hey there! welcome to my re fan blog. this blog will be mostly reposts of art, fics, text posts, gifs, etc, all relating to the resident evil franchise.
big fan of 7 and 8 in particular :))) fave characters are ethan and mia winters, leon kennedy, claire redfield, jill valentine, ashley graham, grace ashcroft, lady dimitrescu, and donna benevientio!
leon kennedy’s heart wasn’t immune to love, after all.
character: leon kennedy (re9),
content: leon kennedy is canonically awkward around women, so here is my take on what it would be like for him to fall in love.
leon was fine with living alone. he was also fine with coming back to an empty home after each mission, not expecting anything — but that was until he met you. it caught him off guard, and he sure wasn’t even ready to fall for someone… not after decades of loneliness. but you were just… you. young, smart, funny — but most importantly, you loved life. and that was something leon found fascinating. it’s the way your mood would instantly brighten because of a sunny day, how you would take a deep breath, a gentle smile spreading on your lips, when you stepped outside in the morning, how you would enjoy the smallest things in life, grateful to be alive. to him, you were the light guiding him through the darkness, leading him to a brighter future.
but because leon’s brain doesn’t know the difference between fighting for his life and flirting with someone… things were a bit tricky for him. far from being a ladies man, he made terrible jokes, hoping some would eventually stick, and because you were someone that could be described as (very) easily amused… you would always laugh at them, anyway. and my god, your laugh… his one and only mission was to hear it again, and again. he’s awkward, doesn’t really get your flirtatious attempts because he’s old, a bit inexperienced in this field and he just can’t believe someone as pure as you would even be interested in him… but god does he try to be good enough for you.
one thing with leon, is that he will remember every single thing you say. your car is doing those weird noises when you drive? the very next day he’s standing there in front of your car, hood open, dirty hands digging in the mechanic. you mentioned your favorite flowers being peonies? soon enough there is a HUGE bouquet of peonies sitting in your arms, almost too big for you. you hate the cold? if he’s inviting you over, he’s setting his thermostat to 22° celcius to make sure his place will be warm enough for you — even if he, himself, prefers lower temperatures. he just wants to know everything about you: your hobbies, your favorite movie, your favorite book, what you like or don’t… and will memorize them all.
confessing to you was… challenging, to say the least. between the fear of being rejected, and the guilt of falling for someone much younger than him, leon felt like it was selfish of him to make a move, when you had your entire life ahead of you. but what he couldn’t see were the gentle glances, your hand pressing his ever so softly, the hope blooming in your eyes the closer the two of you get. so when he finally managed to gather enough courage to tell you about his feelings, it felt like the sun would never stop shining above you. it was clumsy, he would sometimes stutter over his own words because even if he is leon s kennedy the dso agent, he’s also very vulnerable and completely unfamiliar with opening up. but you were patient… as you always were. holding his hands with yours, thumbs gently rubbing the back of them, eyes never leaving his face. you didn’t try to rush him, didn’t cut him half sentence even if he was struggling… you just let him be. showing him you will always listen to him, that talking about his own feelings was more than alright. of course he told you about how he probably wasn’t the best choice, that you most definitely had dozens of men waiting for the smallest opportunities… and that made you laugh. because, again, he couldn’t see how in love you were with him, since the very beginning. his worries all vanished when your lips met his in a gentle kiss… right after telling him you waited for this very day for the longest time.
he’s grateful, too. so grateful to have you by his side — because you taught him how to live. going to the cinema, enjoying a dinner at a local restaurant, cooking a delicious meal, hiking in the mountains… so many things he forbid himself from doing, swallowed by the guilt of surviving when his partners, his friends, fell. more importantly, he now has something to fight for… someone to come back home to. and for the first time in forever, leon felt alive.
The reason Leon Kennedy works so well is because he is equal parts gentleman and deeply unwell, which means every sweet gesture comes with the undertone of a man trying very hard to hold himself together.
Like, because he's polite: he opens doors for you, walks on the outside of the sidewalk, remembers how you like your coffee
But because he's unwell: he checks every exit constantly, he needs to hear your voice after nightmares, little things become huge things with him
And that's the thing. The romance isn't that he would die for you. Lots of characters would die for you. The romance is that he's trying, every day, to live for you. And some days that is clearly the harder thing.
For example: you mention offhand that your car has been making a weird noise. Three days later he hands you the keys back and says, "Should be good now." You find out he spent his only free afternoon under the car teaching himself how to fix it from a repair manual because the thought of you breaking down alone on the side of the road made him physically ill. He never tells you that part. He just asks you to text him when you get home. Immediately. Every time. Forever.
A/N: love me an acts of service husband. Speaking of, today is my second wedding anniversary and I FORGOT hahahaha. I'm gonna be in trouble later. Guess he gets the oldest gift around *ties up hair in a scrunchie*
ik leon sneezes loud as fuck like it makes u flinch bcs he’s deadass just yelling also his joints start popping loud as fuck anytime he gets up at age 32 #earlyonsetarthritis ALSO he snores when he sleeps on his side specifically so you don’t say anything when he forgets to take his insomnia medication … just uncouth & overstimulating
given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that
Summary: He walks through your door pretending he’s bulletproof. You make him human again.
Warnings: Graphic depictions of blood/injury, aftermath of violence, crying, emotional vulnerability, caretaking. No smut.
The door doesn’t slam. Leon never slams the door.
It clicks shut behind him, soft as a trigger pull. You hear his keys, his vest, his sidearm hit the table in that order. Ritual. Then nothing.
He’s just standing in your living room.
You find him there, still in his boots. Still wearing three days of blood and failure like a second skin. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s scabbed over. A split lip. His hands are curled into fists at his sides because if he relaxes them, they’ll shake.
“Baby.” The word falls out of you.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t.” His voice is shot. “Don’t baby me. I’m fine.”
You’re his girl. You know that’s a lie. You know it the way you know your own name.
So you make it hard for him to keep lying.
You walk to him. Slow. No sudden moves. He’s a live wire. One wrong twitch and he’ll bolt or shut down completely. You stop when your toes almost touch his. Close enough to smell gunpowder and copper on him.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Then prove it. Look at me and tell me you’re fine.”
He can’t.
His breath hitches. That’s all it takes — you asking him to meet your eyes. His whole body locks up, bracing against the sob he won’t let out. Because Leon Kennedy doesn’t cry. Not in front of anyone. Not even you. Especially not you.
That’s the rule he made up.
You’re about to break it.
You lift your hand. Give him time to pull away. He doesn’t. So you cup his cheek. Your thumb finds that cut above his brow, skims it so light he gasps.
“Leon,” you say, soft like you’re talking to a spooked animal. “My brave boy. You don’t have to be fine here.”
And that’s it.
That’s the thing that undoes him. Not the blood. Not the mission. Your voice calling him yours.
A tear slips. Just one. He scrubs at it angry, like it betrayed him. “Stop it. Please.”
“No.” You catch his wrist. Kiss his knuckles. One, two, three. Little presses of your lips against skin that’s scraped raw. “I’m not gonna stop loving you. Not even when you’re like this.”
His knees almost buckle.
You guide him to the bathroom. He goes because he can’t do anything else. You sit him on the closed toilet lid. Kneel between his legs to work his boots off. His head is bowed. You can hear him trying to breathe normal. Failing.
The second boot thumps to the tile. You don’t stand. You look up at him from the floor, hands on his thighs.
“You’re safe,” you tell him. “I’m not gonna let anything hurt you tonight. Not even yourself.”
He makes a noise. Wrecked. Wet. His hand flies up to cover his mouth like he can shove the sound back in.
You crawl up. Into his lap. Straddle his thighs and wrap your arms around his neck and hold. He’s stiff for half a second. Then he breaks.
