. Kennedy, I really need to—"
Leon reluctantly extracted his hand from yours, his pinky sliding away last, like he couldn't quite bring himself to break the contact. But his eyes never left yours, even as he stepped back to let the medic work.
"Go," he said softly. "Let them take care of you."
The ambulance doors closed with a metallic clang, and you watched through the small window. He finally turned back toward the terminal. His shoulders squaring, hand moving to his weapon. He was already talking into his radio, moving on to the next crisis, the next person who needed saving.
The ambulance lurched into motion, and you lost sight of him.
The Grand Bellamy Hotel was beautiful, made of marble and full of gold chandeliers, it was the perfect venue for the annual Global Relief Foundation gala, a glittering affair where tech moguls, politicians, and humanitarian heroes mingled over champagne. The air buzzed with carefully low conversation, the clink of crystal, the soft strains of a string quartet playing something classical and forgettable in the corner where nobody was really listening.
You stood near the bar, fingers wrapped around a flute of Dom Pérignon you hadn't touched, scanning the crowd with practiced ease. The black silk of your gown caught the light with every subtle shift of your body, the fabric liquid against your skin, clinging to your curves before falling in a waterfall of expensive material to the floor. The high slit revealed just enough leg to be daring without crossing into scandalous, a flash of thigh, the curve of your calf, the delicate strap of your heel.
Your publicist had insisted on this dress, said it would photograph well. You'd agreed because honestly, after everything, what did it matter? You'd learned to play the game, smile for the cameras, say the right things, let them see the polished version of you while keeping everything real locked away where they couldn't touch it.
The dress had cost more than your first car. The shoes were Louboutin, red soles and all. Your hair was swept up in an elegant twist that had taken your stylist an hour to perfect, a few artful tendrils framing your face. Diamond earrings, a gift from your husband, caught the light every time you moved your head. You looked like you belonged here, like you were one of them, these people who moved through the world with the confidence that came from never having to worry about money or safety or whether they'd see tomorrow.
Five years. Sixty months. One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-seven days since you became one of the people who survived the Johannesburg International Airport incident. Sixty months since a man with blue eyes carved through hell itself to pull you out from where Murdock had barricaded you with nothing but a rapidly dwindling hope.
Sixty months since Leon S. Kennedy became the most searched name on the internet, second only to your own.
The media had gone absolutely feral. Grainy security footage of him carrying you, your arms locked around his neck, your face buried against him, it had been dissected frame by frame and analyzed by amateur body language experts and relationship gurus who'd never met either of you.
Tabloids ran with it for months, spinning elaborate narratives about star-crossed lovers brought together by disaster. Your publicist had fielded hundreds of interview requests, all wanting to know about the mysterious government agent who'd saved you. Was it love at first sight? Were you together? What was he like in person? Was he as heroic as he seemed? People wanted a fairy tale, the damsel in distress and her knight in armor, blood and trauma sanitized into something romantic and digestible.
You'd denied everything, with a firm professionalism that made reporters back off without much protest. "Mr. Kennedy saved my life, and I'm grateful, but we're not in contact."
Leon had been impossible for reporters to track, and he’d said nothing which was somehow worse. His silence left a vacuum that speculation rushed to fill. The internet spun elaborate theories, analyzed every photo, every fleeting interaction caught on camera. Someone started a subreddit dedicated to proving you were secretly together.
It became a feeding frenzy that lasted months, until both of you went dark, stopped appearing in public, and the internet eventually moved on to the next scandal, the next celebrity romance, the next shiny thing to dissect and consume like vultures descending on a fresh carcass.
What they didn't know, what no one knew, was that Leon had called you three weeks after Johannesburg. Just to check in, like he'd promised, his voice over the phone line was rough like he hadn't slept in days, and he had said he wanted to make sure you were okay.
You'd been in your apartment in Cape Town, staring at the ceiling at two in the morning, unable to sleep because every time you closed your eyes you saw red eyes and heard that scratching, blood stained nails on metal, the sound that burrowed into your brain and wouldn't leave.
That call became two calls, then daily calls that stretched into hours, both of you talking about everything and nothing, his work or what little he could tell you without violating a dozen NDAs and classification levels, your attempts to rebuild Helix from the ashes of Johannesburg, the weather, what you'd had for dinner, the nightmares you both pretended you weren't having.
He told you about growing up in a small town, about becoming a cop, what little he could tell you about Raccoon City, the incident that had defined his life before you came along. You told him about your childhood, about losing your father to an auto immune disease when you were twelve, the inspiration for your tech, about building your company from nothing in a field that didn't want women at the table.
Then him showing up at your new larger apartment in San Francisco six months later with food and that crooked smile that made your stomach flip, saying he was in town for a briefing and thought he'd stop by. He'd stood in your doorway in jeans and a leather jacket, holding bags of food from some place down the street, looking nothing like the man who'd pulled you from hell.
He'd stayed for three days and you'd barely left the bedroom, he'd mapped every inch of your skin with his hands and mouth, memorizing every dip and curve of your skin like he might never get the chance again. Which you figure he might, believing this to be a one night thing.
However after that, surprisingly he'd show up whenever he could, sometimes for a week, sometimes just for a night, appearing at your door with that same crooked smile and whatever excuse he'd used to justify the detour.
You learned about all of his scars, could map them in the dark, the bullet wound on his left shoulder, the knife slash across his hand, the burns on his back, there were so many scars that you kissed with your fingers and lips, each one a story he was reluctant to tell but you were patient enough to coax out of him.
You learned that he took his coffee black, and that he was terrible at cooking but tried anyway because he thrived on doing simple tasks like taking care of you, he often had nightmares worse than yours and woke up reaching for his trusty Matilda that was safely locked in a safe that you bought just for him, his body moving on instinct before his mind caught up.
You learned that he was funny in a dry, self-deprecating way, that he hated ties and loved motorcycles and had a soft spot for stray animals. You don't know how many times he asked you about maybe getting a dog to protect you when he wasn't there. He was loyal to a fault you found, often carrying the weight of every person he couldn't save, and blamed himself for things that weren't his fault.
You fell in love with him in stolen moments between his missions and your board meetings, in late-night phone calls when he was on the other side of the world and you were alone in bed, in early morning goodbyes that got harder every time. It wasn't the fairy tale the tabloids wanted, it was messy and complicated and built on a foundation of shared trauma that you both pretended wasn't there but colored everything you did.
Two years after he saved your life, he'd proposed just the two of you on your couch at 2 AM after he'd had a nightmare. He'd woken up gasping, reaching for you in the dark with trembling hands, and when he found you beside him, he'd pulled you against his chest hard, holding you so tight that it almost hurt, not even the littlest space between you, like he needed to confirm that you weren't a dream. His heart had been racing against your cheek, his breath uneven, and he'd whispered into your hair, "Marry me."
A lifeline in the dark waters, he needed proof that you were his and he was yours and nothing could take that away. Like maybe if he put a ring on your finger and signed and a piece of paper, he could protect you from the things that haunted him.
You'd said yes before he finished, your own hands fisting in his t-shirt, holding him just as tightly. "Yes. Yes, of course yes."
He'd kissed you, tears running down both of your faces as you tasted the salt on his lips.
