Welcome!

Each night the atelier becomes eerily silent, the bustling energy resigning to a prominent stillness. With the quietness settling in, your aching grows progressively louder. You spent all day matching the girl’s enthusiasm, taking them outside to tend to your beloved plants when horticulture turned into a game of catch with water spells involved. Who are you to deny the kids their fun, especially when Agott was certainly enjoying herself. Your everyday life is their childhood, and you want to be an active, participating part of it even if it means sacrificing your health, it’s your profession – the life you chose.

It also means spending the night on the couch, downstairs where you are found resting. Moving upstairs seems utterly impossible. “I will sleep here tonight.” You mention to the white-haired witch cleaning the kitchen, a task you wanted to assist with. “Are you sure? I could carry you.” The simplicity of his suggestion leaves a knot in your abdomen. “I’m positive but thank you.” He works for the both of you, again.

He offers you a cup of freshly brewed tea with a heavenly scent. The warmth of the cup seeps into the skin of your palms. “I don’t think we had this before?” Qifrey sits down on the little remaining space with his body turned to you. He answers promptly after taking a sip of his favorite willowgrape tea. “My newest blend, I hope you like it.” His smile looks soft, like the sun sending its gentle last rays through the thick clouds after a rainy day.

You sample his creation, taking your time to pick up the individual ingredients. “I can see the prism lemons, and I think I can taste rocklodge ginger?” Qifrey nods. “You are correct. Slices of rocklodge ginger and prism lemons; white and azure ones to be exact, freshly picked willowgrape and tranquileafs paired with ground spicebark, starspice and thaumaterbe nuts. I also stirred in honeytree nectar to mellow the bitterness.” Ingredients with anti-inflammatory properties combined with aids for a goodnights rest.

“This is incredibly delicious and warming, thank you.” Qifrey rests his hand on your blanket-covered stomach. “I’m glad you like it.” The smile never leaves his lips while your chatter about today’s events fills the room.

Qifrey takes your empty cups to the adjoining kitchen area, washing the remaining dishes with a spell. You simply watch him, trying desperately to keep the negativity you feel from turning inside out.

He boils some more water which surprises you. “Your bladder will seek revenge if you decide to keep drinking more tea before bed.” A gentle laugh follows, the one that brightens even the darkest hour. “I’m fixing you a hot-water bottle for your legs.” So, he did notice, of course he did. “In one of the books from the great hall I’ve read that heat isn’t a suited remedy for inflammation. If it alleviates the pain, it can be used sparsely.”

Even though the offering of his newly learned wisdom is merely a sidetracked remark while continuing his previous task, you can’t help the fluttering sensation spreading in your body. “As with all the dosage makes the poison!” He adds, making his way back to you. Qifrey lifts the blanket shortly, to place the warmed-up bottle on your aching legs as you thank him. A sigh of utter contentment leaves your lips.

“How in the stars do I deserve you?” A statement said more to yourself than him. He takes up his previous position. “You do so much for us.” Until you are on the brink of collapse; fatigue or pain – it doesn’t matter. “Qifrey.” The sternness audible in your tone in ways that surprise him.

“I played with the girls in the garden for merely an hour and now I’m reduced to this.” You gesture wildly to your legs; closing your eyes, steadying your uneven breathing. A result of avid self-loathing. You continue your speech much, much quieter. “You teach. You cook. You clean. You tend to the girls, to Olly, to me.” Another stuttering breath escapes you. “So, remind me again how exactly I deserve you?”

“You bless me with your existence.” This damn unwavering smile. “That is reason enough.” You want to be angry with him, but you can’t – not when he wears this radiant expression.

“But perhaps, you should look after your own well-being. You can say no to the girls. They will understand and if they don’t than this is the perfect opportunity to teach them healthy boundaries.” Your breathing feels heavy at the unfairness of the entire situation. “I don’t want to.” It’s the truth. You feel his hand searching for yours and squeezing it tightly. He understands no further words are needed for the previous exchange.  

“Olly has an overly tight work-schedule, you have your condition and I have trouble with my vision. Don’t you think we manage well, regardless?” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “We do but I wish I could return the favor.” The smile on his lips never seems to falter. “There is no favor.” His fingers glide over your knuckles in a soothing motion. “There’s nothing but acceptance.” Acceptance of boundaries. Acceptance of crisis. Acceptance of each other’s feelings. “You are right, Qifrey.” And he is but it will take time to internalize this reality.

“Should I carry you upstairs?” You roll your eyes. “No, but you can call Olly. He should sleep, too.” Qifrey gives you a questioning look. “We can do a sleepover. Like we did when we were kids.”

You sigh into your pillow a hundred times, and you toss and turn in your bed a hundred times, drifting off to sleep one moment and yet staying awake for the entirety of the night. Incessant thoughts of your argument with your boyfriend keep you up until the birds start to sing outside your window, and when your alarm clock goes off only a couple hours later, you just barely stop yourself from breaking it with your fist.

This is just what you needed. A fight with your boyfriend, a potential breakup looming over your head like a guillotine, far from enough sleep, and a whole day of work ahead of you - safe to say you drag yourself out of bed looking like one of those corpses you put to eternal rest back in Raccoon City. The entire morning that follows feels like your body is being strung along on autopilot. You brush your teeth, you drink a cup of coffee, you scarf down some scrambled eggs, and when you finally clock back into your own body, you are locking the front door of your apartment. It is only then that you pause. Leon slept on the couch last night. Was he there the entire time without you noticing?

You unlock the door and peek in. The blanket and pillow you left him on the couch are a mess from his tossing and turning. Seems the two of you had a similar night. But as for Leon himself, he is nowhere to be found. Fair enough, probably went to work… you hope. Finally, you lock the door and you turn on your heels, making your way down the hallway.

The thought of quitting your stupid job has crossed your mind countless times before and today is no different. No, in fact, it is worse. With everything going on between you and Leon, it really feels like things are just falling apart right in your hands. You hand back a customer the wrong change. Piles of canned corn tumble to the ground. You're distracted and depressed and you're sure that the manager has noticed.

Honestly, how did you get here? You used to be an agent. Shit, you used to save the world. Your manager doesn't even realize that there's a possibility he can yell at you right now because you sniped a B.O.W. that would have otherwise had his brain for lunch like ten years ago. But you can't tell him that. You just gotta take it, listen to him reprimand you for shit that does not matter in the grand scheme of things, and trust me, you have witnessed that grand scheme of things. You wonder then, if your manager has ever felt the cold touch of death upon his skin before in his life.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, mentally reprimanding yourself for letting your mind wander that way. It's not right. Yes, it is unfair that you will never get the recognition for doing the things you did, but that's not why you did them, right? You knew what you were getting into when you joined the secret service. You knew it would drain you, chew you up and spit you out onto the curb. At the same time, you understand why Leon drowns himself in the golden liquid of a whisky bottle. You can't hold it against him too much. You got out of that business; he didn't.

Yes, out of the two of you, he has it worse. And so you bite your tongue and you take your superior's scolding because it is infinitely better than never being enough despite giving your all.

"I'm taking this out of your paycheck."

You flinch then, snapping back to reality. It dawns on you that yes, you're making money, but Leon's job helps you immensely. If you lose him, you're back to working your ass off just to be able to pay rent. Fuck. It's not that this is all he means to you of course, but you'd really hate to go back to that life.

"Hello? Are you listening to me?" You look at the man in front of you, pulling yourself together enough to be able to function.

"Of course. I'm so sorry for all the trouble, Mr. Filcher."

"Sorry doesn't cut it," he says, resting a hand on the door of the back area. At least he had the decency to pull you aside and not scold you in front of the customers. "Just do your work right." And with that, he leaves. You linger behind a little longer. Shoulders hunched, body deflated. There's no denying it; you've been defeated. It wasn't all the death and carnage of cleaning up the mess Umbrella created that did you in, it was the 9-5 job at a fucking grocery store.

You suppose that's what this world simply does to a person. And Leon… Your heart aches at the thought of him, squeezing tears into your eyes. You don't want to break up with him at all.

When you arrive back at your apartment that evening, bag slung around your shoulder and exhaustion nestled into every inch of your face, you find yourself standing in front of the door but unable to enter. The key resting between your fingers grows warm with every passing second that you spend in contemplation. A light down the hallway flickers. Someone shuffles their feet in one of the other apartments. An elderly neighbor has his TV on full volume, though you don't really make out what the news anchor is saying through the door. The apartment complex is teeming with life both young and old and as you stare at the keyhole in front of you, you can't help but dwell on the anxiety that your apartment will be the exact opposite: empty, dark, and cold.

What if he left? What if he never returned?

You squeeze your eyes shut and clench the key and finally, you will yourself to move. The key slides into the keyhole, the lock clicks as you turn it, and then the door opens. Yet what waits behind it is not what you'd expect. The apartment is not cold, it is warm. The light is on and the smell of something delicious enters your nose. You hear the music then, the quiet sound of a small radio playing rock songs from the kitchen windowsill where it usually sits.

The scene leaves you bewildered. You just shut the door behind you slowly and quietly. Your apartment hasn't been this lively in months. Usually you'd return home alone, eat dinner alone, and go to sleep alone, with Leon being either away on a mission or drinking his sorrows away in a bar. Why is he here? Why is he cooking?

Did he actually take your words to heart? You didn't expect it to work. And then the man himself enters the living room, eyebrows raised in surprise to see you there. There is flour smeared on his face and drops of sauce sprayed across his apron, yet it is not the mess you pay attention to. It is the clarity in his eyes you haven't seen in a while. He's sober.

"Honey, you're home," he says, approaching you. His arms are raised at first, but then his expression shifts as he remembers last night and he stops his attempt to hug you, instead opting for carefully taking your hands into his. "You look tired."

You don't answer, subtly shaking your head instead as you look over his shoulder. "Leon, I- what is this?"

He follows your eyes, then turns back to you. "This is dinner."

"No, I-" you roll your eyes, "I know it's dinner. Why are you here?"

Leon pauses, gathering his thoughts. It's clear that he wants to take this seriously, discarding his usual jokes. "Because I can't be anywhere else."

Your breath hitches and you press your lips into a thin line. It's not like him to say something so genuine. In that moment, you spot the rookie cop in his eyes, and the sight makes your eyes water.

"Shit, I don't know how you put up with me. But you do. You've stayed all these years and I took that for granted. But yesterday, you…" He shakes his head. "I did a lot of thinking."

"Me too-" He raises a hand, pressing a finger against the softness of your lips.

"Let me finish? Please?" You nod and he continues, "I… can't do this without you. I've already lived through it once and… well, you know how that went." He swallows then, and you watch as his cheeks turn red. You wonder for a moment what's about to come out of his mouth, but it's not his words that surprise you, it's his actions: he gets on his knees in front of you.

Your own face heats up. "Hey, wait, what are you-"

"Don't leave me, Y/N. I'm really sorry I neglected you. I'm a selfish asshole for doing it, and I'm an even bigger selfish asshole for asking you to stay. I'll quit alcohol, I'll be good, I'll do anything you ask, just stay!"

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water, shocked by this display of desperation. Sure, you've made Leon beg before, but not like this. Honestly, you're very embarrassed. "Please get up, Leon, this is… this is too much."

"I understand you're fed up with me but-"

"Enough!" Your tone cuts through the air, shutting him up immediately. "I don't want to break up!" Your admission is, admittedly, much shakier than you wanted it to be. Tears gather in your eyes once again for the hundredth time that day and this time, you can't stop them from falling. You hide your mouth into the palm of your hand, then your entire face, shoulders trembling from the outpour of emotion.

"I don't want to break up," you repeat, "I can't do this without you either, I just don't have it in me. I was so scared of walking in, and- and- hic- seeing all the empty space you'd leave behind." You struggle to suck in a deep breath through all the sobs, and you don't notice Leon standing up until you're being pulled into his arms. With his warmth and scent enveloping your body like a blanket, you're finally able to breathe, and you grab onto his shirt with desperation.

The two of you stand there for a while as Leon lets you cry it all out. The argument, the threat of a break-up, the long months of loneliness and trying to hold on, the shitty day at work, all of it finally comes out and you have no power to stop it. By the end, he's rocking you back and forth gently and rubbing your back. You feel like shit. It should be you comforting him, not the other way around.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into your hair. "It's my fault."

"No…" Your voice is muffled by the fabric of his clothes as you press your face into his shoulder. "I went too hard last night. And I should have tried harder to understand."

"No," he says loud and clear, pushing you away just far enough to be able to look you in the eyes. His calloused hands cup your cheeks and wipe the tears from underneath your lower eyelid. "This is all on me, okay?"

"It's not your fault."

"Well it has to be someone's…"

You let out a chuckle. It is a small, vulnerable sound. "We're both a lost cause, aren't we?"

"That explains why we're inseparable," he jokes, lips pulled into a smug grin. Your gaze lingers on them a bit longer than is normal, and nothing ever escapes Leon. His own eyes tick to yours. And with all your emotions laid bare and walls crumbled down, any self-restraint leaves your body, leaving you to act upon the powerful desire that you've worked so hard to suppress for far too long now.

Lips smash into each other in the blink of an eye. It's wet and salty and raw. Fabric gets crumpled yet again, though this time for a different reason, a different force driving the dig of your fingers. His hands lay firmly on the small of your back, caging you in while he devours you hungrily, and a small sound leaves Leon's throat when you bite back - literally. When the two of you separate, you're both rosy cheeked and out of breath.

"Are you cooking something?" you ask suddenly.

"What?"

"Is there something in the oven."

"Uh, no, it's all finished-"

"Good." You grab Leon's hand and begin pulling him towards the bedroom. "I'm in the mood for an appetizer." You hear him huff out a laugh behind you. He doesn't protest, he never does. In fact, he finds your forcefulness hot, and you know that he does. It's probably why this has worked out for so long, the mutual push and pull with just the right force, and when one of you pulls too hard, the other is there to correct it.

You shove the man onto the king size bed, then shut the door behind you, and when you turn back around to look at him, leaned back and legs spread wide, it is with hunger in your eyes. You lean onto the door at first, then peel yourself off of it.

"Are you just gonna watch?" Leon asks, almost purring.

"Maybe," you tease. Then you hook your fingers under the hem of your sweater and pull it over your head, tossing the article of clothing somewhere on the ground. Your clothes are plain, a T-shirt and some jeans, yet when Leon's eyes travel down your body, he wears the expression of someone staring at the most precious piece of jewelry. "Though I'm afraid," you breathe, "that I don't have the self-restraint for that tonight." Not after the long time of neglect.

You cross the empty space between you two, planting your knee on the bed between his legs and leaning over to kiss him again. He doesn't taste of alcohol anymore, just his usual taste. As your tongues brush against one another, you get busy with untying the dirty apron while his hands wander underneath your shirt. His touch tickles at first, but as his desire grows, so does the urgency of his grabbing. The apron gets tossed, then your T-shirt, then his. A pile of clothes forms next to the bed.

His lips find your neck, pulling an excited sigh out of you. His stubble scratches your skin and usually you would complain about it, but right now, it only serves to drive you even crazier. Dragging your nails down the skin of his chest and belly, you find the button of his pants and you get to undoing them with haste. Leon continues kissing down your neck, nipping at the skin over your collarbone, then traveling lower and lower until his breath fans the curve of your breast. He plants a kiss over your bra, and though you don't feel it much, it still sends a rush of heat into your lower abdomen. No doubt you're already soaked - and when your hand brushes over the bulge in his crotch, you feel his dick twitch as well.

And then your mean streak bares its teeth again. Planting your hand between his pecs, you push him down until he's lying on his back. Leon looks up at you with wide eyes and spit-slicked lips, and then his gaze flicks downwards when you reach behind you to discard your bra. Your breasts spill out and he breathes a shaky sigh.

"Fuck," he mumbles. Leon's hand rises with the attempt of cupping one of your boobs, but it doesn't reach its target: you grab both of his wrists and pin them above his head.

Leaning in close to his ear, you murmur an order: "No touching."

Leon flutters his pretty eyelashes. "What?"

"You heard me." Pushing yourself up, you fully straddle his hips, finally unzipping his pants and freeing his cock of its confines. A thread of precum connects the tip to the boxers, and your heart races with excitement, chest rising and falling with your breaths. Leon himself squeezes his eyes shut, eyebrows furrowing over the lightest of touches. It seems he himself has been pretty pent up.

"You're still mad at me," he says, meeting the mischief in your eyes.

"Hmm," you look up, cocking your head to the side as you feign thinking. "A little bit." You lean forward once again, hovering right above him. Your hair, falling to the side, creates a curtain around your face. Leon is mesmerized by the sight. "Hand me the lube," you order.

"No magic word?"

"Nope." A grin lights up your face.

"You're a mean one." Despite his words, Leon does exactly as he's told, reaching over to the nightstand and pulling the bottle of lube out of the drawer.

"Don't play coy with me." You lower your face further, lips just barely brushing against each other. "You like me that way."

"Fuck," he says shakily, and you feel him twitch under your weight. Leon is the one to close the distance, and this time, you let him, snatching the lube out of his hand. Not that he even notices. Once you've had enough, you grab his cheeks with one hand and pull away with a smirk, eyes flicking from his lips to his eyes.

"Be a good boy for me and do as I say."

"Y-Yes." His eyes are half-lidded as he watches you sit back on your haunches and squirt some of the lubrication onto your hand. You then meet his gaze, and with a small smirk, you warm up the liquid between your palms before wrapping them around his length, gently running your hands up and down it to coat it evenly. Leon moans, digging his fingers into the bedsheet since he can't dig them into your skin. His breath quickens. "Y/N…"

"Yeah?" you purr, drawing the syllable out. Every movement, every noise that falls from your lips, they are all perfectly orchestrated to get him as worked up as possible. That's simply what you've learnt over the years: what he likes and what he doesn't, and what's most likely to tear delicious whimpers from his throat.

Leon is in control every second of his day-to-day life, but when it comes to sex, well… let's just say you don't have to try very hard to wrangle that control from his hands. Leon isn't usually very dominant, not when he's specifically in the mood for it anyway. And that's more than fine with you.

"Please don't- don't tease me more-"

You chuckle at the request, and Leon nearly jumps out of his hot skin. With one hand remaining at his cock to continue stroking him slowly, you shift so you are lying on your side, one leg hooked over his and elbow propped up under you so that you can look down on him. "Oh Leon," you murmur, voice carrying a tone that is almost pitiful, but not quite there. "This is all you're getting. Like I said… appetizer."

This pulls a whimper out of him. With a grin spreading across your face, you dive in for yet another kiss, one that is hungry and wet. You force your tongue beyond his teeth, which sends his hips bucking into your fist. You pry your lips off of his, much to his dismay, and plant them on the skin of his jaw, nipping and licking at the soft bend of it. Under your leg, you can feel his thigh tense up and try to bring itself flush to the other thigh. You don't allow it. Instead, you stop stroking his cock to swipe your thumb in circular motions around the tip, smearing the drop of precum that's gathered on top in the process.

Leon breathes out shakily. With your lips on his neck, you can feel the quick rhythm of his heart and the way it hitches when you brush against that one particular spot. You travel even lower, until your mouth meets the curve of his collarbone, more prominent than you remember it with his weight loss. You sink your teeth into his skin, and when he lets out a strangled moan, you resume your stroking.

"Shit, Y/N," he looks at you pleadingly. "Please, let me touch you."

Licking over the fresh tooth marks, your eyes tick up to his face. Flushed, with his eyebrows pinched over the bridge of his nose and tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He really wants it. Too bad you've decided to be mean.

You move in to kiss him again, then bite his lower lip. "No," you murmur, barely an inch away from his face. Leon's knuckles turn white with the strength of his vice grip on the bedsheet. Your hand speeds up and the new pace draws sweet sounds out of the man. You watch him like a hawk, feel every twitch of every muscle in his body with your closeness.

Leon's whimpers and moans grow in frequency with his approaching climax. The lack of intimacy has made his stamina tank, but it doesn't matter to you. In fact, you even relish in the knowledge that you can make him cum this fast. It's cute. Leon is cute. Especially like this, so pliable and obedient in your hands.

"Are you gonna cum?" you ask, almost teasingly, teeth closing around his earlobe.

"Ye-yeah," his jaw drops open, abs growing visibly taut. "I'm sorry, I don't think - ah - I can hold it in…"

"That's okay," you purr. There it is again, that tone of fake pity. You've mastered it at this point. "I didn't say you had to."

When Leon looks at you, his eyes bear the thirst of someone who's traversed the desert heat. You're his oasis, the shade of a palm tree, the cold sensation of water upon his parched esophagus. You squeeze his dick a little harder and he hisses.

"Fuck, Y/N. Kiss me. Please."

"Since you asked so nicely." This time, you grant him his wish. You kiss him, slowly but deeply, your tongue brushing against his. He accepts it, takes your forcefulness as the gift it is, and with that, he cums. Muffled moans come spilling into your mouth together with the spurts of cum that paint his bare stomach white. Leon's cock twitches between your stilled fingers. Finally, he lets his head fall onto the pillow, breathing heavily.

You let go of his softening dick, wiping the leftover lube onto his chest. "Good boy." You make sure to compliment him and press a kiss into his cheek. Leon hums.

"So, how would you rate the appetizer?" he asks, voice raspy. His eyes have softened considerably, but the little glimmer of playfulness doesn't escape your notice.

"Hmm, there's room for improvement. The chef's cute though."

Leon lets out an amused huff, shaking his head as he looks away from you. "Well, you've had your appetizer," he murmurs, and suddenly you're being spun around and pinned underneath him. "Now it's my turn." While one hand presses your wrists into the softness of a pillow, the other rushes to the button of your pants.

"Naughty," you chastise through your grin, "I thought you were going to be good- ah!"

You don't get to finish. Leon's hand finds its way under your panties, and the sensation of his cold fingers upon your heat pulls a whimper out of you. Almost like they have a mind of their own, your hips arch, pressing your skin against his, betraying your own desires which you've worked so hard to contain.

"Look at you," Leon is the one to purr this time, "soaked like this just from watching me cum." He pulls out his hand and spreads his fingers apart. Strings of your slick connect them. The sight sends heat down to your core, and you press your thighs together.

"L-Leon…" You try to wrangle control back from him, but it's useless. He dives into the curve of your neck and litters the skin with hot, wet kisses, and the butterflies in your stomach turn to a soft moan as they crawl their way up your throat. He distracts you, makes your head spin so you don't notice when he pulls your pants down, your hands remaining faithfully above your head. Leon doesn't pull them down entirely, however, just enough to expose your bare sex. He lets them pool around your ankles and act as restraints while he hooks his hands under your knees and pushes them up, folding you in half.