He folds into you. Face in your neck. Big, silent shakes wracking through him. No sobs. Leon doesn’t get sobs. He gets these quiet, devastating tremors while baby tears soak into your shirt.
“That’s it,” you murmur into his hair. “Let me have it. I can take it.” You rock him, slight. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
You make it impossible for him not to cry. Every point of contact is deliberate. Your nails scraping gently at the nape of his neck. Your lips in his hair. The way you whisper “you’re home, you’re home, you’re home” like it’s a prayer.
He cries harder.
When he can breathe again, you start the water.
“Up,” you coax. “I need to get you clean, love.
He lets you undress him. There’s no heat in it. Just care. You peel the Henley off and catalog the new bruises. Kiss each one. His ribs. His collarbone. The scar on his shoulder from Nanan that never faded right.
“Stop,” he whispers, but he’s leaning into your mouth.
“Never.” You press one last kiss to his sternum, right over his heart. “Get in.”
The tub is deep. The water’s hot enough to turn his skin pink. He sinks into it with a hiss, then a sigh that sounds like it was dragged out of his soul.
You don’t give him space. You grab a washcloth and kneel behind the tub.
“Head back for me.”
He obeys. Eyes closed. Throat exposed. Trusting you with all the soft parts of him.
This is where you wreck him, carefully.
Warm water first. You pour it over his hair, slow. Watch the blood and dirt swirl down the drain. Then your fingers. Shampoo, lather, massage. You dig your thumbs into the base of his skull where he carries everything. Small circles. Then harder. He makes a sound — not quite a moan, not quite a cry.
“Hurts?” you ask.
“Don’t stop,” he chokes out.
You don’t. You work down. His neck, his shoulders. The knots there are years old. You use the heel of your hand, the flat of your knuckles. He’s crying again. Quiet tears mixing with bathwater. Because no one touches him like this. Like he’s worth the effort.
“Tilt.” You guide his head. Rinse. Repeat with conditioner.
Your hands never leave him. When you wash his chest, it’s with the washcloth first, then your palm. Broad strokes. Over his heart. Over the scar tissue. You drop a kiss to his wet shoulder every thirty seconds, just to remind him you’re there.
“I can do it,” he mumbles. Weak protest.
“I know,” you say. “But you don’t have to.” You take his hand. Lace your fingers. Bring it to your lips. “Let me.”
You wash each finger. Under the nails. Around the calluses. These hands that have killed and saved and held you — you treat them like they’re made of glass. He watches you, tears still falling, like he can’t believe you’re real.
You move to his back. He leans forward, forehead on his knees, and you take the opportunity to press your mouth to his spine. One kiss for every vertebra.
“You come back to me,” you whisper against his skin. “You always come back to me. Do you know how strong that makes you?”
A full-body shudder. He turns, blind, and finds your face. Cups it with wet, pruned hands.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes.
“Don’t be.” You kiss his palms. “Not to me. Never to me.”
By the time the water’s lukewarm, he’s wrung out. Empty in the good way. You drain the tub. Wrap him in a towel yourself. Pat him dry like he’s something precious. Because he is.
He’s yours.
In bed, he’s still shaky. You pull the covers up and slide in behind him. Chest to his back. One arm around his waist, hand splayed over his stomach. Your lips find the back of his neck.
“Sleep,” you tell him. “I’m right here.”
His hand covers yours. Squeezes.
He sleeps.
Not the twitchy, gun-under-the-pillow sleep he usually does. Real sleep. Deep. His face finally, finally slack against your arm.
One of his hands stays fisted in your shirt. Like even unconscious, he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You won’t.
You press a kiss to his hair and whisper it into the dark: “I’ve got you.”
synopsis; when packing up old memories, you should never take a stroll down memory lane. It’s a shame neither you nor Leon got that memo. On the off-chance Leon had gotten it, he isn’t too keen on listening to it.
cw; MDNI. smut, angst, divorce, p-in-v, cowgirl position, outdoor sex.
"Is that everything?"
"Think so." Leon grunts, sweat beads above his brow. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and cleans himself on his shirt. Electricity was cut last week, so no AC today. The house never had good ventilation either; no mold nor mildew, the air just tended to stagnate.
It's curious how one's entire life could be packaged away so neatly at the drop of a hat. Folded and compartmentalized, years worth of memories stuffed in boxes labeled 'kitchen', 'bedroom' ‘decor’ and so on and so forth.
If it weren’t necessary, you’d apologize for making him do all this in the middle of blistering summer. You would’ve done it all yourself and sent him an invoice if you hadn’t gotten so busy yourself. Leon himself didn’t bother to do it because he never bothered to do anything without you telling him to do it first.
Complacency is the devil.
The killer of all things good, sunk its teeth right through Leon’s carotid and dragged him off some years ago, it seems. You lean against the kitchen island and silently take in how barren your home suddenly is now.
The pictures were the first things that went. Not that there were many of them to begin with, only a select few handpicked by Leon himself because he always looked like he was constipated in any you took — fishing trips with Chris, one trip to Italy Spring of 08’, a few from D.S.O. holiday parties, and some from end of year ceremonies when he was in between having too dark hair to be considered blonde and hair too light for it to be brown.
It’s surreal coming to terms that in a week this place’ll be someone else's problem. A new family will settle in and all traces of your marriage will be completely overwritten. They’ll argue over what color to paint everything over and start fresh. The sage green you’d painstakingly picked out with Leon would get replaced with something beige, or worse. Grey.
God, isn’t that a dreadful thought.
But, that’s the point of all this, you suppose. A full, fresh reset. If they want to paint over the ghosts of your marriage and turn over a new leaf, they can, they paid for the place after all. Hopefully they get around to fixing the creaks in the staircase or the leaky sink. Lord knows Leon was never going to get around to it.
You open your mouth to speak. "You talked to the realtor? Everything's squared away?"
Despite being in the email thread, you still ask. The answer is a confident 'yes', it's just hard to fill in the blanks where laughter and easy breezy conversation is supposed to be.
How do you even make conversation in this sort of scenario? Are you supposed to throw a blanket over the elephant in the room and ask him how’s it going? Pretend it isn’t there and talk about work? (Last you knew he was griping about having to take a rookie under his wing again. How long ago was that?)
Ah. It’s a little too late anyways, the boxes are piled high beside the door, tomorrow they’ll come get the last of it and it’ll be on its way to storage til’ you both get your own places and move forward. Leon hasn’t gotten his own apartment yet, neither have you. Chris’s bachelor pad has gotten a little more sadder.
“I don’t know, she didn’t call to confirm.” Leon starts, then grumbles beneath his breath. “Let me check...”
He pops his hip against the island and reaches into his pocket. You frown. Didn’t he reply first? You could’ve sworn he had. You don’t call him out on his ‘bad memory’. Instead you settle in and watch his fingertips dance across the screen, let him pretend neither of you are on edge and painfully aware of the other.
You can't help but notice the pattern is the same. It’s those little things that become engrained enough for you to realize he hasn't changed his password yet, a string of numericals spell out your anniversary.
You’d click your tongue and tease him for still having it set to something so sappy, something holds your tongue, dries it up and scatters the ashes elsewhere, the words ‘Seriously? You’re so corny,’ unwilling to form.
You like to think he’ll change it after you’re gone, replace it with some other important date or nonsense and let the wound heal over. Yeah right. You roll your eyes at that. If you know anything about Leon, it’s that even if something wasn’t to have been his fault; he’d still lose sleep over it regardless. You must’ve exacerbated it by insisting it wasn’t.
Is there even a chance he’d change that after you’re gone?