The wedding was a courthouse affair two weeks later. You wore a sundress that you bought that morning at a boutique three blocks from the courthouse, nothing special but white and pretty. He wore his usual leather jacket over a button-down that he'd actually ironed for the occasion, the first time you'd ever seen him iron anything. You were afraid he was going to burn himself, as you teased him the whole time.
The only witnesses were the clerk, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes who kept sneaking glances at Leon like she recognized him from somewhere but couldn't quite figure it out, and a bailiff who had no idea who either of you were and seemed deeply bored by the whole proceeding, checking his phone while the clerk read the vows.
You'd signed the license as Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy, your hand shaking slightly as you wrote your new name for the first time, the letters looking strange and foreign to you on the official document. Leon had kissed you so thoroughly against the courthouse steps afterward that you'd forgotten your own name, his hands cupping your face, his lips moving against yours and your eyes yet again stung with tears you refused to let fall.
"I love you," he'd whispered against your mouth. "I love you so fucking much."
"I know," you'd whispered back. "I love you too."
That was two years ago. Two years of marriage that no one knew about except your lawyer, your accountant, and the county clerk's office. You still went by your maiden name professionally, kept your public persona separate from your private life. Leon still took missions that sent him to godforsaken corners of the world for weeks at a time, came home with new scars and stories he couldn't tell and shadows in his eyes that took days to fade.
To the outside world, you were the tech CEO who'd survived a terrorist attack and he was the mysterious government agent who'd saved her. A romance that never came to fruition despite the news pushing for the two of you to be together. It quickly became old news, buried under fresh news of your booming business and tech that was saving peoples lives. When you posed for Forbes most influential women and did an interview, once the magazine released and Leon was not mentioned at all, the two of you as a couple became old news.
They had no idea that you went home to the same apartment every night, that his clothes hung in your closet next to your designer dresses, that his toothbrush sat next to yours in the bathroom, that he knew exactly how you took your coffee and you knew the best way to coax him out of the dark places his mind went after bad missions.
They didn't know about the quiet domesticity, cooking dinner together, arguing over what to watch on Netflix, falling asleep on the couch with his head in your lap. They didn't know that you were the person he called when he needed to hear a friendly voice, that you were the only one who could talk him down when the nightmares got bad.
Now you were here, playing the part of the composed tech CEO at a charity gala, while your husband was somewhere in this glittering crowd, probably nursing a whiskey and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Quite the turnout," a voice said beside you, low and familiar, making your pulse jump.
You turned, and there he was, Leon looked devastatingly handsome in a tailored black suit. The jacket hugged his shoulders perfectly, emphasizing the breadth of them, the way he'd filled out over the years from the lean young man in the Johannesburg footage to something more dangerous and handsome.
The crisp white shirt was open at the collar because he'd apparently drawn the line at wearing a tie, probably ripping it off in his separate car on the way here, even though you had painstakingly tied it for him. You'd watched him get dressed earlier, had helped him with the cufflinks while he grumbled about monkey suits and why couldn't he just wear jeans, this was your event, couldn't you pull some strings? His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run his fingers through it repeatedly, and those blue eyes tracked over you like lines of fire leaving goosebumps across your skin and heat pooling low in your belly.
He looked at you like everyone else was just background noise, extras in a movie where you were the only one who mattered. It made you feel naked despite the silk covering you from collarbone to ankle, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin.
"Mr. Kennedy," you said smoothly, extending your hand like you were meeting a stranger, playing the game for the cameras you knew were watching, they were always watching. "I didn't expect to see you here."
His lips quirked, that smug smirk that you'd learned meant he was amused, he was playing along with your game. He took your hand, but instead of shaking it, he turned it over with deliberate slowness and pressed his lips to your knuckles in a kiss that was chaste enough to be acceptable in public but you knew better. His lips were warm, soft, and you felt the touch all the way to your toes, heat spreading up your arm like wildfire.
"Ms.—" He caught himself, that smirk widening into one of his more genuine smiles that he only shared with you. "I mean, they invited me. Something about being a 'hero of humanitarian efforts.' Guess saving people from bioterror attacks counts."
"I'd say it counts." You pulled your hand back slowly, aware of the eyes on you both, the phones that had already appeared, angled discreetly in your direction. The rumor mill never really stopped, just went dormant until you gave it something to feed on. Tomorrow there would be articles, think pieces, social media posts dissecting this interaction. "Thank you, by the way. I don't think I ever said that properly."
"You did." and then his voice dropped lower as he leaned closer, the next words meant only for you despite the crowd circling around you. "Multiple times. Very thoroughly."
Your cheeks flushed, heat spreading down your throat and across your chest, blooming across your skin. You knew he could see it, the silk left very little to the imagination, the fabric thin enough that your body's reactions were on display, and his grin was wicked and satisfied as he puled away from you, like a tuxedo cat that had just caught a clever brown mouse.
He was absolutely thinking about the last time you'd thanked him, which had involved you on your knees in your bedroom and his hands fisted in your hair, his voice rough as he praised you, told you how much of a good wife you were.
More cameras flashed around you like twinkling stars. You saw a woman in a red dress nudging her companion, both of them staring. A man in a tuxedo had his phone out, not even trying to be subtle.
He cleared his throat and raised his glass of whiskey, clinked it gently against yours with a soft chime. "Anyway…I hope you have a good night, Ms." And of course he had to emphasize your title.
Then he turned and slipped back into the crowd, leaving you standing there with flushed cheeks and a racing heart, very aware that you'd just given the gossip sites enough material for a week's worth of articles. Maybe more, if they really dug into it.
That bastard...he knew exactly what he was doing. You were going to be getting him back for this later.
The evening crawled by in a parade of small talk and photo opportunities. You shook hands with senators who wanted to talk about regulation and smiled for selfies with donors who'd given six figures to the foundation. You made conversation with a tech billionaire who wanted to talk about AI ethics and whether your immune system technology could be adapted for machine learning, a question that made no sense but you nodded along anyway.
A movie producer cornered you saying she was "very interested" in optioning your story, had a vision for it, something gritty and romantic, maybe Jennifer Lawrence “she can play anyone!” for you and “who would you want to play Kennedy?” You'd smiled and given her your publicist's card and excused yourself before she could pitch any further.
You gave your speech about the foundation, established in honor of the Johannesburg victims, funding research into bioterrorism prevention and survivor support, partnering with organizations around the world to ensure nothing like that happened again. Your voice was steady, professional, hitting all the right notes. You talked about resilience and hope and the importance of turning tragedy into something meaningful.
You didn't mention that you still had nightmares, that woke you up in the night or that you couldn't be in small rooms without feeling your chest tighten, that the sound of scratching made your skin crawl. You accepted applause with grace you didn't feel, smiled for the cameras, posed with the oversized check from the night's biggest donor.
The whole time, you were aware of Leon on the opposite side of the ballroom. He stayed near the bar, nursing what looked like whiskey, probably something expensive that he didn't care about. He fielded conversations with the kind of polite detachment that made it clear he'd rather be anywhere else, his body language screaming discomfort even as he smiled and nodded. But you felt his gaze on you constantly, made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Every time you glanced his way, he was watching you, and the look in his eyes made promises about what would happen when you finally got home.