You gasp. Positioned like this, the lips of your weeping cunt spread open, and though it isn't cold in the room by any means, the air is definitely cooler than inside of you. The combination of this sensation and the exposure of having your intimate areas on full display only serves to excite you more, tie your stomach in knots. Your eyes meet Leon's, and the hunger in them makes you clench. He runs two calloused fingers up and down your slit, coating them in more of your wetness, and the motion is only pleasant enough to leave you craving more.

A shudder runs down your spine. "Are you just gonna keep teasing me?" you ask when his fingertips just barely skirt your entrance. He smirks at your question.

"I thought this was an appetizer?"

Using your own words against you. Touché.

"Leon, ple-" You don't even get to beg. His fingers finally slide inside you. The gentle stretch has you sighing in relief and this time, it's you gripping the sheets with your hands. Leon begins to move his digits in and out of you, brushing against the spots he knows you like, the spots that are sure to make you squirm. His pace is slow but deliberate, almost like every sound pulled out of you is calculated.

Though your eyes are closed, you can feel his eyes burning holes into your dripping entrance. And when his breath fans your skin and the heat of his mouth licks your folds, the moan that leaves your mouth is almost pornographic. Leon closes his lips around the nub sitting on top of your vulva and sucks, humming at the taste of you. Excitement oozes around his fingers that have penetrated you, dripping down onto the sheets mixed with saliva in a perverted display of worship.

You body contorts with sensation, back arching, head tilting back. You are acutely aware of every touch, every finger digging into the supple flesh of your thigh, every drag of his tongue against your most sensitive parts. Leon is devouring you like he's been starved for days, and honestly, he just might have been. The very air in your lungs feels humid and the fog that settles in your brain obscures every thought that isn't right here, right now, in this bed and at your boyfriend's mercy.

A particular suck makes your walls clench around his digits and your hands fly down to grab at Leon, and the only thing they can reach at this angle is his hair.

"Ah! F-fuck, Leon," you moan, pulling at his darkened strands, which prompts a delicious sound out of him. "I don't th-think I can, ah, last long like this."

He pauses his attack on your clit for a moment. "Then don't."

Leon presses his lips to the underside of your thigh first, trailing lower while fingerfucking you. Butterflies flutter in his trail and the display of love only serves to heat your molten core even further. Finally, he's back to your cunt, and when he attached himself back to your clit, a third finger enters you.

Pleasure builds, and so does the tightness in your stomach. Heat rushes to your pelvis and it nestles there, growing and oozing. Your muscles grow taut, your whimpers more frequent, wetness drips down your crack, and then—release.

Colors dance in your vision and your heart flutters just the same as the walls that surround Leon's fingers. He stills his movements but keeps his mouth on your pussy, aiming to make the most out of your orgasm. Your thighs tremble and you moan with each wave of pleasure, until it subsides, and all that's left of the tide are the shimmering rocks upon the coastline that had been obscured by the dark blue of the raging sea.

Your entire body goes limp, and only then does Leon finally give you one last lick before releasing you. He rests your legs upon the bed, stroking the length of one of your thighs.

"Are you okay?" He checks in. He always checks in. That's the rookie you used to know talking.

"Mmh," you murmur. "More than okay."

You feel the bed dip under his weight as he rests an arm by your hip, and then his figure blocks the overhead light from hitting your face. You look at him, he looks at you.

"Am I forgiven, then?" he asks, a small smirk resting on his lips.

"Hmm, not quite. You're getting there, though."

He chuckles then, hanging his head. Yeah, there's no denying it - you've got Leon wrapped around your finger, and deep down he knows he wouldn't have it any other way.

Leon lowers himself closer to your face and your lips meet in a kiss. This one, unlike the previous passionately ravenous ones, is chock full of tenderness. "You're gonna make me work for it, aren't you?" he asks then, just a hair's breadth away from your face.

"Yup. You're gonna have to work your ass off, buddy."

"Buddy?" He feigns offense, but you can tell by the amused glimmer in his eye that he doesn't really care.

You laugh and pull him in for another kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. It dawns on you then, that the amount of chances you are willing to extend to Leon is infinite. It is a fact that both excites you, and terrifies you deeply. Because this is unhealthy, and it is codependent—but then again, so is the alcohol inside the wooden cabinet and so are the snuffed out cigarette butts lying in the ashtray. Poison courses through your veins, trauma intertwines your roots, and though time may erode your puzzle pieces, at the end of the day, you will always be the only ones to fit.

Leon breaks the kiss, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Time for the main course?"

"Mm. What's for dinner?"

"Gnocchi alla sorrentina," he replies, and his broken italian accent makes you laugh.

"Alright, but let me freshen up first."

Leon glances down at his dirty torso. "Good call." He tucks his dick back into his pants and gets off the bed. "Meet you in ten?"

You remain lying, pulling your thighs together and resting your hands on your naked stomach. You don't miss the way Leon's eyes linger on your chest. "I'll be there."

Your heart stops for a second hearing him say that and you knew you should stop him.

Tell him that you are grateful to whatever power above had allowed him to live, to let you have him.

You wanted to tell him he shouldn't say things like that— shouldn't carry that kind of feeling or guilt alone.

But you knew... he didn't want to hear any of it right now. So you didn't speak. You didn't even dare breathe.

Instead, you let him talk, let him bare out his soul, as your cheek presses firmly against the unyielding stone of his chest, listening to the steady thunder of his heartbeat beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, as though it were the only sound keeping your world together.

Your other hand traces slow, small circles against his shoulders like an anchor, a silent promise to him, that you are not afraid of his rot -- if anything -- if you could you would have buried what he could not carry alone, inside yourself so he can breathe a little easily.

"Do you know what it does to me?" he continues, and your thoughts fades in between, as his voice splinters like old bone into your skull.

"To be awake. To be here. To have you — warm and breathing, while those who never survived Raccoon City, the people—" He stops abruptly, taking a sharp breath inside his lungs through his nose, and something essential breaks inside him, like a dam cracking under pressure of water, and when he speaks again, the words that spills out from his tongue, come out in almost ragged form, like 'I cant do it anymore' plea, but still he manages, "People I could not save--" he pauses, then breathes, "They could have lived this too. They should have. But they didn't." His hand slowly reaches up and he glides his fingers inside your scalp while tangling his digits inside your hair, gripping them -- not harshly -- but with desperate strength, as if you might slip through his fingers like sand, like ash, like all the other people he could not save.

"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have done anything differently, Leon," you whispered in a reassuring tone into the hollow of his chest, as your fingers traces slow circles just above his heart.

He keeps his mouth and eyes shut for a moment but you knew — as he did that, or said things before, you knew, the dead weren't the only things buried years ago, it was the guilt of it he carried that had never stayed in the grave with them. It lived inside him, breathing, alive, festering on his skin -- almost refusing him to forgive himself.

He stays quiet for a long while, then he grits through his teeth bitterly, "I wish it was true," then he finally chokes out, the walls around his heart breaks — as he starts to shake violently, and his shoulders starts to hitch and his jaw clenches against the sob building in his throat, for a second he tries to keep it all in, his pain, his emotions, and then when he was not able to anymore, he started crying, and a loud anguished sob leaves his throat and his breathe heaves shudders that rack through the rigid architecture of his body, dismantling the soldier piece by piece until he is only a man, who faced too much on his own -- and your heart clenches in a way it has never before.

and you move before the thought catches up inside your mind — and you sit up in an instant beside him, while he is still laying on the pillow and your trembling hands cradle his face, and you look into his eyes, those blue oceans, that now carried, nothing -- but ache in it, then with a pained heart, you slowly swipe your thumbs roughly across the wet tracks staining his cheekbones, feeling the scrape of his stubble and the tremor of his mouth against your palms -- "I am s.. sorr--" he starts.

"Don't you dare apologize to me," you cut him off mid-sentence, fighting to keep your own composure — to not cry, not right now.

Fuck you could cry-- no, you had to be the strong one while he fell apart.

But God... you'd be lying if you said the tightness inside you wasn't growing, if every vein in your body didn't feel as though it were twisting itself into a knot around your throat, making it almost impossible to breathe -- because seeing him like this was painful than being skinned alive.

He doesn't get to reply to you, because you lean down and capture his mouth in a kiss that begins a bit chaste -- a brush of comfort of your lips on his, like a seal over his wound -- but the moment your lips deeply touches him, the fracture in him widens, and he lets out a teary laugh against your mouth.

Yet you dont pull away from him, you just keep chanting his name between your breathes while you taste him, jesus, now you could feel the salt of his tears inside your mouth, and you savour them, like pearls inside the shell that lived in ocean, and soon the ghost of his musk mingles in your nostrils until you are drowning in the scent of him.

Then he sobbed again, as his one hand comes up to cradle the nape of your neck with impossible gentleness, and you let yourself melt into him, for a second you close your eyes because fuck even now— while he was falling apart beneath you he was being still careful with you.

Christ.

Your heart ached, with his love, the one you carried so deeply inside your skin, "leon", you swallows, and he softly breathes your name like it was the only thing keeping him together, and finally the kiss breaks open between you both —not gracefully, but clumsily, and his teeth brushes yours in the urgency of it all, and you chuckle at the absurdity of it, 'my sweet boy', you smile sadly.

Then he whispered your name against your lips like another sob, 'please be mine forever', he said at last not giving you a moment to speak and then he kisses you back with a hunger born not of desire alone, but of fear — fear of losing this, of losing you, of losing the person he cherished most in the world.

And you don't let him go, you just hold him there, giving him back -- the love he was pouring inside you, and for dont know how long though, and when you pull back from him just to breathe, your foreheads pressed together with his, sharing that single lungful of air between you — and that collision of intimacy says I am here and you are here and that means something in the only language that matters -- right now.

His hands slolwly reaches up and his grips tighten in your hair, and his other hand slid down on your waist until he was pulling you closer and anchoring himself to your gravity, and you give him everything in that moment -- your unflinching mouth your love -- until the only thing that crawl out of him is the breath he finally exhales into you.

"Leon... it's okay to let it out," you whispered softly, and he finally paused, his breathing catches between another broken sob.

You gently pull yourself back just enough to look into his eyes, whispering words like a vow, "and now... for the rest of our lives, you have me." At those words, he finally breaks again and a choked sob escaped him , as he clung to you with trembling arms, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

You didn't complain, no.

more so, could not -- because there was nothing to complain about, so instead, you let him pull you impossibly closer, pressing yourself against him until it felt as though your bones met his, silently promising that as long as he needed you -- you'd never let go, you had hold him through death of your own.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, Leon, more than my own soul."

He just smiles pressing a kiss on your temple, and pulling you on top of him.

...

and that night, when everything finally calmed down, Leon didn't say a word, instead, he lay awake beside you, holding you in his arms and staring into the darkness, and the ceiling, unable to close his eyes, thanking you silently, thinking how he got so damn fucking lucky.

For a second he realizes his mind was quiet for once, stripped of every nightmare, every regret, every memory — leaving behind only a single prayer, and somehow, that prayer resembled only one name.

Yours.

...

chris stared at leon from the bathroom doorway, watching as he dripped something onto his hand before combing his fingers through his hair.

“is that…hair oil?

leon didn’t even look up. “hair serum,” he corrected. 

“alright, pretty boy, what’s next? face masks? cucumber slices over your eyes?”

“why? you wanna do some? I’ve got a few,” leon said, holding up a variety of sheet masks.

chris blinked. “...why do you have so many?”

“they’re moisturizing,” he shrugged. “my girl took all the brightening ones.”

leon said it so casually that chris had to stare at him for a second before breaking into a grin. leon gave him an annoyed look through the mirror. “what?” he scoffed.

“hair serum. moisturizer. lip balm,” chris pointed at the lineup on the bathroom counter. all the bottles were on a rotating caddy, courtesy of you, of course. he plucked a bottle from the shelf, squinting at the label. “cuticle oil? since when do you care about your cuticles?”

“since someone told me to take better care of my hands,” leon snatched the bottle away from him. 

chris barked out a laugh. “ain’t no way.”

“you don’t have room to talk,” leon said, organizing his caddy.

chris frowned. “what does that mean?”

leon turned around, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. he eyed chris up and down.

“my hair’s healthier. my hands are softer,” he smirked. “and I dress better than you.”

chris looked at himself in the mirror. “this shirt’s fine,” he said firmly. 

“shirt from ten years ago?”

“it’s cotton.”

leon chuckled beneath his breath.

“you know…jill might like it if you put in a little effort.”

that caught chris’s attention. “...you think so?”

“yeah,” leon shrugged. “my girl gives me something to look at, I might as well do the same.”

chris rubbed the back of his neck. “pass me the serum,” he said.

“no. you can have the moisturizer.”

masterlist

© lilacgrayskies on tumblr

It had been a shock. You were still young in the legal world, too young to be taken seriously, but you were damn good at your job. You'd known that since you started law school. 

The feeling only solidified as you'd worked with the DSO. You have handled cases that would've made other attorneys sweat, heavy with substance and not enough evidence to prove worthwhile. To be fair, you didn't exactly have a choice on what you took on and what you didn’t, but it was enough of a challenge to keep you sharp, tough, and prepared for the worst. 

There were moments that tested you. Your least favorite part of the job was the coaching. The dealing with witnesses, directing what exactly to say and not to say, how to pull themselves together on the stand and not look guilty of whatever was being thrown against them made you want to rip your hair out strand by strand. 

Most of the time, you control the reactions well. Field agents and HR employees are used to dealing with people who openly wanted them dead. Those who worked in Logistics, Operations, or Intelligence are not. They're the hardest to work into stoicism.

Usually, the agents are good. Most of them are too exhausted from the vice grip the world has on them to care about sentencing or lawsuits. The cynicism that hangs over them is second-nature. You’ve even requested witnesses from other agencies, and they listened to your extremely important, valuable legal advice. 

Except Leon fucking Kennedy. 

For some reason, Leon doesn't obey your very clear, stern rules you lay out about presentation and wording. Or maybe he likes being defiant. Maybe he is worn down by the world of bioterrorism in a way that bleeds into the very facet of his being that he doesn't feel any guilt about losing a case. 

Maybe, more accurately, he just likes pressing your buttons. 

Because he isn't disrespectful and insubordinate all the time. Just when he knows that your eye will twitch, and your chest rattles with a sigh deep enough for your pelvis to feel, and it makes him smirk. 

When you first meet, it's in the hell that you call your office. Dark circles cling under your eyes, heavy enough to weigh on your limbs, too, from the countless late nights at the office over the last week. 

I love my job, you remind yourself. You love the pliancy of it all. The fact that the crux of your world revolves around how well you can talk, how swift you think in the moment. How you can mold whatever you’re working with into a certain narrative. 

At times like this, you really can’t forget how awful it is. How exhausting it is, carrying everything with you, unable to unentwine the concepts of home and work. 

Whatever's in your hands is long forgotten as the knock reverberates through your office. You jump. The papers fall through your fingers and land on your desk in a heap.

Fuck. Of course you forgot. You emailed back and forth with an agent from downstairs, someone in the field. Agent Kennedy had returned from a mission three days ago, and he is already back in the office. 

It's only ten o'clock, and you somehow felt like the floor was already falling out from under your feet. 

“Come in,” you call out, loud enough to be heard but soft enough to where the words didn’t scrape your chest. 

The hinges of your door creak open, slowly at first, a reminder that you need to send a request to Maintenance because it is driving you nuts. Every time an intern opens your office it sticks with you like nails on a chalkboard. 

You hardly register standing up and smoothing your hands over your slacks, straightening the collar of your blouse like it’s a habit buried deep in your muscles. 

He steps tentatively into the room, loafers first, and your breath falls short for just a moment. 

You had known Leon Kennedy was an attractive man. You work in a government office: people gossip. Interns whisper, excited that they got a glimpse of the DSO legend, the golden boy who saved President Graham's daughter from Spanish occultists and apparently backflipped while doing it. 

Murmurs go through departments, circulating like wildfire, until they reach your office through your coworker, Miles, who drops files by your desk with a small smirk and gives you details quickly, hushed, like he knows you'd be embarrassed to be tied in on office drama. 

You knew Leon was hot. You did not know that, despite that fact, he looks so haunted. 

The first thing you notice are his eyes. His light blue eyes are surrounded by deeply furrowed brows and lines that seem etched into his skin, echoes of ghosts that cling heavy on his conscience. You wonder for a second how he looked when he was younger. Did he look so angry? So exhausted? Or is that something that comes with the DSO's control of him?

He looks like he wrangles ghosts in the dead of night with willpower and occasionally a pistol. 

Usually, this unnerves you. But strangely, Leon seems harmless. 

Leon gives you a small smile that somewhat resembles a grimace. His eyebrow is held together with a butterfly stitch and a fading bruise lingers on his jaw. Obviously, he feels like shit. He shouldn't have even been cleared for desk duty yet with the way he's leaning to one side, like bearing the weight fully is too much. 

You wouldn't notice if your whole job didn't revolve around attention to detail, but his shirt is slightly untucked and wrinkled, like he didn't have time or care to iron it. Or maybe he was too tired to do so. 

He closes the door behind him and approaches your desk, steps unbelievably light considering his broad frame. 

"You must be Leon." You hold out your hand, grasping his firmly, and avoid the rush of emotions that come to you when you realize how large he is. "How are you? Can I grab you anything? We have coffee, water, I think tea-"

"I'm fine," Leon replies quickly, convincingly, like the idea of being taken care of is embarrassing. Then, somewhat more gently, he says, "Thanks though."

You squint across the table at him and take a seat, hand reaching out towards your keyboard as you open a document. The agents are easy, you reminded yourself. They take everything in, too unbothered to care about sitting in court. 

But his gaze is heavy on you across your desk as he scoots his chair in, and he rests his folded hands on your desk before clearing his throat. 

Leon is interesting in a way you can't quite decipher. Your whole life is reading people. 

You can't read him. 

That fact…makes you sort of nervous. 

"I'm sure you've been through this before with Miles so I'll try to be brief." you write down a couple of notes at the top of the document and narrow your eyes in his direction. "I'm surprised you're back so soon. You're healing from a hip injury."

Leon tries to hide his surprise. "Think I'm running them out of PTO."

"Right," you offer him a small smile that does nothing to hide your disagreement with his words. "Let's go over some things before I get too into this."

With a clinical clarity that you typically carried everywhere, but especially in your job, you prompt Leon to tell you, exactly, what happened in North Dakota months ago when he was on an assignment. Logically, you have all of the information you need. There's no way this guy isn't getting sentenced. But it matters how Leon views this case, how he remembers it, because the way he talks on the stand is important. 

He recalls the events through furrowed brows, gaze burning a hole into your desk, hands never leaving their spot on the particle board. You never interrupt. You never do, not in the first go of the story, at least. Seeing the spots where he hesitates, where he ponders over his words, was crucial. Because you have to make sure he doesn't do that on the stand. 

And there is something interesting about Leon that you don't see in other agents. He cannot hold eye contact, even though his words are clear and level, like he had somewhat rehearsed it, or maybe because he reduces all experiences in his life to terminology akin to a report. 

When you think you've gotten a grasp on who he is, his tone shifts, a wall flies up in his mind, and you're back at square one. 

"Listen, Agent Kennedy–"

"Leon," he says. "Please."

"Leon," you oblige him. "I'm going to be honest. You are one of the most difficult people to read I have ever encountered. I don't care. But a jury does," you lean forward in your chair and force him to meet your eyes. "Because if they can't read someone, how are they supposed to trust what they say?"

Leon tilts his head a bit, like he is caught off guard by your bluntness. "They probably shouldn't."

"Don't say that on the stand. God, that's horrible." You reach toward your keyboard and type out a couple of notes on Leon: defiant, closed-off, cynical. After consideration, you add a fourth. Sad. "The defense will take hesitation as a lack of allegiance. I don't care if you believe in your job or not. Just don't make it sound like that."

"You…" Leon churns over the words. "You're very upfront."

"I'm good at what I do." You mentally wave his discomfort away. "Go again. From the top. Be more…I don't know. Sensitive? Look like someone a jury could sympathize with."

"Am I?"

"That's up to you."

For the next hour, you give him notes, ignoring the blush that creeps up his neck when you grimace at the tone that bleeds into his testimony at times. You prepare him to answer your questions, ones that had been polished in the dim light of your living room with a horrible reality show droning on your television. 

He does well enough. You dismiss him with a, "Get some rest, Leon," and a bottle of water to take to his office downstairs. 

You don't think much about Leon Kennedy until the trial comes up a couple weeks later. There was too much to do. You'd figured he'd been on the stand enough times before, with his line of work surrounding breaking federal laws and shooting things. 

On the morning of the trial, you look around at your team. "Martina, you okay?" You ask one of the employees you subpoena'd from Logistics. "Hang on, I'll go grab you something. You're too pale." 

For most people, the courtroom is an edifice of walnut wood and anxiety, arching doorways and columns of finely-carved mahogany. For you, it's, strangely, comfort. Here, you’re completely in your element. 

You slip out of the conference room where your witnesses sit huddled around a table. Your gray pantsuit is tighter than usual, the white blouse under your vest properly pressed, and you resist the urge to undo the top button as it scratches against your neck.

When you return, it is with an armful of water bottles and pockets full of granola bars. You pass them out. When Leon Kennedy grabs one from you, his fingertips brush against yours, and he gives you a small smirk that makes you narrow your eyes suspiciously.

The cut on his eyebrow had faded into a light pink scar and there is no evidence of a bruise on his jaw. He cleaned up rather nicely, too, you notice. The dark blue suit outlines his physique nicely in all the ways that matters. Leon is a large man, no hiding that, but the silhouette of the wool makes him look small enough to seem meek. 

Good. 

Your eyes scan over the clock on the wall. "Okay, we're starting in fifteen. I'm gonna get out there. Any questions? No? Okay." 

At the time, you don't think much of the look Leon was giving you. You probably should've. 

When he is called out, he does a decent enough job of answering your questions with the tone you made him practice in your office, words calculated and level, and he actually makes an effort to hold eye contact with you and at times, the jury.

It's hard to ignore the thought that he is really handsome like this, but he is. Especially when he pushes away the harsh edges to his personality that often frighten others. From what you heard. 

It is when he is called out for cross examination that you begin to regret not being harsher on him. 

"Agent Kennedy- sorry, can I call you Leon?" the defense attorney asks, though he wasn't expecting an answer, which is obvious by the shock on his face when Leon interrupts him. 

"No, Agent Kennedy is fine." 

You don't like that. Not one bit. And Leon can tell, based on the way his eyebrow raises ever so slightly in your direction. 