You really can’t imagine a world where Leon would ever be the type to turn a new leaf and let the wound scab over, he’s always been the sort to pick and prod and keep it fresh and raw. Pour salt and a splash of lemon juice in it every once in a while wondering about the what could’ve beens and the what ifs.
“You find it yet?” You prod, his finger gets to swiping again.
“Still looking.” Leon grunts. You have half a mind to pull your own phone out and call his bluff, you’d find it in mere seconds. Leon’s got his lip jutting out and his brow pulled tighter than usual. He’s thinking.
About what?
Is he just trying to come up with something to talk about too before parting ways? That’s sweet, in a real sad, prolonging-the-inevitable way.
And also probably just you projecting.
Whatever, you’ll play along for now, let him have this. You’ll find something else to do while he turns questions over in his head and no doubt, handpicks the best joke to lighten the mood.
Inevitably, your eyes wander. You can’t help but note Leon looks as if he’s aged another decade this past year, oddly enough. You don’t mean it in a bad way, he looks good. More than good.
It’d be silly to say he looked anything less because of his age; you aren’t young either anymore, your roots show just as much as his do. Greys pop in faster year after year, but that doesn’t make you any less attractive. No, a mature woman is a well seasoned one, there’s an appeal to that.
The same applies to a mature man.
Leon’s greys stand out like little grains of rye amidst wheat. You remember when he’d first noticed them, they looked like platinum highlights then, not so much now. He’d freaked out, ran his hands through his hair and sat on the couch for a good long while, worried himself to death that he’d be slowing down soon. He’d been thirty seven then.
What did it matter if he wasn’t that young agent anymore? An older man is still a functional one, for the most part. If you ignore the wrinkles and looked shoulders down, you’d almost forget a man like him has real bad back problems.
Leon’s always managed to look leagues better than most men his age, he still has a waist anyone would understandably envy. His biceps have real muscle coiled through them, earned through hearty meals and rigorous exercise — no steroids or supplements here.
Your eyes dip from his pinched brow, down the slope of his nose and towards the main attraction. His sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms, veins pressing firmly against skin, no extra skin to sag and leave him soft.
Leon’s handsome, always has been. Makes you wonder what he saw in you to stay all these years.
There isn’t necessarily anything special about you, as lame as it is to accept and admit. Back then you'd felt like you’d been shoved into the deep end of the pool and left to drown when you’d stumbled onto the dating scene, a doe caught in sights.
Leon had to have had other options, anyone with eyes could come to that conclusion. It always gnawed on your nerves, that thought; he could’ve had anyone else, someone with more experience, more confidence, more everything in whatever department you lacked in.
But he stayed with you. Through all the bumps, Leon patiently held your hand, kissed your worries away, and promised he’d be there tomorrow. You guessed it was easy for him to be there when your flaws were considerably smaller in comparison to his.
Your eyes flit up to his face again, they trace the moles and beauty marks, one hidden against his adam's apple, another beside his nose, the rest are scattered across his body. Your eyes linger on his jaw. It’s hard to ignore he’s let his stubble get a bit scruffy, salt and pepper dotting above his lips and below.
Leon never let it stay for that long because it never came in evenly. It was his biggest gripe. He’d run his hand along his chin and complain underneath his breath every other morning. If you could chalk it up to a change in style, that he’d suddenly decided to let it go rogue, you would.
But you know he’s the type to stick with what works.
He cared more about maintaining it with you around, it seems. You look away before he could notice you’re staring, focus all your attention on the marble counter top.
God you hate yourself. You hate him, you hate this house, you hate everything that has to do with the ugly thoughts that led you to settle on divorce.
If you could disappear into the walls, tuck yourself behind drywall and become some ghost story, — ‘…didn’t Leon used to have a wife…?’ ‘Yeah, but they got her.’ sort of deal — you would. He’s used to loss and grief, it would’ve been a much easier pill to swallow if you’d been lost. It would’ve been better for your love story to end with an em dash.
But you’re alive, and you’re here, and the papers will be signed come Monday.
Your cheek finds its place against the palm of your hand. You’re certain Leon’s bullshitting you about looking for that confirmation email. It’s been three minutes of this tense god forsaken silence.
The grey clouds outside are suddenly more interesting than thinking about or looking at Leon, Leon, Leon.
Outside, summer rain showers bring the promise of thunderstorms, muddy roads, petrichor and puddles. There was a time where you loved the rain, before Leon. (There he is again, he waltzes around in your head and you wish he’d trip.)
You’d open your windows and let the sound lull you to sleep, then get annoyed when a puddle would form on the floor or on the window sill. A few drops splatter against the window pane, the first to trail down like tears.
After Leon, you couldn’t find too much beauty in it, not when you’d wake and find him wide eyed, staring at the ceiling. He never did like stormy nights, you always found him staring up at nothing in the middle of the night, stuck in some trancelike state you had to navigate carefully lest you step on a landmine.
You find yourself hoping Leon’ll be alright tonight. He never did tell you why he was so clammy, always had something to do with work and you got it, you did. You just hope he doesn’t take to the bottle again.
On the other hand, you still find it difficult to sleep without having him next to you. A mountain of pillows makes for a poor substitute, can’t replicate his warmth or the sound of his breathing whenever he would manage to fall asleep before you did.
You shift and let hands your clasp together against marble, forehead pressed against them in mock prayer. What does he really think about all this? Like really think. Not the stuff he’d said to try and make this seem amicable and mutual.
Is he as nervous as you are? Does he even want to make small talk? Is he just waiting for you to bring the axe down again?
‘Hey, I gotta go, actually. Thanks for the years and whatever, bye.’ You’d love to kiss the barrel right about now if he really is just waiting for you to initiate the goodbye sequence and you’ve just been standing here waiting this whole time, deluding yourself.
You want to laugh. Small talk. That’s what you’ve both been reduced to. The last hour you had both been so focused on clearing out what was left of the place there was no real time to try and play house again. He’d give you that awkward stare if you tried to ask him what he thought about the weather lately.
God, what if he hated you?
"Mhm." Leon finally grunts and breaks you out of your reverie, pulls you out the downward spiral before it can drag you under. "Everything’s good. The attorneys are settling the split." He slips his phone back into his pocket and turns, taps his fingers idly against the marble.
You lift your head up, your smile tight and out of place. “That’s good,” You sigh and rest your chin in the palm of your hand again as you settle into a ‘relaxed’ posture. “I’m glad it sold for more. Would’ve been a scam if it didn’t.”
Leon opens his mouth to say something, all that comes out is a quiet ‘amused’ scoff before his eyes go downcast in thought. Conversation was never this hard to make with you. Its weird how suddenly you two became estranged. You shared meals, a bed, a home and last names for years, yet somehow it feels like he doesn't know you at all anymore.
It feels wrong.
Ending things was never his forte, should he just say goodbye, shake your hand and call it a day? Things would be easier that way, it'd be a cleaner, neater, less awkward cut than whatever this was quickly becoming.
And there it is again. The silence. You run your tongue across your teeth and bite back your sigh. God you hate him.
It's funny to think there was a time where you could just skip town, stop answering calls and travel around. Just drift from coastal city to coastal city, wind in your hair, sun on your skin. But you can’t really ghost your ex-husband now can you? Not when you’re this close to the finish line.
Maybe in the future you’ll consider it, punishment for some guy who won’t understand signals of disinterest, if you even decide to date after Leon.
Leon opens the door for escape, "You need a ride or..."
“No!” You scramble to pull your own phone out, “No, I got um. I got one…I’m staying with Val, she actually dropped me off so…I’ll just call…” You trail off and start typing out your; ‘Hey girl! Everything’s packed up :) Save me from this please?’ message.