By eleven PM, you needed air. The ballroom was too hot, too crowded, the press of bodies making you feel claustrophobic and like you were back in the server room. Too full of people who wanted pieces of you that you didn't have to give, your time, your attention, your story, your trauma packaged into something palatable. The air was thick with perfume and cologne and the smell of the elaborate dinner that had been served hours ago. Your face hurt from smiling. Your feet hurt from the heels. You needed space, needed quiet, needed to breathe some fresh air.
The balcony on the third floor was supposed to be restricted, but you'd slipped the security guard a smile and a comment about needing a moment, and he'd let you through with a knowing look. Maybe he recognized you.
The November air bit at your bare shoulders as you stepped outside, your breath misting in front of your face. The sounds of the gala muffled behind the heavy glass doors, reducing the string quartet and conversation to a distant murmur, like listening to the ocean from underwater. The city sprawled below, a carpet of lights stretching to the horizon, beautiful in the night. From up here, it looked peaceful.
You braced your hands on the stone railing, letting the cold seep into your palms. The chill helped clear your head, breaking through the champagne haze, you'd only had one glass but it had been enough, and the exhaustion of performing and masking for hours. You closed your eyes and breathed in the cold air.
You didn't hear him approach, Leon often moved like a predator when he wanted to, a skill honed by years of training and missions, but you felt the moment he stepped out on the balcony. Your body responded before your mind caught up, your pulse quickening, your breath coming a little faster, every nerve ending suddenly aware of his presence.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Just needed a break from the vultures." You didn't turn around, kept your eyes on the city lights, watching the way they blurred and sharpened when you blinked. "You know how it is. Everyone wants a piece of the woman who survived."
"They don't deserve a piece of you." His footsteps were soft against the stone, deliberate, unhurried. He wasn't rushing. He knew you weren't going anywhere. "Not a single one of them."
"You're biased."
"Damn right I am."
He stopped directly behind you, you could feel his body heat and smell his cologne, something woody and clean that you'd bought him last Christmas, Tom Ford. It had been expensive but worth it, because of the way it smelled on his skin. You closed your eyes, leaning back slightly, and his hands came up to grip the railing on either side of you, caging you in. His chest pressed against your back, and you let yourself relax into him, let him take your weight.
"Leon," you whispered. "People might see."
"Let them." His breath ghosted over your neck, making you shiver, goosebumps rising on your skin. "I'm tired of pretending I don't know you."
"We agreed—"
"I know what we agreed." His lips brushed the shell of your ear, feather-light. "Doesn't mean I like it."
You didn't like it either, you were tired of the secret, tired of pretending the most important person in your life was just someone you'd met once five years ago. But Leon's work required discretion, and your public profile made you a target. Keeping the marriage quiet kept him safe, kept both of you safe. Or at least, that's what you told yourselves.
"You look incredible tonight," he murmured against your ear, his voice dropping down into the lower rumble that made your stomach clench and heat bloom between your thighs. "I've been watching you all evening, thinking about peeling this dress off you."
"Leon—"
"About laying you out on our bed and making you forget every single person in that room exists." His hand left the railing to splay across your stomach, pulling you back more firmly against him. You could feel every hard plane of his body, the solid muscle of his chest and thighs, the evidence of exactly what you did to him pressing against your lower back. He was hard, had probably been hard for hours watching you, and the knowledge made you clench around nothing.
Your breath hitched as his lips traced the line of your jaw, leaving heat in their wake, his stubble scratching pleasantly against your skin.
"We can't," you managed, even as you tilted your head to give him better access to your throat, betraying your words with your body. "Not here."
"I know." He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the spot where your pulse hammered, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, salt and perfume and you. "Doesn't mean I don't want to."
His hand slid up your ribs, his palm hot through the thin silk. He stopped just below your breast, his thumb stroking the underside through the fabric, you had to bite your lip to keep from making a sound. You could feel your nipples hardening against the thin silk.
"I mean it, you know," he said, his voice softer now, losing some of that playful edge. The more vulnerable side that he rarely let show peaking through. "You look lovely. You always do. Always have."
You turned your head slightly, trying to see his face in the dim light from the ballroom. The glow cast shadows across his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose.
"I can think of a few moments when I wasn't at my best." You said softly.
You were thinking about the incident, about being covered in your own filth, dehydrated and delirious, your hair matted with sweat and your eyes red and swollen from crying. That's what he'd seen when he burst through that door. Not the polished CEO in designer clothes, but someone broken.
Leon seemed to know exactly what you were thinking because his arms tightened around you, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. His breath was warm against your neck. "Even then," he said quietly, and there was no hesitation in his voice. "Especially then. You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
Your throat tightened, emotion swelling in your chest until it was hard to breathe. "Leon—"
"I'm serious." He turned you gently in his arms, his hands on your waist, until you were facing him. The city lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting his intense blue eyes. "You survived when a lot of people didn't. You were strong and brave, and you didn't give up, even when you thought no one was coming to save you."
Your eyes stung, tears threatening to spill over and ruin the expensive makeup your stylist had spent an hour applying. You blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back, but it was a losing battle. "You can't just say things like that," you whispered, your voice thick.
"Why not?" His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, catching a tear that had escaped despite your best efforts. "It's true."
You reached up to cup his face, your palm against his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble under your fingers. His eyes closed briefly, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking affection. This wonderful, infuriating man who'd saved your life and then somehow become your whole world.
You studied him in the dim light taking in every detail. The lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there five years ago, evidence of his age. The exhaustion that seemed permanently etched into his features, like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and refused to put it down.
"Do you have some sort of kink for women in distress, Mr. Kennedy?" you asked, trying to lighten the mood before you started crying in earnest, a smile tugging at your lips despite the tears.
His eyes opened, and there was that wicked glint again, mischief dancing in the blue. "Only one."
You laughed and slapped his chest. "I always knew you had some weird kinks."
He caught your wrist before you could pull it back, brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss to your hand that was nothing like the one inside. His lips were warm and soft, and you could feel your pulse jumping under his mouth. "Says the woman who asked me to—"
"Okay, okay!" You were laughing harder now, trying to pull your hand back, your face burning with heat that not even the cold air could chase away. "We're not talking about that here."
"Why not?" He was grinning now. "It's a nice memory. A very nice memory."
"Leon!" You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe; your free hand pressed against your stomach. “There are people listening everywhere. Always. ”
"Then maybe they should cover their ears," he said, still grinning, and you dissolved into giggles.
You were both laughing, the tension of the evening melting away like snow in sunlight, and this was what you loved most, these moments when it was just the two of you. When you could just be you and he could just be Leon, not the hero or the agent. Just two people who loved each other.
As you were laughing, you brushed your hair back from your face with your free hand, when he leaned in for a kiss. It started gentle, his lips soft against yours, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroked across your cheekbone, and you sighed into his mouth, your body relaxing against his.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips, his breath mingling with yours. "Mrs. Kennedy."
Your heart clenched in your chest, the way it always did when he said your married name. It still felt new even after years. Like a secret language only the two of you spoke. "I love you too," you whispered back, your fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the soft strands slide between your fingers. "Mr. Kennedy."
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face, and ran your hand through his hair, trying to fix where you'd messed it up. But it was no use, it fell right back into that tousled style that made him look like he'd just rolled out of bed.
"You're so handsome," you murmured, pressing a kiss to his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble against your lips. "So handsome it's unfair."
