ash

“I think… I think it’s best if we end things. Here.” The words escape his throat as if he’s choking on a pill. Your face falls into something he hasn’t seen before; true shock, followed by confusion.

“Are you fucking with me, Leon?” It’s a harsh question, words edged sharp as a knife. You can tell he’s not joking, but you are in such disbelief at what he’d said that you have to know it’s for real. Have to make him say it. That after months of finally feeling seen and held by someone who truly cares, he’s throwing it all away because of what ifs.

“No,” he swallows and stares down at his hands, fidgeting on the table of the coffee shop. An impersonal place; one you’ve never been to together. No attachment, something he thought would make this all easier. To part and become strangers again. It only creates a thicker tension. “Look, I’m-I’m moving all the way to Raccoon City, and I’m going to be working weird hours. There’s risks involved— you deserve something more stable—”

“I don’t want stable,” you reach for his hand, but he yanks it away before your fingers touch. He can’t bear to do this with your warmth on him. He won’t be able to. “I want you, Leon. Isn’t it obvious? Why can you take risks on your job but I can’t with you?”

“I don’t—” There’s no good answer from him. You’re right; you nearly always are. But he’s dug his heels in. Maybe it’s the fear of attachment, or the fear of abandonment. Maybe it’s being used to being alone. Maybe it’s wanting to be the hero, to save people of something like his youth. “Listen. Just go home. You’re better off without me. I’m sorry.” And that’s how he left it. Left you, sniffling at that café, while he found himself at a bar to drink away the pain.  

You could tell he was still reeling from the events of his first day at… work. There was something shaky in his voice, something quieter about him. Even over the phone it was obvious. It pulled at your heart. There was no way in hell you wouldn’t be there for him when he’s going through this. Fuck the break up. And you’d told him as much.

Leon feels stupid for thinking that letting you go was a smart decision. But he also feels a pool of guilt, of selfishness in his stomach for asking you to come over. For pulling you back into his bullshit. Yet here you were, showering in his newly acquired, much nicer hotel room paid by the government as part of an uncomfortable exchange for his recruitment to STRATCOM. They’d promised him an apartment soon enough, but he imagines it will feel just as hollow.

At least with you here, it felt a little more like a home.

The second he opens the door, he’s struck dead in his tracks. You’re in front of him again, by some miracle. Really there. Hair a mess from the wind, your jacket falling off your shoulder, and  a container of food gripped in your hands. Even through the long pause of you looking at each other, the pull is obvious. You have tears in your eyes again, like the last time he saw you. But they’re different this time; something along the lines of relief rather than frustration.

Your arms reach for him and he can’t stop himself from falling into the hug. Your fingers are warm. They’re steady. Your wrist thrumming with a pulse against his back. The last touches he’d had were ones of the undead; cold and hungry grabs that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Even Ada’s stray brushes hadn’t been something to fawn over; although she’d had a semblance of care for him, they were marred in his memory by her betrayal. 

Even just a week out from his last day with you, it felt like a lifetime ago since he’d last felt genuine touch. So much has happened since then. Holding you in his arms is, at the very least, surreal, and at the most, a heaven he’s not sure he even deserves. Not when so many lie dead, slipped from his grasp.

“I thought I wasn’t going to see you again for a second, there.” The weight of your voice nearly sends him to the floor. Real and close, buried in his chest like before he’d turned everything into a mess. He squeezes you tighter, a little afraid you’d turn tail and run when you discover he isn’t quite the same man as he had been before. Something had shifted, something darker and quieter at the forefront now. But when you pull away just enough to look at him, it’s like nothing has changed for you. There’s worry, a little frustration, pulling at your expression. But the fire in your eyes is a warm one; a fight he’d come to be too familiar with. He can’t bring himself to make a bad joke. He can’t think of much of anything except your hands on him. You fill the space for him. “Can’t get rid of you that easy, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry,” is what eventually falls out of his mouth, like a bowling ball through a weak laminate floor. Your eyebrows raise and a sigh blows from your lips. A small smile curves your mouth upwards, and it’s tinged with affection in a way that makes Leon’s knees weak. He lets himself go now, crumbling to the floor and gripping your legs like they’re the only thing holding him upright. And they may as well be. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Leon,” his name said so sweetly, like its own kind of hug, breaking a dam in him. A choked sob leaves him and you kneel with him, taking his head into your chest. You don’t tell him it’s going to be okay, you don’t shush him. Nothing is okay for him right now, and it’s just a fact you’ve accepted. But regardless, you’re here. You’re here to help him get there. And he’s never been so grateful for something in his entire life.

It’s laughable, really. That he’d thought he could get away with ending things.

You’re more stubborn than he is, especially when given enough reason to know better. And you can read him like a picture book.

From the bathroom now, your humming turns to singing as another song pops in your head. It drags him from his deep well of thought, pulling him up with a kind, open hand to your dazzling smile etched in his memory.

He rolls onto his back and sighs again, then feels his ears reddening when his thoughts trail back to last night. Your body on top of his, the both of you desperately kissing, and near tears with the need to be close. Your hands trailing down his back, crying his name like he hadn’t broken your heart not even a week ago. 

He’d kissed you hard like he regrets ever pushing you away. And he does. 

You’d kissed him like he’s your whole world, like forgiveness is as easy as taking a breath. Because it is. 

You know why he pulled away. And you managed to reel him back in. Because you know Leon. You know he goes cold when he’s scared. But you don’t take your pull for him lightly. You’re in it for the long haul. And even if you hadn’t said as much yet, you love him. 

The risks don’t matter. You just want him.

The night prior had been an illustration of that much. All intimacy and yearning. And your suspicions were confirmed; he feels the same. He was just as frenzied, hands all over you and pressing you closer and closer until you were sure you’d meld together.

Leon feels morning wood straining at his boxer briefs, absentmindedly brushing his hand over his erection as he thinks of you. All teasing smiles, with something deeper underneath. Your eyes sparkling and your scent slipping around him like a trance. Soft fingertips slipping underneath his shirt, and a velvet smooth voice asking if what you were doing was okay. Because you know he’s not. But he’d wanted— needed the closeness regardless. Not just because you were a warm body, no. He wanted you.

The shower’s still running. 

He pushes his hand underneath and tips his head back in a low groan.

Flashes of you play in his mind like a dirty movie and he spits in his hand to go in for a stroke. His eyelids slip shut and he jerks his cock slowly, trying to recreate the hot, intimate pace you’d set last night. Sweaty skin sticking to each other, warm breath all over his neck, moaning sweetly in his ear. Kisses on his jaw. 

Fuck, he’s in love with you.

The drag of his palm against his length is nothing compared to your heat. And it’s a shallow version of the pleasure of you, his skin feeling egregiously bare without your hands on it, tracing all over until you’re grabbing him. Holding him like he’s your anchor, like he’s something stable.

A deep groan comes from his chest at the vision of you holding him. Your hands clawing at his back as you nudge him further inside of you, to be as close as possible. A confirmation that you’d missed him just as much as he’d missed you, that the separation was indeed, too, a devastating misery for you. And yet you’d met his eyes with nothing short of confidence. There’s a spark there, a sense of trust that he feels he must have damaged when he left. But you’re so forgiving with your touch, so easily understanding and patient with him. The tears that prick his eyes when you’d shown up, when you were underneath him, when you woke at 2 in the morning from his restless tossing. None of it fazed you, and, in fact, you welcomed him into your arms easily. Like he’s meant to be there.

The desperation and need to be close that you display sends a heat wave through his already knotted lower stomach. Begging him for more, giving him praise, like he was anything but a failure. You still want him. With an enthusiasm that matches his own. Your babbled, pleased sighs play on loop in his mind, and he picks up the pace beneath the fabric of his briefs with a whimper.

He doesn’t hear the bathroom door open once you’ve finished showering, and he’s still got a hand moving beneath his boxers as you stand and watch. You almost think you’re making it up when you see him like that; eyebrows pulled upwards and heavy sighs escaping his lips. You shift your feet, clutching your towel tighter around you. You clench your legs together when Leon lets out a breathy, quiet moan of your name. It takes you a few seconds, but the horniness instills some kind of bravery in you.

“Need some help, handsome?”

Leon feels embarrassment run up his spine in a hot flash, and his eyes fly open, his hand freezing in his underwear. Still glazed over with desire, but wide with surprise. He feels like he can’t speak as you drop your towel and your nude form is climbing into bed, slinking between his legs. Your hand covers his, a layer of fabric between. You kiss him slow, pulling down his underwear as you lick open his mouth. His length peeks out from beyond his fist, weeping arousal. You pry open his fingers and slip your own through his, your other hand coming to stroke up his length once, twice, using your thumb to swipe his precum with it. He shivers at the slick coating his cock and inhales sharply at your touch.

“I-” He begins, breathing heavily on your lips. You shut him up with another kiss.

“It’s okay,” you silence any of his apologies that were on the edge of his tongue. “‘s hot.” Leon’s hand tightens where it’s been at the back of your neck as you kiss down his chest, all the way to his leaking tip. You take him in your mouth and he lets out a high-pitched whimper.

You bob your head up and down at a deliciously steady pace, stroking the remaining of his length as you go. He watches you with sex-dazed ocean eyes, holding your hair back to keep it out of your face. He wants a clear view of you, your misty lashes from the depth you’re taking him, the way your back is arched, your hand on his thigh. He thinks he must have died because surely there’s nothing he’s done to deserve this in the waking world.

“Fffuu- fuck, baby,” he sighs, he’s rambling now. Mouth running with sweet things like so perfect and you feel so good and then, suddenly it manifests aloud this time:

“God, I’m in love with you.”

You come off him with a grin on your face. You’re still stroking his cock when you kiss him, tongue pushing past his lips greedily. There’s something soft in your eyes despite the position you’re in when you pull back to look at him.

“You mean that? Or is it just ‘cause I’m giving you head?”

“Both,” he sighs. Then he shakes himself from the haze, realizing the can of worms he’s just opened. “I mean- um, yeah. Yes. Yes.”

“You break up with all the girls you’re in love with?” Your tone is light, teasing, but Leon can’t rid himself of the guilt sitting heavy on his shoulders.

“I thought it was for the best, I-” he looks down and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I just thought it’d keep you safe.” You’ve let go of him now, in favor of straddling his lap. You take his face in your hands.

“I know,” you say, like it’s so simple. A pause hangs in the air as you kiss his cheek. “I’m here for you, Leon. I don’t care if there are risks, or if it’s going to be hard. I want you. All of you.”

Leon’s heart cracks open. He clings to you like sticky caramel, pressing his face into your neck. You hold the back of his head against you to encourage his touch. He takes in a shaky breath, and the exhale has words alongside it.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve to be loved,” you run your fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck. He sighs, squeezes you tighter. “And I love you, too, by the way.” He looks at you now, blue eyes all soft and teetering on something like a puppy who’s just got his ears scratched for the first time. Just like that, you’re kissing again, deeper with something more passionate awakened. You grind on his lap, and your moans layer on top of each other at the feeling.

“I need you,” Leon breathes. You pull his hand between your thighs, right where it’s burning hot with need.

“You've got me,” you lean into his ear, riding his hand as he rubs you. Your slick is everywhere, on your thighs and his, and now, as he presses his cock against you, slipping down his length.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he whines. “Can I-”

“Please, Leon,” you don’t let him finish his question. You can feel your pussy clenching around nothing just at the feeling of him so close to you. He goes back in for a kiss, all tongue and teeth as if he wants to swallow you whole. It’s not pretty. It’s frantic, begging. And it’s unbelievably sexy to know he wants you just as bad as you want him.

You grind on his length as he presses it against your vulva, letting your slick lube him up. Everything is hot and wet; his kisses, your most intimate areas. The beads of your shower clinging to your shoulders. And it’s punctuated by the wet, squelching sound of him sliding home inside of you. The stretch is unbelievably good; like coming home after a long day. Your moans against each other’s skin completes the chorus of filth.

Leon’s hands grip desperately at your ass as you begin to ride him. You move your hips in slow, deep circles that have your noises turning breathy. He watches you like a painting; taking in each detail, every freckle and texture of your skin, the pattern you move in. Eyes half-closed in pleasure, meanwhile your mouth is slack from how good it feels to be loved like this.

“You are so beautiful,” he sighs. Your hands slide up his pecs, over his shoulders. His muscles are strong, secure from his training. He’s built, but only the beginning of what he’s talked about having as a goal. There’s still a bit of baby fat that clings to his cheeks, his tummy. And you secretly hope it’ll stay. It’s a remnant of the boyishness you’d fallen in love with. Maybe, just maybe, something this quieter, troubled Leon can hang on to. For his own sake.

“You’re gorgeous,” you gasp into another kiss, then trail down to his jaw, the length of his neck. He tips his head back eagerly for you to take what you want. Suck a bruise onto his neck. He nearly whimpers at being marked, thrusting upwards into your downward moves and loosening your lips in a groan. “Fuck, Leon, right there.”

“Yeah?” His voice is airy and swims with lust. He grips your hips tight and nearly growls as he continues to meet your movements. “Shit, you’re squeezing me.”

“‘M getting close,” you whimper. He throws head back to the wall when you begin to bounce faster. Your hands find purchase on his chest, and he brings his own palms over them. His fingers slide into the gaps of yours easily, and you squeeze tightly as you ride closer and closer to the peak. “Look at me, baby.” All Leon can do is obey, and he nearly melts at the way your sweet eyes are already boring into him. One of your hands leaves his to cup his cheek, slipping fast into his hair when he thrusts upward into you again. The noise of pleasure that escapes your mouth encourages him, and he does it again. Again. Again. Again. Until a drawn out whine is leaving you and a jumble of words afterward as you frantically chase your high. “Fuckfuckfuck, Leon, ohmygod, I’m gonna—”

“Please, please, please,” is all he can manage to get out. Your walls squeeze like a vice and trap his throbbing cock. All he can do is rut upwards as your release wets his shaft and runs down to his balls.

"Let go for me, baby, I'm right here," your voice in his ear breaks something in him, and his eyes go misty.

Relief, pleasure, love flood him all at once and he lets out a strangled noise that he's not sure he could recreate. The warmth, the wetness, the sharp tingle of your nails into his pec have him orgasming before he can even think to warn you, and you let out a high-pitched noise of pleasure at the feeling. His cum spurts hot and never-ending into you as you grind down. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at the overstimulation. His hips twitch upward as he devours you in a messy kiss.

“I love you, shit, I love you.”

“I love you, Leon,” you reply easily, a breathy laugh on the edge of your words at his eagerness.

The two of you slump over once he’s finally spent, and you match your breathing to his heaving chest as you both try to catch your breath. His heart thrums against his ribs like a kick drum. The rhythm is rife with solace.

It’s quiet for a moment, the hum of the ceiling fan smooth against your hurried breath. Leon’s fingertips skim upwards across your back. They’re rough now; callouses forming where there once was soft skin. A mark of the long hours spent clutching a gun in Raccoon City. Even the academy hadn’t given him such visible signs of his training.

“Do you… want to talk about what happened? That night?” You didn’t have to specify. It looms over the two of you regardless, even through the comfort of each other. His muscles tense at your question. His arms circle around you tighter, like a child and his well-loved teddy bear. 

“Another time,” he manages to say after a long pause. The words are thick with unspoken fear; something he’s attempting to bury deep in his chest. You decide to give him a little more time; to not press further when he’s already got a million things going on as his world spins faster than before. He's safe, here in your arms, and that's enough for now.

“Okay,” you murmur. Your fingers curl against his chest and you bury your nose into his neck. “I’ll be here when that time comes.” Leon swallows another round of tears at that. They’re almost drops of relief this time. He grounds himself with your scent, breathing deep in your hair. The cheap hotel shampoo smells of fake lavender, but there’s hints of you coming through now. Of your love and devotion. Sweat, and a bit of sex. It’s warm. Heady. And still so comforting.

As Leon entered the house, you heard the door click shut behind him, followed by quiet whispers and tiny giggles shared between him and your daughter. The sound alone warmed your heart so tenderly that you found yourself zoning out again while stirring the pan.

A second later, his footsteps echoed in the kitchen as Leon finally walked inside; carrying grocery bags in both hands. You paused for a moment and turned to look at him, only to realize he looked far too ridiculously attractive for a man who had just gone grocery shopping. His sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly messy, exhaustion lingering on his face in the prettiest way possible. His eyes are solely on you and you feel yourself getting a little shy.