“Val?” Leon drawls the name out like it’s unfamiliar, your friend group is a variable he never considered much, a bunch of girls he’d heard about a handful of times and saw very little of towards the end.
Your friends never really came around to begin with, living cities apart tends to put that sort of strain when it comes to keeping close. And if they did come around he was always off somewhere else, saving the world and wondering if you’d had dinner midway through.
“Yeah, Val. You met her.” You clarify, brows drawing together in confusion. “At our wedding, she was a bridesmaid? The red head?”
Leon contemplates this. It’s not that he didn’t remember your wedding and who all was there, it’s that all he really remembers from that day is you, you can’t fault him for that. 2007 was a long, long time ago and the world nearly ended a handful of times in between the years.
…Lanshiang, New York, Alcatraz — to name a few. Forgive him for not memorizing the bridal party.
Then, it clicks. He remembers a Valerie, though he’s not sure if it’s this Val. How could he get it wrong? How many red heads go by Val anyways?
He nods and snaps his fingers, stuttering on a hum. “She uh, she’s the girl who fell during...” He trails off and scratches the nape of his neck.
You finish the sentence for him. “Her heel snapped before the photos.” You snort. There we go, it did ring a bell.
“Right. Her.” He leans against the island too, mirrors you and glances towards the front door as if she’d walk right in and haul you away by your forearm, save you from this situation and that’ll be that.
“Is she on her way?”
You glance down at your phone and feel your heart sink. “She’s forty something out…” You mutter and offer him a small awkward smile. Leon’s brows furrow again. “She lives on the other side of town.” You tack on and wave your own set of keys at him.
“You can go, I know you have that thing with Chris, right? I can lock up.”
The thing with Chris. You say it as if it’s a super important event and not the two of them drinking themselves numb in the corner of some poorly lit dingy sports bar. He loved that about you, always managing to find some way to make things sound better than what they were.
He’ll miss that. He’ll miss a lot of things, actually.
“I can wait.” He shrugs. “Chris isn’t doing much today. He’s..”
“…still on bed rest.”
“…still healing from his last mission?
You both finish the sentence at the same time. Different variations but the same conclusion at the end of the day; Chris’s arm is fucked.
Leon snorts, a small smile makes its way onto his face. “How’d you know?”
“Claire.” You smile back.
That’s another thing. Your lives were so intertwined it’s gonna be hard to ignore you’re gone next time they all go out for drinks. It already is.
“So forty minutes?”
“I guess.”
— x-x-x-x-x-x —
Somehow, you both end up in the garden. It’s easier to sit in silence when you’ve got the rumbling of thunder and the chirping of frantic birds to fill it for you. The only place where you can comfortably sit on is the bench bolted down to the gazebo in the backyard anyways.
The movers took the couch weeks ago, the staircase grew to be bad for Leon’s back after five minutes. At any rate, you’re sure a nail would come through if you sat on it for long.
There’s a respectable distance between you two where you’re perched, not enough room for Jesus, but it’s certainly there. Soft purple passionflower, fruity and fragrant, trails down the column beside you, its vines searching blindly for something to cling to.
You steal a glance at Leon. He’s sat with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head tipped back, adam’s apple protruding like he’s got something stuck in his throat, his eyes are closed, seemingly content to take a load off and soak in the sounds.
You settle in too, not as comfortably as he has, but enough to let out whatever tensions left over. You’ll miss this place.
The garden always was your favorite, Leon had the gazebo installed year five as an anniversary gift, one peek at the board of magazine clippings you kept was all it took for him to hire contractors and plan it out. You’d bought flower bulbs in bulk just so you had something to do while he painted it white.
Come spring it always brought in all sorts of bugs and pollinators — mourning cloaks, and sootywings on overcast days, monarchs and swallowtails if the sun was bright enough. You wonder if the next family will tear it down in favor of a pool or something. A playground for the children you and Leon never got around to having or if they’d install one of those little playgrounds like the neighbors had.
Absent-mindedly, you bring up a random memory that pops up in your head. “You remember when the neighbors built that privacy fence and put that big ass camera up?”
Leon snorts, he pries his eyes open and stares at nothing in particular. “That guy was a nut job.” Leon mutters.
You laugh and shift in your seat, conversation rumbles to life, purring contentedly. “We always had shitty neighbors.” You hum, dipping further in. It’s easy to talk about the past. “Remember back when we lived in those shady apartments?”
It takes Leon a while, but it dawns on him eventually. He only lived in two apartment complexes with you, the last one was nice and isolated, notably. The unit across was empty the two years you both stayed there — something about it being the landlord's show unit.
That leaves the other option, and those apartments make way more sense. The apartments he used to live in near the DSO, back when he actually valued being on time and you two had just started dating. Living there was fine for him; it wasn't until you moved in that he realized he had to get you both out of there. Being near a government building doesn’t necessarily guarantee the people’ll be model citizens.
“Yeah. Yeah I do.” He grunts. “The guy who always thought we were stealing his packages. Asshole tried breaking in didn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” It sounds ugly when he puts it like that. “He was just…on something.”
Leon rolls his eyes and stares at you deadpan. ‘On something.’ It doesn’t exactly give a man permission to bust down a door over what ended up being a package that got held by customs. That’s another thing, you always downplayed things. It’s a huge part of why he can’t believe you when you say it’s not his fault.
He’s known you for years and still can’t find a real deal-breaking fault, but he can pinpoint all of his. So how is he supposed to think that somehow you’re the reason this didn’t work?
“Right.” he drags it out, making it clear he doesn’t believe you. He wasn’t home for it, so all he ever had to go off of was the frantic phone call you’d made. That guy was on something, though. Had to be. “I should’ve just moved into your place.”
You quirk a brow. Your place?
Your apartment before him was less of a home and more of a shoebox, it had the basics but that was it. One bedroom that instantly transitioned into kitchen, dining room and entryway. If the neighbors smoked, you smelled it.
You huff. “My place wasn’t any better.”
At least Leon’s had a hallway. And it was near a park you’d both frequented when he wasn’t too tired after work. Dumbarton Oaks with its fields of peonies, tulips and draping wisteria.
You don’t think you can ever go back to it without thinking about Leon, he’s cursed to haunt the grounds with you forever, your hand in his, his eyes on you.
Your lips curl slightly at the edges. He loved that place in the spring too. You turn your head to face him a little better. “Do you remember—“
“Sorry I never got you that dog.” Leon says out of the blue.
Whatever you’d wanted to drudge up slinks back into sludge. It gets a little reaction out of you though, the words die in your throat. Your expression is a mix of bewilderment and amusement - brows twitching, lips pursing. Why does that matter now?
It’s a cliche, the pet every couple gets and then has to coparent. You forgot all about that, he’s dusted those memories off and buffed them out. The late night conversations that came whenever you’d bring it up come roaring to the forefront, the ones that always ended up turning into plans for the future.
At the time, you’d shown him some big, dumb looking chocolate lab with its tongue lolled out and its head cocked to the side, of course he said no. It was too big a dog.
‘We should get a dog, there’s this shelter nearby that...’
‘…No, we don’t even have room for a dog that big…‘
‘…we can only get a dog if our kid asks for one? That’s not fair, that’s so far away!’
‘Sounds fair to me, princess. A dogs a big responsibility…’
‘Yeah, I know. I had three, but what if…’
But that was then. This is now. A dog really would’ve been nice, it would’ve made the house feel a little less lonely, Leon wouldn’t have had to install so many cameras if you had gotten a big dog like you wanted but…
“Sorry, what were you gonna say?”
You wave the memories away, tuck them back into whatever box they tumbled out of. “No it’s fine,” You tuck one leg up onto the bench and wrap your arms around it.
