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RE9 leon kennedy x fem!reader | tlou inspired au | masterlist
Chapter One: a favor
cw: canon typical violence, mentions of rape
The citizens of Deer Haven look up at Leon with a disdain he can feel burn through his back.
They're hot coals placed between his shoulder blades, burning through the fabric of his shirt and all the way through the bullet proof vest he pretends protects him from the violence that the world is capable of these days. He reminds himself he's not special. Every soldier on the wall receives the same treatment. This stare. Eyes like hazard lights, blinking slow and steady like predators kneeling for the kill. The discontent can only boil for so long before it splashes over, sprinkling scalding malice on anyone unlucky enough to get in the way.
Leon ignores the heat at his back in favor of the barren landscape sprawling out in front of him. Twenty years or so has given nature more than enough time to reclaim what humanity abandoned to nightmarish creations. What used to be a sprawling Mid-West city now lies in the ruins of overgrown foliage blanketing each building from view. There are several tiny hills Leon is sure are just cars covered by the passage of time, engines rusted shut, doors blocked and doomed to never open again. Most buildings are hardly holding together, crumbling bricks dusting at the base, walls leaning, patched together with nothing but vines and the grace of a higher power Leon has long since stopped believing in.
"Two… About 300 yards down to the South-East."
There are some areas that are clear. Manicure days, he calls them. When the army sends out soldiers to cut away each and every overgrown shrub and soon-to-be tree in a thick perimeter around the wall for better visibility. It makes Leon's job easier as he twists his body, shoulders hunched forward, rifle pressed firmly against him as he spots two infected through his scope. Powerful security lights illuminate their bodies through the darkness of night, washing them out until their skin is paper thin with protruding veins and bloody eyes.
"Do you see them?" His spotter is new. Anxious. His name is either Adam or Adams—Leon isn't sure if the kid introduced himself by his first or last name, and no one really cares to wear name tags in the apocalypse, and he isn't sure if he cares enough to ask for clarification.
Leon's only reply is a hum.
"They're about 300 yards down."
"I heard you the first time."
The infected have changed a lot over the years. They're not as fresh. Half rotten, skin peeling around their eyes, their nails, their mouths, teeth hardly staying in their skulls. Neither of these two would be a threat up close. Waifish, decaying things. A strong wind could blow them over.
All it takes is a deep breath and a gentle squeeze to send one crumbling to the ground, head blown to bits with the round sent barreling through its skull. The one left standing pauses in its aimless wandering to look back at the corpse, almost human in the way it stares at the old blood spilling from a new wound. Leon wastes little time dispatching the other one—two new bodies for the cleanup crew to dispose of in the morning.
"Wow," Adam breathes as he pulls his range finder away from his face. "Those were clean. Really clean. I don't think I've seen someone hit a shot that well besides you."
Leon shrugs. "Years of practice."
Adam leans back in his seat—an old camp chair that has seen better days. The fabric sports no fewer than twelve patches and one very bent leg. "It's like you were born with a gun in your hand."
"Yeah, I came out the womb duel wielding," Leon deadpans.
It's enough to get Adam to chuckle. Leon rolls out the tension in his shoulders as he tries not to think about how he used to be like him—young and naive. Joining the police department in Raccoon City just to watch it all burn and crumble without the power to do anything about it, now banished to watch perimeters and live off scraps. He tells himself he's still doing the right thing. A good thing. Offering sanctuary to people who otherwise would die out in the wild.
The grandeur of it all blinds most people, but not him. It's hard for reality not to settle in; that life in a cage is no different than life outside of it when the predators outnumber you, and he might be a guard dog for these lambs, but he's still in the kennel all the same.
Time passes slow like molasses. Leon isn't sure if it's because of the cold of the dwindling summer or the weight pulling at his eyes that warps everything. He tries to focus on his breathing. The beating of his heart. Slight movements of animals through his scope. The occasional question from Adam when it bleeds from his mouth.