God even after eight years of marriage he still made you feel like that. “Bought everything?” you asked instead of focusing on his stupidly attractive frame, and trying to sound composed, but you knew your voice might have betrayed you anyway so, you turned your attention back toward the pan.

“Mhm,” Leon hummed lazily.

You barely had time to blink before he set the grocery bags down on the floor with a soft thud and walked straight behind you, his large hands immediately sliding around your waist. “Leon—” you breathed.

But he only hummed quietly against your shoulder, pulling you back flush against his chest as if he hadn’t seen you in weeks instead of a few minutes.

His warmth instantly surrounded you. “You smell so good,” he muttered, voice rough from exhaustion, his nose brushing against the side of your neck before he pressed a lazy kiss there.

You tried focusing on the pasta again, though your hand slowed on the spoon almost immediately, and you felt your knees weaken at the kiss, “I’m cooking.” you say quietly.

“I can see that.” Leon whispered and pressed another kiss behind your ear, making you tingle all over “Leon,” you laughed softly, already feeling your face warm, “the sauce is gonna burn.”

“Then turn the heat down.” Leon breathed against your skin, the audacity in his voice made you shake your head, but your lips betrayed you with a smile anyway.

Behind you, Leon sighed dramatically, tightening his arms around your waist like he physically couldn’t stand being more than an inch away from you. His chin rested on your shoulder while his fingers lazily rubbed circles against your stomach beneath the apron. “Missed you,” he murmured.

You blinked slightly, and felt your shiver at his touch at how soft he sounded. He still did this sometimes, said things so simply, so honestly, that it caught you completely off guard. As if loving you came as naturally to him as breathing. “You were gone for like… twenty minutes” you teased quietly.

“And it was terrible,” Leon complained in a tired voice.

His comment made you chuckle instantly. “That bad?”

“Everything without you is,” Leon replied innocently as he buried his face deeper against your neck, breathing in your scent in a way that made your eyes flutter shut for a second, warmth stirring deep in your chest.

You tried elbowing him lightly, but Leon only sighed dramatically and held you even closer.

“Leon!” you shrieked quietly. “Luna will see us!”

“See what?” he asked against your skin, sounding far too innocent. “That her dad loves her mom?”

Heat immediately rushed to your face at his comment. “Oh my God, you are stupid,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you elbowed his chest playfully again.

This time Leon acted personally wounded by it. “So violent,” he complained under his breath, but still instead of pulling away he tightened his arms around your waist while his other hand wandered teasingly across your torso, he stopped when he finally found the swell of your breasts and grazed it slowly with his thumb, making your breath hitch embarrassingly fast.

“Fuck, Leo—” you breathed out, instinctively pressing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to ease the warmth spreading through your body.

Leon chuckled deeply; as he knew what he was doing, slowly he leaned closer to your ear and spoke in that rough voice that always made your entire brain stop functioning. “I wanna take you right here,” he murmured; “bend you over this counter until all you can think about is me.”

Your entire body short-circuited at his comment, a faint flush spreading all over your body, “Leon Scott Kennedy—”

Just then, you heard tiny footsteps marching toward the kitchen. Leon groaned instantly, slumping his chin onto your shoulder as he gave your breast one last teasing squeeze before you swatted his hands away like he was a pesky fly.

Leon chuckled softly against your ear as he settled for holding your waist instead. A second later, Luna appeared dramatically at the kitchen entrance holding one of her stuffed animals upside down.

You knew she was coming here but still physically jumped away from Leon in horror, like you’d just been caught doing something illegal by your parents.

Leon, completely unhelpful as always, looked far too amused by your panic.

But thank God Luna didn’t seem to notice anything.

You shot Leon a glare sharp enough to kill, already deciding you were absolutely going to murder him later, lovingly, of course.

“Daddy,” she said again, still staring at Leon suspiciously, “Mr. Buttons threw up again.”

Silence, the silence afterward her comment made you bite down hard on your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Leon stared at her for a long moment before dragging a tired hand down his face. “Sweetie… that’s a stuff toy.”

“No,” Luna argued confidently, clutching the poor teddy bear tighter as she stepped towards Leon with hushed tears in her eyes, “he threw up. Can you fix him?”

Leon sighed and it was the sigh of a man who had survived literal bioweapons only to lose against a five-year-old’s imagination. “Alright,” he muttered dramatically, crouching down in front of her. “Let me examine the patient.”

Luna gasped. “Is he dying?”

“Not really. But he has a severe cotton explosion,” Leon replied seriously, turning the toy around like an actual medic while you nearly choked trying to hold back your laughter.

Luna looked horrified. “Save him, Daddy!”

“I’ll do my best,” Leon said solemnly, giving Luna a dramatic fake salute, which makes you chuckle instantly, leon glancing at you narrowing his eyes; so instead you cover it with a loud cough.

Leon smiled afterwards at you his gaze softening as he turned his attention towards her again and before he could even stand properly again, Luna grabbed his hand and began pulling him toward the living room with all her tiny strength while he allowed himself to be dragged away unwillingly. “C’mon! Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he groaned dramatically as he gave you one last look over his shoulder, giving you a “Save me” smile but you just stuck your tongue out at Leon, which made him grin stupidly big.

“Later,” Leon muttered under his breath and turned away; as your daughter finally managed to pull him towards the living room, leaving you all alone; and just like that, the kitchen fell quiet again.

Now standing there alone, your cheeks felt warm and red from laughing, the aroma of dinner still swirling softly through the kitchen. Hearing Leon, your goofball husband, playing with your daughter in the other room made you realize maybe… this is what heaven felt like.

leon’s big everywhere, it’s no secret to anyone really, but his cock had to have been crafted by some kind of god. even as he’s grinding along your core, there’s more of him not touching you at any given moment because of his size. he’s long and thick, a double whammy and more than you could have ever dreamt of

“i don’t know,” leon hums, long and drawn out whilst he tips his chin to his chest to look at the spot where your bodies meet. his fingers brush over the backs of your thighs, soothing trembling muscles in a way that only he could manage to do while he’s being so cruel, “don’t want to split you in half, sweetheart,”

you moan wantonly at the idea of it. being fucked full and broken in two on his cock. you want it—no, you need it. writhing against the sheets and begging is getting you nowhere, so you try a slightly different approach instead, “just the tip then, please,” you whimper and tickle your nails against his wrists

for the first time since he spread you wide, leon falters. a groan rumbles through his chest like thunder and his hips buck involuntarily, making his balls slap against your soft skin, “fuck—yeah, okay,” he mumbles under his breath, like you’re not supposed to hear it, and finally starts to pull his hips back

his cock slips down the center of your cunt, aided by the sheer amount of slick that’s coating your skin, and as the fat head of him slots against your hole, you suck in a harsh breath through your teeth. though, when leon still doesn’t give you what you want, you release it in a whiny, “please, please, plea—oh god,”

begs turn into sobs the second leon suddenly presses into you and stretches you around the tip of his cock. it aches in the best way possible and has your back arching away from the mattress as you fight against leon’s hands to squirm and force yourself further down his length

“not god but close enough,” leon grunts as you tighten like a vice, stuck somewhere between trying to pull him closer and push him out at the same time. he’s struggling too and you know it, the urge to sink into you is written in the furrowing of his eyebrows and his cock is twitching with anticipation

it’s not nearly enough to satisfy either of your needs though, just the tip of him was never going to be enough, but as your lips part and a beg for more sits right on the tip of your tongue, you look up at leon and see the smirk spreading across his face and you know exactly what it means straight away, “i can’t,” you pout

leon shrugs, “you can and you will, angel,” he rasps before he leans forwards slightly and spits directly onto your clit. you whine as one of his hands leaves your thigh and then moan when the calloused pad of his thumb spreads his saliva over where you’re very sensitive, “come like this, then i’ll fuck you, promise,”

electricity fizzles up your spine and shudders through your shoulders while you realise that he’s going to drag this out even longer. he’s going to make you come again and there’s nothing that you can do about it—not that you even want to try when you know that he’ll make it feel so good

your eyes pinch shut and your stomach tenses as his rough swipes turn into soft circles, going around and around your bundle of nerves, which causes your cunt to flutter around him. heat erupts in your stomach, a fire that’ll build quickly because it always does when leon’s the firestarter

“you’re just too small sweetheart, need to make sure you can definitely take me,” leon sighs condescendingly and you can feel his eyes on you, studying you, even though yours are still shut and you can’t actually prove that he's looking at you but somehow, you just know

he's good with his hands, he knows what he's doing, so the slide of his thumb over your clit is easy. all you have to do is lay there and take it, focus on the feeling that’s already beginning to coil tight and you’ll come in no time, especially if leon keeps talking filthy whilst burning holes into you

“fuck—wish you could see how tight you are, pretty little hole strugglin’ to take just the head of my cock,” leon murmurs as he ghosts his thumb down the center of your cunt. you huff over the loss of his touch but it’s back within a second and it’s devastating

his fingertip still goes in a circle but this time he’s tracing around the spot where your pussy is squeezing his cock. your delicate skin against his velvety skin, both wet and sticky with your slick and his precome as it leaks out of you. it’s filthy and it makes your head spin

you can’t help but sniffle and rake vicious lines over his wrist, the one that you can still reach and dig your nails into while he teases, and he returns the touch with a bruising hold on your thigh which makes your eyes flutter open, “ruin me, break me—please—just do anything,” you beg up at him

leon’s cock kicks and his jaw clenches, “yeah?” he grunts afterwards and then his thumb is back on your clit and rubbing harsher, uneven, circles, “fuck you full, make you bulge with my cock, mold your cunt to only take me, ruin you for everyone else?” he rambles through deep growls

“yes—fuck yes—you already have!” you wail while your thighs tremble and your clit throbs under his assault. there’s nothing nice in his movements anymore, it’s devolved into a driven need that’s dirty and abrasive and you love it even as it starts to become too much, too fast

everything in your body is screaming no as you hurtle towards another orgasm, the number of which is unknown because you lost the ability to keep count of them hours ago, but you can’t stop and you won’t stop while the ache in your stomach multiplies and your legs try to pull together, though leon won’t let them

“close, angel?” leon asks lowly and you could hear the smirk in his tone even if you couldn’t see it. you nod frantically in response, unable to use any of your words because of him, “yeah? you’re doing so good—fuck, you’re so good, letting me use you like this,” he groans, each word getting you closer

your chest begins to heave, panting in short, desperate breaths as leon’s thumb starts to swipe back and forth quickly over the tip of your twitching clit. you’re right there, teetering on the edge, ready to let bliss take ahold as your brain turns to mush. you just need one final little push and then—

“come baby, come for me,”

it’s such a simple order and yet, your body listens to it before you even have the chance to process it. the coil snaps and you choke on a sob while your entire body tenses and then shudders. your nerve endings burn in every part of your body, a white hot heat that spreads like a wildfire

somewhere distant is leon’s voice is ringing in your ears with a trickle of soft praises, “there you go, that feels better, huh?” he coos and strokes featherlight hearts—you think—into the outside of your thigh. when he let them snap shut, you don’t know, “uh huh—fuck look at you,”

around his cock your cunt has clamped down and pushed him out, leaving your hole empty again but you can’t find it in yourself to care when leon is wringing your orgasm for all that it’s worth by still brushing sporadic circles over your clit until you knock his hand away with a heavy feeling hand

“oh my god,” you whimper and then shiver through the last of the little aftershocks before you wriggle, “you promised,” you whisper, your tone laced with exhaustion while you remind him of the deal that he made and make it known that you do still want him to fuck you properly

leon chuckles as he leans over you and kisses your bottom lip just once before he pulls away. it’s sloppy and probably a little gross but it makes your cheeks flush anyway, “ready, sweet girl?” he asks and nudges his cock against your wet little hole, barely letting himself slip inside before he pulls back

“yes—please!” you blurt, much louder than you meant to but leon is far too focused on pressing into you to realise it. a silent gasp scratches your throat as he gives you back what you already had, the stretch is no longer there but your back still lazily curves away from your sheets over it

he goes slowly, excruciatingly slowly. each centimetre of his length has your jaw dropping further, while you stare up at him with big, wet eyes. every vein that’s strung around his cock drags against your fluttering walls and nothing else could ever compare to that feeling—a feeling that only leon can give you

once he’s half way in, you quickly feel full. it’s like your body simply has nowhere else for him to go because he’s already occupying every space, filling every spot and grinding against it no matter how sensitive it is. that, however, doesn’t stop your pussy from trying to pull him in

“sweeth—fuck—s’like you’re sucking me in,” leon hisses through clenched molars. his muscles are starting to tense and any composure that he had is slipping away rapidly but he’s held on for so long that you can’t blame him, even if it is his own fault, “shit—oh my god, fuck,” he groans

the last inches of his cock seem to sink into you quicker than the first ones did. whether it’s because you really are sucking him in or because he just doesn’t have the capacity to go slowly anymore, you really don’t care whilst your room gets filled with soft whimpers and deep grunts that sound like a song

that is, until leon bottoms out and nails your cervix

everything goes fuzzy. your vision, your nerves, your veins. you’re blindsided and blacking out whilst your pulse pounds against your eardrums and every colour of the rainbow bursts behind your eyes. you’re frozen, stuck in your mind while an orgasm rips through your system like a hurricane

it feels like lightning in every one of your limbs, seizing sore muscles and forcing a wrecked yelp from your lips. you've never felt anything like it and you're not sure you'll ever get close to it ever again. it's like a high that you don't want to chase

“oh—oh, are you coming, again?” leon’s asking but you can’t reply more than a stiff nod and a shove at his hip because he was right, it’s too much and you can’t take him all at once. he goes easily though, pulling out of you carefully whilst he hums a sympathetic, “good girl,”

losing all of his touch at once is horrid but you're too overstimulated for him to risk giving you anything whilst you writhe underneath him and even though you hate feeling empty in the moment, you'll thank him for it later

“too much,” you slur your words after sometime. your heart is still thumping in your chest and your eyelids are too heavy to open but it’s all made better by leon hovering over you and peppering soothing kisses to your burning cheeks, “too much,” you repeat, causing leon to hum and smile against your skin

“i know baby, i’m just far too big for you,”

thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a kiss if you do, mwah ily! send prompts to my ask box!

a/n i proofread this badly because i’m so exhausted so if there’s any mistakes, please ignore them, thank yew, i love you !!!! 𑣲

The corner of his mouth curls. “A little.” 

A little probably translates to it hurts like hell. 

You rub your hand over the black spiderwebbing over the side of his throat, then the patch of it on the palm of his hand. He doesn’t wince, doesn’t even twitch, but you know he’s in pain. You know him too well, have known him for too long, to think otherwise. It’s evident in the persistent slope of his shoulders, the barely perceptible twitch of his fingers when you prod the pseudo bruising, the spaces around his joints. How ashen his skin looks, gray rather than merely pale. 

“A little,” you echo and absentmindedly push a lock of gray streaked tarnished gold hair back from his eyes, then smooth your thumb down the crease around his still smirking mouth. “You’ve never been a good liar, don’t start now.”

You trace the dark webbing, like spun silk lines, ink dyed veins. There’s a pit in your stomach as you scratch a nail against one raised line, squeezing his wrist. It’ll be fine, you think, it’s always been fine. There, by some miracle, or maybe just sheer luck and effort, has always been a way things turn out fine. 

“Hey.”

You hate when he does that, when he doesn’t say something snappy, and instead his voice is soft and commanding, gentle almost. 

Leon cups your cheek with his other hand, but you refuse to let him tilt your gaze up.

You flip his hand over and trace the discoloration across the back of his hand, the tendrils that wrap up his pinky and ring finger. 

You twist the silver metal band on his ring finger, push your hand flat against his, measuring your hand against his, and finally glance up.

“I guess I don’t have a choice, huh?” You smile. “I can’t keep you here safe.” You would never really try. You knew that when you met him, when you married him, but the sentiment stands. You tug at his collar, look at the veiny, stringy black climbing up the column of his throat. Soon it will snake behind his ear, crosshatch his jaw. 