“I know you were like, scared of them.”
Leon scoffs, “I wasn’t scared of dogs.” It sounds absurd. It sounds weak when you put it like that out loud. Leon. The D.S.O. 's legendary and longest standing agent. Leon.
Leon S. Kennedy. Afraid of dogs.
“You’re not?”
“No, it’s just,” he pauses, and you wish you’d just let it go.
There’s a story there he never told you. You wish you couldn’t read him so well either, but his eyes tighten around the corners and give him away, he never could look you straight in the eye when he was hiding something or lying.
“Does it really matter now?” He settles for that, doesn’t mean to sound so bitter, but he does.
There’s a lot of things Leon never told you about nor explained; the keychain, the nightmares, why he’d been so exhausted as of late, and why he’d pulled away and why he’d been disappearing, — another thing you had to forgive, your lawyer would’ve hounded him in court if you hadn’t. — everything is on a need to know basis, and you technically, don’t need to know.
There’s no point in badgering him in attempts to get him to spill his guts. These things really do just…not matter anymore, if you couldn’t get him to be honest while married or at least extend a sliver of an olive branch, then what’s the point in trying to do it now?
They can remain as he’d like them; mystery’s, left abandoned to collect dust alongside the memories.
You try for something light hearted, your smile is soft at the edges, understanding as much as it could be. “It’s fine to be afraid of dogs.” You tease and roll your eyes, nudge his shoulder with yours. “I would’ve been fine with a cat. Or a little dachshund, we didn’t have to get a lab.”
Leon rolls his eyes and leans away from you, slumps into his corner of the bench. It isn’t odd for him to do this, now that he’s got a grip on himself he does this when he’s found himself needled. Instead of reaching for the bottle, he shuts the doors and searches for some sort of reprieve, walks circles in that head of his and still lets the concept of ‘talking things out’ go forgotten.
Ah, you’ve walked yourself into a trap. Your smile falters, and just like that, the easy going atmosphere dissipates like a drop of water in a hot pan.
Was it something you said? (Of course it was.) Or was it something you hadn’t? Did he want an apology? Some sort of understanding? Maybe you should’ve brushed it off, said ‘No, I really really didn’t want a dog anyways, let’s talk about the park please.’ and steered the course back to safer waters.
It doesn’t matter, you repeat. It really doesn’t. You’re stuck in a loop of apathy, dancing to a tune you don’t quite recognize and can’t turn off. The pitter patter of rain softens its sharp edges, though it doesn’t completely erase the need to fill it with something light hearted.
You glance down at the tan line on your ring finger. It’ll take a while to go away, a lighter shade to remind you of what once was until you slip on another. Though you doubt you’ll remarry. Your eyes find Leon again, you wish it was easy to get lost in your thoughts and forget he’s here, let the minutes pass in relative peace; it’s harder to ignore the fact he’s still got his ring on.
You curl your fist and pray he hasn’t noticed yours is missing, it’s tucked away in velvet, left on your vanity to lose its sparkle. The guilt settles heavy in your heart, a snake creeping through the grass that makes you think twice; why does he still have it on? Was it too early to take it off?
There must be some sort of guideline to divorce etiquette you’re missing.
Was there a vital bullet point tucked in one of the blog posts you skimmed through that you actually needed to read? ‘The Do’s and Dont’s of divorce; don’t take your ring off until months after your divorce is settled, it looks bad if you do.’ or some other quirky point written by some ‘journalist’.
The answer to why he has his on is simple, why kid yourself? Leon didn’t want this, there’s no room for miscommunication there. No oh, well, maybe he knew it was dead and didn’t want to pull the plug first, no chance of saying it was mutual even if it might be amicable.
He took so long to sign the papers, dragged his feet and had his lawyer plead for separation first instead under the guise of managing assets and other legal jargon neither of you ever thought you'd have to care for.
You know he was hoping you’d change your mind, that therapy would’ve made you have a come to Jesus moment and rescind your demand. Unfortunately for him, it hadn’t. And at the altar when he’d said forever and always; he’d meant it, every single word.
Then, his hair had been shades brighter and a little shorter, his eyes less crinkled at the edges, his suit and tie impossibly starched and a cold sweat had settled at the nape of his neck, he’d stopped wiping it away lest other people notice.
It was funny to look back on, Mr. Suave rendered down to a fidgeting groom the second the organ began. Every nerve had lit itself on fire the moment you’d walked down the aisle to meet him at the finish line.
At what moment in time had the spark fizzled? What had he missed? (Besides birthdays, trips you’d started to organize alone - no longer clinging to hoping he’d get the days off, and date nights.)
Suddenly the world’s been turned over on its head and he’s meant to forget all about you and all the things you like. Life is supposed to go on and he’s supposed to let the feeling of your hand in his become a distant memory; you’ll be preserved in an imperfect film, the exact moment you fell out of love burned away in the negatives.
One thing resurfaces, however, was this why?
“You think we waited too long to have kids?” Leon asks with the subtlety of breaking glass. Was it then? Had he waited too long? You never gave him a clear answer the night you’d asked for divorce, he can’t help but want to peel it all back and get some clarity.
Would you have stayed if he had gotten you pregnant? The question buzzes around in Leon’s head violently, he’s poked a hornets nest, the poison sinks into his system because the answers yes, isn’t it?
You stiffen visibly, the spotlight is rather harsh. Your heart stutters and comes to a stop in your chest. You hate this line of questioning, everything in your body’s gotten the jitters. So it seems he remembers those conversations too. The topic always came up, in conversation with friends, after grocery trips, in the comfortable silence that followed after dinner.
The house always felt like something was missing. A dog, a cat, a damned parrot. Something that made noise. Something that breathed life into this house. Anything so long as it wasn’t just you and the late night news.
Those two little babies always manifest and never go away when you think about them too hard. The pitter patter of little feet running up the stairs. A boy with that cute little dimple in his chin. A girl with moles scattered around like ink droplets.
What traits or physical attributes would they have gotten from you? Would they have been all Leon in the face or would hints of you be there too? You would’ve torn the gazebo out for them too if they wanted a pool. But, you have to let them go.
You know now the solution would’ve never been children, they would’ve simply been just that; another thing that would’ve filled the silence that came after he was gone.
The only semi-truthful answer you can find comes out naturally. “I…I don’t know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye. Leon’s jaw is shut tight, molars working against themselves to death.
You’ve come to terms with that, it’s too late to have any of your own either way. No choice but to march on with time. You don’t resent him for wasting your youth, Leon couldn’t ever change the fact he was a man who would’ve never really been home, you knew that when you married him.
You just thought that something would’ve changed down the time. Maybe things would've been different.
That’s on you isn’t it?
“Did you really want kids?” You don’t shy away from asking. Dreaming out loud with Leon was your favorite pastime.
Leon rubs his hand against the scruff on his chin, manages to grit out, “Always wanted a girl.” He risks it, meets your gaze head on. “Would’ve looked like you.”
Your eyes widened slightly, thrown off guard. “Still?”
You figured he would’ve changed his mind and wanted a boy like every other guy seemed to want, could’ve raised him up to be like himself. Named him Leon Jr or something dorky. Just not Scott. You wouldn’t have let him name your son something that dorky. Leon can let that die with him.
“Yeah.” Leon smiles, it brightens the storm clouds around him, it's infectious, you feel your own lips itching to match his mood. He’d have been a good girl dad, he’s got some experience, after all.
“Yeah?” You reach out and shove him lightly, a real smile tugging on your lips. “You would’ve annoyed the hell out of her.” For the first time since you’ve started this whole process, Leon chuckles. The sound is low and rich though carrying a weight he lets out in the sigh that follows.