He made a soft sound as you pressed another kiss, this one to the corner of his mouth, and you felt his lips curve into a smile under yours. "And you're mine." Your voice was possessive, and you didn't care. Another kiss, full on his lips, deeper this time. "All mine."
He made a low sound in his throat his hands tightening on your waist. "Keep talking like that and we're leaving right now. I don't care about the foundation or the gala or anything else."
"Just stating facts." You kissed him again, longer this time, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips, tasting whiskey. He opened for you and you took your time exploring his mouth. "You're gorgeous," you murmured between kisses. "And sweet." Another kiss, this one with a gentle scrape of teeth. "And you have this thing you do with your hands—"
He cut you off with a kiss that stole your breath, his mouth slanting over yours with sudden hunger. It wasn't gentle anymore. It was desperate and claiming, his hand fisting in your carefully styled hair as he angled your head back to deepen the kiss. You gasped against his mouth, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against yours.
Your hands clutched at his jacket, fisting in the expensive fabric, pulling him closer, needing more of him. He tasted like whiskey and you couldn't get enough. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging gently before soothing your bottom lip with his tongue, and you made a sound that was embarrassingly needy.
He walked you backward until your spine hit the stone wall beside the doors, the impact jarring but not painful, his body covering yours completely. Every inch of him pressed against every inch of you, his chest against yours, his hips pinning you to the wall, his thigh sliding between your legs.
His hand slid down to grip your thigh through the slit in your dress, his palm hot against your bare skin, hitching your leg up around his hip. You whimpered into his mouth, as you became acutely aware of exactly how much he wanted you, pressing against your core through too many layers of fabric.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down your throat his stubble scraped against your sensitive skin in a way that made you shiver, made goosebumps rise on your arms. "We need to leave. Now."
"We can't just—ah—" Your words dissolved into a gasp as he bit down gently on your collarbone, his teeth scraping over bone before his tongue soothed the sting of his teeth . "Leon, we have to stay until at least midnight. It's my foundation. People will notice if I leave early."
"Don't care." His hand slid higher on your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to where you were already wet for him. You could feel it, the dampness of your panties, the way your body responded to him without thought. "Need you. Need to be inside you."
The crude words made you clench around nothing and more wetness flood between your thighs. "Fifteen more minutes," you bargained breathlessly, your head falling back against the stone as his mouth found that spot on your neck that made you pliable under him. "Then we can go. I promise."
He pulled back to look at you, and the expression on his face made your knees weak. His pupils were blown wide, almost swallowing the blue, his lips swollen from kissing and wet with your shared saliva. His hair was a complete mess from your hands, and he looked at you like he wanted to consume you and be consumed in return.
"Fifteen minutes," he agreed, his voice rough. "Then I'm taking you home and keeping you in bed for the next twenty-four hours. At least."
"Promise?" You were breathless, your chest heaving, your lips tingling.
"Gorgeous, that's a threat."
He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His hand left your thigh to cup your face, both hands framing your jaw now, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with love and tenderness. The contrast between his gentle touch and the hard press of his body making your head spin, making it hard to think about anything except him.
You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, could feel the way his hands trembled slightly as they held you, and you knew that this man loved you with everything he had. That you were his entire world, the way he was yours. That he would burn down the world to keep you safe, would walk through hell itself if you asked him to.
You kissed him back with equal fervor, pouring everything you felt into it, love and gratitude and desire and the fierce need to keep him safe the way he kept you safe. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, and when you finally broke apart you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, sharing air.
"I love you," you whispered again, because you couldn't say it enough, would never be able to say it enough. Three words that didn't come close to capturing what you felt but were all you had.
"I love you too," he murmured, pressing one more soft kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. "So fucking much."
His hands smoothed down your sides, trying to straighten your dress where he'd rumpled it. Your hair was a disaster, tendrils falling around your face and your lipstick was completely destroyed, smeared across your mouth and probably his. You looked thoroughly debauched, and you didn't care.
"You're a mess," he said fondly, his thumb wiping at the corner of your mouth where your lipstick had smudged.
"Mhm and who’s fault is that?" you pointed out, and he grinned, unrepentant.
"Guilty."
You laughed softly, reaching up to try to fix your hair, but it was hopeless. You'd need a mirror and ten minutes to make yourself presentable again. "We should probably go back inside before someone comes looking for me."
"Probably," he agreed, but he didn't move, didn't step back. His hands stayed on your waist; his body still pressed against yours like he couldn't bear to put distance between you.
"Leon—"
"I know." He sighed, finally stepping back, and you immediately missed his warmth. The November air rushed in where his body had been, making you shiver. He shrugged out of his jacket immediately, draping it over your shoulders. It was warm from his body heat and smelled like him, and you pulled it tighter around yourself.
"Thank you."
"Can't have you freezing," he said, his hands lingering on your shoulders. "Fifteen minutes, right?"
"Fifteen minutes," you confirmed. "Then we can leave."
"I'm holding you to that." He pressed one more kiss to your forehead, then stepped back fully, putting proper distance between you. Professional distance, like you were just acquaintances having a conversation on a balcony, but his eyes told a different story. His eyes promised exactly what would happen when you got home, and the heat in them filled you with anticipation.
Neither of you noticed the phone camera pressed against the glass door, recording every second. Your bodies pressed together against the wall, his hand in your hair, the unmistakable intimacy of the kiss. The moment he'd hitched your leg around his hip. How you'd clutched at him like you were drowning and he was air. The way you looked at each other like nothing else in the world existed, like you were the only two people.
The footage was crystal clear. The audio was muffled but you could make out some words. "I love you," "Mrs. Kennedy," "need you." Enough to paint a very clear picture.
The person holding the phone grinned, already composing the tweet in their head. This was going to break the internet, By tomorrow morning, it would be everywhere. Every news site, every gossip blog, every social media platform. The secret you'd kept for years, exposed in high definition for the world to see.
But for now, you were blissfully unaware. For now, it was just you and Leon on a balcony, counting down the minutes until you could go home.
The next morning, you woke to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your penthouse bedroom, Leon's arm was curled across your waist. The light was golden and warm, painting everything in shades of amber and honey. You were deliciously sore in all the right places, your thighs, your hips, the pleasant ache between your legs that reminded you of exactly how Leon had kept his promise about keeping you in bed. The sheet barely covered your naked body, tangled around your legs, the Egyptian cotton soft against your oversensitive skin.
Leon was still asleep beside you; his face relaxed and peaceful, his lips slightly parted, his breathing deep and even. You studied him in the golden light, the soft line of his jaw darkened with stubble, the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks, long and dark and unfairly pretty. Your husband, The man who'd somehow found his way to you.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then again and again, it wouldn't stop buzzing, a constant buzz against the nightstand. Then it started ringing.
Leon stirred, groaning, his arm tightening around your waist reflexively. "Jesus Christ, what is going on?" he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
"I'm sure it's nothing," you murmured, reaching for the phone with the hand that wasn't trapped under his weight. Probably your publicist with some question about the foundation, or a board member wanting to discuss quarterly projections, or—
Fifty-three missed calls. Two hundred and seventeen text messages. Your publicist had sent approximately forty emails with subject lines in all caps: "CALL ME IMMEDIATELY," "WE NEED TO TALK," "DO NOT MAKE ANY STATEMENTS."