You’d been the one to notice it, spindly beneath your mouth when you kissed him there. A bruise, you’d thought, applied ointment to. You’d caught it on him after the third survivor of the Raccoon City incident was found dead. Then, a bruise that wouldn’t fade on the side of his ring finger that looked eerily similar to crime scene photos you’d snooped on over his shoulder one evening. 

A bruise that grew, refused to fade. You started to suspect what it might be when it appeared on Sherry, too. And this is different, if it’s what you think it is. 

Maybe that is why this time feels so different. There is always danger in his field of work, that you have accepted and made peace with, but this might be something he couldn’t fight. 

He gathers your wrists in his hands, stops the anxious sweep of them. He pushes you back, pins you against the bed with his hips, body looming over and around yours. 

“What? Worried about me?” 

The intervening years have only made him bigger. Wide shoulders, huge biceps, thick thighs. The weight of him is nice, and you know that’s the point. He’s unnaturally warm, a living furnace, the fire of him seeps beneath your clothes. You can’t help thinking the heat of him is a little less potent lately. 

Either you’re overthinking or you’re right, and both possibilities are equally awful. You don’t panic, but this has you on edge because if you’re right—

There’s a looming sense that he’s running out of time, an invisible clock ticking down minutes.

“Look,” you wriggle one hand out of his grip and push a finger into his chest, “I just don’t want to have to start over with someone else, okay? It would be really annoying if you died. Or whatever—” You stroke your thumb under his ear, “—the hell is happening here.”  

He laughs and you hook your arms around him, pull him fully down against his like you could be absorbed beneath his skin. 

Leon’s arms push beneath your back, crush a tight circle around your body. The pressure eases some of the tension threaded between your ribs. His hair brushes your forehead, a light tickle that touches a nerve in your temple that arcs down your spine. 

“Just—come back.” It’s unlike you to ask, not like you to mention it at all. You got used to this a long time ago. You are unflappable, even before Leon and his career, nothing could ruffle you. It’s what makes you good at your job. “I’ll be waiting.”

He rests his head in the space between your neck and shoulder. He nods, kisses you there, against your pulse. “I promise to try,” he says against your skin. 

“All I ask.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be a walk in the park.”

You roll your eyes, duck your head to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Love you.” 

“Love you,” he answers, and then he’s pulling away, taking his warmth and presence with him. You watch him walk to the door and disappear through it, feeling very small and alone. It’s a big, old, elegant house, with sconces and creaky floors and a chandelier and a brick driveway.

The house seems to sigh in despair as the front door opens and closes.

.

.

.

The next night finds you in the staff breakroom, fiddling with the coffee pot with tired, twitchy fingers, trying not to let your thoughts wander or coalesce on one thing. 

Leon always comes home, but something feels different this time. Your worry is a physical thing, perched on your shoulder, lounging in the periphery of your vision. 

You weren’t supposed to be at work, but being in motion and occupied makes you feel better, useful, and distracts you at once. Sitting alone in your home, listening to the floorboards creak in time with your overwrought thoughts, would only make your unusual anxiety worsen, a spike and spiral that is impossible to come down from. It’s ridiculous. Only a little over 24 hours have passed. 

The fluorescent lights flicker, and your overworked eyes ache in the glare, like they’re puffy and too large in your head. You hadn’t been sleeping before he left, and you certainly hadn’t last night. The bed far too empty and big. 

You have a standing policy not to call each other when Leon is out in the field. You don’t call him; he has strict orders from you not to call even if it was safe to. You know what you would think each time, this is it, he's calling to say goodbye. 

Imagining the worst is one thing, knowing is something else altogether. 

This time is different. The worry runnels beneath your skin, like an itch you can’t quite scratch. You had thumbed at the screen of your phone restlessly all evening and the next morning, on and off, light, dark. No messages, not that there would be. No calls. 

You didn’t sleep, hand over his side of the bed, wide awake in the dark. Remembering the kiss to your forehead, that awful black spiderwebbing on the side of his throat threading beneath the cup of your palm. 

Your phone is heavy in the front apron pocket of your scrubs, the urge to reach for it and check it again is overwhelming. The ringer is off, you think, he could have called. As irrational as it is, you feel like he's trying to call, and you're missing it. You pull your phone out and lie it on the counter as the coffee percolates, popping and hissing, and look long at the blank, black screen, twisting your wedding ring around your finger, imagining the same black crawling up your own hand. 

More violently than necessary, you fling out one hand and tap the glass. It flickers to life. 

Nothing. 

A sigh that sounds more like a growl crawls from your throat. You shove your phone back into your pocket, listen to the soft, custodial hum of the building around you. It’s late, the clinic is mostly empty, and peaceful in its silence. 

It’s lonely. 

When you get home, the driveway is empty and the house is dark, the front paving stones rain wet and slick beneath your sneakers. 

The front entryway is dark, the floorboards creak beneath your shoes as you kick them off, the clatter echoing in the foyer and up the stairs, curving like a knife into the dark landing of the second floor. 

When you flip on the living room lights, you half expect to find Leon there, sprawled in a bloody, dirty heap on the couch in the pooling yellow light. 

It wouldn’t be the first time, though it would be the first time you found him there without a phone call telling you all was well, that he would be home soon.

But the couch is as you left it, a wool blanket draped across the back, plush velvet pillows askew, one sagging off the armrest and onto the dark wood parapet floor below. 

You imagine him coming home, still crawling with bruises, death like a phantom over his shoulder. You think of holding his hand, letting him die easily. He deserved that, but you know it’s a pipe dream, a fantasy. If he was going to die, if it had anything to do with Raccoon City, he’d die out there. 

Leon can only promise you so much. 

You drop your bag and flit through the room to the kitchen, hungry but also itching to change out of your scrubs and not knowing what to do first in your anxious haze. 

You feel as though you have been perpetually stuck in fight or flight mode, oozing stress and tension like a shelter dog. 

You won’t settle until he’s back, until you can see for yourself that terrible rot beneath his skin is gone. Rainwater washes down the window panes in the kitchen as you make tea and toast, hands like a pair of nervous sparrows, hopping from one thing to the next, despite the ache in your wrists and fingers. 

The rain is a constant tattoo, a persistent patter that you wish you could think is soothing. But it grates on you like an old wound, reminds you of time passing like the ticking of a clock. While the water boils, you go upstairs to change and wash your face, wrapping yourself in an old jacket of Leon’s over sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

The house always feels too big and empty without him. It seems to sigh and shift under the weight of the rain and your body moving through its guts. 

You choke down the toast and park yourself on the couch with your tea. It’s already cooling between your hands, but the warmth of it is comforting in the blue light on the tv when you flip it on and sink into the cushions. 

You don’t feel tired, but from one slow blink to the next, the cup is being pulled from between your hands and set aside. The TV is flicked off and then the brass lamp on the side table. Fingers brush over your forehead and down the curve of your cheek before disappearing in favor of lifting you. One thick arm slides beneath your knees, the other behind your shoulders. For a moment, you’re lost in the bliss of a normal Friday night. You fell asleep on the couch watching a cheesy action flick, and Leon is carrying you to bed.

The wool blanket slides off of you and back onto the couch, a soft puddle of gray and green. 

For a moment, you think it’s a dream. You close your eyes again, listen to the beat of his heart beneath your ear, happy to pretend it’s a normal night, that you fell asleep on the couch watching movies. 

And then he grunts. 

The sound is so unusual, unlike him, it rouses you from the drowsy way you're sinking into his arms, reminds you of the last few days. You must have slept through the night because a haze of soft pink morning light undulates across the floor through a gap in the curtains. 

“Leon,” you mumble sleepily, struggling awake in his arms as he starts up the stairs. “Hey, Leon, put me down.” You wriggle to no avail. “Let me look at you.” 

He doesn’t and you fumble blindly at his collar instead, searching for the raised skin. Instead you’re met with smooth if grimy skin, littered with the usual scars you could recount in your sleep. “Leon—” 

He shoulders open the bedroom door with another grunt, cream carpet and dark green walls. The room is dim, morning light peeking through the slats of the blinds, highlighting your gold jewelry spilled across the top of the dresser, the stack of books by a bedside table, never re-shelved in the living room, tangled bed sheets. 

He deposits you lightly on the bed. You don’t have a chance to curl your arms around his shoulders and drag him down onto the sheets with you. Leon is already falling against you, lands heavily on top of you with no resistance, arm curling around your body. 

“Hold on,” he says. 

Your legs are scrunched awkwardly beneath him, the bulk of his body heavy and immovable as a fallen tree. “Just give me a minute.” 

His arms are tight around you, tighter than he usually would hold you. “Okay,” you murmur. “Okay.” You slide one hand into his hair, filthy with what you can only guess. He seems very young at that moment, like something has been shaken loose inside him. 

You count the seconds to a minute, and then a minute and a half. 

“Leon?” You ask after you’ve counted your way to three minutes. “Are you okay?” 

“Still breathing,” he answers dryly. 

You push at his shoulder and he lifts himself off you enough for you to see his face, enough to see that his throat is free of the pseudo bruising, that he’s probably, really, okay. You sit up and he rolls to the side and onto his back with a grunt. He takes your hand, keeps it trapped under his against his chest, the warm metal of his wedding band cutting into your index finger, eyes fluttering shut. 

There are purple shadows beneath his eyes, normal bruises along his forearms and along his sides when you lift his shirt. It looks awful, extending to his back in purples so deep they appear as black little rain clouds. You trace a jagged scar just beneath his ribs with the tip of your finger. He looks tired, but that’s all, and you could cry for it. 

“Roll over, shirt off,” you command, more harshly than you mean to. “Let me see your back. It looks bruised.” 

“Yes ma’am,” he says, already moving to follow your demand. 

“Is Sherry alright?” You ask, watching him peel his shirt off, fabric clinging through a film of sweat and blood. His hair stands like duck fluff when he pulls it over his head. 

A bruise extends over his chest, down to the flat plane of his stomach. There’s gauze tapped over a cut on his side and on his bicep, and when you reach forward and pull back the tape gently, you are momentarily overcome with blistering jealousy that someone had tended to him first. The jealousy almost instantly gives way to a feeling of uselessness. 

The cut looks clean, the bandage is fresh, someone had taken good care of him and for that you should be grateful. 

But your hands stall. 

“Good as new.”

You blink, meet his eyes, re-center yourself. He’s not just reassuring you about Sherry. “Good.” 

You carefully push the bandage back into place, then shift onto your knees, watching the twist of muscle beneath his skin as he settles onto his stomach, forearms bunching and straining as he lowers himself to the duvet you’ll have to wash sooner than anticipated. He smells awful, there’s a fine layer of grit and dried sweat over his skin where there are no wounds that had needed cleaned.

Bruises and a couple more lacerations stripe his back, no signs of the infection that had been crawling down his spine the previous evening. You release a shaky breath. 

“I was worried,” you admit, now that you don’t have to look at his face as you say it, carefully peeling the bandages away, then resticking them when you’re satisfied by what you see. But you can feel his quick, perceptive gaze on you, watching you, your unsteady hands and gritted teeth. 

“Not like you.” 

“This was different.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. “Yeah,” he agrees, after a moment. “It was.” 

“Will you tell me about it?” You glance at him. 

Leon frowns, something unreadable caught in his eyes. 

He closes his eyes, but his brow is still wrinkled. “Yeah.” 

“You didn’t call.”

He chuckles. “Trust me, I tired. You were probably already asleep. Sherry tried too.” 

Which meant he probably worried about you in turn. You can hear it in his voice. He was used to doing all he could and still losing, just a little. “Oh, shit, I think I forgot to turn the ringer up after work.” You prod a bruise and he grunts. “I’m sorry.” For not answering his call, for poking him a little too hard. 

“I already got checked out,” he says gently, as though it isn’t obvious. “You don’t have to play nurse.” 

“I’m playing doctor. And I have a medical degree to prove it.” 

He smiles a little, and let’s you have your way. “Whatever you want, doc.” 

You scoot closer, tuck one leg beneath you and rest your chin on the opposite bent knee, and stroke a lock of hair behind his ear. Black webbing once again just delicate blue veins. “How do you feel? Really? Don’t bullshit me.” 

“Like I’m twenty again.” 

“Leon,” you sigh. “Please—”

His mouth twitches. “I’m serious,” he grumbles. “That shit hurt. So it’s probably just comparatively.” 

Your shoulders loosen, and you smooth a hand down his back, careful to avoid his injuries, and rub the base of his spine. “Well, that just means you’ll feel decrepit in a couple days.” 

He huffs. 

You smile, touch the lines under his eyes, the crinkled, unblemished skin of his throat. “Are you sure nothing’s bothering you? I’m dying to baby you.” 

“My shoulder, a little.” 

“Okay. Do you think you’ll sleep?”

“I don’t know.” 

You make an unsatisfied noise, trace a ridge of muscle along his spine. “We’ll see about that.” 

“I sleep better with you.” 

And he’s said that since the beginning, since the first time, so you’ve come to believe it over the years. 

You lean down close to kiss him, bending at the waist even though the angle is awkward. He tastes like salt and iron, like there’s blood caught between his teeth. The bed shifts beneath you as he moves to palm the back of your neck, pull you closer to him. Kissing him feels like getting one more chance to breathe. “I have something that will help with the swelling,” you say against his lips, pink when you pull back. “Take a shower and I’ll get you some pain killers.” 

“Hey,” he says, taking your hand again before you can move off the bed. His thumb runs over your wrist. You go into his arms easily, unfold yourself and stretch out next to him, rooting your body into his, half under him again. He releases your hand to run his thumb beneath one of your eyes, balancing on one elbow. You feel safe, boxed in beneath him. 

“There was—for a second I thought about—” He pauses for a moment, pale eyes sliding over your face, then meeting yours again. “I thought about calling you.” 

That, really, tells you how close of a call it had been, and your breath catches in your chest. “Oh,” you murmur softly, “Why didn’t you?” 

“It was selfish. I just wanted to hear your voice.” 

Your mouth trembles. “I wouldn’t have minded.” But you have no context for the situation, the moment he thought of it, what it would have sounded like, his voice and whatever else was happening around him. Metal creaking, fire raging, screams and pleas. Or, silence. Trapped, waiting, quiet. 

But you would have wanted him to hear your voice, if that was what he wanted at that moment. If it would have comforted him. “You should have.” 

“I promised you that I never would a long time ago, though. And I didn’t want that to be your last. . .memory of me.” He laughs a little. “Which I guess is selfish too.” 

You purse your lips and shake your head, “I really can’t think of a word that describes you less.” 

Leon looks like he wants to argue, but shakes his head and rests his forehead against your collarbone instead. “If you say so.” 

You wrap your arms around his head and stare at the dark paneled ceiling, the elegant lamp with gold folded arms dripping crystal like tiny stars, gleaming even unlit. When he’s gone, and sometimes when he isn’t, you count the white sparkle it throws against the walls to help you sleep. 

You stay there until the sun is fully risen, counting the rise and fall of Leon’s chest instead, imagining what it would have been like if he called. 

In some other reality, he did. He called, and the next morning you answered the door to a suited, anonymous government agent bringing their deepest condolences. For a moment, you feel certain you’re hallucinating him, a ghost in place of a memory. 

You rub the column of his neck, and feel him relax against you, all tension bleeding from his body, and wait for his breathing to slow. 

It doesn’t, his thumbs smoothing circles against your ribs where his hands have anchored. 

“Shower,” you say eventually, when a yellow slash of morning sun falls over your eyes and blinds you. You nudge your knees against Leon’s hips and urge him off you. 

He goes, graceless for once, as he stumbles toward the bathroom, tactical pants unbuttoned somehow and slung low on his hips. 

The first floor is flooded with golden light when you descend the stairs; the clock on the oven reads 8:04 AM. Your hands shake a little. 

You grab a bottle of extra strength ibuprofen, fill a glass with water. You think about taking melatonin to him too, but decide against it. It always gives you nightmares when you take it and you can’t remember if you’ve ever asked him about it, and the prescription bottle of rozerem is empty though you can’t remember the last time either of you had taken it or refilled it.

It’s been a long time since either of you needed it to fall asleep. 

The backyard is full of yellow light, the air misted and humid from the dissipating rain. Puddles of water stand amid the fall foliage and overgrown flowerbeds that are always weed choked because you never seem to have enough time to tend them. 

You need to make more time for everything, sink your roots into everything more deeply. 