“You annoyed the hell out of me.” You murmur in jest, it’s lighthearted, he knows. “But she would’ve loved you for it, I loved you for it.” You rest your cheek against the top of your knee and trace the lines on his face, he’s still as handsome as the day you met him, you don’t even notice what you’re starting to say.
“Still do.”
Leon stares back, his eyes have widened a bit but that all doesn’t matter much now. He’s still your tired Leon with his sad blue eyes, worry lines etched in his forehead. With his greys poking out through the blonde — if it could even be considered that anymore, it’s as brown as ale now, aged just like that. — that frames his face. He barely even has smile lines but he musters another big one up for you, accentuates them.
“Yeah?” He rumbles lowly.
You don’t retract it. “Yeah.”
Time itself seems to come at a standstill, everything else blurs. And suddenly, it’s the first summer you both spent out in the countryside after he came back from Spain, and it’s beginning to feel like you never uttered ‘I think this just isn’t working anymore.’ to him.
It rained then too. You could almost pretend that’s where you’re at again, out in the middle of nowhere skinny dipping like brain dead teens in horror flicks, he’d questioned how smart the idea was yet still followed you into the lake muttering warnings to ward off ‘big ass fishes’.
Leon shifts in his seat, turns his body towards you subtly. This is a bad idea. You swallow the thought, Don’t, don’t.. your heart races in your ears and drowns out any reason.
You shouldn’t play with his feelings. Your gaze is pulled downward to settle on his lips, dusky pink and still plush. Don’t. You remember when he’d stopped shaving, somewhere in between 2014 and 2015, you used to hate the beard burn then, you wouldn’t mind feeling it again now.
“I’m sorry, I…” You mutter, “I..I shouldn’t have…”
Leon’s eyes flick down just a fraction too. He always did like the slow burn, you’d play coy and dance around what you wanted, and it’s killing him to know all he’ll have after this is memories that’ll slip through his hands like sand.
The fractures start to show, eyes lingering a second too long for people who are supposed to be moving on after this. The distance between you two became negligible somewhere along the lines enough for them to have long dissolved.
You both move at the same time, all coordination goes forgotten when you come to connect, his nose knocks against yours before your lips finally meet again after having spent half a year apart. Your other hand latches onto the front of his shirt, his finds the curve of your cheek, the jigsaws always fall into place.
Your tongue rolls over and against his, the scant space when lips part is filled with shared breaths and desperate pants, the rains pouring down eagerly now, splashing off the gazebos railing and splattering against the stone, but none of that matters now, not when he’s hauling you onto his lap by your hips like old times.
Your hand reaches out to tangle in his hair as you shift and crowd him against the benches corner, Leon’s hand grips your waist, adjusting your thighs to bracket his.
“Right here?” He cracks one eye open. Yours are screwed shut.
“Mhm.” You pant, your breath is hot against his lips, his teeth clack against yours. “Please.”
That sweet little ‘please’ does all the work for you, his blood rushes southbound all in one millisecond, they left one blood cell in charge upstairs and that one too is screaming ‘go! go! go!’.
Leon keeps you firmly on his lap, one hand rests against the small of your back while the other scrambles down south, working his fly open just enough for future ease. Your lips meet his time and time again, it’s nice to kiss him when he doesn’t taste like whiskey, even better after being deprived of him for so long, you’ll ignore that it’s self inflicted.
His tongue licks into your mouth softly, swipes against yours with a sigh of relief. How long has he been thinking of doing this again? Too long. It’s hard to kill his attraction for you, it isn’t some switch he can just turn off.
You’re it for him, you always were and always will be. It doesn’t matter if he’s gotta sit parallel to you and sign his name on a line come Monday, if it makes you happy. He’ll do it. But right now he can be a little selfish, can’t he?
“This is a bad idea.” You hiss, a reminder to you both, his hand still works its way up your ass, hiking your pencil skirt up enough to expose a whisper of lace.
“I know.” Leon murmurs against your lips, swallows down whimpers and gasps alike. “Just once. ‘s all it has to be.”
Liar, liar, liar, liar—
You cling onto that just once and guide his hands. He’s right. It’s all it has to be. Just one teensy mistake.
You nod dumbly, helping him shove your panties aside, his fingers prod along your slit clumsily, that sharp intake when he dips them between flesh makes you feel slightly self conscious, you’re wet, unmistakably so. He parts your folds with a quiet click and all your worries melt away the second he finds your clit, rubs it softly with his index and makes you stutter out a sweet little moan.
“You needed this, huh?” Leon huffs, it’s easy to fall into line, he hasn’t forgotten this dance just yet, his fingers circle and your clit, “Didn’t mean to let it get this bad.”
Your eyes flutter shut before opening again to watch his face. Leon presses his forehead against yours and closes his own. Two slip in down to the knuckle and out to the tip, rhythmically pumping into your entrance playfully, enough to stimulate, not enough to please.
He did let it get this bad, what with him being gone all the time and leaving you with nothing but a bunch of plastic to fill in the gaps, how gracious of him to finally make it up to you. But you won’t leave him hanging, even if you should.
“Let me help,” You sighed, “please?”
There it is again, that magic word. He never could say no to you, didn’t help he never wanted to in the first place. Leon shifts slightly, tips his hips up and lets you do all the work, it’s hard to focus on anything else but the warmth radiating from between your legs.
Your hand slipped in between you both to find his length, through the fabric of his briefs he’s warm but noticeably, soft. Half-hard, if you were generous, nearly flaccid if you weren’t, it would’ve been a bit of a blow to your ego if the problem was you there. But it wasn’t. Your hand still slips into that weird little gap in his briefs, it was for easy access you assumed.
It was him, age does these things after all, nothing to be ashamed about, though you know he is, in fact, ashamed. You can count on your hands how many times you’ve seen him get pouty when you’d recommend that little blue pill.
“Still having problems?” You murmur against his lips, languidly stroking him to life, thumb rubbing the vein along the side, slipping up to tug the skin encasing his frenulum down, worrying the edge of his cock head til it starts to weep pearly beads of pre-cum.
“Don’t put it like that.” Leon groaned, pushing his cock further into the cradle of your hand, rubbing his fingers through your folds a little harder before lightly smacking them against your pussy for punishment, you jolt and squeeze a little too hard. “Still working, isn't it?”
Now it is. You rut against his fingertips for more, press a kiss to the tip of his nose and smoosh your forehead against his. “Yeah.” You glance down in between you both, watching your hands work in tandem, his stuffed between your thighs, yours working over his lap.
Leon’s cock stiffens up to attention, all his blood going right where it needs to be, thickened up and engorged as much as it could possibly go, your thumb drags a few more beads down to slicken him up, palm twisting to work him not over, but nearly.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your strokes lose their rhythm, blurring faster than you intended, you could never lie that when it comes to this, Leon knows you as well as you know him, maybe even more so, he’d turned you into his own pull apart - put back together attraction over the span of a decade or two and somehow never managed to get bored.
Always found something new to fixate over, a new place to bite, another to nip and suckle at. If you were in your bedroom, he’d have you belly down, ass up for the next hour or with his arm coiled around your neck, but, alas. From here on out, you could only dream.
A choked whine leaves your lips, the slick that’s collected on his fingers makes for easy traction, his fingers work in earnest, two spread your entrance open, scissoring before twisting in deeper. Leon feels the exact moment the pads of his digits start to bully your sweet spot, your cunt clings to him and your whimpers scream: Right there, there, there, there—
But, he stops and pulls out abruptly. Your pussy clenches strongly around nothing, a protest of its own that leaves you chasing the feeling you’re being suddenly denied of, humping the air and wondering where his fingers went. It isn’t long until you figure it out.