Your stomach dropped, you opened Twitter with shaking fingers, the video was everywhere.
The footage was grainy from the distance and the glass, shot through the door, but there was no mistaking who it was. No mistaking the intimacy, the desperation, the way Leon had you pressed against the wall like he was trying to merge your bodies into one.
#KennedyWedding was trending worldwide. Number one. Above politics, above celebrity gossip, above everything.
The headlines were already rolling in, updating in real-time as you scrolled:
You scrolled through the comments, watching the internet lose its collective mind in real-time. Half the people were screaming about how romantic it was, using all caps and crying emojis and keyboard smashes. The other half were demanding to know how they'd kept it secret for so long, analyzing every public appearance you'd both made, looking for clues they'd missed.
Leon's hand slid up your bare back, his palm tracing the line of your spine. "what is it?"
You couldn't help the slightly hysterical laugh that escaped. "We're trending. Someone took a video of us on the balcony, and it is everywhere."
He propped himself up on one elbow, looking at your phone over your shoulder. His hair was sticking up in about fifteen different directions from where you'd run your fingers through it last night, and this morning, twice. His expression didn't change as he watched the footage of himself kissing you.
"Huh," he said finally, his voice still rough with sleep.
"That's it? Just 'huh'?" You twisted to look at him, incredulous. "Leon, we're the number one trending topic on Twitter. My publicist has probably had an aneurysm. And you're just—huh?"
"We knew this would happen eventually," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone. "Honestly surprised we made it this long."
"You're not upset?" You searched his face for any sign of anger or frustration but found only calm acceptance and suspiciously a look of satisfaction.
"Why would I be upset?" He lifted his head to look at you properly, and his eyes were clear and calm, that winter-sky blue bright in the morning light. "The whole world knows were together now. That's the opposite of a problem."
Your heart squeezed in your chest, emotion swelling. "Leon—"
He pulled you closer, his arm wrapped around your waist, he closed his eyes his breathing already evening out toward sleep again.
When you heard him starting to snore again, you scoffed all soft and fluffy emotion gone, as you reached down to smack his ass, firm and muscular under your palm. He groaned, one eye cracking open to give you a reproachful look, but he didn't move otherwise.
"How are you going back to sleep?"
"Not my problem," he mumbled, his eyes drifting shut again. "Let them go crazy. I'm tired. You kept me up all night."
"I kept you up? You're the one who—" You broke off, heat flooding your cheeks as you remembered exactly what he'd done. You huffed looking back to your phone. "Whatever. Go back to sleep, old man."
"Not that old," he muttered, but he was already drifting off, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.
You rolled your eyes fondly, scrolling through the chaos.You were sprawled across Leon's chest, as he'd been dozing on and off for the past hour, occasionally pressing lazy kisses to your hair while you scrolled through your phone, watching the internet collectively lose its shit.
"Oh my god," you breathed, trying not to laugh too loud. "Leon. Leon."
"Mmm?" he hummed, his chest rumbling beneath you.
"You have to see this."
He cracked one eye open, squinting at you with the expression of a man who'd fought bioterror threats across three continents and really just wanted a nap. "If it's another article, I'm going back to sleep."
"It's better." You tilted your phone toward him, hitting play on the edit.
The video opened on a freeze frame of the balcony footage, that moment right before Leon kissed you, his hand cupping your face, your eyes locked on each other. The tension was palpable even in a still image. Then the beat dropped.
“I can show you love~ I can show you love~ They don’t know us~” a melodic set of voices crooned as the video cut between different angles people had compiled from the original footage: Leon's hand sliding up your thigh, your fingers twisting in his hair, the way he'd pressed you against the wall like he was trying to fuse your bodies together. Someone had color-graded it, added slow-motion effects to the most intimate moments, overlaid sparkles and hearts and light flares.
The caption read: "POV: You married your savior in secret and the internet just found out #Kennedy #RelationshipGoals #They Don’t Know Us"
It had 4.2 million views. In less than twelve hours. you snorted, scrolling to the comments section, which was even more unhinged.
Leon blinked at the screen, his brow furrowing in that confused puppy way that made you want to kiss him stupid. "Why are there... sparkles?"
"It's an edit, babe. People make them." You couldn't help grinning at his bewilderment. "It's a thing. They take footage and make it pretty."
"Of us?"
"Of us." You moved on to the next video, barely containing your amusement. "There are literally hundreds. Maybe thousands by now." You said turning the screen towards him again.
"That's... nice, babe," Leon mumbled, his eyes already drifting shut again.
You bit back a laugh. "You're not even looking."
"I'm looking." He wasn't. His face was half-buried in your hair, his breathing evening out toward sleep.
"Leon Scott Kennedy, you are not looking."
He huffed, forcing his eyes open again with visible effort. "Okay. I'm looking. That's us. Kissing. Very nice. Can I go back to sleep now?"
"There's more." You scrolled gleefully, pulling up another edit. This one was a full minute long, a masterpiece of editing that must have taken hours. It spliced together every angle of the balcony footage with what looked like old security photos someone had dug up from Johannesburg, grainy shots of Leon carrying you, his hand cradling your head, your face buried against his chest. Photos from the field hospital, him next to you by the ambulance. The song was dramatic, orchestral, like a movie trailer, building to a crescendo as it showed the balcony kiss.
Leon watched this one with slightly more focus, his jaw working as he processed what he was seeing. The footage from Johannesburg clearly affected him, you could see it in the way his arm tightened around you, the way his breathing changed slightly. "People are really invested in this, huh?"
"You have no idea." You pulled up your Instagram, which had completely transformed overnight into a shrine of you and Leon. Fan art, some of it surprisingly good, depicting you and Leon in various romantic scenarios. Photo compilations of every time you'd been photographed in the same vicinity over the past five years. Thirst edits of Leon, which made you laugh. "You've got fangirls….and fanboys. Very equal opportunity thirsting."
He made a low noise of bewilderment. "I don't get it."
"Leon…It's cute, Let them make the edits!" You scrolled to another video, this one a slideshow of photos people had found of you at various events over the past year, analyzing your outfits for any sign of a ring, any hint of your secret.
Someone had circled your left hand in every photo, showing how you'd strategically hidden it, even though you had actually never worn it, because you kept it on a chain safely tucked away next to your heart.
Leon was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your hip through the sheet, following the curve of bone. "Does it bother you? All the attention?"
"Honestly?" You looked up at him, at those blue eyes that had seen too much but still softened when they landed on you. "I never liked the media but this… I don’t know I think it's kind of funny, and sweet, in a weird way. People are genuinely happy for us. They're not being cruel or invasive, well, mostly. They just... they like the romance."
"Mm." He pulled you closer, burying his face against your neck. "As long as you're okay with it."
"I am." You went back to scrolling, pulling up another edit. "Oh, this one's good. They used that clip of you helping me into the car after the gala—"
The video showed Leon's hand on the small of your back as he guided you into the SUV, the way he'd leaned in to murmur something in your ear that made you smile. Someone had slowed it down, added a filter that made it look like a scene from a movie, super cut with zooms and other photos that weren’t you but gave the same vibe. The song playing in the background. "We were so in love..." Frank Ocean's voice crooned.