When you and Leon first moved in together—before the house, before you were married—you’d had a minor fit a couple months in about how everything he owned was perpetually shoved into a bag by the front door. It made you feel alone, wrecked in a way you couldn’t explain, how you hated that his toothbrush was missing from the bathroom counter in the apartment he paid half the rent for. 

He’d soothed you about it, and, when you were calmer, teased you about it too, bought doubles of everything, and you never had to see him rooting around for shaving cream in a duffel bag in his own home again. 

It’s like that, you think, the flowers that never got enough attention. The yard that needs raked of decomposing fallen leaves. 

You allow yourself a shuddering breath, come to terms quickly with the fact that he’d almost died. From the virus he’d clearly been infected with or something else. Leon isn’t prone to exaggeration when it comes to his own wellbeing, usually the opposite, so knowing he’d wanted to call, lodges a lump in your throat you can’t quite swallow away. 

The pipes creak and shudder, the water goes on. 

The house is elegant but old, and you’d fallen in love with it immediately. 

You take the pills and water upstairs, push open the bathroom door and leave them on the counter with a towel. The air is heavy, thick with the smell of his soap. 

“Leon?” 

“Yeah?” He pulls back the curtain a little to look at you. 

You point to what you left on the counter. “Does melatonin give you nightmares?”

“I don’t know.” He tilts his head, water darkened hair falling across his forehead. “I know you don’t like it.” 

“We’re out of the roz—the sleeping pills. But I don’t want you to—I don’t know. I’m being—” Frustration with yourself boils over. Why are you bothering him with this? You just want him to rest. You worry he won’t, too wired by whatever happened. 

Maybe, you think distantly, you’re projecting and you’re the one wired and antsy. He looks like he might fall asleep standing there as you shift from foot to foot. “I just can’t believe I don’t know if they give you nightmares.” 

“Hard for you to know if I don’t,” he says. “You okay?” 

“I think I’m freaking out a little bit.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “When’s the last time you got some sleep? I don’t think you were before I left.”  

“I don’t know.”

He nods, like some puzzle has finally been solved. “We’ll figure it out.” 

You aren’t sure what he means by that, or what it you’ll be figuring out, but you nod and duck out of the bathroom before you can have another emotional outburst about medication he doesn’t even need. 

In the bedroom you change the sheets and throw the dirt streaked ones into the washer. You change too, pressing your nose into the fabric of the shirt that now smells like Leon. Battle soaked and mostly gross. But it’s the scent of him returning home, so you covet the musk of it, breathe it in again and again, until your heart rate slows, before tossing it in the wash too. It’s not until it returns to resting, that you realize how your pulse had been racing. 

You yank the blinds closed in the bedroom, thick, blackout shades that obscure the beautiful morning dawning outside, pitch the room into a velvet darkness so thick you can’t see your hands in front of your face. 

When you turn, he’s there catching you against him, tilting your face up to his, kissing you softly and then harder. You go down together in a tangle when the back of your knees hit the bed. 

In the black dark of the room, he’s only a suggestion of movement. The placement of your limbs instinctual after so many years together. 

You wrench your t-shirt over your head, feel the still damp plains of his body over yours. He smells clean, like soap and sandalwood. His mouth, when you slide your tongue into it, no longer tastes like blood, just mint toothpaste and tap water. 

When he pushes into you with a groan, your hands careful of the wounds on his back, you kiss the junction of his neck and shoulder, feel the judder of his pulse against your mouth. “Leon,” you coo, just to say his name, know he’s there with you. “I trust your judgement, you know.” You slide one hand into his hair, hook your knees against his hips. “Call, if you think you should. I’d want to hear your voice one more time, too.” 

The next thrust of his hips is unforgivingly, accidentally hard, pushing you up the bed a little; a gasp is torn from your mouth. 

His hands are warm and large, cradling your hips and waist, the outside of your breasts. Reverent, as his mouth finds yours again with a tight groan, hand cupping the back of your head. 

He cradles you to him, pulses into you slow and hard, and for a moment you let him, before pushing at his shoulder. He goes easily onto his back, taking you with him. He sinks that much deeper inside you, a stretch you feel everywhere, rolling your hips against his. 

“Baby,” he groans. 

You tilt over him, hold his wrists against the mattress, and kiss him again. 

.

.

.

When you next wake, it’s late afternoon and the bed is empty again. 

But you can smell something cooking, hear the hiss and pop of something greasy frying in a pan downstairs. You climb out of bed with an ache between your hips, shuffling to the bathroom to clean up before searching for something to throw on. 

You check your phone on the way to the kitchen, find it stuck between the couch cushions where it had fallen the night before, and scroll through the endless string of missed calls. Leon and Sherry. One, inexplicably, from Chris. Guilt pools in your stomach, wondering what he’d thought as he traveled home, pushed open the front door to a silent house. Just a  sleeping house, though he couldn’t have known that. 

The kitchen is washed in reddish evening light. Leon is cooking breakfast, despite the hour. Bacon and eggs over easy. He’s better at breakfast than you are, you’ve learned. You have a habit of burning the bacon and popping the yolks on the eggs when you flip them. 

The toast, however, is smoking in the toaster. You pop it up as you pass, pleased to see it’s only dark, crisp brown and not charred. 

Leon is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. The sweatpants are a little snug around his thighs but the shirt is loose, too big. When he can, Leon wears oversized shirts, though he doesn’t prefer them even at home, just so you can have them. He knows you like how they smell like him. 

The window over the sink is open; his feet are bare. His back is to you and the fading light gives his hair a pinkish hue. 

You wrap your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his shoulder, ball your fist in the loose fabric against his stomach. When you squeeze your arms around him, his body is hard and unforgiving. It’s odd, feeling so soft by contrast. 

“The toast was burning.” 

“Thanks for saving it.” 

“Thanks for coming home.” 

You feel his breath hitch a little. “Well, I couldn’t leave you here all alone.” 

You squeeze him again. “No,” you agree. “I’m lost without you.” Then, because you hate being sappy, “We should get a cat.” 

An unexpected laugh wheezes out of him. “Yeah? Who's going to take care of it?” 

“Between the two of us, and, like, an automatic feeder, it’ll probably be fine.” 

“You have to go in tomorrow?” He asks and moves the pan off the burner, flicks off the stove and turns in your grasp. You keep your arms around him, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. The exhaustion hasn’t been totally wrung from him, but he looks more alert, less like he might pass out at any second. 

“No,” you say, “Not on call either. You?”

You can see the instinct to immediately say yes, but then he shakes his head. “Why do you want a cat?” 

The same reason you’d begged him to stop keeping everything he owned in a go-bag years ago, especially after you bought the house, too large, really, for just the two of you. It makes everything feel more permanent, like he isn’t some ghost you hallucinated. One more thing, in your arsenal, the spell you are trying to cast, to always bring him back. 

You know there’s no quitting, no retiring, so you have to hang onto this. You have to plant the flowers, get a cat, and make a permanent place for him to land. 

“It doesn’t have to be a cat.” 

He tilts his head at you; you reach up to rub a thumb over the lines by the corner of his eye. “Let’s get a cat.” 

You grin and lean in to kiss him, liking the way his eyes close and he sighs, cheeks scratchy against yours. “Okay.” You release him to pull down plates and butter the toast while he allocates eggs and bacon onto each. 

Only when you’re on the couch, so close your legs overlap, shoulders blurred together into one, plates on pillowed laps, that you ask him to tell you. “What was it?” You gesture to your own neck, where the bruising on his was. He frowns, eyes hardening, like the image it conjures is abhorrent. “Start from the beginning. I want to know everything.” 

He won’t tell you everything, there are details you will always be spared, things he doesn’t want in your imagination. There’s a desire too, you know, for those things not to touch you in his mind. 

You lean your head against his shoulder, the vibration of his voice throaty and deep against your ear as you eat lazily. 

RE2!Leon x Fem!reader, | @leonsgfpost

No experience, but let him surprise you!

R.U mine?, pt 2 | @residentevilweirdo

different Leon eras telling you for the first time he's yours.

Crawling back to you. | @/residentevilweirdo

Leon always crawls back to you, like a drowning man needy for air.

Paper rings. | @/residentevilweirdo

When Rookie Leon offered to make you company after-hours you were not expecting to end up with a ring on your finger.

loving Leon through the years | @bettysgay

through every phase of his life, you’ve loved him. You’ve watched him change and grow, falling in love with each new version of himself he becomes.

call and return | @mirrormauve

Leon has strict orders from you not to call when he's out in the field, even if it's safe to.

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐄 | @sirensfall

When you know, you know. But there was so much you didn't know. A whirlwind romance and hasty marriage was bound to end in divorce. What you didn't expect was how impossible it was to find "Leon Kent" when you discovered the pregnancy a short time after he left. Still, you managed well enough on your own for almost seven years. Her name is Stella, and she's remarkable and gifted. Lucky you. Perhaps that's why someone's taken her. When all hope feels lost, you receive an unexpected call from a father that didn't even know she existed, promising to help you find her. All you can do is take this one last saving grace and set aside the unresolved feelings and sense of betrayal. Saving Stella depends on it. And who the hell is Leon Kennedy?!

Coming Home to You | @jplushthewriter

Leon returns home after a long mission, finding comfort in quiet moments, soft kisses, and the one person who makes it all worth it.

Tired | @starberrymatcha

even in your sleep, you always manage to stick close or touch leon.

his arms | @aspinny

mrs dot kennedy | @shikiyomizu

after finishing his most recent mission, leon can finally focus on making amends with you years after the divorce.

Love Me If I Turned Into A Worm. | @atoriid

It’s midnight, sleep refuses to knock on your doors…so you bother your lovely boyfriend with a very important question: Would he still love you if you were a worm?

WHITE NOISE | @tothelions

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | @belovedcloud

reporting back  | @solisstars

borrowed time and stolen kisses | @/solisstars

making out in the car with re2!leon vs re9!leon.

Parallel Parking | @saturncollides

making out with your (rookie!leon) boyfriend in his jeep. | @/saturncollides

Just One Step Behind | @frazzled-soul

You drag Leon out shopping, bribing him with the promise of homemade muffins and a quick trip – just a quiet evening, or so you thought. Until a stranger crosses the line, and Leon shows a side of himself you don’t get to see often. Back home, it’s up to you to pull him out of it, piece by piece.

show a little loving | @clemenchives

after a long day at work, leon comes home to you and you share a sweet moment that reminds you just how lucky you are to have him. though frankly, he believes he’s luckier to have you.

no matter how it ends | @familyvideostevie

a mission goes awry when you’re infected with a fever virus…and there’s only one way to cure you.

privileges of marriage | @slowerghost

two rings | @/slowerghost

crystal clear | @/slowerghost

Blurb | @topsytervy

reminding leon kennedy that you love all of him | @digitalhoe

Before sunrise she’s your daughter | @mbrickswrites

You're pregnant with yours and Leon's second baby and are having a hard time getting comfortable.

Pretty Tease | @dramaticsk

you're helping leon on a mission, more so watching him do all the heavy lifting. but that changes real quick when things go awry

love you all over again | @fallenprophets

you and Leon's relationship ended a long time ago, and you still blame yourself for it- for hurting him, for walking out, for never calling back. But in Raccoon City, nothing ever stays dead, does it?

Oh, Fuck! | @theweepingangelofcas

Leon is dying. The virus is spreading. When he collapses, he's sure he's done for. Luckily enough for him, you won't let that happen.

5+1 | @/theweepingangelofcas

The five times that Leon Kennedy almost heard his partners', Y/N's, voice, and the results after the one time he did. Just as it says on the tin.

comes home after a difficult mission | @jelly--doughnut

re9!leon as a hubby | @leonniita

Beautiful was what you initially pegged him as, eyes sweeping along the striking lines of an exhausted face and the stubborn swoop of hair spilling carelessly over his brow. Then you decided he was just prematurely aged. The silver threads catching at his temples and the aggressive shadow of a stubble made him look worn down by a decade of exceptionally bad sleep and even worse stress.

He looked like a man who could fuck good. Looked like he approached sex the exact same way he approached the rest of his miserable life, with unrelenting stamina and a terrifyingly methodical focus designed to dismantle whatever stood before him.

He also looked like an easy target, staring into the amber depths of his glass with a level of sad depression that practically radiated off his shoulders. All it took was you stepping directly into his line of sight, ordering another shot with a dramatic sigh, and offering him a painfully cynical comment about the state of the world (while deliberately showing off your cleavage).

The guarded set of his jaw twitched into the faintest ghost of a smirk.

You offered your name, he offered his (Leon—was it short for Leonard? Leonel?), and he leaned in when you laughed at his terrible attempt at a joke. A genuine chortled laugh because you hadn't expected a dad joke from a man who looked as brooding as he did.

You licked your lips, he followed your tongue.

Hook, line, sinker.

Which explains how you now find yourself trapped in a mating press on a mattress that probably costs more per night than your rent. A dingy, cheap motel would have been your practical choice, but you had noted the expensive gleam of the watch on his wrist within five minutes of sitting next to him. Freaking Hamilton that looked distinctly like a limited edition, judging by the brushed steel and intricate dial.

Frankly, you shouldn't be surprised he carried that much net worth. He’s handsome, weathered beautifully into his age (Late forties? Early fifties?), and clearly paid an exorbitant amount of money to survive whatever horrors are actively ruining his mental health.

What does surprise you is how you’ve underestimated the scope of his physical abilities.

Over the past blurry hour, this complete stranger has effortlessly folded you into positions that defy your understanding of your own flexibility. Knees pressed so securely beside your own ears you start to believe the fee you pay for your weekly reformer pilates class might be a scam.

Apparently what you needed to achieve this level of advanced mobility was the unrelenting dead weight of a very, very capable man. So fucking capable that you’ve genuinely lost count of how many times he’s wrung you out on these expensive sheets.

Four orgasms? Maybe five? Whatever the number is, another one is dangerously crawling up the base of your spine.

Your sanity might be beyond saving at this point. You’re sweating profusely, and the backs of your thighs are screaming in dull protest from being pinned back for god knows how long. Leon pulls out and snaps his hips again with a jarring impact that seems to grow more ruthlessly aggressive with every single grind.

He does it again and again and again until you’re basically screaming from the unavoidable crash of yet another orgasm, toes curling frantically in the suspended air while your nails bite into the heavy muscle of his arms.

This man is something else, obviously nothing akin to the standard parade of disappointing men who talked big but possessed absolutely zero game. They were a flimsy attempt to scratch the very surface of your boredom. Leon, by comparison, is clawing straight down to the bone.

There’s a slowness in his thrusts now, and you blink to find an actual smile breaking through the sweat and exhaustion on his face. The warm puff of a chuckle against your cheek tells you he isn't simply amused. He’s actually entertained.

You huff, making a valiant but entirely useless attempt to mock him, "Stop laughing."

The sweat beading along his heavy brow does absolutely nothing to detract from how devastatingly smug he looks right now. “You’re shaking so much. It’s cute.”

So much for playing the femme fatale act at the bar. He swipes a thumb across your blotchy cheek, courtesy of his rough afternoon shadow.

“You okay?”

You sigh out a harsh breath, blowing a damp strand of hair out of your eyes. “Have you," you manage to wheeze, "even cum yet?”

He shakes his head, blue eyes glinting with unapologetic amusement.

"Are you ever going to?"

His low laughter rumbles warmly in your ears. “Why, you want me to stop already?" he presses a kiss against your jaw. "Thought you were having a good time."

“I’m having a great time.”

“Then what’s with the rush?”

“Maybe we should take a break,” you whine, gasping sharply when the weight of his pelvis rocks aggressively against your lower belly. “I-I need to pee.”

He seems unfazed. Moves like you didn't utter a word to begin with. Instead, what he does is press you even further into the mattress. “Is that right?”

“Fuck—Leon—” You arch your back as he maliciously tilts his hips. “You’re not helping.”

“I actually am,” he argues.

“What—”

“Let's test a theory," he drawls, hot breath ghosting over your pulse. "Do you really think you just need to pee, or are you about to squirt?”

You go completely still for a moment. Considering your track record of thoroughly uninspired hookups and non-lasting relationships, there is absolutely no palpable evidence to suggest you are capable of doing what he’s asking.

“I’m pretty sure I need to pee,” you reason quietly. “I’m not a squirter.”

He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve never done that before?”