You let go of his cock when you feel him take over for you, gripping at the base and effectively relieving you of duty.
“You ready?” His other hand cups the bottom of your ass cheek and tugs it aside, spreading you open and lining himself up clumsily. The tip of his cock nudges against your opening and notches itself to land. You bite the tip of your tongue and fight the urge to impale yourself with him.
“C’mon, yes or no.” Your eyes flick up to Leon’s face. He’s so smug. Staring up at you with that little gleam in his eyes and an easy grin. He sinks you down just an inch more, watches you gasp before tugging you back up. Bastard.
“Yes, please.” You nod dumbly and wrap your arms around him like he’s come home from a particularly long mission, let your body cover his and spread your legs as much as you can without making it hard on him.
The ruddy tip of his cock kisses your folds again, he misses once before he finally notches himself in, parts them with relative ease, sinking in deeper inch by inch and ignoring how his cock kicks and throbs with each warm sigh you let out against him. Your pussy is mind-meltingly warm, slick and viselike, if he weren’t careful he would’ve shoved himself into you instantaneously.
Leon was big, there’s no room for arguing there, he’s always had a cock that makes you think twice before going in with little to no preamble like this, if it hadn’t been for his hands holding you steady you would’ve squirmed away, begged him to kiss it better and really work you open with his fingers, not whatever he was doing before.
It felt like he was splitting you open in the best and worst ways possible, each whimper and whine soothed away bit by bit by him shushing you and rubbing little circles into the divots of your hips to distract you.
One thought makes its way through the haze. You aren’t going to last, your thighs squeeze shut as best as they can, granting your poor clit the friction it’s still begging for, though in a small amount. It’s hard for Leon to focus on lasting in the first place too when your pussy hugs him so tightly, it misses him, that much is clear.
Maybe that’s the part of you that misses him more than your heart does.
His fingers dimple the fat of your hips, squeezing and kneading, savoring the way flesh gives beneath the pads of his fingertips, if he holds on hard enough he won’t let himself get carried away by the wave.
“You okay?” Leon pants. He presses kisses where your cleavage is pressed against his face. Suffocate him, why don’t you?
You peer down and catch his gaze. Leon’s pupils are blown, black swallows up blue until it’s a thin line just around, eyes half-lidded like he’s on downers and ready to nod off. You like Leon most when he’s just as lost as you are, makes you wonder why you stopped having sex in the first place.
“Uh-huh,” You cradle the back of his head and press him closer against you. “C’mon, kiss ‘em for me.” Your other hand tugs the cups of your breast down just a bit, enough to pop a tit out and offer it up for his pleasure.
You don’t have to tell Leon twice, he takes one into his mouth and teases your nipple between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make you shudder out a moan and shut your eyes. The pleasure-pain has your pussy clenching around him tighter than it has before.
“Fuck,” Leon hisses in between kisses, his hips jolt forward to chase his own pleasure now that your body’s reminded him exactly where his dicks at. Leon starts to steadily rut up into you like it’s your last day on earth.
And in a way he isn’t wrong, it surely feels like it is.
Any moment now a big rock will come flying down and wipe out humanity and you’ll die in his arms like you’re meant to. Vows always speak of for better or for worse, until death do us part. So what is he to do after this?
His palm slides down to grip onto the soft flesh of your ass, uses it as leverage and holds you just where he wants you. He’d take you hostage if he didn’t have morals.
You tip your head back and let out a low throaty moan, arch closer and plaster your tits further against his mouth. “Shit—” You whine, your hands plant themselves firmly against his shoulders, “Leon,”
Your mouth hangs open, half choked moans and words tumbling out in between gasps. Leon’s constantly adjusting his hold on you, starting to become uncertain with where to put his hands. Too pussy drunk to really care, each thrust sends a wave of heat through your core.
Your nails dug in as much as they could, praying they’ll rip through fabric and make contact with skin, score him to make certain he’s real and this isn’t some dream you’ll wake up from to find yourself sweat slicked and embarrassed to see you’ve rutted yourself against a pillow.
How long has it been since he’s last fucked you? A year? Two? Your cunt answers for you, too soaked for it to have been any less. No, it couldn’t have been that long. The last time you’re certain he had you like this was after he’d come back from the middle of nowhere, it doesn’t narrow it down but you know you’d been crying then too.
You always do.
Wait.
You’re crying?
You open your eyes and stare up at the roof, a snotty intake of air and a real sob is all Leon needs to hear to come to this realization too. Your chest expands and stutters half way. You’re crying?? The lump in your throat is confirmation.
“Why’re you crying?” Leon rasps out, your heart is being squeezed in a vice, he slows his thrust. His cock slides in and out in languid, syrupy strokes meant to let you get a grip, give him an answer that isn’t ’I don’t know.’ or a moan.
You force yourself to tilt your head down, sobbing softly against him. It’s not that you don’t know what you’re about to say, it’s that fucking Leon without saying it feels wrong. You love him. You do love him. Enough to let him go. Enough to not let your relationship deteriorate further. You still love him enough to be able to say it and mean it.
“I love you,” You whisper hoarsely, “God, I love you.” your own hips start to work themselves in tandem with his, taking him in deep and whimpering when the tip of his cock starts to shift from hammering against that little spot to grinding against it, wringing stars out from the sky’s above.
Leon groans like you’ve punched him in the gut, in a way you did, his head tips back and rests against the bench’s back rest. His eyes screw shut. You don’t mean that. You couldn’t mean that. Not while you’re drunk off pleasure and high off the tension, it isn’t real this way.
“I love you,” You repeat raggedly, dipping your head down to hide against the crook of his neck, your spines being lit ablaze, flames traveling up the base to melt your brain. You whine his name and curl further into him. He shifts just enough to press his forehead against yours again. His jaw clenches.
Your noses bump against each other unapologetically.
“I know,” He grunts, “I got you, fuck, baby I got you. Always do.”
The truth is, he doesn’t. He hardly ever had time for you those last few months. And you can’t stand feeling so alone anymore, missed birthdays, holidays, anniversaries...it all piled up. You’d rather die than end up one of those bitter bored housewives who stayed for the money.
You love Leon enough to know he deserves better. You know he feels guilty for not being home so often, it’s best to just rip the bandaid off now.
At least for now you can believe it, pretend everything’s alright. It feels like it is. It feels like you’re twenty six again, giggling under his bedsheets and finding out what makes him tick all over again. Pressing kisses against his face and teasing him for going redder than he already was.
You open your eyes to find he’s already staring at you. So close you can see the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and that his lashes have got greys too.
He's close. You can recognize that expression anywhere. His lips are pulled up in a pained snarl. His grunts turning to groans, slipping past his lips and reminding you how pretty he sounds when he’s about to cum.
“I love you too,” He parrots, catches your bottom lip between his teeth and presses his against yours again, swallows your words before either can dig the grave deeper. His arm bands around the small of your back, his fingers dig into the fat of your waist, hips smacking up against yours, that nasty squelch of slick flesh meeting again and again emanating louder between you two.
Your throat closes up, the knot that’s formed behind your navel starts to pull loose little by little, your half-bit keen comes in time with the pulsing of your inner muscle around him, if he’s delusional enough, he could believe you’re apologizing for breaking his heart in morse code.
Your hips twitched and jerked as you squirm and pull off, crying out that it’s too much, what hasn’t been emptied inside you spurted out and trickled down the length of his cock, both of your chests heaved in similar cadences, body’s going tense to jelly like in a matter of seconds, boneless and gone to the word.
Only when you met his gaze again and the afterglow started to fade, did you realize what exactly happened.
— x-x-x-x-x-x —
You stuff your compact mirror back into your purse.