Leon reaps the benefits of the patience he sowed when the distinct tapping of two booted footsteps approach. It hits along the makeshift wall of old cement scraps and half welded vehicles like rain on a metal roof. Loud. Echoing. It prompts Leon to remove his face from the scope for the first time in hours. His relief stares at him oddly—most likely from the indents he's certain he has on his face—but neither of them say anything as they switch spots with him and Adam without so much as a good evening muttered between the four of them.
While the two men climb off the wall using the precarious, half-rotting ladders, Leon thinks about how all he has to look forward to is a closet-sized room and a cold bed without so much as a shower to wash off the grime of his shift. Civilian life isn't much easier. Dilapidating buildings, families shoved into homes and apartments too small to house their children, parents fighting tooth and nail to earn food with reserves that dwindle each day. For over twenty years humanity has lived like this. There are many communities like Deer Haven scattered across the country where people play pretend at government and society. He's heard radio chatter about some communities falling, destroyed from the inside out, humans ripping each other apart as opposed to infected. People can only be satiated for so long before zoochosis settles in.
A few years ago, Leon thought about leaving Deer Haven after an officer was caught raping his daughter. It was the kind of secret everyone knew. He's seen civilians face the firing squad for less, but the officer was acquitted after they deemed the girl was too young to carry an incestuous child. No harm, no foul, they said. He's not sure why he stuck around. Maybe it was the sight of his naked body strung up on the wall with the word traitor carved into his chest that convinced him to stay because it meant that there was at least one sane person left. Or maybe it's because he's still trying to prove to the old version of himself—the young Leon Kennedy—that he can still help people.
Leon tries to shake those thoughts out of his mind as the barracks grow closer, but Adam's presence makes it nearly impossible. He reminds him so much of his younger self it's almost frustrating. Every time he looks at him, it's as if he's been transported back in time. A time that he can't reach anymore. It's why he should be surprised when Adam walks off the beaten path into the frigid grass along the side of the building where the lights grow dim.
"What are you doing?" Leon asks, stopping on the crumbling sidewalk. He could just leave. It's late and he's tired, and Adam is an adult. But it's the same thing that always stops him. That irritating ghost of himself.
Stopping a good distance away, Adam points at the ground. "Someone left their bag. Figured we could bring it back, see if anyone's looking for it."
Leon squints through the darkness and spots a backpack with a broken strap. A pit gnaws on the inside of his stomach like sour milk not playing nice with the acid. When Adam lifts it off the ground, he has to use his free hand to brace himself against the wall.
"Damn, what do they have in here, rocks?" he mutters to himself.
Before he can even think to control his movements, Leon's finger is raising to point at Adam. "Kid, put that down!"
There's just enough time for him to look up at Leon before the explosion ignites the night.
A thick wall of compressed air knocks Leon's lungs flat as he's tossed to the ground several feet back from where he stood just mere moments before. The pressure change in his ears rings throughout his skull. It echoes like broken church bells, fractured and resonating deep in the marrow of his bones. He feels the earth wiggling underneath him despite the sky being stationary above him. For several terrifying moments his diaphragm refuses to work. Back arching, shoulders pressing into the grass; he writhes until the useless muscle decides to contract. He tastes soot on the inhale and blood on the exhale.
It takes time for his limbs to work properly. Rolling onto his side, he paws at the ground as if the dirt will help him stand while his bleary eyes slowly focus on the orange light flickering in front of him. The entrance to the barracks is blown open. A hole resides where the door used to and shattered bricks lay around it like too many teeth shoved into one mouth. Several rooms have been compromised, and he can hear people inside shuffling to get out as dust and sparse smoke rise into the sky, blotting out the faint stars.
Leon staggers to his feet just in time to find what remains of Adam. It's not much. A hole spans all the way down his side and eats deep towards the center of his body like a child got too excited with a cookie-cutter. Bubble gum pink intestines smattered with blood, bile, and acid spill into the soil like ink. He must have been hungry. There's no food seeping from his stomach. Completely bifurcated from the blast, Adam's legs lie separate from the rest of him. Not even his face remains unscathed. Shrapnel, bone, blood, soot—the only reason Leon knows who this used to be is because he watched the very destruction of his body.
Another bright-eyed kid—another version of himself—lost to a world that screams it doesn't want saving. Cries out that it doesn't want men like Leon Kennedy.