“I have no prior experience to suggest it's even an option.”

He looks genuinely offended by your answer. “Do you want to try?”

Your head falls back to fully take him in. He really is pretty. Never mind the faint, tired wrinkles bracketing his pale blue eyes, or the harsh features of a man who has clearly seen too much and slept too little. He’s simply too devastatingly gorgeous for his own good.

Even with the fragments of scars you’ve spent the last hour subconsciously counting on his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Scars that make you wonder what kind of terrifying life he leads when he isn't in a hotel room with a stranger, fucking their brains out.

And you’re very much aware you’re one of the few he’s taken to bed.

But is he always this attentive? This generous?

Does he fuck everyone else this hard yet still find the gentle grace to cradle their face and brush the hair out of their eyes?

You instantly hate how territorial you sound. It's wildly hypocritical for someone who values the cheap thrill of a purely physical transaction just as much as he clearly does. He’s just a good lover, you decide. And if tonight is the only night you get to have this man all to yourself, then so be it.

If he thinks he can make you squirt, then who are you to deny?

“You really think I’m about to squirt?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

You frown. “What if it’s just pee?”

He kisses the wrinkled line between your brows. “Make a mess then, I don’t mind.”

Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight.

“Then make me squirt, Leon.”

He dips his head, breathing the hot air of his lungs directly into your open mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

Your pussy tightens reflexively at that, which he obviously catches. He catches on to every desperate tell your body gives him, actually. Probably the sole reason why you've already come an embarrassing number of times.

Not enough, apparently, because he’s already moving his hips in rapid rhythms—not too fast or too slow, but enough to have your eyes sliding shut, focusing on the stretch of his cock driving deep in and out of your cunt.

“Fucking beautiful,” he hums, binding your wrists together above your head. “Just lying there looking all pretty."

“H-harder,” you whine, weakly pushing your hips up to meet him.

“Yeah?” He squeezes your wrists together, leaning even more of his massive frame over you. “You like it when I go hard on you?”

Like it? You thrive on it, nodding frantically as your trembling thighs try to lock around his waist. Try is definitely the word when he’s practically flattened you beneath his crushing weight, effortlessly trapping your body. You can feel your limbs turn gooey and powerless, your stomach contrastingly hard.

“I know, baby, I know,” he rasps, ramming his hips harshly against yours. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Ngh—h—”

“That’s it, give it to me. Make a mess on me.”

The panic hits you first, quickly swallowed by an absolute wave of pure heat. Starts as a buzzing ache in your core before violently spiking into an unbearable sensation. Your belly burns, coils, rattles—and you blink your eyes open, brimming with tears. “Leon—”

He instantly reads the panicked clench of your muscles.

“Don't fight it.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

Your groan is feral. “I can’t—”

“Come on, baby, you’ve got to trust me,” he croons softly. “Do you trust me?”

Surprisingly, you do, even if your only judgment on this man comes from the three hours that have passed since you sat down next to him at the bar. “Yes.”

“Good. Then let it happen.”

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

“Breathe through your nose.”

He plunges in with a particularly harsh thrust and you gasp. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Oh, fuck—”

“That’s it.” He closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads touching. “Let it go.”

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding.

It’s like a switch. One moment your muscles are tensed, then a passage of whines pitches upward as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Strong and gut-wrenching. Body hot in bliss and shame—only for two seconds. Quick as it hits, he abruptly pulls out, instantly replacing his cock with two calloused fingers.

Your mouth gapes in a silent scream. Even more so when his offhand curls around your neck. Fingers pressing against the sides of your throat, palm flat against your windpipe, but exercising barely any pressure all the while his fingers fucks your swollen, dripping cunt.

You’ve seen yourself getting wet, you’ve felt yourself getting drenched, but you’ve never experienced anything as wild as this.

Speckles of liquid spatter across the sheets the more he drags his hand in an up-and-down motion, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.

He pushes his palm against your clit.

“Oh fuck! fuckfuckfuck—”

A sudden rush spills over him. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot onto his thighs. He continues to pump his fingers while you lie there—crying openly, violently shuddering. It goes on for what feels like forever until he smoothes out his pressure around your throat, kissing the drool glistening on your lips with a disbelief chuckle.

“Should’ve met you sooner,” he laughs into your mouth, easily slipping his cock back in.

Maybe it’s the bliss completely corrupting your nervous system, or perhaps it’s the overwhelming stretch of his thick cock driving back into your overstimulated cunt. Whatever it is, you completely lose your grip on the casual nature of a one night stand, eager words spilling past your wet lips before you can even screen them.

“Can we meet again?” You pant. “Like—after tonight?”

He withdraws his hips with a smug grin.

“I would,” thrust, “very much,” thrust, “like that.”

Thrust, thrust, thrust.

You’re somewhere right on the edge of a pathetic whimper and a helpless laugh, entirely too pleasured to think straight, dangerously too giddy at the possibility of actually getting to know him. To uncover those scars in daylight, to figure out what kind of hell he had to survive to inherit those devastatingly sad yet kind eyes.

To learn his last name. To unearth his middle.

You gasp when he effortlessly flips you over, twisting his fingers in your hair and pulling it back.

They transferred you from the delivery room to the maternity ward and the first people you called were Rhonda and Lottie. Both of them were over the moon and ready to come see you. 

“Please bring some food. The hospital isn’t serving lunch for another two hours,” you pleaded and Rhonda chuckled. 

Not only did they bring food, they brought Javi too. And he brought his signature chicken tenders. 

“Javi’s special dip,” he announced, placing the plastic container in front of you. “And I made you a green smoothie. Full of iron, berries and all the good stuff.” 

“You’re the best,” you said and tore into the chicken, not caring how sweaty and gross you were.

Your body really felt like you had run a marathon. You were hungry, thirsty, and sore yes, but you needed to prioritise replenishing your energy resources before the high oxytocin wore off. 

Lottie was balancing on her tiptoes, button nose practically inside the crib, staring at her little brother. “So that’s him?” She didn't sound convinced. 

You chuckled. “Yeah, why? What did you expect?” 

“He’s so little. He looks like a doll,” she said, not tearing her eyes away from him. 

“You were even smaller when you were born,” Rhonda reminded both of you. “She was what, seven pounds?” 

You nodded, chasing your mouthful of chicken with the smoothie. “Just about.” 

“You did really well,” Javi said. “We’re all very proud of you.” 

“Thank you,” you whispered, pushing away the sensation of your eyes watering up and any thought of Leon. 

Rhonda watched you intently. There was nothing slipping past her. Four-time mother, one-time grandmother. She knew. 

“Where is Leon?” 

You sniffled, pressing your lips together to hold it in but on your next inhale you crumpled, collapsing like a house of cards. “I don’t know.” 

Rhonda pulled your head against her chest. “He’s not a cop, is he?” 

You shook your head, sobbing into Rhonda’s shirt. 

“Didn’t think as much,” she said, softly patting your head. 

“They don’t know where he is,” you choked. “They lost him.” 

Rhonda softly cradled you against her and you heard Javi distract Lottie with the baby. 

“Do you want me to help you take a shower?“ Rhonda asked and you nodded, trying to calm your breathing. 

Rhonda took your hand and helped you up from the bed. You winced, taking a moment to steady yourself and work through the dizziness.

Taking your first steps was hard, but you managed, ignoring the burning sensation between your legs. You were going to be tender for a while but you crossed your fingers for a speedy healing process. 

You sat on the shower chair while Rhonda let the warm water run over you, washing away all the tears, the exhaustion in your muscles, all the sweat and blood from labour. It was one of the best showers of your life. Especially when Rhonda started gently massaging your scalp while she was washing your hair and you felt like you were being mothered. 

When you felt like a human again, it was Rhonda who helped you out of the shower and handed you a towel. It was Rhonda who crouched down holding open the beautiful net panties with extra padding so you could step into them. It was also her who pulled them up so you didn’t have to bend over. 

When you came back into the room, there were flowers by your bedside and your favourite chocolates. 

"I'm so sorry."

Michelle stood in the middle of the room, hair disheveled like she had been running her fingers through it, awkwardly kneading her hands.  “I was horrible to you.” 

"Yeah, you were," you said. "Once I'm out of here you can explain to me what made you think you can talk to me like that. In front of my daughter, no less."

Michelle grimaced. You opened your arms, too tired for big words. Also because Michelle wasn’t all that high on your priority list right now. You had other things to be worrying about.

She hugged you and you stayed like that for a little while. 

"Congratulations, Mama," she whispered. 

“Thank you.” You smiled at her and she helped you back into bed. 

Just as you had gotten comfortable, Ollie started whining, calling for a second breakfast. 

Rhonda gestured for you to stay where you were and she lifted him out of the crib, softly rocking him with four-time mother expertise. 

“He’s a very pretty baby,” she said, placing him in your arms, your bra already undone, boob snack ready to go. 

“Thank you, I made him.” You smiled, latching him on. “From scratch.” 

Lottie crinkled her nose, climbing into bed beside you. You scooted over and watched her watch you breastfeed Ollie with genuine curiosity. 

“You’re a big sister now.” You nudged her. “How do you feel?” 

She shrugged. “Not that much different. I don’t know him yet. He doesn’t have much of a personality, does he?”

You chuckled. “He does, we just need to give him time to find it.” 

Lottie nodded, stretching out a hand toward him, squealing when he closed his hand around her little finger. 

“He has fingernails and everything,” she exclaimed, looking at you eyes wide. 

You nodded. “Everything. He’s a complete human.” 

Lottie was mesmerised. “I can’t wait for dad to meet him.” 

Silence sank over the room, thick and heavy. You felt sick to your stomach. 

When Ollie was done eating, Rhonda took him from you again. “You should sleep a little,” she said. “Me and Michelle will stay here and take care of nappy changes and whatnot. Javi will take Lottie back to school.” 

Lottie whined. “I don’t want to go back to school, I want to stay with mom.” 

“Your mom needs to rest,” Javi said. “Having a baby is really exhausting. Like what you feel like after ballet. But about ten times worse.” 

“Yes, but I want to stay with Ollie too,” she said. “I can help with everything.” 

Javi took her hand. “You can come back and help after school,” he said. “Come on.” 

Lottie frowned, but she ended up giving in, kissing both you and Ollie goodbye before walking out of the room with Javi. 

Michelle adjusted your pillows. “Sleep. If you need anything, we’ll be right here.” 

Your eyes were already closing, the hormonal high slowly wearing off exposing how tired you really were. 

You didn’t sleep long. Or well for that matter. Tossing and turning still, despite your exhaustion and your body’s desperate need to rest. You were dreaming of all the fucked up things that could have possibly happened to Leon, the last image flashing in your mind being of Lottie and yourself in matching black dresses, getting ready for his funeral. 

You jolted awake. Rhonda was next to you, grabbing your shoulder, rubbing it gently. “Your phone’s ringing,” she murmured and you groaned, grabbing your forehead, trying to find your way back into reality. 

You glanced at the screen. Hunnigan. 

“Hello?” you blurted out, gripping the phone tightly. 

“It’s me.” Leon’s voice nearly made you whimper. “I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say.” 

“Are you okay?” you asked, still on high alert. 

“Yeah,” his voice was thick and raspy, but he cleared his throat so you wouldn’t hear it, so you wouldn't notice he was lying. You did anyway. “And you? Are you okay?” 

You nodded. “Yeah,” you breathed, chin quivering. “We have a son. He weighs eight pounds. He's a healthy baby and everything's fine.” 

Nothing was fine. Leon wasn't there with you.

“You did so well, baby,” Leon whispered. “I—” he broke off. 

“How fast can you be here?” you asked, forcing a smile, wiping your tears away. 

Silence. “Two weeks.”

Your face fell. “Two weeks?” 

“They infected me with some kind of fucked up thing and there is no way I can bring that anywhere near you, Lottie or the baby.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. You wanted to scream and beat whoever was responsible for this black and blue. Keeping Leon from you and Ollie right now was just cruel. 

“I’m sure he’s such a beautiful baby,” he whispered, close to tears.

"He is. He’s adorable," you whispered, sniffling. "I wish you could see him."

Two weeks. Two weeks alone with a newborn and a seven year old. While trying to heal from giving birth.

Rhonda took the phone from your hands. 

“Leon, Rhonda here.” She sounded like she was about to yell at him and you reached for the phone, but she turned away, out of your reach. 

“Listen, we’ll take good care of her. Don’t worry. They’re both in very good hands. We got it all covered until you come back.” 

You sobbed. Rhonda ended the call and hugged you again, stroking your hair. 

“When he missed the birth, I knew. Because there’s no way Leon would miss that for the world,” she whispered. “And don’t worry about the next two weeks, okay? I’ll be there, Javi will be there, Michelle will be there. We’ll all help. In fact, I think Javi is meal prepping for you as we speak.” 

Your breath hitched. “Thank you.” 

“This is your village,” Rhonda whispered. “We’re not leaving you.” 

Javi filled up your entire fridge with nutrient dense, healthy casseroles that you only had to whack into the microwave and they were ready to eat for both you and Lottie in two minutes. When your fridge was full, he filled up nearly the entire freezer too. Breakfast burritos, healthy muffins for snacking while you had a baby attached to your tit—anything you could want to eat, Javi had already made it. 

Michelle drove Lottie to school and ballet, requesting to work from home so she could be flexible and show up for you. 

And Rhonda, sweet sweet Rhonda, was there to help you with everything else. First and foremost, putting cabbage leaves in your bra until you smelled like a salad bar, changing nappies in record time and cleaning your house while you tended to Ollie’s every need. 

Postpartum wasn’t meant to be gone through alone. And even though Leon was still quarantining, you didn’t have to do it all by yourself. 

The only time you were alone was at night. It was also the time the house was quiet enough for you to think about how much you wanted Leon to be here. All you wanted to do was crawl under the covers and watch the time go by until he was. But if you wanted to function properly for your kids, you couldn't give in to that. 

Lottie was sleeping, Ollie too. Too deeply. You had tried to wake him up softly because your boobs felt like god damn boulders strapped to your chest—hard and painful, like they might burst if you did so much as touch them the wrong way. 

But Ollie wasn’t hungry. He was sleepy. 

So you sat down on the couch, strapping your breast pump to your chest, eating chips out of a bag while you watched your milk stream into the cups attached to the pump. 

“Moo,” you huffed, sinking deeper into the cushions.

Leon was supposed to be coming back tomorrow. His quarantine was close to done, and you couldn’t wait to have him here again, touch him, feel him and know he was alright. 

A key turned in the front door and you jumped. It was three o'clock in the morning. Who the hell could want something from you at this time? 

You fumbled for the breast pump, detaching it, spilling nearly an entire cup of milk all over yourself in the process.

"Shit," you cursed, trying to cover up and dabbing at your wet shirt at the same time. 

“Hey.” Leon’s thin voice made your heart both beat faster and cramp up. He sounded defeated. 

“Leon,” you breathed and he crossed the space to you inhumanly fast, wrapping you up in his arms, pressing you to him like he was scared someone would take you from him. 

You pressed your cheek to his head, inhaling his scent. He had made it back to you. You had made it too: Leon was home.

“Are you okay?” you asked, running your hands all over his upper body, looking for any sign of injury.

He shook his head, face buried in your neck, shoulders shaking. 

“My shirt's wet. I’m getting milk all over you,” you whispered, feeling the wetness of your shirt seep through his too. 

He didn’t say anything, he just gripped you tighter.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked softly.

He shook his head again, remaining silent, hot tears coating the skin of your neck. You threaded your fingers through his soft hair, just holding him against you like that for a while. 

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” he choked out eventually.

You pressed a kiss to his head. “You know, I kept telling Ollie to wait for you but he never listens to me.” 

Leon snorted, the sound morphing into a muffled sob. "Don't joke about this. Not right now. We're never getting that moment back."

He let go of the embrace, covering his eyes with his fingers, taking a shaky breath. "I wanted this to go differently. I was trying to get home before you went into labour."

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. He looked overspent, dark circles under his eyes, skin pale.  

“Do you want to meet your son?” you asked, offering him a small smile.

Leon nodded and you gently took his hand, guiding him to your bedroom where you were co-sleeping with Ollie. 

Your son was just waking up, tiny fists trying to escape the swaddle he was wrapped up in. You loosened the buttons and picked him up. 