"Okay, Agent Kennedy, let me ask you some questions about this experience in North Dakota…"

The attorney is grasping at straws. You can tell, because you've had to do it before. There isn't much for him to do besides try to claw himself out of the hole the evidence has dug, because it is so damning. You hadn't been too nervous about the outcome of this case, until right now. Because Leon's posture changes ever so slightly. He leans back in his chair, head upturned, and an easy smirk graces his lips. 

"Agent Kennedy," the attorney paces, turning towards the jury intentionally. "Do you enjoy your job?"

You suck in a breath and wait for the answer, which comes without much thought. 

"Not particularly, no."

"No?" 

"No."

"Why do you keep doing it?" 

You stand up, fingertips pressed against the desk. "Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant." 

Leon gives a small, almost imperceptible, amused smirk in your direction. This is exactly the perspective you do not want to give: the cocky agent who doesn't care about his job, how he does it, or who gets hurt. 

Every detail matters. The way he is sitting matters. He knows that.

The fact that the defense is grasping at straws had been a comfort when you'd already brought in four witnesses and an expert to back the DSO up. Now that Leon is practically handing the straws to them, you start to sweat. 

You are pissed. 

As far as you know, Leon can absolutely tell. And he is deeply amused by it. 

The judge raises an eyebrow in the defense attorney's direction. 

He says, "Your Honor, trust me."

"Overruled. You may proceed."

Leon sighs and gives the jury a glance that makes you want to rip him off the stand by his ear. "I… I think that it feels good doing the right thing. There's a lot of bad in this world."

A surprisingly real answer. You adjust in your seat. 

"It's also nice seeing my gym membership pay off when I'm doing the right thing."

There it is. The big thing you told him not to do. Joke around. The jury gives a couple of quiet, half-hearted laughs. 

You clench your jaw. Hard. It’s enough for Leon to see your disapproval. 

The questioning continues, but you don't pay much attention, sometimes offering an objection to a leading question or an answer that was a non-answer. The contempt flooding through your bloodstream drowns out the proceedings. 

When the defense lawyer decides he's done, Leon is escorted off the stand. He sends you a small smile as he passes by. You didn't even give him a glance. 

What an incredible first impression he's made with you. You had been nice when you were in your office, when you were in the conference room before the trial. You gave him patience. 

You were not going to do that again. Because you know this isn't going to be the last time that you have the misfortune of working with Leon Kennedy. 

Leon's horrible performance in the cross-examination is not enough to throw the case, thank God, and the jury finds the mercenary guilty on all counts. He is sentenced to forty years in prison. 

Which is so fortunate for Leon, considering if you had lost the case, he would've lost the ability to reproduce. 

The next day, you storm through the halls of the DSO, footsteps heavy enough to be felt through the floor like an earthquake. Somehow your badge lets you into Field Operations, which doesn't quite make sense and frankly feels like something someone could get in trouble for, so you don't mention it to anyone. Especially since it's fueling a good purpose for you.

It isn't too hard to find his office. The DSO doesn't have too many field agents—hence why they are so extremely overworked and difficult to reach—and the majority of them are out on assignments at any given moment

The light of his office floods into the hallway, door propped and blinds open. His office is on the east side of the building—lucky bastard—meaning that he gets the sun in his office until about noon. 

Even though you can see him sitting at his desk, brows furrowed at the computer, file open in front of him, you check the name on the plaque outside of his office just to be safe. 

Leon S. Kennedy.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Your voice is loud enough to make him jump, and if you weren't so infuriated, maybe you'd tease him about his lack of vigilance for being a field agent. He probably has a sidearm in the drawer of his desk, because that is weirdly allowed for him, but he doesn't keep an ear out for those walking down the hall in his department. 

Leon barely looks up at you before something like a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "What?"

"Don't what me, Leon Kennedy." You march, boldly, further into his office, standing between the two chairs opposite his desk. "You know exactly what. Do you think it's fun to not listen to me?"

"Kind of, yeah."

You sharpen on him. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." He finally leans back in his chair and gives you a proper look-over. If your blood wasn't already boiling, you'd maybe flush. "You still won. I don't know what the issue is."

"You could've completely," for some reason, you look over your shoulder to make sure no one's near, "fucked that up for me." 

"Do you want me to say sorry?"

"No, Leon, I want you to be sorry." 

He clicks his tongue. "No can do. It was fun."

"You can't just get on the stand and say whatever you want because it amuses you. That's not how it works."

"Says who?"

Your palms come down to bear your weight on his desk. You hope the height difference intimidates him, but it only seems to further entertain him. "Says me, you dumbass. This isn't funny. This is my career."

"You're highly argumentative."

"My entire job is arguing, Leon. I hope I'd be good at it by now."

Leon interlocks his fingers over his desk. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, which isn't something scandalous enough to tempt you as it is. He tilts his head toward you, and for a moment, remorse flashes through his eye. You think it's like seeing a part of him that's real. 

"Okay, fine," he utters. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again." 

“Thank you.” 

Finally getting what you wanted, you turn on your heel, feeling Leon’s eyes on you as you begin the trek out of his office. 

At the last moment, Leon calls out your name, successfully grabbing your attention. “How did you have clearance to get up here?”

You stop in your tracks. Then, you turn towards him, bracing your weight on the doorframe. “Who knows. Think someone messed up. Don’t say anything, though. I like to snoop.”

He chuckles. “Have fun, hotshot.”

You want to start the fight again. Instead, you curl your lip at him, heels echoing against the tile of the office with a distinct click-clack. 

The second time you work with Leon, you think it will be different. 

Granted, he shows up to your meeting in a leather jacket with a horrible black box hair dye job, so you don't know exactly what you should expect. 

You give him a once-over before commenting, with an extreme lack of sensitivity, “I'm pretty sure you are actively sweating whiskey right now.”

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

"Want me to comment on the hair?"

"Please don't."

Rain splatters the window of your office, making the white room somehow ever more gloomy. You had recently hung some paintings up on the walls and stuffed a cactus in the corner by your filing cabinet, though it doesn't do much to brighten up the space. 

Leon is very convincing about changing and listening. He leans into your questions, plays through the scenarios, and even asks his own questions about how to hold himself. 

You're…surprised.

In hindsight, he is definitely just trying to get around you interrogating him about his drinking, the dark circles under his eyes, the considerable amount of weight he has lost since you've last seen him, or the way his shoulders slump with something heavier than exhaustion. 

Because somehow he already knows that, if he acknowledges it, you will prod until he breaks. And Leon cannot handle breaking in your office.

So, he plays your game. And you play his. 

When the time for him to testify comes around, you maybe start to believe that it will be different. 

Until he cracks a smile and says, “I mean, I don't think it's fair to call him a criminal.”

Out of the corner of his eye, you shake your head, and a laugh fueled by annoyance leaves your lips. Leon smirks slightly like he enjoys your frustration. 

Luckily for him, his testimony isn't enough to sway the jury to deliver a not-guilty verdict. 

When you go to work the next day, you don't barge into his office to yell at him. Which, to him, feels worse than when you did. 

The DSO headquarters have a way of making you feel like you are in some sort of purgatory. 

No matter how often you repeat the I love my job mantra, the feelings creep into the edge of your being, carrying a certain type of shadow you regularly attend therapy to get rid of. 

The files that accumulated at the edge of your desk in the days of your absence have been about halved in the time between when you first sit down and when you stand up to get your lunch. 

You’d left D.C. for a friend's wedding in the middle of last week, which meant you had three work days away from the office. Somehow, in that time, your desk managed to collect about a dozen files with information for the six cases you were juggling. 

Miles is on paternity leave, which leaves you with double the amount of work you normally handle and a horrible, aching pain in your chest at the fact that you were not yet married or pregnant. 

Which, frankly, doesn't make sense, as you never particularly valued those things until you turned thirty. But everyone around you is celebrating milestones, and every time you open your phone and see a new post on Facebook, you want to crawl into a hole and die. 

The day is a blur and you're running out of steam. Information bleeds together. Things that usually stuck with you like cattle branding fall through the cracks. Every so often, you get pages into a report and realize you had no idea what you’d just read. 

Around three o'clock, a timer goes off on your desk, a horrible screeching sound that makes you wince. 

Meeting with Leon in 10. 

Fucking hell. Just when you think it can't get worse. 

You reach over and grab a handful of files, a pink tab in the corner indicating which case they were for. Even when absolutely drowning in work, you have a system that makes your life functional. 

The elevator in the DSO doesn't even play music as it descends. It feels sort of purposeful, like they limited the amount of life that could be had within the building, the amount of joy that could be felt. You'd take jazz over silence any day. 

The doors open. You take a turn to the left, then the right, then pull your badge away from its home on your belt. With a green light and the buzz of an unlocked door, you're into Field Ops.

You don't even knock on Leon's office, which is a fact that flies past you as you open the door and shut it behind you. 

The smell is what hits you first. Cologne is the strongest, a dark, woodsy scent that does little to hide the lingering stench of B.O., and whiskey that sticks to him. 

When you turn around, you can't help the shocked "What the hell are you doing here?" from leaving your mouth. 

Leon falters. His mouth opens and closes like he's finding the words. "Uh. This is my office?"

"No, Leon, I mean here. At work. Why are you here?"

"I'm…getting paid?"

You sharpen your gaze on him. "Obviously." The files fall against the grain of his desk. You gesture towards the bandage around his arm, at the blood that has dried on his shirt since he got back from a mission this morning. "You're hurt."

"When am I not?"

"I can try to work something out to get you some time off. God knows you probably need it." 

"I'm fine," Leon responds, which pulls at a certain string in your heart you thought you'd buried years ago, and the realization that you care has you wringing your hands together. "Let's talk about the case."

Begrudgingly, you do, though you get up halfway through your coaching to yank the cords on the blinds and push a large opening into the window to get some sunlight and fresh air into the cramped space. Leon doesn't hide his grimace well.

"Head pounding, champ?" You comment before pulling your chair back in. Someone honks on the street below. Leon doesn't reply. "Good. Stay focused."

You return to the files in front of you with an impressive amount of precision. Leon smiles at you, and it's the first time you've seen him smile in months. 

Leon pushes your buttons and goes off script. You win the case. You can't particularly say you hate his antics anymore. 

This is the tenth time Leon has helped with one of your cases, and he's starting to feel pathetic. 

He is thirty-eight years old. The black dye is fading from his hair, though Helena tells him that it's probably not going to go back to his usual blonde until it grows out. He still spends every night drinking until he falls asleep. 

On days that he knows he has a meeting with you or a hearing at the courtroom, he wakes up a little easier. When he gets to see you, he goes to bed feeling lighter. 

Leon Kennedy has a crush and he is pushing forty. 

It's something he realized after probably case number five, though he was caught off guard by your beauty the second he met you. 

Your office faces the west, meaning that you have sunlight in your office from about noon to when it sets, and you were cast in an insane ray of light that made you look heavenly when he barged into your office for the first time. 

Now, he prefers when you come up to meet him and you have the sun on your face. He likes seeing your jaw tick when you're mad at him, or the smile that prods at your lips when he offers you a snack in the form of a stale granola bar from his desk. 

You don't say anything when he buys a new box and the stale granola bars suddenly taste new. 

Leon is pushing forty, and he asks Helena Harper that afternoon if you have a boyfriend. 

It's in the breakroom and Helena has a forgotten paper cup of burnt coffee discarded to the edge of the counter as she hammers away at a report. Leon sits across from her, silent, as he pushes around whatever he brought for lunch with a fork. 

When he asks it, Helena almost chokes on her own spit. "Leon Kennedy. Are you serious?"

"She's not married," he elaborates, like it helps his case. "There's no ring."

"Oh my God." She leans back in her chair. "You can't be serious."

"Embarrassed enough already, Harper." 

"You like her. She complains about you all the time and you like her."

Every word is punctuated enough to feel like a punch to his ego. "Yes, Helena. Can you answer my question?"

After a couple seconds, she leans back and looks at the ceiling. "No. She does not. Hasn't for years."

Leon almost asks how she knows that part, then remembers that the two of you are somehow friends. Like, outside-of-work friends. Go-to-each-other's-houses friends. Which didn’t always make sense to him. You were too…not like Helena. Soft in ways that mattered, rigid in ways that sometimes didn’t. 

"She really can't stand you, Leon."

"I know."

"So what's your plan here?"

Leon gives a small smile and his usual, cocky charmer persona slides into place. "I don't have one. That's what makes this fun."

So, Leon ends up in your office. Ever since Miles returned from paternity leave, your workload has halved, and it is apparent in the way your shoulders are straighter and the pinch to your eyebrows have somewhat eased. The top buttons of your blouse are undone, showing a tempting amount of skin and bone. The gold pendant of your necklace hanging in the hollow of your throat almost makes his jaw drop. 

He thinks you look beautiful. 

Which isn't a new revelation, just one he lets himself entertain before you go into work-mode, all focused words and narrowed eyes. 

"Can you grab some papers I just printed?"

“Hello to you, too.”

You don’t look up. “Yes, Leon, hello. Can you please grab the papers for me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He turns down the hallway back to where he came, and swiftly grabs the stack of paper off the printer. Miles is in his office with someone who definitely has never been inside of the DSO headquarters before, and when he catches Leon’s eyes his brows raise in a hey man, what’s up? gesture that Leon returns without much thought. 

Leon shuts the door to your office and drops the papers onto your desk, which evidently you don't like, as you gather them up before they can flutter askew with the air. You let out a huff of breath and turn your attention to your computer. 

"You mad at me or something?" Leon asks, sitting down in the chair across from you. 

A smile, or something close to it, pulls at the corner of your mouth. "I always am. You know that."

"Yeah, whatever." 

The look he gives you across the walnut desk is impossibly soft, and you are not stupid. You shift slightly in your seat, spine tingling, and open a folder on your desk, trying desperately to pretend that Leon is not the most attractive man you've ever laid eyes on. 

When the two of you first met, he was obviously going through some shit, with the horrible dye job he gave himself, the eyeliner, and the remarkable amount of weight he lost. 

Something changed between then and now. He packed on weight again, and though some of his pants still look too small, you think it is unbelievably hot. The black hair is growing out into his usual dusty-blond, which brought a youthfulness to him that you really enjoy. 

He doesn't come into work smelling like whisky and regret anymore. 

Bottom line: Leon is doing better. And it looks good on him.

Instead, you clear your throat and say, "Should I even bother with the usual lecture?"

"Definitely not," Leon leans forward in his chair. Something is different about him, even though you can't exactly place it, which as usual, makes you a little unsettled. "Can we just go around to the questions? I don't necessarily need to jog my memory here."

"Leon, if I'm thinking correctly, it seems like you don’t want to spend time with me."

"I'm thinking that I have a hot date with my couch, a shitty movie, and a twelve pack of beer. Nothing to do with you."

"What's your movie of choice? I bet you love a rom-com."

Leon immediately flushes red. "Absolutely not."

"You probably always side with the men. Especially when the woman overreacts about it."

"Sounds like you know a lot about rom-coms."

You give him a look. "Sounds like someone is dodging the question."

"Speculation."

"Leon, you can't just throw in courtroom objections when you're losing an argument and backed into a corner."

"Are we arguing?"

You run your tongue over your teeth and ignore that he follows the movement with his eyes. "No. We're riffing. And wasting time. I had you grab some papers that are going home with you."

Leon lifts an eyebrow. He didn't even bother to look at the contents of the hefty stack when he took them from the printer. "You're giving me homework on my rom-com and booze night?"

"So you admit it's a rom-com." You narrow your eyes and a triumphant smirk stretches across your lips. Leon smiles, half knowing you snatched him in a trap, half knowing he walked in willingly. "But yes. I'm giving you homework."

You can't pinpoint when this, exactly, began. The joking. The banter, the light-hearted jokes that ate too much into your meeting times. But you don't…hate it. So you don't stop it. 

You spend the next half-hour going over information and clarifying his answers. He always gets tense, like most of his life isn't about performance. You'd read the reports that you definitely did not need to acquire clearance for, but applied for access because you were curious. Evidently, they don't really know what you do in the legal department, because you haven't been rejected yet. 

Leon is still an enigma to you. At times, truly seeing him is like looking through glass, so glaringly obvious it sometimes hurts your head. Most of the time, though, it's like wading through thick mud, the answers buried deep below. He smiles at you in such a charming way that it's nearly possible to forget all of the times that he pissed you off in the courtroom. 

The case you're working on is a huge one, one that will result in either the sentencing or acquisition of a DSO executive with conspiracy and securities fraud. You are not usually stressed about work, but this one has you a little uneasy. Rarely are you a defense lawyer, and rarely are you unsure of whether or not your client is lying to you. 

Leon makes you nervous in a way that makes you reconsider even putting him on the witness stand, but his perspective is really important. He helped found the DSO and has been working in bioterrorism for over fifteen years. 

Either way, you're rolling a dice here. And hopefully Leon doesn't fuck this up for you.

When Leon leaves your office, it's with a small wink and a manilla envelope tucked under his arm. You hold off your smile and blush until he's far, far away, and Miles shakes his head at you when he catches your eye in the crack of your door. 

You don't see Leon again until the hearing, and he touches you for the first time in the conference room in the courthouse when his fingertips ghost against the small of your back as he passes by to use the restroom. 

It lights you on fire in a humiliating way, the heat coursing through your veins in the confines of the courtroom intense enough to make you down a Gatorade from a vending machine. You don't even like Gatorade. 

Once Leon is on the stand, you think you have it secured. Maybe giving him homework is good. 

The confidence is short-lived, however, until prosecution cross-examines him and he begins to explain how the DSO itself has corrupt ideals that bleed into the executives, and that the government itself is concealing so many things that would make the world stop. He doesn't stop talking, even when you give him a look so intense, he can feel it in his bones.

You can't hear most of it through the rush of blood in your ears. You are going to kill him. He's not wrong, to give him a little bit of slack. Like any government agency, the DSO glosses over life-ending, horrific events with an efficiency that surprises you. The morality of it hangs with you at times. 

You lose track of how many times you object. It's enough to get a scolding from the judge, and when you sit down, the floor sways under you. 

For once, Leon looks apologetic on the stand. You want to strangle him. 

You lose the case. 

The director sits you down in his office to discuss your position, though it's not in a 'you're-getting-fired' way. Just a 'you're-being-monitored' way, which is somehow worse. 

You take two weeks off and barely get out of bed. 

Miles brings you food about six days in. 

He didn’t call beforehand, which doesn’t surprise you. Miles has always been that kind of guy. But he knocks on your door, firm, and for half a second you’re worried it’s Leon. 

When you look through the peephole, your shoulders drop an inch with relief. 

“Miles,” you mutter as you open the door, wearing your Very Hungry Caterpillar t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. Your hair has… seen better days. 

Miles says your name and his gaze flickers fleetingly over your appearance. For being a lawyer, he has a horrible poker face, which was one of the first things you ever said to him. It’s probably why he’s predominantly a civil court attorney and not a criminal one. 

“Hey,” he finally says. When you look down at his hands, the tin-foil covered Pyrex dish steals your attention. “I told Angie what happened. She wanted to do something nice.”

Angie is Miles’s wife that he met five years ago when she rear ended him at a red light. She’s a teacher. Elementary school. They dated for two years, then got married when they hit three. You weren't a big crier, but you had to wipe some tears away at their wedding. They welcomed their first child months ago and you’ve never seen Miles happier. 

They’re the textbook happy, married couple, and as happy as you are for them, you’re a tad bit resentful, too. 

It’s also funny to you that Miles blames the act of kindness on Angie, when you know that he’s definitely the one who proposed the idea. 

You let it pass. Embarrassed Miles is worse than Nonchalant Miles. 

“Thanks,” you say, and when he passes you the dish, it’s warm under your hands. Freshly made. 

You really, really don’t deserve them. 

Out of courtesy, you ask, “How is she? And Liam?”

“Oh, they’re amazing.” Miles gives you a smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, comfortably, like he doesn’t mind standing on your porch when it’s eighty degrees. Somehow, he never shies away from intimacy. “Liam’s sitting on his own now. It’s great.”

“That is great,” you say, and even though it is, you still sound far away. 

Miles’s gaze hardens slightly and he tilts his head. He’s five years your junior, and you never really think about it until he looks so young. “How’ve you been?”

You swallow hard. “Fine. I think I’ve watched half of Pretty Little Liars.”

“Oof,” Miles winces. “It’s been six days. That’s…gotta be a record.”

“Whatever. I’m depressed. I deserve it.”

Miles raises his eyebrows in a sure gesture, then his shoulders stiffen slightly. “He’s been asking me about you.”

Suddenly, you regret having this conversation on the porch. You feel so exposed. But having Miles inside of your house is much, much worse than standing in the heat. 

You don’t have to ask who. “What’ve you been saying?”

“That you’re fine.”

“I am fine.”

“The three thousand hours of shitty T.V. says otherwise.”

You can’t argue against it being shitty. “Whatever.”

Miles pops the joint of his ankle and you barely even register it before he sighs and says, “He’s worried.”

“I think you’re worried.”

Your coworker looks like he wants to walk off the porch. “Yes, I’m worried. It’s not bad that people care about you. Even if it’s me and Leon Kennedy.” 

The words hit deep. The casserole dish is making your arms ache, but that’s not primarily what wants to get you off of this porch and back in the solace of your bed. It’s the panic rising in your chest, a familiar sensation that would have your hands shaking if not for the Pyrex. 

One of Miles’s hands reaches out and grazes the fabric of your Hungry Caterpillar shirt before his hand locks onto your shoulder with an unyielding strength. “Just keep me updated, okay? Once in the morning and once at night. To let me know you’re fine. But if you’re not, send me the word apricot. I’ll be here.”

You would be crying if your body wasn’t entirely depleted of its water intake. This is pathetic. You’re almost forty pouting on your porch while your younger coworker comforts you. 

Either way, you nod in compliance. Miles gives you a big hug like he’s used to it (which is really weird, considering you don’t exactly hug much) and then retreats back into his car. 

The casserole Angie made you is the best you’ve ever had. You fall asleep with the dish on your nightstand and the light from Pretty Little Liars bleeding into the stillness of the night. 

When you return to work, there's a bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase on your desk with a note attached to them. 

You don't have to look at the card in the bouquet to know who they're from. They're mostly lilies, reds and whites, which is a strangely accurate piece of information that he couldn't have just guessed. It makes you think that one of your friends is a mole who somehow has a soft spot for Leon Kennedy. 

With a huff, you push the vase to the corner of your desk and pull your folders out of the briefcase you house them in, diving into your work in the only way you know how: head-first.