He doesn't stick around long. Soldiers and civilians alike swarm the area with fingers ready to place blame and pull triggers. The animosity is so sharp he can hear it through the ringing in his ears, slicing through the noise of his pain as if it's nothing but butter. Someone takes one good look at the bleeding cut on Leon's head and the way he clutches his side before he's tossed towards a medic who barely cares enough to tell him to go to the infirmary before abandoning him for someone with higher acuity.
He marches on staggering feet, back turned towards the commotion. It feels wrong. Leon's always refused to run away from danger—first boots on the ground, and last ones to leave—but now it's as if he's unraveling himself. Maybe these edges have been fraying for longer than he's realized.
The moment he stumbles into the building, Leon is whisked away for triage. He's swarmed by a handful of doctors and nurses—cleaner than medics but still just as frigid. His clothes are torn off, he's poked and prodded, and suffocated with gauze on the crown of his head until he's left to lay on a bed with nothing more than a hospital gown to protect his dignity and flimsy curtains to offer privacy.
Leon tries to be a good patient, and for a few hours he manages it. Sitting in a bed that smells of stale breath and expired laundry detergent, he stares at the ceiling, or the floor, or his hands. No matter where his eyes land, he knows it's not clean. He can't stop thinking about how he tried to reach for Adam but wasn't quick enough, just like how he wasn't enough back then—never enough. Raccoon City, swarmed. That infected girl and her mourning father. The spread. They told him he was going to change the world for the better, but as the sun breaks through the infirmary and he finally can bite off his vertigo long enough to stand and peek through the curtains, he knows that claim was nothing but a farce. He's the only patient. The morgue will see more patrons than this place will.
Again, he feels that urge to flee. He couldn't save his friends, he couldn't save Adam; he can't save anyone. It's torture pretending to be something he's not. No one would miss him. Most people either die before his age or drink themselves into prison. He's an enigma of a man. The frustrating zenith of human perseverance.
He ought to vanish in the hills. He could keep a garden and hunt for meat. When the summers get bad he can swim in a lake and he'll build good fires in winter. He won't rely on the fragmented remnants of the government to provide for him, and best of all, no one will depend on him. Just the way it should be.
"Mr. Kennedy."
A voice too warm and chipper for the early morning cuts through the tinnitus in Leon's ears and prompts him to glance to his left where he finds a man leaning back at a desk. He looks familiar, like he's seen him in a dream, or the haze of battle. White hair lays slicked back along his head, though the length isn't long enough to keep it's shape from turning him into a hedgehog. Even the sharp tip of his nose appears rodent-like. The only thing keeping him from looking like a rat is the smile breaking on his lips.
"Doctor," Leon huffs. He's not even sure if the man is a doctor, but the stethoscope around his neck leads him to believe he is.
He must be right as the man chuckles before slowly rising to his feet, a beaten up clipboard in his hand. "You look ready to go home."
"Sure. Could probably find my bed somewhere in the rubble," he deadpans.
There's something embarrassing about standing out in the open like this, hospital gown hardly tied in the back, body aching from hours of sharpshooting just to be tossed around like a ragdoll when he should have been resting. He thinks about how he could've been in bed and how the only thing that stopped him was Adam's curiosity. When he realizes that the kid inadvertently saved him by picking up that bag, it takes everything within him not to puke.
The doctor approaches Leon before gesturing back into the makeshift room with curtained walls. "How about this bed, for now?" he suggests.
Leon obliges, but not without a little sass bleeding through his groan. "That's just a polite way of telling me to sit down."
"It's easier to do exams on someone who isn't towering over me," the doctor quips right back.
Leon stays quiet as the doctor—whose last name he notes as Moor based off of the badge swinging around his neck—performs tests similar to the ones done on him when he first arrived. Eye tracking, pupil measuring, looking in his ears, nose, mouth, all while smiling and humming as if this is the greatest day this man has experienced.
"Your body has been through a lot," Doctor Moor notes as he prods at the healing cut on Leon's forehead. The sting is there, but he doesn't hiss. The nurse told him it was small, hardly noticeable. Blood likes to be dramatic when it comes from the face. "More than most."