“Hey baby,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek and he yawned. “There is someone who wants to meet you.”

Leon extended his hands, wordlessly and you placed Ollie into his arms. 

“I was worried I had forgotten how to do this,” he whispered, cradling Ollie to his chest, careful to support his head.

“And have you?” You smiled, already knowing the answer. 

He shook his head, staring at his son like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. 

“He’s so beautiful. You made a really cute baby,” he murmured.

“You helped.” 

“You baked the cookies, remember?” he whispered, looking at you. 

Ollie became a little uneasy, wailing softly. Leon gently rocked him. “Hey, baby. I know we’ve only just met, but I’m your dad.” 

Ollie blinked confused. “I get it, it's kind of a lot to take in right now.” Leon chuckled, pressing a kiss to his head.

“He smells so good. Why do they always smell so good?” he said, turning to you. 

You shrugged. “‘Cause he’s ours.” 

Ollie smacked his lips repeatedly.  

“He’s hungry,” Leon whispered and you had already pulled your top down, jumping at the chance, desperate to find some kind of relief. Leon gently placed your son in your arms, propping up the pillows on the bed so you could sit down to nurse.

Leon didn’t leave your side, his head resting on your shoulder. “I’m taking as much paternity leave as I can get. I don’t care who’s dying where, I’m never leaving you again.”

You pressed your forehead to his. 

“I already missed so much. Two weeks with a newborn is huge. Not to mention that you had to do all this by yourself.”

You shook your head. “Everyone in this house is happy you’re back. Lottie will lose her mind tomorrow morning.” 

He chuckled and it was the best sound you had ever heard. 

When Ollie was done, Leon put him back in the crib and moments later you were cuddled up against each other, Leon clinging to you like there was nothing that could take him away from you ever again. Your arms were wrapped around his head and he was pressed to your chest, listening to your heartbeat. It helped with the nightmares, he said.

You agreed. Because it helped with yours too.

You got about two hours of sleep like that before Ollie decided you had enough. 

“Stay, I’ll do it,” Leon murmured, yawning, but already getting out of bed. You sighed, pushing yourself up into a seated position, slipping your top off on one side, ready to have a baby put into your arms. 

A seasoned pro like yourself, Leon got you a glass of water from the kitchen after placing Ollie into your arms, knowing full well how dehydrating breastfeeding was. 

Ollie ate well. Technically, he should have been a happy baby.

He wasn’t.

Leon changed his nappies. Ollie still wasn’t happy, screaming bloody murder. 

You wanted to get up but Leon motioned for you to stay put, pressing a kiss to Ollie’s cheek, rocking him back and forth. “Go back to sleep, let me do this.” 

You knew Leon was exhausted. You also didn’t want to let him go either. But you were so sleep deprived, you fell asleep immediately after Leon left the room with Ollie. 

When you woke up the next time, you patted the bed, looking for Leon, but his side was cold. You shot up. Ollie wasn’t in his crib either. Fear surged through you and you rushed out of the bedroom, feeling for the lightswitch in the hallway. 

In the living room, in the dim leftover light spilling in you found Leon, sleeping on the couch, Ollie sprawled out on his bare chest, softly moving with Leon’s deep breaths. 

You tiptoed to the couch and crouched down, watching them for a while. Ollie looked like he felt completely safe even though he had only met this man a few hours ago. You wondered if he knew who Leon was. If he could feel it maybe.

You pressed a kiss to Leon's cheek and he jolted awake, disoriented.  

“Leon,” you whispered, stabilising Ollie. “You can’t sleep like that with the baby. It’s not safe.” 

“I know that,” Leon breathed, rubbing his face. “I wasn’t sleeping.” 

Ollie opened his eyes at the commotion, getting fussy then closed them again as he was being lulled back to sleep by Leon's heartbeat.

You smiled, gently stroking your boyfriend's cheek. “Did you sleep at all before coming here?” 

He shook his head, leaning into your touch. “Drove straight down. As soon as I got the all clear.” 

Ollie’s arm fell off Leon’s chest and he reached for it, putting it back into place, running a hand over his son’s soft head.

“Leon, what happened? Can you tell me?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want you to know. I‘m dealing with this so you don‘t have to. I want to keep it that way.”

You sighed. That was going to backfire. Way down the line. Nobody could keep all this bottled up forever. But that was a conversation for another day, when you weren't both so sleep deprived and had only just gotten each other back.

“How did you get back to base?” you asked instead.

He reached for you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers never leaving your skin as if he was scared you would disappear. “Guess who risked their life to save me from drowning.” 

You looked at him, shaking your head.

“Ada,” he whispered. “I was barely conscious because I had hit my head on something. She kept telling me I had to stay awake because I needed to come back home to you.”

You thought about what Ada had said to you at the diner. That Leon had a place to return to: you. And your children.

"I'm glad she did," you whispered. You didn't want to think about Leon almost drowning. He didn't. That was all that mattered.

“Me too,” he said, grasping your chin and pulling you in for a kiss. “I want to come home to you for the rest of my life.” 

Your breath hitched. 

“I didn't get a chance to look at rings yet since I was quarantined and as it turns out jewellers are hard to come by at this time of night.“

Ollie stirred, hiccupping, getting ready to make a scene. Leon gently moved him up on his chest, tucking his head under his chin, shushing him. Ollie took his dad's advice and his eyes fluttered shut again. 

"I have a baby," Leon whispered. "I don’t know if that counts or if it’s in bad taste, since he’s already yours?" 

You snorted. “Are you proposing to me with our son? Is that what's happening?”

“If you say it like that it sounds bad. I meant it in a very romantic 'we are meant to be' kind of way.” He chuckled. "But yes, marry me."

He whispered the last part, eyes finding yours, anxiously waiting for a response. Because you had turned him down last time.

If you said yes now, this would be your life. Not the times when Leon was home, but the times he wasn't, too. And everything that came with it: the anxiety, the baggage, the nightmares when he returned.

You buried your face in your hands, looking at Leon from in between your fingers.

"Yes," you whispered, lowering your hands. "I want you to come home to me for the rest of your life, too."

Leon captured your lips in another kiss. "I’ll get you a ring, I promise. A really nice one."

You smiled against his lips. "Just make sure you don't ever lose your wedding ring. Like you lose everything else when you're on duty."

He kissed you again, not a trace of humour in what he said next. "Never."

Your fiancé insisted on baby wearing all morning. He also insisted on going all out for breakfast: scrambled eggs, Lottie’s favourite cereal, fresh fruit, whatever he could find. You stopped him from making smoothies, knowing Ollie would scream the whole house down as soon as he heard the blender. 

“Should I go wake her?” Leon asked, gently checking on Ollie suspended in the wrap around his torso, cheek pressed flat against Leon's chest. 

You pursed your lips and shook your head. “I’ll do it.” 

You tiptoed into Lotties room, mischief dancing on your lips. “Lottie,” you crooned, and she stretched under the covers. “I have a surprise for you.” 

She yawned. “Mom, I told you, frozen yogurt was a phase. I'm not into that anymore.” 

You scoffed. “It’s way better than frozen yogurt anyway.” 

She shot up. “You got me a guinea pig,” she said. “Oh my god.” 

You shook your head. “Way better.” 

She narrowed her eyes at you, slowly pulling the covers back, climbing out of bed. “I don’t know if I trust you with surprises, mom. They’re usually really weird. Like Ollie.” 

You shrugged. “Go on into the kitchen and check for yourself.” 

Lottie stared at you for a bit. Then slowly backtracked through the hallway, pushing the door to the kitchen and living room open. 

Leon smiled at her from behind the kitchen counter. "I heard someone got promoted to big sister," he said and Lottie squealed, taking off like a shot, barreling into him. 

THE END

Thank you for all your incredible support! I loved writing domestic Leon like this and had the time of my life reading your comments about this fic. 💗💗💗

I'll be writing an epilogue set a couple years before RE9, so we'll get to revisit (not so) little Lottie and teenage Ollie.

I’d love to hear your theories about where they are 15 years later (I already know of course, but I’m just nosy like that). So please please let me know in the comments!!

Also if you want to know what I write next, I have a permanent tag list. So let me know if you’d like to be added. 💗

____

You stepped into the diner and everybody’s heads turned. You weren’t sure if it was because of your tight black bodycon dress, the sunglasses making you look fierce, the huge pregnant belly or the pink scooter dangling from your hand. But you felt like a celebrity. 

“Where the fuck is Leon?” Rhonda said, looking you up and down, as you walked—waddled up to the counter rather and slid onto a barstool next to Michelle. Lottie climbed up onto the one to your left. 

“At work,” you sighed. 

“What? Still?” Rhonda nearly dropped her coffee pot. “I don’t want to be mean but have you seen yourself recently?” 

You rolled your eyes “Rhonda, please don’t.”

“You look like you’re ready to pop. And you’re waddling like a duck, there’s no way you’re not feeling that.” 

In fact, you were feeling it. At every step. Ever since Ollie had dropped, his head was right there. He was due tomorrow. You were praying and hoping that just like Lottie, Ollie would also be late by a couple days. You just had to wait this out a little longer. 

“Have you packed your hospital bag yet?” 

You shook your head and passed Lottie the menu. She lifted her finger to run under the lines she was reading and her tongue dipped out of her mouth with the effort. “S-sss-ssh-”

“It’s ch- like cherry,” you encouraged her and she tried again. 

“Chi-chik- chiken te- hm- teh-,” she continued, taking a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. 

“Keep going, you’re doing really well,” you said, gently running a hand over the top of her head. 

“If I were you, I would have that packed and ready to go. You don’t have much longer.” 

“Rhonda, I’m already anxious as hell, don’t make it worse,” you said. 

“Why is Rhonda the one making it worse?” Michelle cut in. “I’m so over your baby daddy getting excuse after excuse for either not being there or showing up at the very last minute and everybody celebrating him when he does. He’s not the one being there from the start. It’s always you. He only shows up when it’s convenient for him.” 

“Michelle, I already told you, it’s because of his job.” Ollie kicked you and you let out a long breath, rubbing your bump. 

“Right. As a cop.” She narrowed her eyes. “Never in my life have I heard of a cop who’s gone weeks at a time leaving his pregnant girlfriend to fend for herself. His heavily pregnant girlfriend.”  

“Can we just have lunch?” you asked. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“You know which profession I divorce most?” Michelle went on, undeterred. 

You shook your head, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Cops?” you guessed. 

She nodded. “And guess how many of them state infidelity as the reason for divorce.” 

“He’s not cheating on me,” you said, grabbing one of the other menus to figure out what Ollie felt like eating. The good thing about him dropping was you could eat actual adult sized portions again because he was pressing down on your bladder now instead of your stomach. A win was a win.  

“Where is he then?” Michelle hissed. “If I were him, I would have a hard time finding something that is more important than my girlfriend giving birth.”

Your head snapped around to her. “Why do you hate him so much? You’ve hated him from the very beginning.” 

“Because a cop doesn’t drive a car like that. And they don’t have apartments like that either. I know, I divide their assets. And I am sick of having to pick up his slack, while he’s god knows where and telling lies.” 

“Cut it,” Rhonda hissed. “There’s no need to make it worse.” 

“You know what? I’m done,” Michelle pushed her plate away and slipped off the barstool. “You’re boy crazy, do you know that? Accidentally getting knocked up twice, who does that?” She grabbed her purse. 

“Mom, what’s ‘knocked up’?” Lottie asked and looked at you with genuine curiosity.  

“It’s when your mom and dad are too stupid to wear a condom,” Michelle spat and walked off. You called after her, swiveling around on your barstool, but she was already out the door. 

Your heart hammered in your chest, face hot. 

Rhonda gently touched your shoulder. “Don’t mind her.”

You turned around, staring at her. “I was going to ask her to come to the delivery room with me.” 

Rhonda gave you a sympathetic smile, gently stroking your cheek. “I’ll come with you. I’ll be ready when you need me. In the middle of the night, call me, I don’t care.” 

“I was going to ask you to watch Lottie,” you whispered. 

“You got it,” Rhonda said. 

“I can come with you,” Javi called from the kitchen over the sizzling of greasy chicken tenders. 

You grimaced. “Javi, I love you, but I’d rather you don’t see my vagina while I’m pushing a baby out of it.” 

He shrugged. “You know what, that’s so fair.”

You ran yourself a bath when you came home. The back pain and emotional turmoil being absolutely unbearable today. The fact that intense back pain was exactly how labour had started for you when Lottie was born, wasn’t lost on you. But you figured the bath would help with nerves as well as physical pain. 

It did. For a little bit. But then you got a call from Hunnigan. She never called you, you always called her. You jumped, reaching for your phone with wet hands. 

“Hello?” 

“Leon told me to call you.” 

You sank deeper into your bath water. “What is it?”

“He said he needs to know if you’re in labour yet, since the baby’s due tomorrow,” she said. 

What was he doing? He shouldn’t be getting distracted thinking about your due date. He should be thinking about himself and not getting killed. You let out a shaky breath. 

“Baby’s still in there, nice and cosy. No need to worry about us,” you pressed, ignoring the dull pain radiating out from your lower back. 

“I’ll pass that on,” Hunnigan said, ready to end the call. 

“Is he okay?” you blurted out. 

“Yes, he’s okay,” she replied. “Everything is going according to plan. He’ll be home in no time.” 

You let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.” 

After Hunnigan got off the call, you gently massaged your belly, Ollie wiggling in response to your touch. “You stay in there until your dad gets home, do you hear me? Be a good baby.” 

As soon as you got out of your bath and felt Ollie‘s head pressing down on your pelvis again, your heart gave you a run for your money. 

You squeezed your eyes shut and looked at yourself in the mirror, looking at your bump. You felt so much lighter around your lungs and stomach and so much heavier further down. You remembered this feeling. When you were pregnant with Lottie, this had been you about two weeks before she was born. But your instinct told you, it wasn’t going to be like that this time. You already felt so on edge, fidgety, uneasy. 

So you adhered to Rhonda’s advice, slipped into your pyjamas and started packing your hospital bag. 

Lottie came into the room, helping you. 

“Lottie, when the baby comes, I’m going to need you to stay with Rhonda for a little while, okay? I can’t take you to the hospital with me.” 

“Why can’t I stay with dad?” 

“Dad’s at work. Rhonda will come over and take care of you and I’m going to need you to be good, okay?” 

“Okay,” Lottie replied and you pressed a kiss to her head. She was your big girl now. Your eldest. 

“This is really exciting,” she whispered and stretched out her hands to your belly. You smiled, watching her cuddle up to your bump, but inwardly you were battling the urge to push her away. You didn‘t want to be touched right now. Couldn’t bear it, no matter who it was. Exactly how you had felt when you were giving birth last time. 

Shit. You were wondering if this was really intuition or your anxiety playing tricks on you. 

“It is. You’re going to be a big sister. Are you looking forward to it?” 

Lottie nodded and ran over to her room to give you a drawing she wanted you to put in your hospital bag as well.

“This is you, me, dad and Ollie,” she explained, pointing at the stick figures in the picture. “You can take it, it’s for good luck.”

“Thank you, Lottie.” You took the drawing from her hands and carefully folded it to fit in one of the side pockets. 

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” 

You flinched at the thought and looked at her, trying to figure out if it would break her heart if you told her no. “I need some space, Lottie. I’m not feeling great.”

“Because dad isn’t here.” Lottie nodded, looking way older than she was. “Does it hurt when you have a baby?” 

You grimaced. “Yeah, but it’s normal. It’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Did your daughter feel the shift in energy too or did you rope her into it with all your anxiety?

“It’ll be fine, mom. Don’t worry.” She hugged you again and you buried your face in her hair. “You’re the best mom. Ollie thinks that, too. He told me.” 

You chuckled, not even wanting to know how she thought she was communicating with the baby in your belly. “Am I? I don’t feel like it a lot of the time.” 

Lottie shrugged. “I mean, if you wanted to be better, you could let me eat more chocolate sometimes.” 

“No,” you said, immediately shutting down your daughter’s attempt at blackmailing you. She giggled, knowing full well she was being cheeky. “You’ll thank me later when your dentist tells you how good your teeth are.” 

Your main job as a mother was foresight for someone who didn’t have it yet. You looked at your hospital bag all packed and ready to go. You guess you did a pretty good job at that after all. 