It only takes an hour into the day for Leon to show up to your office. He knocks on the door, soft, tentative, so much like the first time you met him that it makes your chest clench with deja-vu. 

You don't invite him in, though he opens the door anyway. 

"I don't want to talk to you." The words leave your mouth before you can find a way to sugarcoat them a bit. Usually, you try not to be so harsh with him. He can be sensitive. Your family used to tell you that it's very good for the world that you didn't become a therapist. 

Leon doesn't listen to your words, and instead closes the door behind him and pulls out the chair across from you. 

"Leon. I'm serious. I do not want to talk to you."

He says your name like a plea, and for a moment, you forgive him. Then, the anger rushes through you like water breaking through a dam, and the walls fly back up. His eyes are so blue in your office and it takes a great deal of effort to not look at them. "Please. I'm sorry."

You scoff at the papers you're marking up with a red pen. "I've heard that one before."

"I mean it this time." 

"You didn't mean it all the other times?" 

Leon's getting frustrated. You can see it in the way his neck turns pink and his hands grow restless. In the large chair he's sat in, he looks impossibly small. "I did. I do. You know that."

"Do I?"

He clears his throat. "I know you're mad—"

"That is the understatement of the century."

"I know I fucked up, and that I pushed it too far, and that—" his head tips down to see your eyes that are burning holes into the paperwork. "—can you please look at me?"

You do, and the sight almost breaks your composure. In the years you've known Leon, he has never looked at you like this. You can't place it. His brows are pinched together and his eyes are pleading with you in such a gentle way. 

"I'm so, so sorry. I hate that I did this to you. You don't deserve it, you never have. And I…I feel so bad that I put your career on the line."

The words are so genuine and imperfect and so him that it finally breaks you. With a breath, tears blossom on your waterline and you look up at the ceiling to try to keep them at bay. Leon, for once, looks like he does not know what to do. 

"Close the blinds," you order through the thick emotion in your voice, something tired and humiliated at the fact that he's seeing you cry. "Don't want the interns having more to gossip about."

"Oh, no, we can't have that." 

Leon gets up and yanks at the cord of the blinds, pulling both sets shut before he scoots his chair around to your side of the desk. He takes care to not let the legs scrape against the cheap laminate. Somehow, he knows that bothers you. 

You open a drawer to your desk and snatch a tissue out of a box and dab at the tears before they can fall. "Leon, I know you don't always get it because this is such a small part of your job. The courtrooms, and testimonies, all of it. But this is my life. And I know it's fun for you to fuck with me but…" you swallow hard. "I am damn good at what I do. And it's so unfair that you did this to me."

Leon wants to reach out and touch you. His finger twitches with the urge, but he doesn't act on it. Instead, he lets you cry. Somehow, you still have tears left after the last two weeks. Not a lot, but enough to make Leon's chest clench. 

His elbows rest on his knees and he looks up at you like a sinner being forgiven. He's not, not yet, at least, but this is a good start. You'd truly forgive him once he started listening to you. 

You don't know when your relationship with Leon changed from that first time in the courtroom. You still didn't really get along with him all the time, but between now and then, he seems to understand you a little better. Which, to be honest, is a little ridiculous. The most time you've spent together is hour-long meetings in the restrictions of your walnut-clad offices with stale air. 

It's the most seen you've felt by anyone in a long time. 

You don't realize you've been sitting in silence until he says your name, delicately, like he can't bring himself to do it any other way. "I'm sorry. I really am."

For the first time, you believe his apology. But it's too much, too overwhelming, having Leon in your office, inches away from you, looking at you like that when you were so fucking mad at him.

The words are heavy as they leave you. "I think I want you to leave, Leon. Thanks."

Leon has not felt guilt like this since he was twenty-one. 

It feels stupid to admit, but it's true. At least he thinks it is. The game he played with you was fun when you always came out on top, and he looked a little dumb. But it's not the case now. Now that your eyes are red and you've tracked tears into your makeup, he feels like the most awful person on the planet. 

He doesn't drink, though. No, he knows you don't approve of that. You'd been hungover before one of your meetings, just once, and something tells him you aren't a big drinker. That, coupled with all of the comments you make in passing when you can tell he had a rough night. Somehow, you can always tell. 

He likes that you're so perceptive. He supposes you should be used to it by now, but it still manages to catch him off guard when he meets your eye and feels stripped bare. 

Leon cries to Helena over dinner once before you return to work. She laughs at him and calls him stupid. 

The next case Leon is subpoena'd for is a petty sentencing for someone he'd brought into custody months ago. Well, petty might not be the right word. Insensitive. But it happens a lot, and most of the assignments blend together. 

It's almost summertime, and the window in his office is cracked open enough to get some fresh air in the room. He never used to do that before…well, before you. 

On the way to his office, you stop into Helena Harper's, and you giggle loud enough that Leon can hear it from his ergonomic desk chair. 

If he could bottle sound, this is one he'd like to keep. Your laugh. 

So, this is salvageable, he thinks. 

You don't knock. To be fair, you never do. It doesn't really matter, since the door is open, but you walk in, hurried, like you own the place. 

As a matter of fact, you do this everywhere you go. Fill up space. You have quite a presence. 

It’s one of Leon’s favorite things about you. 

You drop your files on his desk and pull out your computer. For once, you have your glasses on—a couple of months ago you told him the computer screens gave you headaches. They frame your face nicely. It’s his first time seeing you with them, and it makes Leon feel probably too turned on. 

You sit down without even looking at him.

“Hi,” Leon offers, gently.

“Yes, hi, Leon.” you hit some keys on your laptop. “You’re staring.”

"Hard not to."

Finally, you look at him, thoroughly unimpressed, though he has a proud smirk and a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Ha ha. Can we talk about work?"

Leon tilts his head back. "Ah. My least favorite subject."

"Leon, I need you to listen to me this time." You lean forward in your seat, enough to try to grasp his attention from the spot on the ceiling. "Look at me. My job might be on the line. I can't…I can't do that again." 

Leon meets your eyes with a look that is sort of foreign to you. At least on him. You've seen it before in bars, clubs, in law school whilst buried in books at a library, but not ever in the DSO headquarters. It's…soft. Longing, maybe, if you read into it. 

"I have a proposal," he says, and the way he laces his fingers together on his desk makes your hands itch towards your papers, the keyboard, anything. "I'll be good."

Your stomach twists. "Oh, God. There's a but. Or an if."

"If," he emphasizes like you did, "you let me take you out on a date."

There is no fucking way. You know Leon is cocky. You've worked with him long enough to hear it firsthand. This is next-level douchebag behavior that you hadn't expected from him. 

But when you look at him, it doesn't look like he's trying to be a dick. Or just trying to get in your pants. His eyes are too soft, his brows too relaxed. He seems… genuine. It makes heat flash through you.

You sigh. "Leon, I'm being serious."

Leon smirks in a way that reminds you of the first time you met him, when he was a little more broken, more desperate for connection. Maybe more earnest, too. "So am I."

"I could report you to HR."

He doubles down. "You could. Or you could let me make it up to you."

You want to argue. One of your major rules about working in an office is to never, under any circumstances, date your coworkers. There are (somehow) too many people with too much time on their hands, who want nothing more than to stir up drama. Miles is embarrassingly one of them. Weirdly, a lot of ladies in Intelligence, too. 

You want to say no. Your brain is hardwired for logic, and there's no way to avoid that the majority of the paths Leon and you could go down would not end well. Nothing sounds worse than having to sit in this office with him if things fall through. 

But a part of you manages to come in through the noise of what's reasonable to say, but maybe this could be nice. 

Leon is an extremely good man. He's kind, too, if you avoid the times he borderline commits perjury to get a rise out of you. And something in you likes that he waited to do this until he was…better. Until he didn't roll out of bed and throw on his clothes, still reeking of vomit and alcohol from whatever hour he stopped drinking. If he stopped drinking. For some reason, you appreciate that. 

You haven't had a nice date in awhile. Or a nice man in your life. 

And you like Leon. God, you really do like him. It's possible that's why you were so upset over losing that case, because you felt so betrayed by him. As much as he gets under your skin, and is annoying and insubordinate and borderline rude, you feel a stupid sort of affection towards him, because you have a slight feeling that you understand him better than anyone else. 

So, you ignore every instinct in your body that has your skin prickling, and say, "Fine."

He seems to celebrate a little bit, by the way his hands reach back into his lap to twiddle with his thumbs, like he always does when he is a little bit nervous, but a bit giddy, too. 

"But," you interject. "I plan. You pay. I'm picky about my dates."

"Deal," he responds without hesitation. It makes your stomach flutter. 

Leon reaches a hand across the walnut desk and waits for you to shake. Your palms connect, and his is a little bit clammy. You smile at him, a real, excited smile. 

"We're doing lunch. Casual. I'm going to wear jeans and a t-shirt, because I'm tired of dressing up every day. We'll go to some pub with awful, greasy American food that will most definitely sit in my stomach wrong and I'll complain about it the whole time. No movies. Something… I don't know. Fun. Exciting."

"All of your requests are completely doable."

"I know. I don't fight for things out of reach."

"You do that all the time," he reminds you. "In court."

"Well, I always reach them, don't I?" 

He tries to smother a smile. "Yes. Yes, you do. Saturday sounds okay?"

"Fine. I'm half doing this because I want to, half because I know the DSO will take your side if I refuse and report you to HR."

Leon gives you a deadpan look. "You would never. Bethany intimidates you."

"Bethany should intimidate everyone," you whisper, on the fact that the blinds are still open and these offices are absolutely not soundproof. At least, yours isn't. Maybe Agent Kennedy is an exception to the cheap government infrastructure. "She has the eyes of the devil. I swear."

"Whatever." The words are squeezed out through his teeth as Leon gives you a big smile. "Let's talk about the case. Gotta have time tonight to draft an itinerary tonight."

"Have you ever drafted an itinerary, Leon?"

"No." He shrugs. "But you have. Plenty of times, I'm sure."

You roll your eyes and open a document on your computer, pretending like the excitement swimming in your bloodstream doesn't make you feel twenty years old again. 

You get a text around eight o'clock from an unknown number. You're in bed, pajama-clad, with a facemask drying and a Diet Coke in your hand. You sip it from a straw. 

Hey. It's Leon. Got your number from your file in HR.

You grin at the screen and write out a text in record time. I see we're just violating employee code of conduct left and right.

The bubble takes way too long to disappear before you get the next message. Leon is not tech-savvy, and it sometimes makes you snicker at him. 

Technically, I pulled some strings. Ingrid is especially helpful.

I don't see how this isn't proving my point. You could've just asked Helena. You two are close. You just wanted an excuse to see that photo of me from when I was thirty.

You can imagine the look on Leon's face and it brings a stupid amount of warmth to your chest. Dumbfounded Leon might be your favorite Leon. But maybe Date Leon will take the cake soon. 

You aren't sure when this happened. The contentment with Leon. At first, you had been annoyed by him asking you out, even though he was long forgiven. But you were far from dumb—it was painfully obvious Leon has liked you for a long time. He’s not good at hiding it.

You also can’t exactly pinpoint when he became so transparent to you. The first few times you met, he was painfully closed-off.

Finally, Leon replies. Yeah, whatever. I need your address to pick you up on Saturday.

You didn't pull that from my file while you were snooping around in there, too?

Can only do so much with what limited connections I have here.

The idea that Leon S. Kennedy has “limited connections” anywhere makes you roll your eyes. I'm a little concerned about your lack of thoroughness for being a world-renowned fed, Kennedy. 

This bubble comes faster. I hate that you just called me a fed.

The laugh tears out of your throat before you can stop it. It's probably the first time your house has heard your laugh in months, and it echoes off the wall and almost scares you. Your cat, Barty, jumps up next to you, looking slightly concerned at the sound, before letting out a comfortable chirp and curling up next to you. 

You ARE a fed, you reply, and your thumbs move in circles above your keypad as you think out the next one. 

Leon beats you to it. FED sounds so gross. I'm an agent. 

That sounds worse. Like you're James Bond. Which you're not. They dropped you in Spain with a full magazine and a dream. I'm surprised you had enough gusteau to backflip. 

Leon's reply takes a second. You hope it's because of your use of the word "gusteau." How do you know that?

You hope he can feel your smile through the screen. I get the office gossip too, Leon. I know all your dirty secrets. 

For some reason, you snap a picture of Barty, belly-up, against the green fabric of your comforter, and press send.

Sorry to cut the party short but Barty and I must retire to our chambers. I'll see you on Saturday. Don’t be a stranger. 

You send him your address and turn your phone on silent, not letting yourself see his response, or else you'll be up all night, grinning like a teenager. 

Leon is pushing forty, and he thinks he’s going to throw up. 

Earlier in the week, he had sent back: Barty is a horrible name for a cat. What’s his full name? Barthes? Bartholemew?

He didn’t think much about asking you out until it happened. For being a government agent, he sure does have a lot of anxiety issues. Shannon, his appointed therapist, talked him off of a ledge yesterday when he wanted to cancel from sheer panic. He’s almost forty, and he hasn’t been on a real date in well over ten years. Which…is kind of sad. But he wasn’t the type of man to date back then. He wasn't someone who could be a partner. 

You make him want to be different. Which, for the most part, is why he stopped drinking. 

Well. He mostly stopped drinking.

He’s not a liar. 

You, on the other hand, never seem nervous about a thing. The only signs he picks up on when you’re uneasy is the muscle in your jaw and the way your fingers twitch, like they’re itching for something to grab. 

Leon’s dabbing away sweat from his forehead with a towel in his bathroom and holding an ice cube in his hand when you call. 

It’s a sudden sound, one so jarring he almost jumps out of his skin. Humiliating for a government field agent, but whatever. His phone almost vibrates off the table before he grabs it and answers before he can compose himself. 

“Hello?” He asks shakily. 

“Hey,” your voice crackles through the speaker of his iPhone 4 like it’s a casual Tuesday. “Need your input. Is this a graphic band-tee occasion or a…something else.”

Leon pulls himself together to crack a small smile. “I cannot believe you own a graphic tee.”

“It’s practically the entirety of my closet besides my work clothes.”

He’s surprised by this for a second, until he’s not. He guesses it makes sense. Under your hard-ass exterior, you probably feel very passionately about your hatred of synth music. 

“Wear a band tee. I’ll be in linen.”

“Oh, you are so annoying. I’ll be in an Alicia Keys tee shirt and you’re wearing linen?”

He blinks. “I don’t see the issue.”

“Leon, you are already extremely out of my league. You can’t look better than me.”

“I guarantee that I never look better than you. Plus, we’re getting burgers. It’s not like we’re meeting the Queen.” 

Leon doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean, and it’s especially true right now. In what world is he more attractive than you? 

“Whatever,” you concede, obviously getting flustered, but Leon can only tell because he knows your voice too well. “What’s your sitrep? I can be ready in 15.”

“First of all: I can’t believe you just used sitrep semi-correctly. Second of all: I’m about to leave.”

Leon absolutely is not. He is trying not to hyperventilate in his bathroom, with his perfectly steamed shirt hanging behind him, waiting to be put on. The ice cube has successfully turned his hand numb and is fully melting through his vice grip.

“Just text me when you’re on the way,” you say, and then lower your voice gently. “And Leon? You don’t have to be nervous. This isn’t make-or-break. We’re good.” 

It’s the first time you’ve said we’re good since he lost you that case. The words feel like sun on his face, warm and forgiving, and the cage around his chest loosens enough to get a good breath in. 

“Okay. I’ll be there soon. Text you when I’m on the way.”

“Bye, Leon.”

He hangs up and dries his hands. When he turns around, he considers what you said about his blue linen shirt, but disregards it. Hastily, he buttons it up, fingers somehow no longer shaking, and when he gives himself one last glance in the mirror, he feels okay. 

Better than okay. Good. Excited. 

You throw open the door when Leon knocks and promptly turn the other direction, leaving him to utter, "Uh. Hi?"

"Come in!" you call behind you, and he tentatively steps into your foyer. "Gimme a sec. I just need…" your voice fades away as you duck into a room. 

Leon is abandoned in your home. He tries not to stray far away from the spot he's been invited into. Your place feels… comforting. It’s clean, but lived-in, and there’s that lingering scent of jasmine that usually follows you around prevalent in the air. 

Something chirps underneath his feet, and when he looks down, there's a small, grey cat twisting around and rubbing against his calves. Barty, he remembers. 

"Hey, buddy." Leon crouches and lets Barty sniff his fingers, his voice going an octave higher. "How are you?"

Barty meows and thrusts his head into Leon's palm. With a gentleness Leon didn't know he had, he scratches Barty under the chin and behind the ears. 

"I see the terrorist of the household has you fooled," you say as you shove an earring into your ear, evidently what you were looking for. "He's evil."

"You're his lawyer. Whose side are you on?"

When Leon finally looks up at you and away from your cat, surprise flashes through his eyes. You're wearing, as promised, your Alicia Keys Song in A-Minor t-shirt, which is french tucked into your jeans.  

It's the most casual you've ever been around him. And, Leon thinks, the most beautiful. Relaxed. 

He wants to say something. You’d be stupid to not realize. 

"This is not my client," you deny, though you have a grin on your face. You reach out and grab your purse from the console table by the front door. "Okay, let's go. Stop coming onto him, Barty. He doesn't want you."

Leon hides a smile at that and smoothes his hands over his jeans once he stands. A habit. 

You lock the front door behind you once you manage to pry Leon away from your cat. You hate that he's in linen, but God, he does look really good. He always does, which isn't fair, but something about seeing him in jeans and a shirt fit for Grecian sunsets is enough to have you… considering things. 

You are almost forty years old. You’re not admitting that Leon’s turning you on just by existing. 

You land eyes on his car. “Leon.”

“Hm?”

“This is your car?”

He smirks. “I don’t see what’s wrong with it.”

“You are a federal agent. You make probably triple what I do. You drive a Buick from 2002?”

Leon opens the passenger side door for you and gestures for you to sit down. “I know what I like. And I like this Buick.”

You really, truly, severely misjudged Leon Kennedy. 

And you are still trying to be a stick in the mud about this date. But in all honesty, you were really looking forward to it. Your friends joke that you’re married to work, with how often you take cases home to mull over with a glass of wine. It’s nice to… be normal. 

That, and the fact that Leon’s stupid smirk makes your stomach flip, is making it hard to act annoyed. 

You duck into the sedan and Leon makes sure you're secured before he closes the door. On the inside, the car is polished clean and looks recently vacuumed. Part of you wonders if Leon keeps it like this, or if he cleaned it up for you. 

Leon hands you his phone. "Play whatever you want."

You stare at the device in your hand. "This is powerful."

"That is a phone with my Apple Music open."

"An unlocked phone has power. Plenty of evidence." 

"You're a lawyer. Everything is evidence to you."

He's not wrong, so you shrug, and he puts the car in reverse. "Fair." You go to the search bar and say, "You must trust me a lot."

Leon's lip upturns slightly. "Something like that, yeah." 

You click on a playlist and hit shuffle. Leon's face contorts in an approving look, and he rests his arm atop the center console. 

This should feel weird. Awkward. You've never seen each other outside of work, let alone like this, and you're managing to act pretty normal considering it's a date. 

And Leon’s obviously freaking the fuck out. But it’s not inhibiting your mood. If anything, it’s making you like him a little bit more, if it’s even possible. 

“You look like a scared dog at the shelter," you comment teasingly, eyes slightly squinted in a smile that only feels slightly out of place. 

"I absolutely do not."

"Leon Kennedy, DSO golden boy, national superhero, is shaking in his boots at going on a date with an overworked, exhausted, cynical attorney. I don't know whether to be flattered or a little upset."

Leon rolls his eyes at you and his fingers tap along with the song you've played from his phone. "I'm used to handling explosives and shooting things and breaking bones." 

There's an unspoken thing here that this is foreign to him, and the thought warms your chest a little bit. You'd read files upon files, mostly full of little black rectangles redacting information that you did not need, or necessarily want, to know, but there was enough substance in them for you to read between the lines. 

You had a grasp on who Leon was when you first started working together. Over time, that shifted, and the Leon you know now isn't the Leon you had any clue about years ago. 

"And you should be flattered," he adds, quieter this time. "Very flattered."

"I hate to say this," you cross your ankles, "but I am. And you should be, too. I don't… I haven't gone on a date in years, I think." 

Leon cracks a smile, so different from the shy blush he had before, and it reminds you of the Leon that first charmed you. "So, you must like me."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"When did that change?"

You pause. "Hm?"

"When did you stop hating me?"

You want to laugh, and a small huff escapes your nose, amused, before you can stop it. "Leon, I never hated you. No matter what Helena said. You piss me off, yes, but you're too cute to stay mad at."

After that, the ride is full of teasing comments and flirting that would've made sixteen-year-old you proud. At one point, your stomach growls so loudly Leon cannot hide the laugh that escapes him. He pulls into the shitty brewery you requested, and before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt, he's yanking the key out of the ignition and jogging to your side of the car. 

God, he looks good. The sunlight catches in his hair, the blonde peeking out through the strands of brunette, and you have to remind yourself to swallow. 

He is stupidly good at this dating thing, you realize as he opens the door and gives you a hand to pull yourself out of his low-rider. 

“You’re suspiciously good at this,” you say as you place your hand in his and grab your purse with the other. “Makes me think you practiced or something.”

“You’ve given me homework before. Is it so bad that I studied, too?”

You narrow your eyes and let him lead you into the pub, hand still grasping yours, which makes you smile slightly. You have to slap his arm when he goes to pull out your barstool, and you don’t miss the way his lower lip extends in a pout. 

“You’re ridiculous. This is casual. Let me do it.”

He retreats to the other side of the table. The waitress comes over and you order two sodas. Before long, you’re stuffing a burger into your mouth, successfully smearing sauce all over your face. 

“I got a question.” Leon looks up in contemplation, burger in one hand. 

“Well, that's never good."

“What made you want to be an attorney?”

Instinctively, you get defensive. “What made you want to be a field agent?”

Leon senses the mood change. Then, with a breath, like it hurts him to be vulnerable, “I didn’t want to be a government agent. I just wanted to be a cop. But I ended up in Raccoon City and… Y’know.”

You do know, and immediately, you feel bad for the tone you used. You pause. “My brother was a cop.”

“Yeah?”

You wipe at the corner of your mouth with a napkin. Then, feigning casualty, you say, “Yeah, he died when I was… Eighteen? Jesus. Twenty years ago.” You clear your throat and get back on track. “And the guy who killed him got off on a very generous plea deal that I would never offer. It was my first year of college, and I was so upset, I changed my major to political science the day after the trial. It’s cheesy-“

“It’s not.” Leon’s voice is firm, eyes conveying his sincerity. “Really. It’s not cheesy.”