For the last five minutes you’ve been scrubbing away the evidence off your face. Mascara trails down beneath your eyes, bits flake off and coat your cheeks like soot. Tirelessly, you’ve tried wiping away the flushed color from your cheeks, ignoring the way they burn.
While it’s easy to blame the rain for your dishevelment, it’s harder to ignore the jelly-like condition that’s suddenly rendered your legs useless.
Leon stands awkwardly behind you, he’s been adjusting his jacket for the past couple of minutes, tucking his collar up, slipping the extra in his waist band before pulling it back out, and sneaking glances he thinks you don’t notice.
God. The silence is worse this time around.
Your gut churns violently like waves crashing again and eroding a cliffslide. You’re stupid. You’re an idiot. An ingénue who let herself get carried away with the storm and scrabbled for land, solid and familiar. It’s still raining, it’s worse than before actually. You wonder if that’s the world trying to tell you something, maybe it’s berating you; for fucking him after divorcing him, for divorcing him in the first place, for telling him you loved him during, for not taking it back after.
Where would you two be if Leon had just tried? Would you have managed to find happiness again? Would he have found the time to come back to you as he was?
You didn’t mind having him jaded, drunk, mean, anything so long as he was there. You patched over those gaps, tucked them away out of sight, out of mind because at least he was there. Ugly and down in it, drowning in the currents right there with you.
And you know to some extent that these shadows and breaks were necessary, that he had to keep you in the dark and away from him as much as possible, it isn’t his fault. Leon couldn’t have known you’d grow this tired, he suspected it was a possibility, but he never let himself really acknowledge it. You’d vowed to each other, hadn’t that meant something?
Maybe it’s for the best things ended this way. There’s no real way to patch a fracture this wide, no way to bridge it when one party can’t compromise. Things are easier this way, they’ll have to be. What other choice do you have?
You already were indifferent to some degree towards the end, if you’d have ended up really hating him, wishing he’d just die in some corner of the world so you could collect…You scrub your hands against your face again. You’d rather this than that.
Your face is wet, breaths come out in puffs against your shaking hands and you wonder if it’s left over droplets from the rain or fresh tears. Does Leon regret this as much as you do? God, you could just take it all back, throw yourself at him and beg; ‘Please don’t let me divorce you, call the lawyers, it was a mistake, I'm so sorry hun’, i’m so stupid, I love you.’
You could try, you could get on your knees and grovel and Leon would hold you like he always did, he’d kiss the top of your head and cradle you like you’re something soft and small and in his arms you’d believe you were, he’d say you’re not stupid and he’d promise you things like he always has—
“That can’t happen again.” You blurt out. The rustle of fabric behind you stops. Your tongues gone numb between your teeth, bad habit.
You don’t want to turn around, your bloods both frozen in your veins and boiling hot bubbling beneath skin, the silence behind you is deafening, until you hear Leon exhale through his teeth.
When he finally opens his mouth, he tries for a joke like always, “Was it that bad?”
It doesn’t take a genius to hear it’s lacking his usual bravado. ‘No hard feelings’, you could hear it clear as day in his tone.
“No, it’s just…” You keep your hands pressed against your face then they slap against your sides rather loudly. Don’t make me say it, you want to say. Won’t you please tell me? you could hear him say in return if he knew.
You force yourself to turn and take one look at him, a risk, and it tells you all you need to know. He came to the conclusion the moment you’d scrambled back inside, it’s in your eyes, in your pinched brows and pouted lips, in the tears you hide under the guise of rain droplets.
“No, I know. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.” Leon apologizes first and your heart splits in two to hear that dejected tone he’s trying to hide so hard beneath gruff timbre. Your Leon, always the one to take the blame.
Your vision blurs again, tears stinging like nettles. ‘I’m sorry, Leon.’ is all you should say, all you could say. You’d repeat it over and over again until you both believed it. But it’s exactly what you won’t say. Leon’s zipped his jacket up and settled against the doorframe, you need to pull the plug, he needs to pull it.
It’d be better if you took one for the team, let him be the one who leaves first for once.
“My rides almost here." You swipe at your eye and mumble. You’ve no idea where your friend is, forty minutes have long since passed. “I’ll um…I’ll see you Monday.”
Leon stays silent, stares at the floor, then at you. You think he’ll say something, fight you about it, force you to shake off this weird mood so it can be like before again. Instead he just hesitates and nods, always too good at taking orders.
“Yeah.” He mutters, patting his pockets for his phone and his keys before he reaches for the door handle. “See you.”
The door closes with a click shut behind him, and maybe you preferred the silence from before. You don’t know what’s worse. That look on his face, the flat sound of his voice, or being left behind to wait alone in this big empty house.
Watching Leon go still makes a lump form in your throat. Reminds you of the nights he’d wake you before he went off on some mission, leaving you behind with a soft kiss and a ‘Love you, be home soon.’
After a few minutes of mind numbing silence, you move towards the window on your own accord and lean against the window, just out of sight. Leon’s already sitting in his Porsche, head pressed against the steering wheel.
The rain trickles down the pane and obscures your vision. You think after today, you’ll come to hate it too.
💭 thinking about re9!Leon Kennedy threatening to shave his happy trail 18+ I’m insane about him oml
He’s standing at the foot of your queen-sized bed in a pair of boxers, having just gotten out of the shower. “I think I might need to shave this off soon, baby.” Your head instantly snaps up at his direction, dropping the book you were reading onto the mattress beside you.
You watch in silent horror as he runs his hand over the dark hairs that dust across his chest and down towards that delicious happy trail of his, his brows all pinched together in contemplation, even the thought of him considering it sent you into panic.
“Absolutely not. No,” you tell him, shaking your head in vehement protest as you shuffle to the end of the bed on your knees.
His eyes catch yours, and his frown softens into a grin. “Look at it, baby, it’s getting out of control down here.” He huffs in amusement, fingers still grazing over the coarse hairs, heart melting a little at the way your lips purse out into a frowny pout.
“It’s sexy, Leon.” You tell him, brushing his hands away from the sacred trail with a huff. “You’re not allowed to just shave it all off.” your fingers now toy with the waistband of his boxers.
He chuckles, cupping your cheeks between his big palms and tilting your head back. “Not allowed? What you gonna stop me?”
“No… but if you shave it off I-I-” you pause, wracking your sleepy brain for a suitable punishment, “I won’t have sex with you until it grows back.”
“Oh, fighting talk, huh? You wouldn’t last a week, babe.” He replies smugly, knowing for a fact that he’s not wrong. You barely survive when he gets pulled away by his ever-demanding job, always relying on those special homemade videos you both made.
You groan in frustration, and he coos down at you, running the pad of his thumb over your pouty lips to try and coax you to smile— but it doesn’t work, you seem genuinely heartbroken, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t amuse him just a little.
“C’mon… don’t look at me like that, baby, it needs taming.”
You don’t answer, but your expression turns determined. You lean forward, looking up at him through your lashes as you press a wet kiss right over the hard ridge of his abs. His fingers slip into your hair, tightening a little at the roots, your name catching in his chest as you drag your tongue back up his firm stomach.
“Oh Fuck-” his voice comes out hoarse, ragged.
“Promise me you won’t get rid of it.” You tell him, dragging sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down to his V-line, and when he doesn’t answer right away, you pull back, scowling at him. “Promise me, Leon.”
“Yeah, yeah, I promise… I’ll keep it, s’all yours gorgeous.” He breathes out heavily from above you, dick already hard and twitching to life against the thin fabric of his boxers.
“Good.” You beam up him happily, tugging the waistband of his boxers down a little further with a lick of your lips.
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AN: is this a safe space to say I love big hairy men and women?