"You don't say?" It's hard not to snip. Between the exhaustion and self loathing, Leon's sure he could destroy just about anything on the planet with one dirty look.
Taking the stethoscope off his neck, Doctor Moor walks around the other side of the bed and places the cold metal against Leon's back. "It is very rare to find a man like you. Breathe in."
He follows the requests as many times as he's asked despite the ache in his chest. "There are plenty of men like me," he says once his lungs are done being auscultated.
"Oh?" Doctor Moor asks as if it's a challenge. "I don't know of many people who have survived what you have, Mr. Kennedy."
Groaning, Leon rolls his shoulders out before placing his hands on his knees. "Yeah, well, maybe eating all those Lucky Charms wasn't as bad as they said."
"I think this is more than luck." Doctor Moor's feet tap against the ground; quiet, clawed paws against peeling linoleum, a wolf slowly marching its way into Leon's periphery. "Raccoon City, becoming a cop, exterminating infected, becoming a part of the anti-bioterrorism unit before the world crumbled… That takes something. Not a lot of people have that something."
Leon doesn't move. His eyes peer up through bloody hair and pinched brows as that familiar twitch in his fingers begin to ache in his bones. Doctor Moor is smiling. He's heard of wolves laughing when angry. "Burning the midnight oil for some light reading?"
"Our files show you as a very decorated member of our society," he confirms.
"Right, and do you always show your patients this same hospitality?"
The tension in Leon's back remains even after Doctor Moor faces away from him in favor of rummaging through one of the cabinets on the wall. Leon's already sizing him up. The awkward gait on his right leg, the tenderness that seems to stem from his knee, every weak point this man has, and then he realizes how rabid he must be for planning the death of a man at least fifteen years his senior—of even considering him a threat.
"Only the ones I plan to ask a favor of," Doctor Moor admits as he turns back around to face Leon, spare clothes now in hand.
"Sorry Doc, I don't do personal favors. They usually have something to do with infected, and I think we're all going to be busy with funerals as is," Leon dismisses.
"This isn't a favor for me, but for humanity." Leon is taken aback by the conviction he speaks with. For the first time in this short while, that smile vanishes from his face and instead is replaced with tight lips and shaky hands that hold out clothes as if he's serving up food. "Get dressed. I would greatly appreciate it if you would at least humor me, Mr. Kennedy."
He slides the curtains shut with a sharp snap, leaving Leon what little privacy the infirmary has to offer. Huffing, he looks down at the clothes given to him. Simple sweats with frayed ends and a t-shirt that has seen better days. Deciding that anything has to be better than this gown, he slips them on and curses at the way the shirt suffocates his shoulders and cuts into his armpits. Each movement he makes has him fearing he'll rip the fabric at the seams, but he ignores it as he straps himself back into his boots before exiting.
Doctor Moor waits for him with his hands behind his back and shoulders hunched forward with age. That pained smile returns to his lips as he slowly approaches Leon, nodding towards the exit.
"How long have you been keeping tabs on me?" Leon asks as he allows himself to be led out of the room.
"Just since you were dropped in my lap last night," Doctor Moor responds flippantly. The morning sun beams harshly through the windows, worsening the headache Leon suffers from, prompting him to squint his eyes through the pain. "It was rather convenient. This opportunity presented itself to me only yesterday, and I was wondering how I was going to make use of it. Then that explosion happened, and now here you are, like a gift."
The mere mention of last night's events has Leon's brain filling with images he would rather forget. Each time he closes his eyes, he sees Adam. Dismembered, ripped apart like a chew toy. He wonders exactly what part of all this is supposed to be convenient.
Silence settles over the two of them as they wander through pale halls and past tired medical workers until the population begins to thin out and numbra begins to nip at Leon's heels like a bad omen. Eventually, they make it to the back of the building. There's nothing waiting for them except for a wooden door with a makeshift sign that designates the room as belonging to Doctor Richard Moor. The door opens with a lone, rusty key.