“Thanks. I guess I just didn’t want any families to feel how I felt about my brother. He was only twenty-two.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Been a long time.”

Leon catches your eyes in an expression soft enough to tug at your heart. “Doesn’t mean it’s any easier.”

He’s got you beat, so you shrug and make a face that’s not decipherable to him, ignoring the twisting of nerves in your chest. His hands wipe against his napkin. “My parents died in a car crash when I was young. The cop that first showed up saved my life. And I feel cheesy, too.” 

“You shouldn’t. That’s important.”

“Exactly.”

Now that you’ve made it weird with the dead-brother talk, you take a moment to bask in your shame before bringing another fry to your mouth.

If you ignore the discomfort of being normal (as in, not filtering your words with legal terms and courtroom jargon) and borderline vulnerable with Leon, the date is going really well. It's not like the two of you are strangers by any means. You've known each other for, what? Three years at this point? And for some reason, you feel most comfortable with Leon at any given time. 

He gives you space. He's too present. He annoys you. He makes you laugh. The most turned on you've been in years was at the feeling of his fingertips ghosting over your back. You think he might understand you better than any of your friends do. This… sticks with you. 

“Wish I begged to see the itinerary,” you say through a mouth of food. “Should’ve made you get a gold star from me first.”

Leon chuckles and the sound makes you smile in an embarrassing way. “Isn’t the surprise half the fun?”

“No, Leon. Surprises are what catch me off guard and make me scramble in the courtroom.”

“We aren’t in the courtroom, sweetheart,” Leon drawls, and if he realizes the pet name he just called you, he doesn’t act embarrassed, even though you almost choke on your food. “It’s just us. And I think I did a pretty good job.”

“You always think you do a pretty good job.”

Leon gives you a look. “That’s not true.”

You take a sip of your beer and shrug. He’s right. “Yeah, whatever. I just like to push you around a bit.”

When the waitress comes back around to check on you two, Leon slides her his card, and you clock the black metal almost immediately. A teasing smirk stretches across your face. Of course Leon has a black card. He’s a government field agent. 

“Don’t comment on the card,” he says, giving you a knowing look. 

“Wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“Those are two different accusations, Leon.”

He smiles. The waitress returns with the clipboard of paperwork for him, and Leon quickly scribbles down a number and a signature and escorts you out of the restaurant. 

When he opens the door to his Buick, you collapse into the passenger seat. He turns the key in the ignition and when he looks over at you, the fondness in his eyes is enough to melt you. Just a little bit. 

The heat coursing through your veins, pooling in your abdomen, starts when Leon pulls you out of the car and wraps an arm around your waist as he guides you into the second brewery of the day. It comes off as casual, though you can sort of feel his heartbeat (or maybe it's yours) and you know that it's anything but. 

“So, I'm confused," you say, at the fact that you just left a brewery. 

"Shh," Leon's fingertips shift against your waist. "I'll explain once we're inside."

You're a little nervous, though you're used to suppressing it over the years of uncertainty behind a desk. Leon opens the door and steers you inside with a hand to the small of your back. Your eyes narrow as you examine the bar. 

"Leon."

"Hm?"

"Is this what I think it is?"

Leon's cheeks are flushed, and for a moment, you think about kissing him. He says, "If you're thinking this is trivia, then you are correct."

Your first thought is: He is such a nerd. But then you realize that he wouldn't have brought you here if he didn't think you were a nerd. And admittedly, you love trivia. Probably too much. 

"How'd you know I love this?"

"Because," he leads you to a table, "I know you."

Truthfully, you think he talked to Helena, or maybe Miles. But either way, he truly hit the nail on the head, and you are stupidly excited. You feel somewhat laid bare in front of him as you let the joy wash over you. Usually, you'd take a moment to feel embarrassed. But this is Leon. You've seen all shades of him. What do you have to be nervous about?

You sit down and stick on a nametag. It's just you and Leon on your team, but when you look around, it does seem to majorly be couples, so it's not like you're at a disadvantage. 

Leon leans back and rests his arm against the back of your chair, leaning closer to talk to you over the music. It makes your stomach lurch in an embarrassing way. "You excited?"

You nod, and an unguarded smile washes over you. 

Leon's eyebrows furrow. "I did good?"

The words are light, but you notice the serious undertones. Leon, shockingly, is a rather nervous guy. Probably because his cortisol levels are shot from the twenty years of government work and near-death experiences. You don't fully know what goes on in the field, but you've gathered enough to understand why Leon is the way he is. 

"Yes, honey. You did good." 

Leon flushes bright red and immediately takes a sip of the waters he grabbed you at some point. You giggle at him being flustered and a man's voice is broadcasted over the speakers, explaining the rules. You don't listen to much, as you're far too focused on Leon's arm behind you and the feeling of certainty in your chest that says, yes, this was a good idea.

As you expected, you and Leon blow trivia out of the water. 

He did a great job with the geography and travel categories, which made sense, given that he is regularly deployed to other countries. You nailed history and literature, and sometimes Leon would say, “How the fuck do you know that?” when you’d scribble out an answer without much thought.

Combined, you’re a great team.

When it's announced that the two of you win, you let out a squeal and Leon picks you up in a hug. 

You think, I am so fucked.

“You’ve read King Lear?” Leon says incredulously, one hand on the steering wheel and the other suspiciously close to your thigh. 

“I took a lot of Shakespeare in college,” you explain and swallow the lump in your throat. “I’ve forgotten most of it by now. But some stuff sticks.”

Leon makes an impressed face. “I forget sometimes that you went to college and weren’t just born like this.”

“What does that mean?”

“No, no not like that,” Leon backtracks and it makes you smile. “You just seem so naturally smart. Sharp. I’ve always really liked that about you.”

Something in you flutters. “I have a question.”

“Hm?”

“How long… have you wanted to do this?”

It’s the first time you’ve asked him a question without your lawyer voice bleeding into your tone, and it kind of makes your head spin. 

“What? Go on a date with you?”

“Mhm.”

“Uhh,” Leon pretends to consider your question. You can tell the motion of it is fake. “Since that first time in your office. When you noticed my hip.”

You think back to that day and what you wrote in your notes about Leon. Sad. Cynical. Defiant. Closed-off. You’d make some revisions now. Hopeful. Lost. Maybe one more: Loving. 

Leon has so much love in his heart. You can see that from miles away. The issue is that everyone he’s ever trusted has betrayed him or thought poorly of him because of his addiction. You never did that, and you still don’t. 

You make a noise in the back of your throat. “So, this is more than a case to you?”

What you mean is unspoken, and in that moment you realize why you misread Leon at first: because you saw parts of yourself in the reflection of him. Cynical. Closed-off. Sad. And you haven’t exactly been feeling like that since you came back to work. 

Leon huffs, humored and breathless. “It’s always been more than the case. Over the years.” He glances away from the road and looks at you for a long second. “But I think you know that.”

You nod. “I know.”

Leon swallows and you follow the bob of his Adam’s apple with your eyes. “Is this… more to you, too?”

He is almost forty, just like you are, but with this look in your eyes that he’s giving you, he looks about ten years younger. A smile stretches at the corner of your lips before you can truly process it, and you’re laughing slightly.

“Yes, Leon. I would’ve said no if not.” You settle your hand against his arm that’s resting against the center console, and gently pull his hand to splay against your thigh. “You’re shaking again.” 

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Whatever.”

“Do I make you nervous, Leon?”

He makes a choking sound deep in his throat. “God, you’re upfront.”

“You’ve told me that before, yes.” You bat your eyelashes and keep your same expecting stare on him. When he glances over at you, you can visibly see the restraint pulling him back. “So?”

“Yes,” he relents with a sigh. “You make me nervous.”

You chuckle, though it sounds light of humor. The rest of the drive home is full of comments about trivia that are half paid attention to from both of you, considering Leon’s fingertips are lightly brushing against your denim jeans and sending bolts of anticipation through you. Sometimes, you get so lost in it that you realize you didn’t listen to a word he said. 

This feels so natural. Too natural. It’s a bit unnerving, to be honest, but you don’t necessarily care. It’s been… a long time since you’ve gotten laid. Not that that’s what’s going on. Obviously. 

When he pulls into your driveway, you move to gather your purse that has found a home at your feet. Leon puts the car in park and gives you a soft smile, like he's a little optimistic that this isn't it. 

You look at him for a moment. Your facade falls. Then, you say, "Do you want to come inside?" 

His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and he quickly intakes a breath. "Do you want that?"

Your face contorts into something sly, and it obviously affects Leon with how he looks away from you. "Yes. I do." 

When you reach over to undo your seatbelt, Leon kills the engine and undoes his seatbelt like he's getting shot at. You climb out of his Buick and shut your door, pretending not to notice him adjusting his pants before trailing behind you to your front door. 

You pull your keys out of your purse and unlock the door with a steady hand that sort of surprises you, considering you have enough anxiety to permanently fry your nervous system. 

Once you swing the door open and successfully herd Leon inside, his hands are on your hips. 

"This is crazy," he pants. With one step, your back is flush against the door, and his head hangs close to your neck. 

"And highly unethical. Fucking your lawyer."

"Jesus Christ. Don't say it like that." His body betrays him at that, though, because his grip tightens at the idea of fucking you. 

"What do you want me to say, then?" Your voice has a cheeky edge to it that feels soft enough to hold, and it's a certain type of gentleness you didn't know you still had. With one hand, you brush away the hair that has fallen into his face. 

Leon smiles, then gets a little serious, because of course he does. "I don't want you to think this is a weightless thing. I've wanted this for a while, and I'm trying to be the person you deserve to have."

The honesty strips you raw, and your eyebrows "Do I have you, Leon?"

"Yes," he confesses, and it makes you feel weightless. "Always have."

You tilt his head with a hand on his jaw, and when you pull him down and your lips connect, you think, this is incredible.

At first, the kiss is gentle; tentative and soft. Something you've dreamed about while watching movies and reading books. Before long, though, he's untucking your shirt with impatience and splaying his palm flat against your back, tugging you closer into him and moaning into your mouth. Each move sends waves of want through you and you yank him closer to you via his shoulders. 

You move in tandem, each chasing the feeling of the other like you need it to live. He licks a stripe against the crease of your lips, and immediately you're opening up and letting him deepen the kiss into something more.

When you finally reach down and yank his shirt up to feel his abdomen, he pulls away from you, breathless with swollen lips. "This is okay?"

"I'm actively throwing myself at you, Leon. Yes, it's okay." 

He dips down to press a kiss against your neck, open-mouthed and desperate, and you let out a whine when his teeth grazes the vertex of your neck and shoulder. Leon's hips buck, and you arch into him when you feel the imprint of his cock. 

He pulls back far enough to look you in the eyes. "Where's your bedroom?"

"Last door on the right." You point with your hand, and before you can look back at him, his hands are locking under your thighs and lifting you up into his arms. You yelp. "Leon!"

"What?" He grins at you. "I won't break anything."

Sometimes you forget that Leon is an absolute unit of a human being, built of years of government training and field exercises that have successfully hardened his muscles beyond human perception. When he does shit like this, though, it's impossible to ignore. 

His lips are on you again, wet and hot and everything you imagined it to be, and he kicks the door shut behind him before laying you flat on your back on the comforter. Down the hall comes a disgruntled mrrp from your cat, who is obviously very upset about getting his spot taken. 

Leon's hands come up to push your shirt away from your abdomen, revealing your skin inch by inch. "Can I—"

"Please," you manage to breathe out, and you sit up slightly as Leon pulls the fabric over your head, leaving you in your red lacy bra. You tug at the hem of his shirt, too, and he undoes the top two buttons enough to yank it over his head. At the sight of his skin, you sigh. "Jesus."

"You're one to talk," Leon mutters before lurching toward you again, lips connecting with the skin of your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks. 

Instinctively, your hands reach towards his head, threading through his hair and tugging at it gently. Leon groans against your skin and presses down into you, eager to relieve the tension in his pants. 

"Take them off," you order as seriously as you can, but your breath betrays you and you let out a moan when Leon's lips graze your breast. "Leon."

"Be patient," he muses, and the teasing tone makes you throb. "I've waited long enough."

"I thought you were making it up to me," you comment, lips close to his ear. Your breath fans his skin, making goosebumps rise, and you can immediately tell his resolve is crumbling fast. "Or are you not?"

"I am," he says, bordering on a whine. "Please."

"Thought you wanted to be good for me," you coo, and his head drops against your stomach. With one hand, you reach behind you and unclasp your bra, removing it swiftly and exposing your breasts to the cold air of your own bedroom. "Don't you want to be good?"

Once again, Leon's tone is insistent, "I am." 

"Then prove it to me," your finger traces the skin under his chin, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his lower lip extended in a pout. "Take them off." 

He sighs something broken and quiet, before lifting himself off of you and unbuttoning his jeans. You follow suit, undoing yours and kicking them down your legs, revealing your matching lingerie set. Your eyes never leave him. 

God, he's beautiful. Something straight out of Ancient Rome, you think as he shoves his jeans and briefs down his legs in one go. Carved marble, or an oil painting, something delicate and hand-made and breathtaking. You've never let yourself think about him like this—so raw and passionately and unguarded. It undoes something in you. 

"Leon, you're perfect," you gush before you can stop yourself, and you're too horny to be embarrassed about it. 

Leon cracks a smile and climbs back on top of you. "Couldn't hold a candle to you, honey." 

You roll your eyes. "You're stupid."

"You love it."

You recoil at the word for a moment, before letting it settle over you. You do love it. And you love Leon, in some naive way. So, he's not wrong, and you let yourself be right. 

"'M gonna take care of you, okay?" Leon runs a hand down the side of your head tenderly, brushing your hair away from your face. "Just tell me to stop and I will."

"I trust you," you respond, borderline eager. 

"You do?"

You smile. "Yes, Leon. Against my better judgement, I trust you. Get to work."

He does without much thought, kissing chastely down your stomach towards the apex of your thighs, only stopping to breathe every couple kisses. Slyly, he hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down in one swift motion, and the feeling of the air on your core makes you clench, desperate and impatient. A chuckle escapes him, low and humorless, and you groan in anticipation.

Finally, he settles between your legs and draws your thighs over his arms. You're trapped underneath him, his grip on your hips tight, but you can't complain. No, you're exactly where you want to be. 

He starts slowly, kisses and kitten licks to your folds, easing into you like he can't tell you're drenched. You mewl something obscene, and when you arch, Leon takes it as an invitation to dive in. He takes one hand away from your hip and pulls it under him. 

Leon attacks your clit like a man starved. He learns, quickly, and a spike of jealousy flashes up in your mind when you think about where, exactly, he got this information from. But a hard suck has your head thrown back against the mattress, erasing any thoughts from your mind. 

When you reach down and grasp his head, pulling him firmer into you, he lets out a groan, and it's then you realize that he is grinding into the mattress and seeking some release, too. 

"God, Leon, you're doing so good."

Leon's whine is high pitched against your cunt, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through you. Before long, you're shamelessly grinding against his face, seeking an orgasm you didn't know you were capable of having so fast. 

"I'm—fuck, Leon. Please."

He uses the opportunity to finally slide two fingers into you. Your toes curl at the sensation, and without much warning, you're tipping over the edge, moaning and groaning and saying words, you realize at some point. They're unintelligible to you through the rush of blood in your ears, but they really do a lot to Leon, you realize, who is whining against you as you ride out your orgasm. 

When he pulls away, you crack a smile, still gasping and experiencing the aftershocks. He wipes his face off with the back of his hand and crawls back up to you. 

Leon's eyes pinch together in a pleading way, and when you realize what he wants, you giggle. "That was stupidly good, Leon. Thank you."

He grins and dips his head down to kiss you, slow and passionate. Words bleed into it, unspoken but still understood, and you nearly want to cry at the meaning and vulnerability of it all. 

"Can I fuck you?" Leon asks. His eyes bounce between yours, looking for a doubtful look or a flash of remorse. He finds none, apparently, and you nod eagerly. "Do you have…"

"I'm safe," you sputter out. "On birth control, I mean." 

Leon exhales. "You're sure this is okay?"

"Leon, if you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to take matters into my own hands."

He grins and wraps a hand around his cock, pumping a few times to get fully stiff. He groans at the contact. "Who says I won't like that?"

"We both know you would." You lean up to kiss his cheek. "But I think I deserve to lay back. Don't you?"

Leon makes a shuddering, broken sound at your tone, and lines himself up with your entrance. Every time he seems to get lost in his own pleasure, he remembers yours. You note this mentally. "If it hurts—"

"I know, sweetheart. It's okay."

He rolls his eyes at your impatience, but begins to press into you. The stretch is immediate—Leon is big, and you knew that since you started kissing—and you gasp with each inch he pushes into you. He's whispering, too, comforting you with every move he makes. He kisses your neck; you turn to catch his lips with your own. 

His hips lurch and he's bottomed out, tip kissing your cervix. You feel so full. Of him, of life, of love. It’s everything. It’s too much, but not enough. At the sensation, you moan, and when he begins moving, the sound itself is so lewd you're somehow close again. 

"Christ," he chokes out. "You feel good." 

"Fuck." You press your face into Leon's shoulder. You're still sensitive from your first orgasm, and every drag of his cock inside of you has another fire lit in your abdomen. "This is so worth it." 

Leon is breathless. "Yeah?"

“Yes,” you insist. “God. Leon—“

“I know. I know. I’m here.”

Leon snakes a hand under you to wrap around the back of your neck, not hard, just enough to secure you to him. It gives him a new vantage to thrust harder into you experimentally. You yelp out a moan but grab at him, pressing your thumbs appreciatively into his shoulders. 

Obviously, Leon had tried to stay focused to bring you over the edge again, but his breathing was hurting shallow, and short moans escaped him, some bordering on whimpers. 

His grip on your neck tightens and it has the coil in your belly wound completely tight. “Please, Leon, I—“

“Come on, sweetheart. I can take it. I’m right here.”

“Leon—“

“I know. It’s okay. I’m here.”

He keeps murmuring in your ear, and he’s so trusting and gentle, when you tip over the edge once again and fall head first into your orgasm, he kisses your neck and keeps talking you through it. Your body is pulled taut, a live wire coursing through you, as Leon slows his pace slightly. 

“Fuck,” he grits out. “I’m—“

“Flip me over,” you command, somehow able to talk through the aftershocks. 

Leon whines your name. “Please. I’m close. I—“

“Leon.” You grab his chin in your hand. He looks destroyed when you catch his gaze. “You wanted to be good for me, right? You took care of me. Let me help you. Be my good boy I know you are.”

He shudders at the words, blood running hot in his veins. Somehow, he has the energy to grab onto you and roll over, scooting up until his upper back hits the headboard. 

You’re still secure on top of him, his cock buried deep inside of you, and you press a kiss to his forehead. His eyes follow your every movement, and when they land on your face, he thinks he’s seeing an angel. 

Leon has scars that you know you may never get the story to. There’s one on his shoulder, the left one, that’s deep and sensitive to the touch, you notice. That one’s the most prominent. But God, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man more beautiful than him. 

You give an experimental roll of your hips since Leon has adjusted to the new position. He looks up at you like you’re something to be worshipped, and when your hips move again, his hands land on your hips. They grip hard enough to bruise. 

“Thank you,” he grits out. “I— Please, I—“

“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you.” 

And you do. Leon wants you so bad it hurts, which feels ironic, considering he’s inside of you. But this isn’t all there is to you. He wants everything. The rough nights, the late hours at the office, the arguments over taking out the trash and watching horrible movies together. He was worried this would feel like the end. 

No, it’s just the beginning. 

You find a rhythm, hard and unrelenting, and it doesn’t take Leon long to reach his own climax with how you’re grinding against him, uttering encouragement in his ears like second nature. Your hands naturally explore. They run from his shoulders, down his pecs, then trace his abs lightly, over and over again, as you bounce and grind on him. 

Logically, you could cum again. But this was better, you think, watching Agent Kennedy absolutely fall apart under you. Your tone is slightly mocking.  “Leon, I’m doing all this for you. Don’t you want to cum?” 

“Shit. Fuck, baby, I’m—“

“Yeah?”

He whimpers. “Please. Yeah, pl—“

The words die in his mouth as he spills into you, lips parted. You have to remind him to breathe. His hands grab at you, your hips, boobs, shoulders, before finally one hand grabs you by the back of your neck and pulls you in close. Leon groans something primal and you nip at his earlobe. 

You two lay there for a moment, absolutely spent, and Leon’s neck is bright red, either with lust or embarrassment or something else entirely. 

Against your biological wishes, you lift slightly off of him, his softening cock falling flat against his abdomen. Your combined juices leak out of you, but you can’t be bothered as you drip all over him. 

Leon kisses the junction of your neck and shoulder lightly before rolling you over, laying you flat against your sheets. You aren’t sure when the comforter got pushed down. 

Whatever. 

“Where’s your bathroom?” Leon whispers and the tenderness of the moment is not lost on you. 

You point with one hand. “Over there. I think I’m gonna die now.”

“Could I be charged with murder if that happened?”

You huff out a laugh. “Manslaughter at the most. Negligence, maybe.”

“You’re too smart for me.” He calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to your bathroom. When he opens the bedroom door, Barty comes trotting in, rubbing up against Leon’s ankles. “Hi, buddy. Yeah. Let’s…go out here.”

Leon leads your cat away from you and you hear the rustling of a cabinet before the tap starts to run. Before long, Leon’s returning to you, and you realize he left to get a washcloth for you. 

The intimacy of it all brings a tear to your eye. You sniffle as Leon parts your legs, this time with a gentleness you didn’t know he had, and he caresses the towel between your folds and over your legs. When you whimper, he utters, “I know. I’m sorry.”

He wipes himself down and collapses next to you. When he pulls you into him, you're pliant, like putty, under his touch, and tuck into his side without any argument. 

“You okay?” Leon whispers into your hairline, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

You nod. “I’m great, Leon. You’re great.”

You want to tease him on the whole praise stuff, but you like it. So you swallow your words and let yourself melt into Leon. It’s the safest you’ve felt in years. 

Leon pulls the covers over you. “Did I make it up to you?”

You snicker. “Leon, you were forgiven a long time ago. You know that.”

“I know,” he murmurs. He swallows thickly. “Are we…”

“Yes, Leon. You can call us together now. I’d like that.”

“Really?”

You give him a look. “Yes. Really. Stop arguing with me and let me take a little nap here. You’re warm.”

Leon gives out a noise of contentment, and when he settles beneath you, his heartbeat is steady. “I meant what I said.”