You were so focused on reading the comments that you didn't notice Leon shifting until he was rolling over, taking you with him. You squeaked in surprise as the world tilted, suddenly finding yourself on your back with Leon looming over you, his weight settling between your thighs. He plucked the phone from your hand and tossed it somewhere across the room. It landed with a soft thud on the carpet, the edit still playing. "M-R-S dot Kennedy, she signed her name in pen. In the fancy, fancy cursive," the music continued, playing over and over again.
"Leon!" You laughed, reaching for it halfheartedly. "I was watching—"
"I can think of better things to do than watch videos of me kissing my wife," he murmured against your lips, his hand sliding up your bare thigh beneath the sheet.
"Oh really?" You tried to sound unaffected, but your breath hitched when his fingers found the edge of your panties, the lacy ones you'd put on after your shower earlier, thinking you'd get dressed eventually. "Like what?"
"Like actually kissing my wife." He demonstrated, his mouth covering yours in a slow deep kiss that made your toes curl against the sheets, His tongue sliding against yours.
Your phone kept playing videos somewhere on the floor, the soft melodic voice filling the room again on autoplay. You couldn't help but laugh against Leon's mouth. "Leon—the phone—"
"Don't care," he muttered, his hand sliding higher, fingers tracing the edge of lace. "Pay attention to me."
"Alright, alright, So greedy…" you teased, but your hands were already finding his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer. His skin was warm under your palms, the muscles shifting as he moved. His mouth trailed down your throat, teeth scraping gently over your pulse, and you could feel him smile against your skin when you gasped. His palm slid up your chest, pushing his shirt, the one you'd stolen to wear to bed up and off, baring you to his gaze.
"Hello Gorgeous," he murmured, his eyes tracking over you like he was seeing you for the first time, like he hadn't spent the entire night kissing every inch of your body.
"Leon," you laughed breathlessly turning your head slightly into the pillow, in your embarrassment, your hands finding his shoulders. His mouth continued its path downward, kissing a path down your sternum, your ribs, your stomach. His hands were everywhere cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked, making you arch into his touch.
Your phone screen finally went dark, the videos stopping, silence falling over the room except for your increasingly uneven breathing and the rustle of sheets. Leon's mouth moved lower, kissing the curve of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His hands hooked into your panties, dragging them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. The lace caught on your ankle, and he tossed them aside carelessly, his focus entirely on you.
"Much better than watching videos," he murmured, his breath hot against your inner thigh, making you shiver. His hands pushed your thighs wider, settling his broad shoulders between them, and the sight of him there, hair mussed his eyes dark with lust and his mouth so close to where you needed him, made you clench around nothing.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as he settled between your legs, his shoulders keeping your thighs open wider. "Leon, you don't have to—oh—" The words dissolved into a gasp as his tongue licked a long stripe up your center, groaning against you, your back arching off the bed.
"Fuck," you whimpered, your hand fisting in the sheets, the other tightening in his hair. "Leon—" He didn't respond, His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open when you tried to close them, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
Much later, when you finally emerged from the bedroom you found him in the kitchen making coffee. He'd pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants that should be illegal with how they hung low on his hips, the waistband of his boxer briefs visible above them, and his chest was bare, showing off the constellation of scars and the fine dusting of blonde hair that mapped his chest. His hair was still messy from your fingers, sticking up in directions that defied physics, and he looked so soft like a stray tom cat finally tamed and domesticated.
The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your penthouse, San Francisco spread out below, the bay glittering in the distance, but you only had eyes for him.
He must have heard you padding across the hardwood because he turned, a smile already curving his lips. The coffee maker gurgled behind him, filling the open kitchen with the rich scent of dark roast.
"Morning," he said, even though it was well past noon. "Or afternoon. Whatever."
"Hi," you said softly, your voice still a little hoarse from earlier, from crying out his name, from the way he'd made you scream into the pillow when he'd taken you from behind, his hand fisted in your hair.
He handed you a mug, overly sweet with too much creamer, exactly how you liked it, and pulled you against his side with his free arm. You went willingly, tucking yourself against him, your head resting on his shoulder. His skin was warm, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
You both stood there for a moment; the kitchen was quiet except for the coffee maker and the distant sounds of the city below. Peaceful. Normal. Like you were just a regular couple having a lazy Sunday, not two people whose secret marriage had just broken the internet.
"So," he said casually, taking a sip of his coffee, extra black, no sugar, because he was a psychopath. "How do you want to handle this?"
You thought about it, sipping your coffee and watching the San Francisco fog beginning to roll in through the Golden Gate, creeping across the bay.
"We could release a statement," you mused, your business brain kicking in despite the pleasant ache in your muscles. "Something brief. Confirm the marriage, ask for privacy. My publicist probably has one drafted already, knowing her. She's probably been up all night crafting the perfect response."
"Or?" Leon prompted, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"Or we could do absolutely nothing and let them figure it out themselves." You tilted your head to look up at him, gauging his reaction. "Just... live our lives. Post a photo eventually, maybe. Let it be what it is."
Leon's laugh was low and warm, rumbling through his chest and into yours. "I like option two."
You couldn't help but smile. Of course he did. Leon had never been one for public statements or carefully crafted PR responses. He'd probably never even read the statements the DSO put out about him.
“My wife is so smart. Did I ever tell you that?” He jokes as he kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering against your hair as you laugh. "Besides, we've got more important things to do."
"Like what?" You knew where this was going, could feel it in the way his hand was sliding higher on your thigh, in the way his breathing had changed slightly.
"Like me making good on that “twenty-four hours” in bed promise." His voice dropped lower, taking on that tone that made your stomach clench. "Pretty sure I've only kept you there for about twelve." He said turning his wrist to look at the watch on his wrist theatrically, while he set down his coffee mug on the counter with a soft click, before he lifted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, his hands gripping your waist, and you gasped at the sudden movement, the granite cold against your bare ass. Your own mug joined his on the counter as his hands slid up under the shirt you wore.
"Leon, I just got up." you laughed, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under your palms. "It's ten in the morning." even as heat pooled between your thighs, your body responding to his proximity with Pavlovian eagerness.
"Actually It's one in the afternoon," he corrected, His mouth found the sensitive spot below your ear, that place he'd discovered years ago that made you melt. "And we're behind schedule." His tongue traced the shell of your ear before his teeth caught your earlobe, tugging gently. "Plus, didn’t’ you hear we're married. We can do whatever we want."
Your phone sat on the counter, still lighting up with notifications. The screen flashed every few seconds, a constant reminder of the chaos happening in the outside world. Twitter. Instagram. Text messages. Emails. The whole world trying to reach you, trying to get a piece of you, wanting statements and comments and reactions.
You ignored it completely.
✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦ 𝖆 𝖓 𝖔 𝖙𝖊 ✦┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✦
I'MMMM BAACCKKK!
I'm so sorry it took so long plls forgive me! ૮ ⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ ·̭ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝ ྀིა
this was fun to write thank you for the request anon!!!
NGL I was kinda stuck at first, but the second my brain latched onto an idea it was over. I briefly considered making reader like…a pop star or something? Which is fun and cute but then I said NOIHAVEAVISION!!!
Billionaire CEO. because women in men’s fields and Leon wants to eat out the rich or whatever.
No full smut this time, I wasn't sure if that was what the anon wanted, plus with what was going on in my life I didn't feel like it or really have the time to write it...so sorry just the lemon zest!