After you put Lottie to bed, you had trouble falling asleep. Too worried that tonight would be the night. The night you would be going into labour.

Or maybe not. It was torture, tossing and turning, shoving pillows between your knees, never getting comfortable, because both your body and your mind were giving you a hard time. 

You managed to fall asleep eventually. Only to be woken up not even three hours later by something that felt suspiciously close to severe menstrual cramps. 

You sat up carefully, holding your belly, waiting for it to go away. You looked at the clock. 02:14. 

When it had stopped, you rubbed your eyes, sleep tugging at your eyelids but you needed to stay awake to see if it was Braxton Hicks or the real thing. 

Eleven minutes later, another contraction hit and you took a deep breath through it. You knew what this was. This wasn’t your first rodeo. 

Despite your body being tired, you couldn’t bear being in a seated position any longer, feeling so god damn restless. You paced up and down your bedroom, gripping the side of the dresser on your next contraction, softly swaying your hips to get at least some relief from the tension. 

When the contraction was over, you braced yourself. There would be no relief from this for the next couple hours. If not longer. It was only going to get more intense from here. There was no way out of this, only through. This was happening. This was your baby being born. And Leon was nowhere to be seen.

You called Rhonda immediately. 

“I’ll be over in thirty minutes tops,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. 

Pacing up and down, you thought about calling Hunnigan, phone already in hand, only to lower it back down. Calling her was incredibly selfish. If Leon knew what was going on and he was still in the field, that would make him lose focus entirely. But if he was already in debrief, would he not want to know? Where was he right now? Was he okay? 

You didn’t have a lot of time to worry about that, as the next contraction hit earlier than expected. You checked the clock. Seven minutes. 

You whimpered this time, the pain being a lot more intense, too. 

“Holy shit,” you whispered, a sudden surge of fear racing through you. What did you need? Rhonda was on her way. Hospital bag? Packed. Lottie? Taken care of. You just had to get ready and good lord, eat something. Because you were getting ready to run a fucking marathon. Because that was what this was, right? Physically. 

There were very few things in life that were absolutely inevitable. The fact that birthing a baby was one of them always messed with your head. How powerful was that? How insane if you thought about it? 

Rhonda was at your door two contractions later and helped you get in the shower so you could freshen up one last time. 

“Where the fuck is Leon?” she asked. 

You were going to answer but your next contraction hit and rendered you unable to. “Oh shit,” you groaned. “This is the worst one by far.” 

Lottie woke up somewhere around that time, too. No doubt, noticing what was going on in the house. Rhonda fixed her a bowl of the sugary pink cereal she liked so much and parked her in front of the TV, putting on cartoons, as you breathed through another contraction, white knuckling the edge of the kitchen table. 

At around 04:30, your contractions had consistently been about five minutes apart and you called a taxi. You hugged Rhonda and gave Lottie a kiss on the head before heading to the hospital to have your baby. By yourself. You had tried calling Michelle on the off-chance, but she hadn’t picked up. 

When the nurse told you you were already about six centimeters dilated and well into active labour at your arrival, you had a mini panic attack. Having a medical professional confirm that this was really happening and with things progressing so fast, it all felt a lot to handle.

You wanted Leon to be here. Not because you couldn’t do this without him. But you wanted to share this with him: this moment, this memory of what it was like to give birth to your second baby. That you stood bent over the hospital bed, elbows rested on the mattress, as your next contraction tore through you. 

Even if there wasn’t much he could help with anyways. This was purely between you, your body and your baby. While giving birth, you didn’t want him to touch you.

With Lottie, he had tried to rub your back and such, but you had nearly crawled out of your skin and swatted his hand away. The only touching you could bear was holding on to his shoulders as you changed birthing positions. 

At around 8 am, you felt like a rubber band snapped inside your belly and you knew exactly what was coming next, before you even felt the fluid trickle down your legs. When this had happened with Lottie, you had been convinced you had pissed your pants. But amniotic fluid smelled like honey, so it was pretty easy to identify. It was the sweetness of welcoming your baby into the world. 

What if Leon had died on the mission? What if while you were birthing Ollie, he was already being packed into a body bag? The thoughts crossed your mind but were washed away by the pain, the first time intense enough for you to press your head into the pillows and let out a guttural grunt. 

“Oh fuck,” you groaned, coming out of the contraction panting. 

You fumbled for your phone, giving in and calling Hunnigan. 

“Hello?” She picked up immediately and you nearly sobbed at the sound of her voice. 

“Where is Leon?” 

“I can’t tell you that.” 

You could feel another contraction coming on and you gritted your teeth. “I don’t give a fuck about what you can or can’t do, where the fuck is he? Is he in debrief? I need to talk to him.” 

You groaned, your face contorting in pain and you let out a whimper, not bothering to mute yourself on the phone. 

“I said, I can’t tell you that.” 

Another grunt and you punched the mattress. “I’m in labour. When he’s there, tell him my waters broke at,” you glanced at the clock, “8:17 and I’m in Cityside Medical Hospital and to get his ass over here as fast as he can because,” you breathed heavily. “It’s not going to fucking be much longer.” 

Hunnigan didn’t say anything. You had rendered the government agent dispatcher speechless. 

“I can’t tell you because we lost contact with him, we have no idea where he is,” she whispered. 

You hissed through gritted teeth, your knees nearly giving out. “What do you mean you don’t know where he is?” 

“I— there was a fight and he was pushed off a bridge and we lost contact.” 

You felt like this was a joke. This wasn't happening, right? There was no way this was happening to you.

Your breath quickened and a cold numbing sensation spread through you, making you shiver. Leon was fine. He had to be. It was Leon, for Christ's sakes. Your Leon.

The monitor in the corner showed your pulse going through the roof and a delivery nurse rushed back into the room.

Ollie didn't give you much time to process Hunnigan's news. Your next contraction was coming on relentlessly and your face contorted in pain.

“Then do your fucking job and find him,” you growled and you threw the phone away, rage taking over.

You couldn’t really afford to feel anything else because on your next contraction, you felt an instinctive, uncontrollable urge to push. This was it. It was time, with or without Leon. 

“Oh my god,” you breathed and adjusted your position. 

“You’re doing really well,” the delivery nurse told you, as she gently stabilised you. 

Pushing out a baby was absolutely earth shattering. There was nothing that came even close. The muscles in your body were so tight, your teeth began to chatter with exhaustion.

You’re the strongest person I know. I don’t tell you that enough.

You were in a trance and had the nurse not told you to keep breathing in between your contractions, you would have probably just not done it.

Grunting and mewling like an animal, you were bringing your baby into the world. This was hell. You couldn’t wait for the surge of oxytocin to wash away the intense pressure, the burning sensation of your muscles stretching to their max, and to make you high on your own baby.

It was some clever engineering really. Or nature’s gaslighting. Otherwise nobody would ever have more than one child. 

With your next push, you felt your baby slide out of you. You had finally made it. Relief washed over you both physically and mentally.

The delivery nurse lifted your baby and life happened in slow motion, sweaty strands of hair stuck to your skin as you saw your son for the first time, the universe tilting in its axis, being entirely suspended from your umbilical cord for a split second. 

His little face scrunched up and he let out a cry.

This was who had been inside your belly this entire time. A whole new person.

A sob racked through you.

You felt like you were twenty-one again for a second. Twenty-one and shit-scared, having just given birth to a baby girl and having no idea how to keep her alive.

The delivery nurse gently guided you to lean against the pillows, moved the top of your hospital gown down and laid your son on your naked chest, covering both of you with a towel. 

“Well done, Mama,” she whispered and you cried uncontrollably, feeling the skin to skin contact with your baby. Nothing came close. Absolutely nothing in this world. 

The first check up right after birth, the placenta, the umbilical cord, everything went by in a blur. All you focused on was your baby and how he looked like he had been in a peaceful slumber and gone through the most traumatic wake up call of all time.

“I know baby, I know,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his. His little hands wiggled, tentatively opening his fists and sticking his tongue out between his tiny lips. 

“You can latch him on, he’s fine.” The delivery nurse said, a hand gently resting on the mattress, placing a fresh pad under your hips and draping the covers over you both so you would stay warm. “A very healthy baby.” 

A surge of pride washed through you and you lifted your breast out of the hospital gown, your baby smacking his lips in search of where the food came from. You latched him on perfectly on the first try, nipple hitting his palate, nose flush against your skin. 

Tears welled up in your eyes again. This was muscle memory. You didn’t need to be scared. You knew how to do it this time. You were already a mother.

“Good job,” the delivery nurse said. “I see we have a seasoned pro here.” 

“Thank you,” you mouthed, watching mesmerised as you breastfed your baby for the first time. Your head whipped around to the chair close to the bed. But there was no one there.

Your chest locked up like vice and your stomach dropped. You squeezed your eyes shut and let your head fall back into the pillow. Staring at the ceiling, your chin quivered, not with the joy of welcoming Ollie this time.

Where the fuck was Leon?

___

And then he turns back around, and your eyes are gifted with the sight of his face. You openly swoon and reach out for him. The expression on his features is a mix smack dab between amusement and surprise. His usually reserved, composed wife is now a wide open book. Large print, descriptive pictures. He can already read you well, but now you’re making it as obvious as a chapter book to him.

“C’mere,” you whine. He stays put, only a few feet from you, just to see what you’d do. Briefly, you consider getting up to go to him, but the couch is so comfy, and you’re sure your legs are jello by now. Leon’s got a smug look on his face. “Don’t be a dick, put those huge guns of yours to good use and hold me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” the words wrap around you like a hug of their own before he follows with a physical embrace. You bury your face in his chest and sigh. Take a deep breath of his cologne with a hum.

“Only ridiculous thing here is your fuckin’ body,” you mumble into his shirt. It’s soft, worn, and incredibly Leon. You could live here, you think. Nest in his arms and never leave. “D’you even understand how gorgeous you are? ‘S unfair.”

“Careful, honey, I don’t think my ego can get any bigger.”

“Something else could, though,” you mumble. His breath hitches when your hand lands on the crotch of his pants. 

“You’re drunk. That’s not happening.”

“C’mon,” you pout at him, eyes darkened. He’s not sure if it’s from the drinks or the desire. Probably both. “Been thinking about you, like, all night.”

“No,” he states firmly, moving your hand back to its previous place at his ribs. “Let’s try and sober you up a little, hm?” Leon attempts to pry himself from your hold. It doesn’t work. You’re hugging him like he’s your lifeline. “Baby, let me up.”

You don’t move. So he just hoists you into his arms. This seems to trigger another set of complaints in you, about how he’s so rude and won’t even fuck me but will show off your huge muscles just to piss me off. It’s all really entertaining to him. 

He leaves you at the dining table while he pads around the kitchen. You go suspiciously quiet as he prepares a glass of water and slips two slices of bread in the toaster. He turns on his heel, glass in hand, and the look on your face says it all; you’re enjoying the show again. He tries to ignore that his ears have begun to heat from all your attention.

“Drink,” he presses the water in your hands. You take a slow sip, deliberately watching him over the lip of the glass. It looks all too much like the way you’ve peered up at him from between his legs, your hands all over his thighs and your mouth on him. “Don’t look at me like that, honey.”

“What?” You play dumb, cocking your head to the side. The glass leaves your lips, and a few droplets remain on the edge of your mouth. Leon goes to thumb them away without a second thought, and feels like his knees may give out when you take his finger in your mouth with a brief suck. He feels something stir in his abdomen and swallows hard. The pad of his finger lingers on your lips, smudging your lipstick onto your chin. The kitchen is dead silent for a moment, so much so that you let out a squeak of surprise when the toaster pops up. Leon yanks his hand back like he’s been caught, busying himself with your snack to clear his head from thoughts he could not yet act on.

He makes your toast just the way you like; smothered in butter and cinnamon sugar.

“Thanks, handsome,” you’re practically batting your eyelashes at him. It’s so over the top that it’s more funny to him than anything, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that it only fueled the fire burning deep in him. You crunch down on the first bite with a happy noise. “Just’s sweet as you.”

He sits in the chair closest to you as you eat your toast. You must’ve staved off any bar snacks, because it’s gone within a minute. He supervises you as you slowly work at the glass of water. Your socked foot finds his own, and begins to rub upwards on his calf. His jaw sets as he looks at you, and you look right back, as if you’re doing nothing but sipping your water. So sweet, like you’ve never done anything more than give him a chaste peck before. It drives him crazy.

Eventually you finish your drink with an overdramatic aahh. Leon sighs and collects the dishes, pushing back from the table to deposit them in the sink.

“How’re you feeling?” He’s not sure why he even asks, because your response is smart, teasing.

“Horny,” Leon squeezes his eyes shut and wills away how he wants to pin you on the table you’re sitting at. He doesn’t turn around. He knows the look that’ll be on your face; an innocent grin, chin propped up on your hand like you haven’t been openly hitting on him after he’d already decided nothing is going to happen tonight. It’s truly torture, and he’s half-certain you’re doing it because of that exact reason, rather than an attempt to convince him otherwise. 

“I think it’s time for bed.”

Leon manages to wrangle you and your grabby hands into the bathroom. He sits you on the closed toilet and begins to gather all your nighttime routine items. The basic ones, at least. Makeup remover, a cloth, face wash, moisturizer. He knows that if he gets you in bed without washing your face, your inevitable hangover will turn out a touch worse than it needs to be.

He dabs lightly at your face at first, only for your eye makeup to stay put. A small giggle erupts from your mouth and something warm blooms in his chest as he lets you work through the fit of laughter. The smile rounds your cheeks and squeezes your eyes shut, the same way you laugh far too hard at his stupid jokes.

“Harder, Leon,” you say, playing up a bit of a moan in your voice. It’s too familiar of a sentence, and he grumbles under his breath. “What? You gotta go harder. And faster.” You’re poking the bear, at this point. And you’re honestly hoping he’ll maul you.

“Baby, I mean this in the most respectful way, I’m gonna need you to shut that pretty mouth of yours,” he takes your chin in his fingers to hold your face still as he begins to put more pressure into the cloth, and streaks of black finally begin to lift from your skin. You manage to contain yourself enough to let him finish. At least you had something very nice to look at in the meantime.

Once he’s finished, you stare at him expectantly. He knows he shouldn’t take the bait. But he can’t resist.

“What?”

“Was I good for you?”

“Fucking…” he sighs, tossing the used cloth on the counter and grabbing a fresh washcloth to wash your face. He begins to rub the face wash into your skin gently, and even as he’s working, you can’t resist.

“Leonnnn,” it’s a bit of a ridiculous sight, you with a thick layer of foaming bubbles all over your face, but your words send something dark swirling in him regardless. “I’m your good girl, right, Leon?”

“Usually,” is all he can manage. You let out something close to a whimper.

“I’ve got a lot to make up for, then,” your hand slips up his thigh, dangerously close to the apex of his legs. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“I know you would, baby,” he ignores the twitch underneath his sweatpants. Pushes your hands back to your lap. He presses a quick kiss to your teasing mouth. “Almost done. I promise.”

“And then we can have some real fun?”

“And then we can go to sleep.”

“You’re boring, Scott.”

“Oh, I’m in trouble now,” he hums at the invocation of his middle name, which surely means he’s done something to piss you off. But the playfulness in your voice is still there. The damp washcloth is cool against your skin as he works at clearing the soap off of you.

“Big trouble.”

“Is that right?” You go to say something, but are muffled by him patting your face dry with a towel. Once the fabric slips back down your face, a dramatic frown is there. Leon thinks he must have cartoon hearts floating over his head as he openly stares at you, fondness practically radiating from him like a heater. Even while teasing him relentlessly, you’re charming and endearing. He falls in love with you all over again every time you look at him. “And how exactly are you going to punish me?”

“I’m sure I can think of somethin—,” you practically screech when he throws you over his shoulder. Luckily for you, it’s a perfect view of Leon’s ass, and you take the opportunity to give it a smack. He practically throws you on the bed before you can manage another grab.

“Take those off, handsy,” he gestures to your pants. It’s an innocent ask, really. He’s just trying to get you in comfy clothes. But you take the opportunity to tease him, of course. You pop open the button and begin to shimmy the jeans down your legs as slow as possible. Leon sighs and looks away. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” once your legs are free, you kneel on the bed and pull him closer to you. “You like me, hot stuff. ‘S why you’re taking care of me so nicely.” He manages a glance down at you as you wrap your arms around his waist. Like is an understatement. He’s not sure if he’s ever come up with the right words to say how he feels about you. Love is the only thing close enough, but it seems so small in comparison to the pull in his heart. Like it’s going to come right out of him just to be closer to you.