“Hm?”

“About wanting to be better for you. I hated the way you looked at me back then. I wanted to be the kind of man you deserved.”

The confession makes you tilt your head up to him, catching his eyes in an honest trap. You press a kiss to the stubble on his jawline and pretend the tear leaking from the corner of your eye is from yawning, which Leon doesn’t believe for a second. 

“I know, Leon. You’re amazing.”

Just when you’re drifting off to sleep, four little paws climb over your back, settling on Leon’s chest. Barty has found a home here, and admittedly, you have, too. 

taglist: @night-scare @leonsbestgirl @lysol1201 @eclairlvr @deadlyecstasy @nambii @cakewinswars @shortcake356

He stood at the altar, dressed in his best silver tux, thumb rubbing absent circles over the simple band of the engagement ring you had gifted him. The guests blurred together into a sea of smiling faces, but he barely registered them.

He wasn't nervous…at least, that's what he'd been telling himself.

Then the music changed.

The entire room rose to its feet.

Leon finally looked up.

And there you were.

For a moment his mind simply…stopped.

You looked impossibly beautiful—not in the distant, untouchable way magazines tried to define beauty, but in the painfully familiar way that stole the air from his lungs. It was you with the same smile that greeted him after bad days. The same eyes that always found him across crowded rooms.

Leon felt something in his chest crack open.

With every step you take the reality of what was happening is sinking into him.

This is real, you're real. So real in fact that he was marrying you.

For the first time in a long while his eyes stung, tears were quickly filling the edge of his sight before he could even know what to do.

He tried to blink the tears away.

Don't cry.

Come on Kennedy, pull yourself together.

But the thought kept echoing louder than the music.

They're really, really marrying stupid ol’ me.

His throat tightened.

Leon is not in any sense lucky—well one could surmise he was unluckily lucky---but how did his luck get this good?

How in the hells did he manage to get this right?

How did he pull all the right cards to lead to this point?

It didn't make sense.

Not to him.

He knew the plenty of mistakes he'd made. The missions that had hollowed him out. The nights he'd come home exhausted, carrying ghosts he could never quite explain.

He knew every flaw.

Every scar.

Every reason someone should've decided loving him was too difficult.

Yet there you are.

Walking toward him with the kind of smile that made it seem as though choosing him had never been a question.

His chest ached.

There had to be a mistake.

Some irrational part of him almost expected someone to interrupt the ceremony.

“Sorry, wrong groom.”

“There's been a mix-up.”

Because surely—surely this couldn't really be happening to him.

You reached the front.

Now, standing a foot away from him.

Leon gaze landed on your glimmering eyes…

And whatever composure he'd managed to hold onto completely disappeared.

“Hi there.” You smile so effortlessly like you’re merely taking a calm stroll in the park.

“H-Hi.” 

Brilliant, he stuttered.

The man who walked out a zombie infested city fucking stuttered.

Just great, months of planning and the first thing that went out of his mouth was a stuttered Hi.

A tiny laugh escaped your painted lips.

Well…at least one of yous find this amusing.

“I…” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling seventeen instead of thirty-something—great he also forgot how old he was. “You look…”

His stupid brain abandoned him.

He cleared his throat to save him some grace.

“You look pretty.”

Your smile widened.

“Just pretty?”

His face warmed instantly.

Oh you little devil. Your partner was having a brain malfunction yet here you are enjoying every bit of it.

“No, that's not—I mean…” He stopped himself, shutting his eyes for half a second, laughing at himself. Once he pulled himself together he looked at you once again. “You look absolutely stunning.”

This time it seemed you were the one being flustered.

“Thank you, you look quite dashing yourself.”

Leon laughed again, softer this time.

“I just wasn't prepared for what you could actually do to me.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to talk.”

A few quiet chuckles rippled through the front rows.

Leon didn't even notice.

His whole world had narrowed to the person standing inches away.

“I'm delighted I could stunt The Leon Kennedy.”

Leon shook his head, amused by your statement.

“Not everyday someone can do so.” He held out his hand. “Ready to marry me, partner?”

You threaded your fingers around his. 

“I walked the aisle, would be pretty awkward if I’m not.”

Leon scoffed, “It's a bit unfair. Here I am on the verge of crying, and here you are, swagger and all.”

“Verge? Honey, I already see a tear track.”

“Damn.” He sniffled, laughing at himself. “I know.”

The officiant smiled knowingly, clearly willing to give them another minute. There'd been one too many times he’d witnessed couples clearly despise each other during their ceremony. Witnessing the exchange in front o him was a breath of fresh air.

Not in the ordinary way people noticed things—he didn't just realize when someone was sad or tired or hungry. Qifrey observed people the same way a scholar studied ancient magic circles, piecing together tiny details into complete pictures. So it became painfully obvious, painfully early, that he noticed you. He noticed the way you drifted half a step away whenever someone brushed your shoulder in crowded markets. He noticed your hands curling tightly into your sleeves whenever Agott linked arms with Coco and tried to drag everyone around. He noticed how your eyes darted, just for a fraction of a second, whenever someone reached toward you unexpectedly. And because Qifrey was Qifrey, he never pointed it out. He simply adjusted himself around you as naturally as water flowing around stone.

The two of you had not intended to become anything. At least, you certainly hadn't. Qifrey had a habit of collecting people; students, strays, broken things, lonely things—and somehow you had found yourself orbiting his workshop more and more often. You'd help sort books or organize spell diagrams while he worked. Sometimes he’d speak with ridiculous theatrical flair, draping himself dramatically over chairs and complaining about paperwork as if it were a mortal curse. Other times he would go quiet, sunlight catching in his pale hair while he focused on drawing circles with such intense concentration that he looked like a different person entirely. You grew addicted to those shifts. To the softness beneath his charm. To the strange warmth of being understood without needing to explain yourself. Which was dangerous, because Qifrey looked at people like he could see every hidden fracture in them—and somehow made you feel less afraid of being cracked.

You realized you were in trouble one evening when the children had gone to sleep and rain tapped gently against the workshop windows. You sat on the floor surrounded by books while Qifrey sat beside you, reading something absurdly ancient and complicated. There had been no conversation for almost twenty minutes. No pressure to speak. No expectation. Just quiet. Then you glanced up and found him already looking at you over the edge of his book. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just staring with a softness so startling it felt like your heart tripped over itself. “You know,” he said lightly, “I think you're becoming difficult.” You blinked. “Difficult?” “Mm.” He tilted his head. “I find myself wondering where you are when you're gone.” Silence. Then: “It's very inconvenient.”

When your relationship actually started, it wasn't romantic in the way stories described. There was no sweeping confession beneath stars. No dramatic kiss. Qifrey simply sat beside you outside one morning while you watched clouds drift overhead and asked, “Would you hate it if I stayed beside you like this for a very long time?” You stared at him because what kind of question was that? And when you looked over, expecting his usual playful expression, he looked almost nervous. Qifrey. Nervous. You remembered thinking the world had briefly tilted sideways. “...No,” you answered quietly. “I don't think I'd hate that.” And his smile afterward was so bright and genuine it felt unfair.

The issue appeared almost immediately after that. Not because Qifrey crossed boundaries, he didn't, but because relationships seemed to come with invisible expectations attached. Hands finding hands. Casual touches. Leaning against shoulders. You tried not to think about it at first. Tried to ignore the twisting feeling in your chest whenever you imagined disappointing him. But Qifrey noticed. Of course he noticed. One afternoon he reached absentmindedly toward your arm while laughing at something Coco said, and you flinched so hard it looked as though you'd narrowly avoided being struck. The movement froze both of you. The room suddenly felt terribly quiet. Qifrey slowly lowered his hand. Not hurt. Not angry. Just watching you carefully.

Later, after everyone had gone inside, he found you sitting outside near the garden fence. You expected questions. Maybe concern. Instead, Qifrey sat down several feet away—not beside you, not close enough to crowd you. Just near enough. “Can I ask something?” he said softly. You nodded. He looked toward the sky rather than at you. “When people touch you...” A pause. “Does it frighten you?” The question sat there between you. Not why are you like this? Not what happened? Just that. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Sometimes.” You hated how small your voice sounded. “Sometimes I know it's irrational and I still can't stop it.” Silence followed. Long enough that panic started creeping in. Then Qifrey said, very simply, “Okay.” Just okay. Like he was accepting the weather. Like he wasn't asking you to justify it.

For a while afterward, things became strangely careful. Not awkward exactly—Qifrey was too skilled with people for awkwardness; but careful. He would announce himself before stepping close behind you. Ask, “Can I sit here?” even when there was plenty of room. Sometimes he held out his hand jokingly and said, “Permission request pending,” with ridiculous solemnity. It made you laugh despite yourself. He never acted frustrated. Never acted deprived. But occasionally you'd catch tiny moments: Qifrey reaching toward you absentmindedly before stopping himself. Seeing something flicker across his face before he hid it behind a smile. And guilt began creeping under your skin because you knew Qifrey was affectionate by nature. He touched shoulders, ruffled hair, draped himself over friends without thought. Around you, he folded himself smaller.

Eventually the conflict exploded in the dumbest way possible—which somehow made it hurt worse. It happened after a long, exhausting day while helping the children practice magic. Everyone had been frustrated and tired. Coco had nearly set something on fire. Agott was arguing. Tetia was laughing. Chaos. Pure chaos. By evening your nerves already felt stretched thin. Qifrey approached from behind while speaking, probably intending only to lean over your shoulder and point at something—and instinct struck before thought did. You jerked away sharply and snapped, “Can you not?” The words came out harder than intended. Sharper. Qifrey froze. Completely froze. And for the first time since you'd known him, his smile disappeared all at once.

“Right,” he said quietly. Too quietly. “Sorry.” That was it. No teasing. No recovery. He walked away before you could answer. The silence afterward felt unbearable. You found him later near the edge of the grounds beneath the trees, staring out into darkness. “I didn't mean—” you started. “I know.” His voice was gentle, but somehow that hurt more. “I know you didn't.” He finally looked at you and smiled, except it looked tired around the edges. “But I think...” He hesitated. “I think I've become so focused on not frightening you that I've started feeling afraid too.” Your chest tightened painfully. “Afraid?” “Of guessing wrong.” A laugh escaped him, small and humorless. “Of making you uncomfortable. Of becoming something you have to endure.”

You stared at him because suddenly you understood. This wasn't only your fear anymore. Somewhere along the way, Qifrey had started walking on invisible glass around you too. Slowly, carefully, terrified of breaking something. And the realization made your eyes sting. “I don't endure you,” you said immediately. “Qifrey, I don't.” He looked startled. So you kept talking before courage disappeared. “I'm scared all the time, okay? Sometimes for no reason. Sometimes even when I don't want to be. And I hate it because...” Your voice cracked slightly. “Because I want things with you. I want to be close to you. I just don't know how.” Silence followed. Wind moved softly through the trees. Then Qifrey's expression softened in a way that nearly undid you.

Very slowly, very carefully, he lowered himself to sit beside you—not touching, just close. “Then,” he said quietly, “we'll learn.” You looked at him. “Learn?” He smiled, small and warm and utterly himself again. “You're not a puzzle to solve.” A pause. “And I'm not going anywhere.” Then he held out his hand between you, palm upward, leaving a ridiculous amount of space for retreat. “No pressure.” You stared at it for several seconds. Then several more. And finally—heart pounding—you moved your hand forward and placed your fingertips lightly against his. Barely touching. Hardly anything at all. Qifrey looked down at your hands and went completely still. Not because it was dramatic. Not because it was some grand romantic moment. But because somehow, instinctively, he understood exactly what it meant: not here, fixed, cured. Just here. Trying. And for Qifrey, that had always been enough.

Just as he swings his palm toward your butt, you bend down to get in the cabinet below and his hand instead meets the back of your head. All you say is a half-laughed ow, without any heat behind it. And yet, panic shoots through him and he's down next to you in a moment, cradling your head to his chest and kissing your hair through apologies. You're giggling as you hold onto his biceps caging you. It's only got a minor soreness that'll be gone in a few minutes, but Leon's acting like he's just committed a crime.

"I'm sorry, baby, I didn't think you'd move," he mumbles into your hair. Your legs have started to burn from the squatting position, so you lean into him as you kneel instead, and one of his hands comes around you in a tight hug to hold you to him. "Fuck, are you okay? I'm so sorry."

"I'm fine, Leon," you snicker. "It's more funny than anything."

"What the hell were you even going to do?"

"I was grabbing a pan for some pancakes," you pout, just to mess with him. His eyes are still a little wide, eyebrows drawn upwards in that worry you've only seen before when you get injured enough to bleed. It ignites another fit of giggles from you. "You look like a concerned labrador."

"I am," he can't fight the contagion anymore, and a chuckle escapes his chest too. "I was just trying to get you back for earlier."

"I'll give you a freebie now, if it makes you feel better." You draw his hand from your waist to the curve of your butt, sitting up on your knees so he can fully get a hold on it. Your arms wrap around his shoulders. His hand trails back up to your waist and he hugs you tenderly, burying his face in your neck. You're torn between laughing and crying at his behavior. It makes your heart ache. "I'm okay, honey. It was an accident."

"I know. I still feel bad." He mumbles. You hold him tighter, as if you could pour your affection into him by force.

"You're acting like you're the one who got hit," you pull him to stand with you again and lift his head from its hiding spot. Big, bad Leon Kennedy suddenly looks like a guilty puppy. "C'mon, you can make me those pancakes as penance." A sweet kiss to his frown makes it reappear as a half-smile, and you brush his hair from his eyes. He shakes his head in disbelief at the ridiculous circumstance.

"I'll get the pan this time."

You start mixing together the batter, but once the pan is on the burner, Leon takes the bowl and whisk from you to lift you on the counter. Just to be safe.

His cock throbs when you squeeze around him from the pleasure, and his palm slides up your spine, into the roots of your hair. He pulls, perfectly forceful, just like the million other times he’s done since he learned you like it. Your body curves backwards toward him like a magnet, and he’s yanking you onto your knees as he grunts loudly. 

“Your pussy is so fucking perfect,” he growls. “Taking it so good for me.”

It’s all yours. That’s what you want to say. No one else’s. I belong to you. It’s a bit too much for dirty talk; especially when it rings true outside of when you’re rolling your hips against his. It’s certainly far more intimate than whatever this is supposed to be between the two of you. Instead, the crest of your orgasm washes over any of that.

“Shit, Leon, I’m—”

“Yeah? Give it to me, c’mon,” he rubs mean circles into your clit, holding you in place as you tremble in his arms. Your ass smacks against the front of his thighs as he yanks you flush against him, and all you can do is reach backwards to hang onto him as your climax hits you in a wave. “That’s it, honey. So good.”

A kiss meets the ball of your shoulder before he’s shoving you back down in doggy, slamming into you and digging his fingers into your ass. A short smack makes you whine and push back towards him, and it seems to push him over the edge with a deep curse.

“Oh, fuck yes, ‘m cumming, baby,” his voice goes high-pitched, just the way it always does right before he cums. You’re chanting please please cum please until he’s shooting hot ropes into you, slamming once, twice, and a third final time against your hips. The pressure in his hands goes soft as they run from your hips over your tummy, a loose hug only radiating more warmth through you. This is almost better than the sex, sometimes. Because you can pretend he holds you like you’re his. Even for a few fast-dissolving moments.

Leon pulls away from you slowly, a small huff hitting your shoulder from the feeling. His hands slip away along with the rest of him. They leave you vulnerable to the cold air of the room, only left to fall unceremoniously into the once pristine, white bedding.

You shift your head slightly to enjoy at least part of the aftermath, the vision of his naked body, before you’re yanked back into reality. Leon’s deliciously firm ass disappears into navy briefs, and he rolls his shoulders as he calls out to you.

“You wanna shower first?”

“Mmh, go ahead. I need a minute.” The words butt up against the fabric of the sheets as they fall from your mouth half-heartedly. A minute to pull yourself together, a minute to remind yourself that the rush of feelings in the post sex clarity cannot happen.

Leon doesn’t toss you your clothes; he folds them, quick and untidy but still folded, and places them next to you. Squeezes the meat of your thigh with a half-smile that stirs up the same butterflies you’d just tried to rip the wings out of.

“You okay?”

“Great,” your reassurance doesn’t move him at all, and his hand lingering so gingerly on your leg doesn’t help the stir in your stomach. “Just sore.”

“Sorry.” The grin on his face doesn’t read as sorry.

“Don’t worry about it. I asked for it,” you smirk and push his hand from you. It’s meant to be playful, to encourage him to leave. His hand dangles lifelessly at his side as he studies you for a moment longer, hesitating. “Just go, Leon.”

“Let me clean you up first, at least.” He mumbles and disappears to retrieve a damp hand towel. He wipes at the mess between your legs so gently it aches a little, and the little bump he gives your chin with his bent forefinger after sends your heart into a tailspin.

It was never supposed to be like this. 

No strings, no emotions, just blowing off steam. You two already know each other so well, how could taking off a layer of clothes change that much?

Naivete is a bitch.

The fancy waterfall shower head schhhks on behind the closed bathroom door, and you roll onto your back with tears in your throat. Perhaps in another life, in another field of work, you’d be in there with Leon. Lovingly washing his hair, him returning the favor, until you get too handsy and bang out another round with you shoved against the wall. The latter part you’d had before. The only good shower sex you’d ever had, actually. Leon’s strong; he can actually hold you against the wall without worrying about you sliding down. You’d been completely in his grasp, exposed and susceptible to his gentle hands. Which, honestly, isn’t that distant from the rest of your relationship to him. You feel sort of pathetic sometimes. Leon’s kind; he’d never take advantage of you, checks in often, notices when you eat a bite less than usual over lunch. And that digs the knife in deeper. Twisting and pulsing and festering a wound that you’ve tried to sew up so many times, only for him to rip it back open with his soft blue eyes. It's almost worse than the real knife that'd been in your side.

Stop thinking about him.

You yank your underwear back over your hips, gusset still half-ruined from the foreplay you’d had before the spectacular end, and cross the room to dig through your suitcase for something presentable. At least enough for a hotel bar. You fix your hair and check for any mascara smudges before you slip out of the door. The only thing going with you is your wallet and a wave of shame.

The lobby only has a few stragglers. Guests checking in after a late arrival, others shuffling through with bags of fast food before disappearing to the elevator. You push through the doors leading to the bar, which is quite lively being a Friday night. You’d been here the night before, you and Leon playing espionage to prune some straggling Neo-Umbrella weeds. It’d been easy, almost too easy, and after writing up reports today, you’d fallen into the hotel bed with him for a celebratory fuck. And now, you’re here. To drink the incoming tide of feelings away.

The bartop is a little sticky. It makes you grimace when you use it as leverage to settle onto a stool and wait for the bartender to sweep down to where you are.

“Some poor bastard spilled his fresh beer earlier,” a voice rumbles next to you. He’s a handsome guy. Dark curly hair, well-trimmed beard. A nice dress shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows. “Woulda warned you ahead of time, but you sat down too quickly.”

“Need to work on your reflexes,” you smile. Maybe you didn’t have to wallow so alone tonight. “I think I can forgive you, though.”

“What do you drink? Maybe I can make it up to you.”

His name is Adam. The first man himself, you’d joked. He’d laughed and leaned a little closer. He’s charming, you can’t deny. You try your best to turn off your brain, to take in his handsome face, his cute laugh, the way he openly flirts with you. In a way, it’s refreshing to have someone want you so brazenly. Asking you questions, about work and your hobbies and everything that normal people on a date would ask each other about. You learn he works as an architect, that he’s here on a business trip as well, and that he thinks you’re pretty. You actually blush a little. It’s been a long fucking time since someone called you pretty with all of your clothes on.

Usually it’s Leon’s gruff voice in your ear saying so good for me, you’re so sexy, goddamn.

Both are good. One is softer, more romantic. The other sweaty and carnal. And somehow, it doesn’t quite matter because you long for the first from the man that isn’t the stranger next to you. 

Right in the middle of your story about an office mishap, the most normal vignette of your job you can manage, your phone buzzes. 

LEON

Where’d you go? Want to go grab something to eat? 

My treat. An apology for your sore legs the next few days.

You bite your lip to hide a smile, and eventually decide not to respond, turning your attention back to Adam with an apology. If you want to get over the blonde currently in your hotel room, you’ll have to start somewhere.

“Need to take that?” Oh god, he’s even polite. On paper, he’s everything on a checklist.

“Oh, no. Just my… coworker.” Coworker. Sure. Leon could be considered that.

“Ah, was dreading it being your boyfriend.” Well, that’s not quite right either, is it?

“No, I-uh— don’t know the last time I had one of those.” It’s a sad excuse for a joke. A bit too much information, but the alcohol’s making your thoughts a bit slippery.

“Don’t tell me it’s a husband,” he smirks. “I prefer my dates unmarried.”

It’s almost a Leon joke. It makes your heart ache.

But, decidedly, Adam’s still not him.

“Ha, but no. I am utterly alone, believe me.”

“Oh, come on, I’m sitting right here, aren’t I?” He nudges you with his elbow. It’s extremely cute. And yet, your butterflies seem to have crawled back into their cocoons. The only thing swirling your stomach is the alcohol. You’ve never handled liquor well, especially when you’re already lovesick.

“Yeah. I appreciate the good company.” You rub your clammy hands over the thighs of your jeans. You should stay. Get to know him more. Maybe see his hotel room if you weren’t so tired from your other escapade just a few hours before.

And like the devil himself, a familiar slope of broad shoulders crosses your peripheral in the hallway. You’re unsure how long he’s been standing there, considering you’ve actually been paying attention to the man next to you. Enjoying his conversation. You look back to Adam and utter another question towards him haphazardly. To focus on anything but Leon.

Stop thinking about him.

It’s hard to listen to yourself when the subject of your infighting sits directly over the shoulder of who you’re trying to focus your energy on. A fully sober man, ordering a plain coke with nothing to do except look over some work documents on his phone, or at least pretend to, while his eyes are cutting towards you every five seconds.

It’s infuriating. And simultaneously, upsettingly, making you have hope. Because you’re not sure what to call his intense stare and clenched jaw besides jealousy.

LEON

I would’ve joined you if you’d have asked me.

He has no right to be so petulant about this all, and yet it makes you feel a little bit of regret. For disappearing on him, when normally he’d be grateful to keep you company while you get drunk off of your ass. You almost forget that you’d come down here to forget about him.

Adam asks how long you’ll be here. Your brain is now only half-focused, you don’t even know if you give a proper answer. He exchanges the information for his own, and you take the lead to ask him about any plans he has while in town. He begins speaking about some conference he’s attending, and tourist traps he’s looking to visit. 