✦✧✦ 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖊 ✦ see you in the next life ✦✧✦
This post was brought to you by BUNI ✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦
Tags: RE2!Leon x Fem!Reader, no apocalypse AU, smut, loss of virginity (Leon), mentions of public sex (blowjobs), masturbation (male), fingering (f), cowgirl position, unprotected sex, creampie, and more!
Note: Hey!! It's me again, and I've finally brought y'all something from our beloved rookie Leon. I missed y'all so much, i hope u like it! >.<
Leon sometimes felt like a bit of a failure. I mean, he wasn't that bad. He'd managed to graduate from the academy, landed a job at the R.P.D. station, and his superiors were so kind to him that he finally felt like he belonged somewhere. Until those conversations came along.
He always felt that pang of jealousy when he heard his colleagues talking about celebrating their anniversaries or how their beautiful girlfriends welcomed them home with open arms after long days at work. And all he got was a secondhand bed in his tiny rented apartment.
The truth was, Leon Virgin Kennedy had never touched a woman. Not even in his teens. He'd never gotten beyond an awkward, tongue-tied kiss at some drive-in theater in his hometown because the girls quickly lost interest when they noticed Leon's shaky hands.
And now there wasn't much time for dates. His behavior was too clumsy for flirting, and he wasn't one of those tough guys who attracted girls easily. He just sucked. He sucked, until he met you. Ah, God had finally answered his prayers because you'd agreed to go out with him after his attempt at flirting in the station's copy room.
"Are you, uh—are you free Friday night?" The words had slipped out with a hint of confidence, despite his hand slipping on a stack of photocopies. You laughed, of course, but agreed. Leon was going to have his first date since arriving in Raccoon City (loser).
The night had passed easily with silly conversation and easy laughter, ending with both of you sitting in his Jeep eating ice cream after a cheesy horror movie. After that, you gave him a good, wet make-out session in the back of his truck. The date ended with a sweet wave from your door, and Leon went home with a painful erection, pink cheeks, and swollen lips.
But you didn't stop there; you were on a mission to ruin him. You'd steal glances at him whenever you crossed paths at work, shamelessly rub your ass against him as you walked past, and he'd fall for it every single time because he had to run to the station bathroom with an erection in his blue uniform pants.
You even gave him a blowjob in the station bathroom. His first blowjob, at his damn workplace. Poor Leon came too fast, one hand tangled in your hair and his free hand to his lips so as not to attract the attention of his coworkers. After that, he walked around with unfocused eyes, as if he'd been high for the rest of the day.
He felt like a horny teenager again, unable to control the thing inside his pants and desperately jacking off after every date, thinking about your lips around him. And finally, the day came when you decided to take pity on this man. After a date at his apartment, few glasses of wine, and a delicious dinner, you decided to pounce on him. He simply thanked heaven that you made the first move, because he could barely maintain eye contact. But there was no time to think when he had you on top of him, moaning softly against his mouth.
You both stumbled into Leon's room and collapsed onto the small bed, which creaked a little too loudly. Your fingers tangled tightly in his hair, arching your back beneath him in anticipation as you felt him settle between your legs. Your clothes quickly became just a pile on his bedroom floor. His sweaty hands didn't know where to begin, so he chose to touch your tits first, feeling his fingers tremble against the tender flesh as he timidly squeezed them.
Then you guided one of his hands to your pussy, letting him feel the wetness blossoming between your open legs. He looked at you in surprise, as if he couldn't believe you were like this for him. After showing him how to touch you properly with his fingers, how you liked it, and what rhythm, you pushed him down so he was lying back. You climbed on top of him, stifling a giggle at the sight of his eyes wide with anticipation and his eager hands exploring your sides.
"You're...woah—perfect." he whispered with devotion, reverently caressing your thighs. He gazed at you as if the stars hung before him, his eyes shining beneath those thick lashes. He swallowed loudly as he watched you take him in your hand and guide him to your entrance, rubbing the tip first between your wet folds. He could feel the tip becoming completely wet with your arousal.
The mere provocation made his eyes close and he let out a low, almost trembling moan as he reflexively lifted his hips. From this angle, you could see his Adam's apple swaying and his arms, large from workouts, tensing as he gripped your hips tighter. He had no idea how incredibly sexy he looked like this.
With a smooth motion, the tip of his cock slid easily inside your hot walls, which swallowed it with equal eagerness. "Oh, hooly shit—" He groaned, his mouth opening at the sensation, his gaze fixed on where his cock was slowly disappearing inside you. His body trembled slightly with pleasure as the thick head of his cock reached its deepness point inside you.
His fingers dug into your hips, unsure whether to pull you closer or further away for the hot sensation of your walls tightening around him, letting him feel how wet you were, practically dripping all around him. His lips moved, but no words came out. He was already fucked just by being inside you.
You started to move, rubbing against him and teasing him before giving him what he really wanted. Although he was already breathing heavily, his cheeks flushed pink and his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, as if he'd run a marathon. But he was just trying not to come too quickly.
"You feel like fucking heaven, I swear..." he whispered as his pretty face crinkled in a grimace of pure pleasure as he felt you begin to bounce on him. You leaned back, placing your hands on his thighs as you continued to ride him slowly, letting him see how his cock was buried to the last inch inside you and how your breasts swayed.
His thumb moved closer to gently lift the hood of your clit, beginning to make slow, careless circles as you rubbed against him, making you moan and throw your head back in pleasure.
When the friction wasn't enough, you leaned forward to place your hands on his chest and begin to ride him for real. You rode up and down every inch of his member, letting him see how wet you were getting him before he thrust deep inside you again. Having him inside felt so good that, combined with the way your clit was rubbing against his pelvis, you started to feel like you could come in record time.
"Wait, slower—" he whimpered, a real whimper, as his impotent hips lifted to chase your greedy pussy. "I'm gonna come, please…" He whined again, as if he were about to cry. His balls were full and tight, ready to empty at any moment. He was so adorable trying to hold on for a few more seconds, but the wet squelching of your pussy and your sweet moans weren't helping at all.
"it's okay, I want it inside—Give it to me." You murmured, your voice heavy with need and your face hot from bouncing on his cock as if you wanted to squeeze out every last drop of semen he had. All he could do was chase your lips, trying to kiss and hold you as he came completely, his hips contracting to push until every inch was inside, his balls buried deep. The sensation of his cock throbbing and shuddering inside you triggered your own orgasm, making you come around him with a small, muffled sob.
His moans were muffled in your mouth as he tried to hold you still, feeling you tremble from the aftershocks of your orgasm and catch your breath after filling you completely, feeling his hot load begin to overflow even with him still inside.
"I think I died and this is heaven." he whispered breathlessly, drenched in sweat, holding you tightly in his arms and inhaling your tousled hair, as if he needed you like he needed air. And maybe he did, because this man was already addicted and he wasn't going to let you go soon.
Let me know if you liked it and pleasee ignore any mistakes! 😚💕
Summary: You have a routine of writing Leon love letters.