You look up at him with big eyes, chin on his chest. His features soften. The look is warmer than the alcohol still swimming in you, and you feel as though you may melt into the sheets.

“God, you’re cute,” he grumbles, low and slightly annoyed, but it’s laced with affection. Tinged pink like your cheeks. His palm finds your jaw. A thumb rubs affection into your cheek. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“I’ve got a few things you can do to me.” It really shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. It’s a corny line; one that he’d say to you to make you groan. But when it’s coming from your lips, while you’re staring up at him with such enthusiasm, it’s aggravatingly adorable. The tequila’s still got a hold of your impulse control, but your movements and lilt of your words are evening out.

“Take off your shirt,” he sighs, and helps you pull it off, alongside your bra. They lay discarded on the floor for tomorrow’s chores. Right now, the only thing on his mind is you, now unbelievably bare in front of him. A little bit of his resolve breaks off. His hands slip greedily over your bare skin and he abandons his intent of dressing you in pajamas. 

Leon lets himself be taken by you for just a moment, pressing his lips to yours finally after so long of avoiding it. You sigh into his mouth, pushing past his lips with your tongue and he groans, deep and low. His knee comes down between your legs as he dwarfs you on the bed, and your hands slip underneath the soft fabric of his shirt to feel his skin. “‘S all you’re getting, baby, you’re still drunk.”

“Not that drunk,” you murmur. Leon lets you push him upwards, shifting around so you can climb onto his lap. He presses the curve of your waist into him gladly. He suddenly wishes he’d forgone a shirt for sleep so he could feel you against him.

Then again, he’s not sure he could keep up his restraint in that case.

Your hands are everywhere. Sliding up his chest, into his hair, pulling him as close to you as possible. And your lips are much the same; on his, then breaking off to trail down his jaw, the length of his neck, then back to his mouth. It’s sickly sweet, dripping with something underneath that has his abdomen burning hot with need.

Then, you pull back suddenly. A yawn escapes your jaws like a tired cat, and he chuckles.

“Sleepy?”

“...No.” Another yawn betrays you, but you press into him again. It’s marketedly lazier than before, like your body has been reminded how exhausted you are. The warmth of Leon’s arms surely didn’t help. He lets you continue, enjoying the slow nature that you’ve now settled on. But he can tell your energy is waning, and it’s a little funny to him. In the same way that a puppy’s attempt to play while it's falling asleep is funny. 

You yawn a third time, pulling back to move away from him as you do. He watches the expression on your face shift from defiant to frustrated. You pout at him like it’s his fault. 

“We’ll finish this tomorrow, yeah?” He presses a laugh of a kiss to your lips, something more chaste coming through this time. You whine and fall into him, limp and tired from your busy night out. And, well, a busy night in.

“You better,” you grumble through a fourth yawn. Leon pulls you under the covers with him, into the home of his chest. It’s become increasingly difficult to fight the drag of your eyelids now. His arms wind around you in a safe embrace. A kiss lands on your forehead. You mumble something close to love you and with what feels like a few seconds, you’re out like a light.

———

Leon wakes before you the next morning. Daylight creeps through the curtains, fanning across your features in a golden halo. His eyes are still half-closed with sleep, and he blinks a few times to fully take in the sight before him. You’re fast asleep now, one hand curled almost protectively around his ribs. He brushes a strand of hair away from your eyes and lets out a quiet hum as your behavior from last night comes back to his memory. A smile pulls at his lips. He wonders if you’d remember how openly flirty you were.

He lets you rest and closes his eyes again after a while, certain he won’t fall back asleep just yet, but enjoying the feeling of you beside him nonetheless. It’s not until a few minutes later when you begin to move slowly next to him as you join him in the waking world. Your hand moves upward against his shoulders, and you curl further into him with a groan.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he keeps his voice low, barely more than a whisper. He’s certain you must have a raging headache, and the way you’ve hidden from the morning sun only confirms his hunch. He kisses your head gently and pulls himself from you, sacrificing his comfort so he can grab some ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet. You manage to peek only one eye open when his footsteps return, and are relieved at the sight of your wonderful husband offering you two tablets and a glass of water.

You hope the kiss you press to his lips once he’s joined you in bed again translates well into thank you so much, I love you, my lovely husband because you’re half-certain your voice may make your pounding head explode. Leon’s though, is like sweet honey, soothing any pain that is searing through your skull.

“Finish the water for me, hm?” he encourages, and you don’t argue. It’s a welcome coolness against your dry throat. He takes the empty glass from you once you’ve swallowed the last drop and tucks you underneath the covers alongside him again. The two of you are quiet, enjoying the peace of the morning, and Leon’s the first to initiate a long, deep kiss. It’s warm and sweet, turning a little less chaste as seconds pass. Vague blurs of your slurred flirting return to your mind, and you smile a little against him. His bit of desperation makes sense.

You enjoy his eagerness, but are a little disappointed when he doesn’t climb over you like he normally does to initiate further foreplay. He pulls away to look at you, playing just as innocent as you had last night.

“What…?”

“You were so intent on leading the way last night,” he props himself up next to you with his elbow, eyes dragging deliciously slow over your face. The hand that had been guiding yours to his lips finds its way to your thigh underneath the sheets. “I’ll let you do whatever you were so desperate for now.”

“Leon,” you practically whine in embarrassment. He chuckles, but doesn’t budge. His finger rubs firm circles into your thigh. “C’mon, I was drunk.”

“Drunk words are sober thoughts,” he hums, placing a kiss on your nose. “What d’you have to be scared of, baby?” He’s caught onto your anxiety, because of course he has. Even though the tequila’s no longer loosening your tongue, he can read you just as well.

“Nothing,” you mumble. “Just… it’s weird.”

“Weird?”

“I feel… I don’t know,” you huff. “I feel silly. Like I’m playing pretend. You’re so natural at it.”

“Natural at what?” Jesus, he’s really trying to pull you out of your comfort zone.

“Being… this,” you gesture vaguely, and sigh at his raised eyebrows. “Sexy. Attractive.”

“Honey, I hate to break it to you,” he leans in closer, a few stray strands of hair slipping down to hang over you. “But you are incredibly sexy.” You’re unsure how to respond. You know Leon finds you attractive, he married you for Christ’s sake. But putting on an air of dominance is a whole different thing. You’ve taken first steps, initiated sex plenty of times, but this feels a little scarier for some reason. “If it makes you feel better, I play pretend just a little. Because I know what you like, and you being turned on turns me on.” You blush under his open confession, a little embarrassed to be told so directly that you enjoy his dominance during sex. But you can’t lie to yourself; sometimes you want to lead, want to give him some pillow princess treatment.

"What—" Your mouth is dry, despite the glass of water you'd just downed. "What would you like?" Dumb question, you think. You know what he likes already. Your noises, the way you talk to him. Kisses and bites as many places as you can reach. The way you grab onto him in desperation. You can always tell from the way his hips will stutter, how he pulls you closer. The groans and pants in your ear. A shudder rolls through you just thinking about it.

"I like anything involving you." He grins, nipping your nose, trying to loosen your nerves. Ever the patient man, especially with you. Logically, you should follow what you know. Give him that. But you're trying to do something different; explore somewhere you haven't been before. And you're reaching out for help.

"Give me something to work with, at least," you huff. He hums and kisses down from your cheekbone to the corner of your mouth. He's less than an inch away from kissing you properly, hot breath fanning over your lips.

"Start here," he takes your hand and guides it upwards until it's buried in the hair at the nape of his neck. He tilts his head and presses a deep kiss to your lips. One that makes your toes curl and has you leaning after him when he pulls back after a mere second or two. He's just as close as before. The tip of his nose just barely grazes yours. "And then use your intuition. Relax. I trust you." The last phrase squeezes you more than his arms are. What a privilege, what a dream to have a husband who would follow you wherever you take him. To allow you to seek pleasure with him however you want. You suppose it's only fair, because you feel just the same about him. He's just been brave enough to take the lead.

Now, it's your turn.

Kissing Leon is easy. You've done it a thousand times, and every time it's like riding a bike. His mouth fits perfectly against yours, moving in tandem, pushing his tongue towards your own at the perfect moment. Seconds turn to minutes as you enjoy each other, and your mind begins to race as you fight to allow yourself to make the next move. Leon's understanding, kissing you unhurried and, in fact, pacing you as your frantic mind affects your rhythm. He brings you back to center.

You finally just count to five. And move on three before you can think too hard about it.

Leon tries to hide his surprise when you’re climbing on top of him, mood shifting into something hotter as you pull him into another deep kiss. He sighs into your mouth, slipping his arms around you as you straddle his hips. He groans when you press your clothed heat to his quickly hardening erection beneath his briefs.

“Mmnh— fuck,” he sighs, lifts up just enough to tug his shirt over his head. He scoots backwards and hauls you with him, leaning against the headboard. You take more of his kisses greedily, soaking up any courage you can before you’re heading south, leaving trails of your mouth and a stray bruise behind. Leon watches you with hooded eyes, hands light on your back. An encouragement via his touch, but not firm pressure guiding you, like he usually has. His cock springs from his underwear as you tug them off alongside his sweatpants, in a motion smoother than you knew you were capable of. He’s hard, pink and throbbing. His head nearly slams into the wall when you kiss his tip. 

You lick a teasing stripe up his length and meet his eyes, now dark pools of blue hung up on you. Something possesses you from that look, and you hold his gaze steady as you take him fully in your mouth. He breaks eye contact first, unable to help himself from squeezing his eyes shut from the feeling of you around him. 

“Ah, baby, fuck.” It’s practically a whine. You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, letting yourself gag messily on his cock before you come up for air. Spit trails from your lips to his head, and he lets out another swear when he sees you. Misty eyes from the depth, messy mouth going back down for more before he gets out a single word. You've blown him plenty of times, he's incredibly lucky to say, but never with this drive. Never this utterly sloppy, something so hot that he briefly thinks he may still be dreaming. “Shit, can’t believe you don’t know how fucking sexy you are, sweetheart. Pretty girl."

You hum around him, letting the compliment stroke your ego. You've never been too sure why good girl and pretty girl turn you on so much. And only from Leon's mouth; no other former suitor before your husband had done as such, and if they had, you're not sure it would affect you like it does now. Maybe it's the praise or maybe it's the notion of being Leon's girl. Or maybe it's just a manifestation of how he makes you feel twenty years younger when you're with him like this.

His hand threads itself in your hair, but doesn’t move, letting you set the pace. You don’t need his help; you’re damn good at what you’re doing and it's hard to imagine that you don't know from the noises he's letting out. A string of praises floods from his mouth easily.

“You always feel so fucking good,” his grunts are deep, vibrating in his chest. They send a shockwave of pleasure through you, and you feel slick arousal pool in your underwear from it all. “You’re a goddamn angel.” You only pull off him briefly to catch your breath, stroking a little faster at his moans. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and catches your hand to slow you down. “Slow—slow, baby, I’m already getting close.”

“That desperate, huh?” Your comment makes him growl, and he pulls you back to his mouth. The kiss is wet and messy, a mix of lip bites and tongues. You whine when his hand slips down to your underwear, which has an obscenely wet spot growing by the second.

“So wet already,” he breathes against your cheek, pressing into your clit over the fabric. You whimper. “Fuck, you that turned on from sucking me off?”

“Yeah,” your voice is nothing more than a breath of a word, nails digging into his shoulder when he increases the pressure against your clit. Crescent marks you're surely going to kiss better in the aftermath. “Fuck, Leon.”

“I need you,” he slips your panties to the side and you shudder at his fingers sliding over your bare pussy. You’re pulsing with need, and grind your hips into his hand immediately. “I think you need me, too, huh, baby?”

“Please.”

“Come here, beautiful,” he hauls you onto his lap, his teeth attaching to the pulse point on your neck. It sends goosebumps across your skin, and you let him continue. "Take what you want angel." He encourages against a starshaped bruise now reddening on you, and you feel a sense of satisfaction at being marked. A juvenile happiness, maybe, but you'll always enjoy being his. You reach behind you to guide his length inside of you. The moment he slides home you both moan loudly, finally joined together after all your flirting the night prior. Even if you were drunk, you had still been absurdly horny the second your husband’s biceps crossed your mind. If anything, the tequila had made it worse. But you’re not sure you were ever as desperate as you are now, circling your hips further down on his length. He finally releases your neck with a pleased hum. “You are so fucking hot. My fucking wife.” The encouragement sends a wave of heat through you, and you push his chest down as you begin to bounce slowly. Leon’s hands fall to your hips, the cold sliver of his wedding band imprinting your skin. Every time you have sex, the image of his ring finger pressed against your skin, adorned with a symbol of your commitment, sends a shiver down your spine. Part of you wishes you could see for yourself just how it looks, especially as it slides to your ass and grips hard. But the image you conjure up in your brain alone is enough to make a gush of arousal leak down his cock, and you grind him deeper inside you. The both of you gasp in pleasure and you move a little faster, desperate for that friction you feel each time your walls drag over his length.

Whether it’s from being so early in the morning, or the hangover that’s still aching in the background of all of this, you don’t know. But your thighs begin to burn from the effort of your ride already, and you can’t hold back the whimper of frustration. Leon notices immediately, he always does, and slows your movements. His lips find yours again, sweet and reassuring as he takes the lead. He tips you back slowly until you’re below him, and he’s thrusting into you, slow and intimate. The drag of his cock inside of you feels too fucking good. You practically cry at the pleasure, and he threads his fingers through yours. His eyes catch on the shine of your wedding ring, and something terribly fond crosses his features. His thrusts become harder, deeper, and he presses your legs further towards you. You might as well be folded in half. But you’re exactly where you want to be.

“Fuck, I love you,” he growls against your cheek, pressing his nose into your face as his thrusts increase in speed. You can feel the knot inside you expanding fast at his own pleasure, too turned on by his affection, the desperation of it all. He feels you begin to tighten around him. “You love it when I fuck you, don’t you? Too sweet to go at me like this yourself.” You nod, frantic and alongside a loud cry of pleasure when he hits that spot just right. "We'll have to practice some more, hm?" A chuckle begins in your chest at his suggestion, but it turns into a high-pitched noise when something begins to shift inside of you. “You getting close, honey? I can feel you squeezin' me. So fuckin’ tight.”

“Mhm,” is all you can manage, reaching your hand down to play with your clit. Leon practically slaps it away to do it himself. He presses hard and fast, the perfect pressure and pace that has you mewling underneath him. Building, building, building. Your legs tremble underneath his hands as they press you further in the mattress.

“You like it when I fuck you like this? Take control?”

“Yes, fuck, Leon,” you whimper.

“Yeah, my fuckin’ girl,” he grunts. “That’s it.” You feel yourself bursting at the seams, unraveling at every circle around your clit. It takes over your body like a flooding drop, gradually and then like a punch. The burst of pleasure is too much for you to do anything except cry his name. He fucks you through it, making sure your orgasm reaches every inch of your body. “Good girl, so good for me,” he encourages, and you go limp as the post-orgasm haze creeps in. He thrusts only a few times after you’re finished, crying out himself with a drawn out whine when he lets go. You dig your nails into his back, surely leaving crescent marks for you to kiss better later. He pumps into you, slamming messy thrusts a few times as he rides out his own high with a pant. Even as you’re returning to the earth, the pulses of cum and grind of his hips against yours feel like pure ecstasy. Every twitch inside of you has your breath catching.

Leon collapses on top of you. You welcome the weight, even if you’ll have to push him off after a minute so you can breathe. His shoulders rise and fall fast, and you can feel his heart beat rapidly against your chest. You’re both damp with sweat, skin sticky to each other.

Your husband rolls over after a long moment, but drags you with him in a tight hug. He kisses your forehead a few times, then sighs. His fingertips trail up your back in light scratches. It takes a few moments before he's ready to speak, through accelerated breaths and flushed cheeks.

“How’s your head?”

“You tell me.” The joke catches him off guard and he laughs.

“Five stars, babe. Perfect,” he squeezes you against him. “No notes.”