LEON

Lucky guy.

Your eyes drift over his shoulder again to Leon, who’s already staring at you over the lip of his glass. You do your best to look angry, annoyed maybe. It must come across as something more confused, because Leon raises an eyebrow. His tongue darts out to lick a stray drop of condensation away and you want to slap yourself.

To your horror, Adam’s eyes follow yours, and he glances over his shoulder. You’re caught red-handed, and the blood’s gushing faster than ever.

“Friend of yours?”

“Coworker.”

“Mm,” he muses. “I get a feeling it’s a little more complicated than that after all this. And judging by the way he looks like he wants to kill me.”

“It’s really nothing. Told you, I’m single.” It’s a little pathetic, really. The excuses are more for yourself than him. He laughs a little.

“Has anyone told you you’re a terrible liar?” He chugs the rest of his drink and digs in his pocket for his wallet. “You may be single, but I think you’re already quite committed to someone,” he waves the bartender over. Before you can protest, he hands over a card for both your tab and his. It rubs salt in the wound. “I’m gonna call it a night. I appreciate the company. I hope your time with him goes better than ours.”

You stay for a few minutes after he leaves, fixed on a deep scratch in the wood of the bar. Anything to avoid the pair of eyes burning into you from across the room. Now that he’s the only one in the room, suddenly you’d rather do anything except acknowledge his presence. He’s turned you into a walking contradiction.

Your phone dings again, but this time you shove it in your pocket and throw a hefty tip on the counter. Wobbly legs, though you’re barely tipsy, slowly drag you out of the bar and into the cooler air of the emptied lobby. It seems far bigger than it was before as you trudge down the hallway. It takes you far longer than it should, a mix of misery and dread stalling your footsteps. 

The elevator is comically slow, and you hear your name in a gruff voice echo down towards you as you’re leant against the wall. It’s probably the first time you’ve heard it in the halls of somewhere not half-falling apart and crawling with zombies. Instead, it’s truly empty. Soft yellow sconces lighting the walls and an ugly, abstract painting affronts your eyes as you wait. Heavy work boots get closer.

You slam the button again as if it’d come faster. 

“Do you have to follow me around like a lost puppy?” You explode immediately at the sight of Leon, who stops a little farther away than usual. 

“I wanted a drink.”

“There’s a vending machine on every floor.” You huff and hit the elevator button again.

“It’s more of the ritual that I was craving than the soda,” he shrugs, steps a little closer. You press towards the doors, eager to get away from him because you’re afraid of what you might do if he places a single finger on you. “Date went poorly?”

“What do you think?” The elevator finally dings as you shoot him a glare. “Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

Leon just watches as you step on and hit a few more buttons more aggressively than you need to. The doors shut and leave you alone with your misery yet again. For you to drag your sorry ass to the stupid-ass honeymoon suite the DSO had “mistakenly” booked instead of a room with two beds, at the least. But you know Hunnigan, you know she doesn’t let mistakes slide that easily. And you also know that you’d drank a little too much wine with her one night, and let some secrets slip. Ones she’d love to meddle in.

So, of course, now you’d been placed in a room covered in roses, with complimentary wine. Pink mints on the pillows and everything. An all-too excited concierge who’d complimented the two of you on being such a handsome couple only completes the humiliation. Like the universe was laughing in your face for your own questionable decisions. 

You’d have laughed at the ridiculous heart-shaped jacuzzi on the massive balcony if it weren’t for the pit in your stomach.

The bed shakes under you as you flop down on it in frustration. You shove your face in the pillow and use the plush fabric to let out a frustrated scream. It only helps a little. Instead, what your body seems to want is a good cry to cope; just a hunch judging by the way tears begin to spill over suddenly.

You’re so tired.

Not in a way for sleep; not to relax. Just to stop thinking about your goddamn work partner for one second. To actually enjoy the company of someone who wants you for that in-between of a fuck and a friend. A true partner. Not just to be able to trust to cover you while you reload; to be able to trust to care for you, to hug you and hold you when you need it. To do dumb, mundane shit like hold your hand while grocery shopping and go to dinner just because. To come home to after a long fucking day.

You’ve imagined all of those things, trying your hardest for it to be a mystery, for the potential suitor to not have a face. But every time their eyes turn into a steely blue, dark blonde hair slips over their eyes when they look down to laugh, and a deep voice rasps some dumb joke that you’d heard a thousand times but still makes you smile. And he kisses you like he means it, with clothes on and a chastity that you have yet to experience from Leon, but still crave like the next fix of a drug.

It’s probably a half hour later, while you’re still in the middle of crying in the bed, when the door unlocks and pushes open. Thankfully, you face the massive window looking into the balcony, so your tears are only known by you. It might almost look like you’re sleeping. But Leon’s ever the observer, the investigator, so he knows you’re awake. Still lying in the clothes you’d worn to the bar, with the faint smell of Adam’s cologne lingering on your sleeve from his flirting.

The tension pulls at the air in the room despite neither of you saying anything. You can feel his eyes on you for a long time, like he’s deciding whether or not to approach you. His footsteps are soft on the carpet as they reach the side of the bed in front of you. 

“Don’t.” The word is all you manage to get out, to attempt to get him to leave you alone. 

“Can I—”

“You’ve done enough to me, Leon.” You avoid his eyes as you sit up. The jacuzzi catches your eye as a fantastic excuse to put as much distance between you and the source of all your woes as possible. The fact that you don’t have any swimwear with you is the least of your issues right now.

The sliding door slams shut before he can say anything else.

He watches you, traipsing to the railing, leaning over it with your head down. Your entire form is slouched, not in relaxation, but disappointment. He sees you wipe your cheek, a glance of your reddened eyes when you disappear around the corner towards the hot tub.

For some reason, he’s sad you’re out of his reach again. Sad, frustrated, a little pissed off. Because of you, not at you. Because of the way you’d hung over the arm of the guy at the bar. The flash of your smile and a giggle that is usually reserved for him. The stab of jealousy he feels is overwhelming. Jealousy he’s not allowed to have, but persists anyway. 

Another set of feelings to add to the cesspool in his heart.

It takes ten minutes for him to move from the spot he’s glued to. He almost turns back, considers going to sleep. Or pretend to, at least.

His voice is louder than he means it to be when he rounds the corner on you: eyes closed with the jets on high. Your head is leant back to expose the length of your neck, oh, your neck, which still has a hickey displayed at the base of it, courtesy of him a mere couple of hours ago. Another pang of possessiveness he shouldn’t have hits him in the face. Your collarbones glisten from the water, spreading over your chest and shoulders like the leading edges of angel wings. He almost forgets what he was even going to say to you.

“Can I help you?” Your dry greeting is followed by a sniff, and a duck of your head as you wipe your face. He places his hands on the edge of the tub and sighs.

“Were you going to sleep with him?”

“Jesus, Leon,” you avoid his gaze. The city lights glow across the horizon, the moon peeking out from beyond the cluster of skyscrapers. “Why do you care?”

“Because—” He huffs and spins away. His shoulders slouch as he buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t finish the sentence. It’s not like he had a good excuse for the fire running through his veins anyway.

“You don’t have a claim to me. Don’t act like this is more than what we said it would be.” The words are harsh when they leave your lips, sure, but there’s a shakiness in the undercurrent. Leon feels a rush of anger; not at you, at himself. For kidding himself that this could ever stay as anything close to a friendly agreement.

“I’m not acting anymore,” he mumbles. His fist clenches further. “Fuck, I just—” Leon spins around to face you, and immediately regrets it. Any sort of coolness, any sort of willpower he had to stay away from you crumbles just a bit.

You’re naked.

He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice; you don’t make a habit of packing bikinis on work trips. He swears the way you lean up just a bit further, the way your breasts slowly encroach over the surface of the water, is on purpose.

“I wasn’t planning on it, no, if that makes you feel better,” there’s something sad behind your words. Your voice is a bit quieter. Almost solemn. “You wanna feel special, Leon? You’re the only coworker I’m fucking, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Coworker,” he snorts. “That’s a word for it.”

“What else would you use? Fuckbuddy? A body for you to blow off some steam with and discard?”

“I do not discard you—”

“May as well. What else would you call leaving in the middle of the night without saying anything? Begging to cum in me and then sitting across the room like a stranger? Like I haven’t taken a knife for you, and then some.” You inhale with all the stability of a scared puppy. Maybe you’re being an asshole, but the yearning-fueled anger is all consuming. Bursting your heart with bleeding scabs.

“That’s not fair, sweetheart—”

“I’m not your fucking sweetheart,” the tears roll fast down your cheeks, a shift in your mood so fast it has your head pounding. You’ve always been a frustrated crier. “This, whatever this is, has to end, Leon. You either want me, all of me, or you don’t. I can’t do this shit anymore, I can’t pretend that— goddammit,” you choke on a sob and stand from the water. Your fists clench at your sides, your thumb brushing your hips. The dulled nerve on your side is a cruel, sudden reminder. A reminder of the star-shaped scar that swallows half of your right hip, which is exposed in all its glory. Leon’s gaze drags over your nude form like metal on hot pavement. You can practically feel the sparks grazing your body when he locks onto the scarred skin.

You open your fist. Dig your index finger into it with pained eyes like it’s an open wound. 

“Do you know that every time I look at this, I thank the universe for it? I thank god that I took it, and not you, because you’ve taken enough. For this godforsaken country. Hell, for me, too. I put you first when you won’t do that for yourself.” Your gaze holds his with a fierceness that would have anyone else shrinking away. But Leon, Leon cradles it in his steel blue irises. Like you deserve gentleness right now, like the fire inside him has turned to a hearth instead of an open flame.

It’s suddenly very quiet. The water swishes around you, the streets bustle below, but neither you or Leon make a noise. A heavy moment passes, then shifts when he steps toward you. You’re shaking in the coldness of the breeze, your skin pimpled with the chill. His palm finds your forearm first. It slides down until he reaches your hand and squeezes it. Your bottom lip trembles when his other hand settles at your right hip. His fingertips trail upwards to touch the scar you’d so violently pointed at. He presses his palm over it, nearly hiding it all from view as the gentle pressure settles there. 

You can’t think of anything to say except the one thought you’ve kept locked up in your mind every time he’s made it underneath your sheets, on top of and beneath you. It’s a whisper, an almost shameful beg.

“I just want you to fucking hold me.” 

The last word barely comes out of your mouth before he’s rushing towards you. What you imagine is half the water in the tub spills onto the deck when he steps in with you, still clad in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. He backs you toward the wall with a desperation you haven’t felt with him before. He usually doesn’t kiss like this. Desperate, like he’s trying to tie your tongue with his and keep it forever. His hands grasp at your waist as he ruts against you with a moan.

“You couldn’t have said something sooner and saved me the pain?” He hooks his arm beneath your legs and lifts you on the edge of the jacuzzi. Your nipples harden at the exposure to the breeze, but the bottom half of you doesn’t have time to register the cold. He runs his palm up and down over your heat, spreading your already overwhelming arousal over your vulva. It has you keening into him, all senses of frustration melting away as he presses a finger into you. You moan into his shoulder as you fall forward against him. He pulls a calf over his hip to open you more to his ministrations, and the exposure to the outside air sends a wave of arousal through you. The next kiss is messy, all spit and lip bites. His free arm winds around your lower back to press you to him. He tugs off his drenched shirt and tosses it over the edge of the hot tub. The jets bubble over your ankles in a pleasant vibration. He presses his forehead to yours. Fingertips trace down your shoulder, over your breast, squeezing you on the curve of your waist. He caresses your cheek with the other hand. “You drive me so fucking crazy. Hanging all over another guy, right in front of me,” he growls. “Right after I fucked you until you gushed all over my fucking cock. ‘S cruel.”

“Leon…”

He murmurs your name back to you as he descends the curves of your body, sinking further into the water like a shark hunting for its prey. He kisses across your belly, left hip, navel, then takes his time with the puckered skin spread across your right hip. His lips are tender as they caress the scarring there, and it brings tears to your eyes again. You scramble to find his hand, to thread your fingers through his and squeeze.

“I don’t look at this lightly, whenever I see it,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against your sternum. “I never have. In case I haven’t made that clear. I’d do the same for you, and then some. Hell, I’d die for you. If that wasn’t obvious.”

Drops trickle from the ends of his hair as you push it away from his face. A few sprinkle down his cheeks, forming faux tear tracks as they race downwards. Something flickers beneath his steely gaze. An agreement, of sorts. An exchange of understanding. That both of you would shift the earth off its axis to return to one another.

Leon settles between your legs, leaving more soft kisses from your knee to your inner thigh. On your mons, in the crease where your hip meets your leg. You hold back an abrupt moan when he finally licks over your core once, then again, like a dog parched for water. Your hands thread through his blonde strands when he goes for your clit, not delicate or softly. Hard suction. Looking up at you as you whine and close your legs around his head. 

“Fuck, I’ve always hated how good you are at this.” You sigh and buck upwards when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. Vibrations of laughter buzz against your core, making you squirm more underneath his mouth.

“Doesn’t sound like you hate it that much,” he pulls away, breathless, face shining with your wetness already. “But I can stop if you’re really having that bad of a time.”

You shove him back into your pussy. Maybe a little harder than usual, maybe with a tug of his hair that was unnecessary. But the way he moans at the pull is worth it. The way he guides your hips to ride his nose as it nuzzles your clit is a welcome reward. He eats you like he needs you to cum, like he has something to prove.

And maybe he does.

Fingers creep between your legs and the side of his face to pull you open again. One, then two digits slide into you deliciously slowly, and begin to pump at a steady pace. His tongue alternates between the softest kitten licks and suctioning your swollen clit. You’re rocketing towards an explosion far too fast, spurred on by his confession.

“Leon, fuuuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper. “Feels so fucking good, baby.” Your eyelids have slipped shut, head tilted towards the ceiling. A sharp sting meets the fat of your inner thigh and you gasp.

“Look at me,” Leon says. Gruff, and stern. You obey, to your undoing. “That’s it, sweet girl. So good for me.” His blues hold you steady as you fall apart on his fingers, and he doesn’t break eye contact as he returns to laving at your pussy, drinking up every bit of your arousal. A reward for his hunger.

The comedown is dizzying. It radiates like a fuzzy heat through you, merging with the arms holding you tight, warmer and safer than the water bubbling around you ever was. Leon sucks your wetness from his fingers and begins to discard the rest of his now utterly soaked clothes. His sweatpants fall over the side of the tub, his underwear half-floating in the water across the way. Then his lips are on you again, trailing up your tummy to seal over your nipple. He kneads the fat of your hip as he licks over where he’s just teethed, then moves to your other breast for its turn. 

“God, you’re so fucking squeezable,” he groans. “I was always afraid it’d cross a line, holding you like this. Getting too close,” he muses between kisses to your collarbone, the dip in your neck. “But it’s all I wanted. To touch you. All the time. ‘S a form of torture, how soft you are.” All you can do is whimper and shudder underneath his lips.

“Oh, god, please fuck me, Leon.” 

“I don’t want to fuck you anymore,” his breath is humid against your mouth. “I want to make love to you.” You have to stifle a laugh.

“Corny fucking line.”

“I think you like it,” he mutters before he’s gnawing at your lower lip. You moan into his mouth at the contact. “But if you’d prefer to be fucked, I think I can manage that.” 

You can’t hold back a moan when he runs his already drooling cock over your slit. In lieu of an answer, you reach down to twist a fist over his length, spreading your wetness all over. Claiming him. Leon shudders at the pleasure, curses when you run your thumb over the vein that graces the underside of his cock. He bites at your jaw when you scoot closer to notch him at your entrance again. It’s Leon’s turn to beg.

“Please, baby. Need you,” he kisses the corner of your mouth and whines when he finally enters you. The stretch is somehow even more delicious now, with him hugging you close, and his emotions now loud and clear as he watches your face contort open with pleasure. “You feel so good.” He stills, once fully sheathed, rubs a thumb over your cheek. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he cants forward. It makes both of you groan. “So beautiful. Too beautiful to be pickin’ up guys in a hotel bar.”

“Fuck you.” It’s a poor attempt at an insult when you’re sighing around the words, wracked in too much pleasure from his hard thrusts.

“No, ‘m gonna fuck you, pretty,” he sighs. “Fuck you ‘til you realize you’re mine.”

The final word has you shuddering, your heart kicking your ribs like a petulant baby. It shatters your bones, your soul, your heart. You feel like his hands are the only thing keeping you together.

Your breath catches in your chest when he begins to thumb over your clit, always the exact place and pressure you need. You writhe underneath his hold, your body somehow both succumbing and fighting the overwhelming feeling of your fast approaching orgasm. Leon’s arm curls around your lower back fully to hold you in place, his breath hot to your cheek now as he watches you come undone.

“You gonna cum again, already, baby?”

“Uh-huh,” you babble. “Feels s’fucking good, ohhhmygod.”

“Give it to me,” he pulls your leg over his shoulder as you slip further down the wall. The water sloshes around where the two of you meet as you find yourself full of jello. His fingers run up your leg and he kisses your ankle, so sweet you wouldn’t think his cock was slamming balls-deep in you. Your name falls from his mouth in a groan when you begin to tighten around him. Fingers fumble for your clit to keep you going higher and higher. “God, you’re fucking perfect. I love you. I love you.”

“Fuck, Leon— Leon, I love you so fucking much,” you cry and finally open your eyes to find him already looking down at you. His cock twitches inside you at your words, your confession finally making it out of the ditch you’d buried it in long ago. Your ankle stays on his shoulder as his hands slide down to the curve of your ass, pulling you fully in his grasp as he fucks up into you so fast you can hardly breathe. A high moan rips from his throat as his orgasm hits him suddenly, like a freight train that barrels directly into your g-spot and has you following.

You’re grateful this balcony is fairly private, because your scream would certainly draw any wandering eyes otherwise.

The post-orgasm feeling is familiar, one you’ve been engulfed in a hundred times over. But the way he hugs you tight to his body, like you’re going to slip away if he moves wrong; that’s new. New and straight out of all the pathetic, yearning thoughts that have plagued you since you started your failed agreement with your partner.

Leon stays seated deep in you as he catches his breath. Hot puffs warm the crook of your neck, and you slide your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, damp with both sweat and warm water. 

“Mmm, don’t do that,” he sighs. “‘M gonna fall asleep on you.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“I’d prefer not to drown after doing so, but maybe I’m asking too much,” he grunts and hauls you into his arms as he carefully steps out of the jacuzzi, still inside you. His clothes are abandoned, still floating in the bubbled water. Something to deal with when he’s not floating on your love. His hands are full of you, too busy once he reaches the sliding door. “Help me out here?”

“So needy.” The joke is half-hearted, small and tired into his chest. He chuckles anyway and thanks you softly when you slide the door open and closed for him. You don’t let go of him until he’s deposited you on the bathroom counter. You hiss when he slides out of you, the evidence of your joined hips dribbling down your thigh. He begins to towel the remnants of warm water off of you, from your head to your toes. He then meets the mess of your confessions between your legs with slow, gentle wipes. He’s quiet, but there’s something deep ruminating beneath the touches. He goes to get another towel to do the same for himself, but you take it from his hands before he can even begin.

“Let me.” You whisper and pull him closer, in between your knees. You scrunch his hair into the cotton fabric, run it over every inch of his body until he’s dry. His eyes are glued to you the whole time, his open admiration warming your cheeks. You toss the towel toward the side of the tub and cup his jaw to pull his mouth to yours again. He hums against your lips.

“Now who’s needy, hm?”

In a blur between kisses, the both of you end up beneath the sheets on the bed. Leon pulls you into his hold. You fit against the curve of his chest easily; tucking your leg in between his and wrapping your own arms around his back in turn. The exhale he lets out is long. Like he didn’t know he’d been holding his breath. It’s a hold he’s never had you in before; something close, new, and absolutely perfect. A pit of worry opens in your stomach, threatening to swallow the butterflies still flitting around whole.

Coworker is still not the right title for whatever this is now. Lover isn’t quite enough either, something more intimate now opening between the two of you.

“Leon?”

Leon. Your Leon.

“Yeah?”

“Stay.”

“I meant what I said earlier,” he confirms, kissing the top of your head. “I’ll still be here when you wake up. You can rest, baby.” Baby. You’ve never been baby unless he’s coaxing an orgasm from you.

“I love you.” It’s so quiet you wonder for a moment if you even said it out loud. He tightens his arms around you. It confirms that it’s all real.

“I love you, too.” 

It’s the last thing you hear before your body gives way to sleep, all too comfortable and warm in the place you’ve longed to be for what feels like forever. Leon’s brain is still rushing over the events of the night once he feels your breath slow, and all he can do to calm it is trace along the curve of your spine. His gaze falls from the wall to you, eyes fluttered closed and a relaxed breath puffing against his collarbone. He knows now he was both right and so wrong to never let himself stay afterwards. Never let himself touch you for too long. There’s no way in hell he can let you go now.

True to his word, he’s still curled around you when you stir in the morning.

Your eyes fluttered open in the light, only vaguely aware of the body beside you, his strong, sinewed arms wound firmly around your waist as you steadily came to. Leon's face was still where it had been the night before, tucked into the crook of your neck, soft strands of blond hair brushing against your neck.

For a second, you weren't quite sure if you were dreaming, especially once last night's conversation started drifting back to you in bits and pieces — coming back to his apartment, talking about Spain, Ada, and then...

Spending the weekend with him.

And you, the lovelorn fool you were, had agreed with minimal resistance. With conditions, of course, but it was certainly concerning behaviour for someone who'd been strung along by the same man for six years and counting. The same man, by the way, who'd all but barred the rest of your dating prospects while stubbornly refusing to commit.

You loved him, you knew that much. And despite his infuriatingly altruistic, if misguided reasons for not telling you as much as he should've, you knew you meant something to him, if the look on his face when you brought up ending the relationship was any indication. Whatever relationship you had, anyway.

It hung over you, like the stark clarity that followed the morning after a chaotic night filled with terrible decisions. Leon's breathing remained calm, steady. You were still in his shirt, for crying out loud.

Somehow managing to extract yourself out of his grip, you made for his barely-used kitchen. Coffee might clear your head a bit.

You had a pretty nice brew going at Leon's coffee machine when you felt a pair of arms circle your waist again, the weight of Leon's head flopping gently over your shoulder.

"Awake already, baby? Why didn't you call me?"

You let out a quiet huff. "Since when were you this clingy?"

"Mmphf," was the only reply you got as he mushed his face against the side of your neck. "I've always been clingy. Haven't you noticed?"