Pairing: re2!Leon x gf!reader
WC/Tags: 1,616 / tooth rotting fluff, love letters, Leon being smitten
A/N: inspired by ‘he’s my dreamboat’ by Connie Francis, for day 5 of @swoon-june ‘love letters’
You chew at the knub of your pen, staring down at the blank piece of scrap paper in front of you. Leon is going to be up for work any second, the hands of the clock ticking closer and closer to 6:30am, his wake up time everyday. His lunch is packed, thermos filled and sitting on the counter beside the keys to his car. All that’s missing now is your love note.
Once a week, you write Leon love letters. You made it a routine after telling him you loved him for the first time, in the dark of your living room after a heated makeout session. You had told him you loved him, that you were in love with him and it scared you that you were only a little over a year into your relationship and you felt like this, but he had said it back quickly, had cupped your face and smiled so wide it looked like it had ached.
Afterward, when he went to answer the delivery at your front door, you had scribbled a little note, ily with a heart under it and had stuffed it in his jacket pocket. The next day he had called you, saying that finding the love letter had been the highlight of his morning.
That was nearly six months ago, and it was a routine you both loved.
You rarely kept it the same, leaving love letters in his cup holder or under his keys. Beside his tooth brush or tucked into his shoes. You liked to change it up, to keep the surprise going, and Leon loved every bit of it.
You also changed what you wrote. Sometimes they were silly, little doodles of hearts and clouds and flowers with fluffy words. Other times they were bone deep, your affection for him rooted in words you struggled to say aloud.
Now as you stare at the blank paper, your mind goes the same; blank. Nothing newly astounding had happened, nothing that needed extra tenderness, but you wanted to do this for him all the same.
You tap the pen against your lip, frowning at the paper. No grand moments to write about, no first kiss anniversary, no “I'm so proud of you” for passing a test or landing a new job. Just… him. Your Leon. The one who leaves his socks in weird places and hums off-key in the shower and always remembers your coffee order.
A small smile tugs at your mouth.
You grab another sheet, crinkled notebook paper, and start drawing: tiny stick figures holding hands under a lopsided sun with rays like fireworks. One has blonde hair, spiky, messy. The other wears glasses, round frames slightly askew. Above them: “Good morning my favorite cop. Thank you for coming home every night.”
Folding it, you press your lips to the paper and slip it inside his lunch box before standing to grab your own mug of coffee. You’re halfway through with it when Leon stumbles into the kitchen, his uniform crisp but his eyes bleary, a little sleep ridden.
“Well hello sleepy head,” you laugh, putting down your mug. “Sure you’re awake?”
Leon blinks at you like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time, hair sticking up in three different directions. He shuffles forward barefoot, uniform perfectly ironed but clearly slept on, his tie a little loose and one button undone.
“Mmm… morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. Without missing a beat, he leans down and kisses you right on the lips. A soft one, slow and sweet despite how half-asleep he looks. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes slowly focusing now that coffee scent is hitting him full force.
“I’m awake,” he lies through a yawn before reaching past you to grab your mug, not his, and taking a long sip of your coffee like it belongs to him too, which you supposed it does. “I’m up.”
“Sure you are,” you giggle as you study him, and reach up to flatten his hair. “I made your lunch and coffee, it’s on the counter.”
That quiet little joy flashes across his face, the one that only shows when you do something small but so meaningful to him. He turns toward the counter, still cradling your coffee mug like a lifeline.
He sees the thermos first, steam faintly rising, and picks it up, twisting off the lid to sniff. Black coffee. Just how he likes it. No sugar. Then he spots his lunchbox, the bright blue one with dog bones printed on the sides, a gift from you after adopting Rover. His chest tightens just looking at it.
Setting both items down, Leon turns back to you. In two strides, arms are around your waist and pulling you into another kiss, this time deeper, as if every morning could start like this forever.
You hum against him, eyes fluttering shut faintly. He tastes like his tooth paste and your coffee and if his job wasn’t so important you’d ask him to stay.
“You’re going to be late.” You murmur, lips parting as you speak and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue along your bottom lip.
He does, a teasing brush of his tongue that sends warmth blooming down your neck. Leon’s never been in a hurry with you. Even when he should be rushing, like now, uniform half-tied and badge still hanging loose on its lanyard, he lingers.
But the clock ticks.
A distant part of him knows this: patrol shift starts at 7:30 sharp. Chief Daniels has already given him one warning about tardiness after last month’s rain delay, not that it was his fault.
Still, he nips gently at your lip before pulling back just enough to rest his nose against yours again, breathing you in like oxygen.
“I hate mornings,” he whispers hoarsely, and then steals one more kiss because screw punctuality for thirty seconds. “When I have to leave you.”
“But you come back.” You reply and grin, your hand cupping the back of his neck to play with the blonde hair there. “I have to get ready for work too.”
He steps away from your hold, grabbing his keys and coffee in one hand and his lunch box in the other. “See you tonight?”
You nod as you follow him to the front door, placing your hand on the knob. “Should be back by five.”
“I’ll see you at five then.” Leon’s grin is boyish as you open the door, holding it for him. He dips down, kissing you once and you inhale him, the pressure of his mouth on yours like clouds.
Leon steps out first, boots hitting the porch with a quiet thud. He turns back just once before heading to his squad car, a black-and-white RPD cruiser parked at the curb, and gives you that smile. That Leon smile: bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners, hair messy from your fingers.
He raises his coffee in a silent toast to you as he walks away.
You watch him go, the way he adjusts his vest strap while walking like it's second nature now after months on patrol duty; how carefully he places both items into their designated spots inside that pristine vehicle; even how neatly folded down those stupid little air fresheners hang from rearview mirrors, you teased him for putting one up.
When he reverses you give him a little wave and vaguely through the glass you can see him wave back. As you close the door, you realize you’re grinning, again. You always seem to be when it comes to him.
Rinsing out your coffee cup, you stare out the sink window, wondering when he’ll find the note, and wondering if it’ll make him smile. You smile to yourself at the thought.
-
Leon sips from the lip of his mug carefully as he turns into the station before throwing the car into park. Twisting his neck to stretch, he gets out, gathering his items before walking in. He’s greeted by his coworkers and he nods to them, his hair bouncing with the movement before he makes it to his locker. When he opens it, he takes in the picture of you and him on Fourth of July, a sparkler in your hand and a grin on your face. It’s infectious, the way you look when you’re happy.
He places his keys on the hook before opening his lunch box to survey the contents. A sandwich, probably ham, a yogurt and a bag of nuts, with a disposable spoon tucked in the corner.
There’s another item tucked into the side though, and he fingers the paper before pulling it out.
The note is slightly crumpled from being wedged beside the yogurt, but carefully folded, neat creases like you took time with it. Leon’s breath hitches just a little.
He recognizes your handwriting immediately: that loopy G in ‘Good morning,’ the heart-shaped dot over the i.
His fingers smooth out the paper as he unfolds it, and there they are, the stick figures under their wonky sun. He stares at them for a solid five seconds, lips parting into that soft expression you exude from him.
One of his fellow officers passes by and gives him a knowing look. “Love letter?”
Leon doesn’t even snap back or play it cool like usual, he just nods once, quietly proud about something so simple as his girlfriend loving him enough to draw silly hearts on paper every week.
He tucks it gently into his breast pocket, right over where his badge sits, and closes up his lunchbox with new energy, and a grin pulling at his mouth.
x
Divider @pixopix 
AO3 link
Leon K taglist: @yours-truly-andrea @causeofmykoophoria