"Not really. You're not usually around long enough for me to," you held up an extra mug. "Coffee?"

He took it, all the while grumbling something about it 'not being up to him', taking a few disgruntled sips as you prepared your own mug. The rich aroma of the coffee woke you up, while Leon watched you from across the kitchen counter.

"I thought we were supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend for this?"

You looked up, mildly surprised at the uncharacteristic petulance in his voice as he stared glumly into his coffee. It would be comical, if not for the six years of unresolved emotional baggage he was directly responsible.

"Well," you said, your voice coming out a little tart. "Your girlfriend's still upset with you."

He winced, finally catching on. As it turned out, six years of unresolved emotional baggage couldn't be overwritten in just a single night.

"Yeah. I see that."

You finished your mug, rinsing it in the sink. "I want to go home."

He looked up, and you saw panic, disappointment, and resignation flash across his eyes at once. For the first time this morning, you decided to relent.

"To change, Leon. Unless you want me walking around in your shirt in public."

"Wouldn't be the worst thing on earth," he mumbled, taking another sip of coffee.

Despite yourself, a smile crept onto your face, although you wasted no time hiding it behind your mug. After a quick freshening up and changing back into your clothes from the night before — which thankfully weren't smelling too rank — you allowed Leon to lead you down to his car, opening the door to his passenger seat.

You'd gone over this routine so many times you'd lost count, but then he did something completely unprecedented. He bent down, his lips brushing your forehead and sending your heart rate into the stratosphere. As if he knew, he flashed you one of his rare smiles, bright and radiant as the morning sun, before gently closing the door.

You spent the entirety of the drive back to your place buried in the collar of your coat, steam practically radiating off your skin and not helped by the way Leon kept glancing over at you at traffic stops, the sincerity in his beautiful blue eyes nearly sending you into a coma right there, surrounded by the scent of his leather seats.

"Err..." you started, hazarding a peek over at him. "That brown leather jacket you had — where'd it go?"

A small smirk lifted the corner of his lips. "Lost it in Spain. You miss it?"

"Maybe?"

His smirk grew. "More than you miss me?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to," you grumbled.

The light turned green, and the engine rumbled to life as he switched gears, flicking on the left signal in preparation to turn into your neighbourhood. You were already stewing in mortification. That jacket had always been particular favourite of yours, and you relished whenever Leon let you borrow it, wrapping yourself up in its soft fleece lining and breathing in the years of wear and history.

The fact it was a rather stylish jacket certainly didn't hurt, either.

His expression softened, his hand reaching over to pat your leg. "I can buy another one. Now that... you're my girlfriend, you can borrow it as often as you want."

"It's not the same," you murmured, fingering a loose thread on your coat. "you've worn it before."

"Oh, I see what this is," he chortled, turning into your street and parking before your apartment building.

He followed you upstairs, along a familiar route from the polished marble floors of the lobby towards the elevators. It was one the both of you had, as always, traced countless times, but never during the day.

There were a lot of unprecedented things happening as of late.

Your keys landed in the fruit bowl by your entryway with a melodic clink, your shoes slipping off and placed carefully into their designated cubicle on your shoe rack. Leon shrugged off his jacket, keeping it in the crook of his arm as he followed you inside.

"We should go out today, don't you think?" he asked, almost too casually. "Y'know, like boyfriends and girlfriends do."

You immediately padded towards your bedroom, trying not to give away how easily he had your heart doing backflips in your chest. "Uh, sure. Where... do we go?"

Leon settled on the couch, leather jacket across his lap, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "... Maybe the aquarium?"

You nodded slowly. "Sure."

Before he could formulate a response, your bedroom door shut.

***

Steady. Do not let this man sway you with his stupid handsome face with the floppy boyband hair and pretty blue eyes. Your palms came down over your cheeks, willing yourself to snap out of boyfriendland.

Leon S. Kennedy himself was right outside in your living room, oblivious to the storm currently brewing in your heart. You felt like you were leaving someone's dog unattended on your couch. Any longer, and he might start chewing on the furniture. Maybe.

You started unbuttoning your blouse, unzipping your skirt, discarding them almost mindlessly on the floor as you made your way over to your closet, rifling through the racks of clothing feverishly.

Just what the hell were you even supposed to wear for an aquarium date of all things?

Most of your and Leon's 'dates' had been in restaurants, after dark, and your clothes were mostly an afterthought because they wound up on the floor anyway. But a date, during the daytime, where your clothes presumably remained on the whole time — you didn't even know where to begin.

A knock on your bedroom door startled you out of your spiral, and you hastily grabbed a slip, pulling it over your head and over your body.

"Can I come in?"

"Uh, yeah," you replied, scrambling to pick up your discarded clothes. "It's open."

Your door creaked open, revealing Leon, still in his black T-shirt and jeans. Suddenly, you felt exceptionally exposed in just your thin slip, groping backwards for a coverup, a cardigan, anything.

"Are you... okay?"

You turned back towards your closet, suddenly finding the clothes in there rather fascinating as you tried not to skin about Leon's gaze prickling on your bare skin as you resumed rifling through the racks.

"I — uh," you stammered, words failing you in this moment. "I was trying to figure out what to wear. For our... date."

To your chagrin, the word 'date' came out small, embarrassed. You lifted your head, only to be met with another one of his smiles. Like it came as second nature, his arm slipped around your waist, leading you to the bed.

"Doesn't have to be right now. We haven't even had breakfast yet."

He flopped down, over your mattress, and you bit back a protest over his outside clothes on your bed, knowing damn well you'd allowed much worse to happen right where the two of you were currently lying. Just the thought of what your sheets looked like under a blacklight could have you cringing into the next century.

But right now, tucked into Leon's chest, his heartbeat beneath your cheek and his adoring gaze directed plainly at you through those long blond lashes, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"You're so beautiful, you know that?" he cooed into your ear, fully enveloping you in his warmth. "You'll look good whatever you wear."

"Stop," you protested, but there was no real heart in it.

Leon nuzzled closer, his hands palming over the fabric of your slip. "I'm not the only guy who notices, y'know."

Whatever retort you had died in your throat at the slightly mournful tone his voice took. It was true you weren't a slouch in the looks department — if anything, it was probably one of the reasons you'd managed to catch Leon's attention in the first place.

His fingers awkwardly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You don't even need to do anything. You could literally just sit there and I'd falling all over myself trying to get your attention."

"Funny," you muttered, feeling your chest tighten, ever so slightly. "I could almost say the same for you."

His hands cupped your cheeks. "I mean it. I'm not screwing around. I want this to work. I want to be with you. Be good to you."

Every. Goddamn. Time. Leon Kennedy always had a way of making your heart melt with those big strong arms and pretty blues. You sat back up.

"Fine. Now shoo, I need to actually put on some clothes."

Leon looked back a little too longingly for your liking as you unceremoniously shoved him towards the door. "Wait, maybe I can help —"

"Like hell I'm changing in front of you," you rebutted, shutting the bedroom door in his face once again.

Why were you putting so much thought into it, anyway? It was still early in the morning. Leon was right — you hadn't even breakfast yet. Groaning quietly under your breath, you wriggled into a lounge set, resigning yourself to dealing with you new boyfriend waiting outside.

Boyfriend. You weren't quite sure if you would ever be used to calling him that.

Leon was right in the living room where you left him, perusing through the pile of magazines you left on your coffee table — currently thumbing through a dog-eared copy of The Atlantic. However, at the click of the door's latch, his head shot up from the pages.

"Hey. Erm... you hungry? We can head out."

Right at that moment, it appeared both your stomachs decided to start making noise simultaneously. Leon looked down at his torso, still exceptionally toned through the fabric of his shirt, and grinned up at you sheepishly.

You pointed to the kitchen. "I have food in the fridge."

A quick meal of leftover bagels, grilled tomatoes, scrambled eggs and that pack of hot dogs you'd been stashing in the freezer for the better part of a month later, the two of you were at a loss. Breakfast had been eaten mostly in silence, except when Leon asked for second helpings, and once you had the dishwasher going there wasn't much to keep you busy until your supposed 'aquarium date'.

You glanced over at your bedroom again, and Leon's gaze followed.

"Well, I suppose I could look up when the aquarium opens," you suggested, getting up from the dining table.

At the sight of the crestfallen look in his eyes, you grabbed him by the wrists, pulling him up and leading him to your bedroom to sit before your personal computer, booting it up and typing a few keywords into the search bar.

Aquarium Aquarium near me

Leon grunted noncomittally at the images that kept getting pulled up of blue tunnels and glass walls teeming with ocean life. Opening hours were from 9am to 5pm. Currently, it was about 10:30 a.m.

"I mean, it's not half-bad," he mused, turning to look at you. "You like aquariums?"

You smiled. "Love them."

Ushering him out of the room again, you redirected your focus to the task at hand: pick an outfit for an aquarium date. Easy enough. It was a casual date, no fancy candlelit dinners or drinks involved. Maybe a pair of jeans? Between late nights at work and late nights... everywhere else, you'd long forgotten the last time you actually went out during the day.

Eventually, you settled for a practical jeans-and-a-nice-top outfit, paired with sneakers and your trusty coat for the evening chill. Leon was ready from the jump, shrugging on his leather jacket and grabbing his keys.

It wasn't too long a drive to the aquarium, nearly twenty-five minutes or so. The place was crowded — hardly surprising considering it was the weekend — families with children, teenagers chaperoned by parents, couples, tourists from out of state, all lining up for tickets. Leon got in line for two adult tickets, waving you off when you tried to make up the difference.

"Nah, it's fine," he said, slipping an arm around your waist. "It's a date. The guy should pay."

"What are we, the 19th century?" you muttered, but did not object too hard. Consider it compensation for the past six years, you supposed.

The entrance was already impressive, a massive tunnel filled with sharks, sea turtles, and stingrays swimming above your heads, emerging out from behind sandy rocks. Further in, the room was bathed in ethereal blue light refracting over the smooth floors as you wandered past towering columns of glowing jellyfish and large tanks brimming with tropical fish and vibrant corals.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" you remarked, watching several clownfish swim in and out of the tentacles of a sea anemone.

"Yeah," Leon murmured. "sure is."

You looked up at him, noticing his eyes were nowhere near the coral reef, or even any of the other tanks, but on you instead, a dreamy, faraway look in their endless blue expanse.

Suddenly, you weren't thinking about the aquarium anymore, your heart rate skyrocketing again. This time, however, you managed to get your bearings.

"I meant the coral, Leon."

He cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. "Sure. That's... pretty too."

Hand-in-hand, the two of you headed deeper into the aquarium, arriving at the freshwater section, where a massive arapaima and sturgeons dwarfed even Leon himself.

"Well," he quipped, eyes firmly trained on the giant fish. "guess I need to start stepping up my gym routine."

Despite yourself, you snorted. Leon grinned over at you, much too proud of his terrible one-liner. Even at the reptile tanks, he was still gloating.

"C'mon, admit it — you thought it was a little funny."

You shot him a deadpan look, turning your focus back on the axolotls floating about in their tank, darting amongst the water weeds in their miniature habitat. Leon joined you, eyeing the little guys with their beady black eyes, round heads, and feathery gills.

One of them swam up to your finger, following it as you trailed over the glass tank, softly giggling.

Leon read the placard by the tank. "Apparently these guys can regenerate lost limbs."

"Can they?" you looked back at the axolotl, now drifting away to rejoin its friends. "Huh."

The rest of the aquarium was vast, and you took your time traversing it, passing four-walled enclosures of larger sharks and manta rays, fluffy sea otters floating on their backs, sleek seals gliding gracefully through the water, and dipping your hands into cold seawater at the touch pool.

By the time you exited the aquarium's gift shop, it was well past lunch. Grabbing a couple of quick sandwiches and coffee at the café, the two of you headed out to the riverfront to catch some fresh air.

"Y'know," Leon began, chewing on his cold turkey sandwich. "I dream about this sometimes."

You looked up, mid-chewing your own sandwich. "... Going to the aquarium?"

He chuckled. "I mean, kinda. But I meant, like, going out on the weekend." he punctuated his next sentence with a playful nudge. "Sitting on the riverfront with my girlfriend talking about nothing important."

You set down your sandwich, staring out over at the sparkling waters and lush green scenery of the riverfront, watching several families with babies in strollers, grandparents being helped along by their children and grandchildren. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder.

"You could've, Leon. All you had to do was ask."

He took another bite of his sandwich, a guilty look in his eye. "Yeah."

The days were getting shorter with October coming to a close, and before long, you were watching the sun set on the pier. With neither of you in the mood for dining out, you'd proposed going grocery shopping for dinner, something Leon had acquiesced to without much resistance.

Of all the things you'd done today — going out during the day, spending the last couple of hours or so wandering around some giant aquarium, now this. Never in the past six years would you have imagined going something as mundane as grocery shopping with Leon S. Kennedy like a pair of newlyweds, and yet... here you were, watching him trying to decide between two jars of pickles like he was evaluating which gun to bring with him on an assignment.

You shot him a deadpan look. "Neither."

Obediently, he set them both back on the shelves, carefully arranging them on the shelf. The sight was almost too comical — this broad-shouldered government agent who also looked like he walked right out of an Abercrombie spread stacking groceries like a minimum-wage worker.

You'd decided right off the bat on something quick and easy, a dish you could practically make with your eyes closed — some form of a pan-seared chicken breast and roasted bell peppers. If it was good enough for a weeknight, it was good enough for the weekend.

As soon as your groceries hit the counter, you were dispatching him off to vegetable washing duty — a simple enough task, while you heated up your stainless steel pan in preparation for the chicken.

Dinner was plated within fifteen minutes, each plate getting a serving of chicken and roasted bell pepper. Once again, Leon devoured just about everything on his plate, including seconds and had helped load everything up into your dishwasher after.

Night had fallen, the autumn air crisp on your balcony as the two of you watched the glimmering city skyline.

"Are you..." Leon murmured, his hand finding its way to yours, encasing it in calloused warmth. "Still upset with me?"

"Hmm... what are going to do if I am?" your voice took on a teasing lilt, and you felt his hand clench in yours.

"You're messing with me," he protested, leaning for a quick kiss. "I'll bring breakfast tomorrow, first thing in the morning."

"Oh?" you giggled. "You don't want to stay the night?"

He shot you a wry grin. "I would if I had anything to wear. Unless —" he leaned in, waggling his eyebrows. "You want me to sleep naked?"

You gave him a playful shove. "Hell no. Not in the mood tonight."

"Ah," he fell back with mock despair. "so you are still upset."

"Maybe I should've kept some of your clothes from last time," you mused, fiddling with a loose thread on your sweatpants.

"That what you were supposed to do," Leon grumbled. "but then you kept returning everything."

You rolled your eyes. "Right, right."

With a lot of reluctance, Leon finally agreed to leave your apartment around midnight. He'd been glued to your side, as always, eyes firmly trained on your silhouette as you grabbed your keys.

"Leon? One more thing."

He didn't even have time to react when your lips met his, soft and plush and cool from the breeze and the minty lip balm you always liked to use. He melted into you, a spark of electricity running through his veins when he heard a soft sigh escape your mouth. He wanted to deepen the kiss, slip his tongue in there and coax out more of those sweet little noises, feel your warm body beneath his —

You broke the kiss, realising it just tasted vaguely like the roasted bell peppers and chicken you'd had for dinner. At the sight of Leon's flushed face, pupils so dilated there was barely any blue left in his eyes, you couldn't help but burst into giggles, pecking him on the cheek.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" you looked back coyly, knowing full well Leon's attention was nowhere near your face the way your hips swayed as you walked. He wasn't the only one capable of hypnotising people with their looks, after all.

Leon's eyes, predictably, snapped back up to your face, managing a small, half-hearted wave as he watched you head back up to your apartment unit, sticking his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket as soon as you were out of sight.

If anything, Leon only hummed in response, nuzzling his face even deeper into your abdomen like a cat, finally finding a perfect spot to rest. "Yeah?" Leon asked, and you feel your goosebumps start to rise on your whole body, a low chuckle rumbles from his chest as he realizes your reaction, and the sound of his voice, vibrates warmly through your entire body. "Its funny... because I don't see you trying very hard to move me."

You rolled your eyes, and a smile passed through your face, making your jaw entirely relaxed, "hmm...", then you lazily tangled his hairs onto your fingers, "maybe— I just wanna see how long it will take you to move away from ME."

"Then maybe, if it were up to me, I'd stay here until both of our bodies were tangled together, rotting side by side, princess," he murmured in your abdomen, making your belly tickle beneath his stubble, and small movements of his lips, only make you leave a pleasurable sound in response, and his soft and strained voice wrapped around the nickname that had belonged to you ever since the day you met him.

though he had no idea what those words did to you. Because to him, they were maybe just another quiet confession spoken without thinking, but to you, they weren't metaphors at all— they were the truth.

A promise that ran through your body— and if fate ever allowed it, you knew he would choose you in every ending, even the ugliest one— and so would you.

You laughed shakily, trying to hush the tears that were building weakly behind your eyes, "Lee..". His head lifted instantly, like a cat hearing its name.

You smiled at him, and instinctively he shifted upward until he was facing you completely. His blue eyes had turned into a shade you'd never truly noticed before, his pupils slowly dilating as he looked at you so intently, silently waiting for you to continue. Then gently, almost reverently, his hand came up to caress your face, and you closed your eyes, letting his touch serenade you in a kind of love you'd never known before.

then he cradled your jaw so carefully, that you just leaned into it and when you opened your eyes, finding him looking at you, words simply left your lips, before you could think better of it, "and i had do the same, until your name grows like a root in my chest, marking its way, beside your grave." Then you softly booped his nose and at that his eyes crinkled and a quiet chuckled escaped his chest, looking at you with same— love, that you carry for him, "i love you." you finally said hearing you say it, he closed his eyes, then he takes a shaky breath deep into his chest, "I love you— "

Before he could even reply with something else anymore, you close your eyes and captured his silky soft lips with yours and Leon let out the softest, mushiest little moan into your mouth— a sound you had never heard him make before. and it sounded exactly like relief. Like something, you were missing in your life not knowing it would come in form of him— his love, his eyes, his voice.

Then he shuddered feeling you against him, like he was exactly where he'd always wanted to be.

and then you pull away a little, and he makes a soft low groan at the distance of you, then without waiting for another agaonizing second you kissed his closed eyelids, then on the tip of his nose, then one last chaste kiss against his lips. When you are finally done, you smile and slowly he opens his eyes.

Without another word, he pulled you impossibly close to him until every inch of you melted into him, your breath caught in your lungs as his familiar musky scent filled every one of your senses, and you breathed him in deeply, greedily, as though trying to store him inside your heart forever, so you'd never forget what home smells like.

"my home.", thats all he said with emotions he was trying so hard not to let fall through his eyes, then slowly his fingers slipped into your hairs and he caressed your hairs, while crushing you flush against his chest yet again.

finally you let out a tired sigh, feeling safe in his arms then you drifted to sleep, completely unaware that Leon stayed awake the whole night holding you against him, with only one though in his mind.

"I would rather die than letting you go."

That's what your first thought is — whenever you start wanting more.

whenever you look at your... friend. Maybe that's the wrong word for whatever relationship you have with the DSO agent, Leon kennedy.

Because he is the man who always knocks on your door whenever he comes back from a mission. The man who shows up after promotions, after bad days, after nights where the ghosts of his past become too loud. The man who quietly crawls into your arms, rests his head against your chest, and falls asleep listening to your heartbeat.

Yet refuses to tell you what, exactly, you mean to him.

But honestly? Speaking between you and me. is it really wrong to expect something when he already told you he can't be what you need?

Is it really wrong — to want more when Leon lays sleepily in your arms, and reminds you every now and then that 'you're free to tell him to leave.' With such a crack in his voice that usually means. Please. Stay.

Yet, his lips grazes your skin with his words, his breath falters, and yet gently paints kisses all over your frame, and your eyes devouring his bones, yet he tells you, that you're free to walk away from him, because he is ruined, he has been ruined his entire life, a destruction that cannot be undone and then with a sad smile he continues, "you are free to find someone who can actually give you the future you deserve," while holding your hands so tightly, that you feel inside you that he means, "don't — ask me to leave I will break."

Though every time you almost do... almost tell him despite the feelings you carry for the man that remains, curled up in your arms, "that yes, you are done, that he needs to leave," those words rests bitterly on the tip of your tongue, begging for you to speak up.

But then he looks at you.

And somehow, the way his blue intense eyes find yours , it feels like a plea he can never bring himself to say out loud.

So again, you never tell him that.

Instead, you simply pull him a little closer to your chest, wrapping your arms around him as he melts into your embrace without another word, while your fingers drift absentmindedly through his hair while he buries his face against your ribs, and eventually, in the silence of the room and steady rhythm of your heartbeats, sleep finds the both of you.

When morning comes, the warmth beside you is gone, yet your hand instinctively reaches across the bed, only to find cold sheets where Leon had been moments ago. It always happen like thjs and yet you dont know why, but your heart sinks immediately: even after experiencing it for hundredth time.

Then like muscle memory, your eyes drift toward the bedside table, where rests a small folded note. And with tired muscles, you slowly reach over and pick it up with lazy movements already recognizing the messy handwriting before you even unfold it, only to read.

I will come back soon.

And thats all it says.

And you simply roll over on your back while clutching the note to your chest as if its your lifeline and tears starts to blur your eyes and you know he means that. Because he always come back even after a day, or months, or weeks, but what doesn't settle inside you is the ache.

And the thought that he loves you or wants you enough to come back — but not enough to stay in your life.

Though, it's not just his fault. How it could be?

When you play along with whatever game he's playing with you, yet in this limbo — the only thing that sucks is... it isn't actually a game. Not to you.

And certainly not to him.

Because you could feel it in your bones when he cries in your arms, when he finally breaks down and tell you everything he thought he had buried ages ago — deep inside the grave of a body that still breathed, yet had long forgotten how to live.

And you let him...because after all that is better than not having him at all.

Truth is... though very simple he is so terrified of losing whatever the two of you have built that he'd rather settle for half than risk ending up with nothing at all.

Still in everything... whatever he says, he forgets to say the only thing you desperately need to hear.

And to the rest of the world, Leon Scott Kennedy isn't your boyfriend. He isn't your husband.

He isn't your anything.

And yet...

He's somehow become your everything.

Maybe that's why humans are selfish.

Because even knowing this kind of love will eventually break your heart... neither of you can bring yourselves to walk away from it.

Now, even if you don't know what you're supposed to be to him, in your heart, he is your entire world.

Even if it's a ruined one, and it was never truly yours to begin with.