A wave of rubbing alcohol hits Leon's nose strong enough to make his eyes water, and it only worsens as he enters the room behind the doctor, door shutting behind him like it's sealing him in a tomb. Several desk lamps illuminate the otherwise dark interior, casting light on haphazard stacks of papers and folders. He notes old computers, several microscopes, testing tubes, and various unlabeled solutions in varying colors. This place is less like an office and more of a lab—sterile, brutal, and enough to send a bitter tingle through Leon's molars as he exhales.
"I take it you don't get out very often," Leon mumbles.
Doctor Moor ignores him as he continues to lead him through his labyrinth of an office. Eventually they reach the back of the room. It's separated from the rest with thick, plastic curtains similar to what Leon would expect to find in a meat processing factory. When the curtain is pulled back, there is a lone box sitting on a dolly.
There is a strange electrical hum that emanates from it as if the box itself is alive and breathing. He's not sure what it's made of, but the material looks strong, like some sort of metal or plastic alloy meant to take a beating or two. It's large. It comes up to his hips and is equally as wide, reminding him of the storage crates they used to use for ammunition. When Doctor Moor approaches it, he taps on a screen that quickly wakes up and displays the word STABLE against a green background.
"What is this?" Leon asks.
"This?" Doctor Moor pauses. His hand rests on the top of the box as he turns to face Leon. His smile is gone, not only from his lips but his eyes. Now, there is nothing but enervation. "This is the cure to everything."
follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here
RE9 leon kennedy x fem!reader | tlou inspired au | read on ao3
The events that transpired in Raccoon City left more than just a mark on Leon Kennedy; it left a mark on the world. The spread of the infection became too overwhelming to stop, leaving small pockets of humanity huddling in safe havens scattered in various locations with little left to hope for than to see the sun rise on another day.
After a coordinated attack lead by an increasingly agitated civilian population lands Leon in the infirmary, he is presented with an opportunity he can't refuse.
You are humanity's last hope; and Leon's only chance at redemption.
a/n: each chapter will have its own content warnings. overall; canon typical violence, medical/body horror, age gap (leon is in his 40's, reader doesn't have an explicit age but is referenced to be younger than him) non-canon compliant
Chapter One: a favor
follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here
Not terribly fond of how these renders turned out due to some issues with Simon's scars and his belly not quite being soft enough for my liking. Will probably redo these later, but for now, have shirtless Simon.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Simon "Ghost" Riley x Naya "Bambi" Walker | wc: 2.4k
You don't expect Simon to propose bringing someone into your bedroom, but you can't deny that you're more than a little interested.
Read on AO3 / Ko-Fi
CW: 18+/MDNI, PIV sex, dirty talk, lactation, fantasizing about a coworker, exhibitionism, (discussion of) hotwifing, under-negotiated kink, dubcon picture sharing, Simon is bisexual but we're not getting into that very much right this moment (we will get into it in part 2) (and probably 3)
"Gaz asked aft'ya."
The words take a minute to make their way through your pleasure drunk mind, but when they do, the curl hot in your belly. The whine you let out sounds pathetic, even to your ears. Simon won't let you bury your face in the bedding, wraps a hand around your throat so it’s impossible to hide from him as he hilts himself inside of you from behind.
"Was right after you sent me that cheeky little picture," he continues, and the way you squirm under hiim makes him huff a breathless chuckle. "Weren't even done lockin' the screen, almost gave 'im a peek of those tits."
"Oh, oh, no." Embarrassment seizes you as the memory of just what you’d been wearing flashes behind your eyelids.
"Oh, no," he mocks, then slaps your ass. He groans as you whine. "Like I can't feel you clenchin' up. Pretendin' y'not all excited, like you didn't wear red knowin' 't's 'is favorite color. You wanted 'im t' see."
"No," you whimper, breathless, but he's changed the angles of his thrusts and your whole body is shivering it's way to a climax. "Simon, no, just you, just -"
"Just me," he growls, and his voice is ragged against your ear. His hands are hard when he hikes up your hips to grind in, in, in. "You think I don't know you was watchin' 'im, last time we was out? So cute when y' flirtin', lickin' y' lips 'n gigglin'."
You shake your head, but words get caught behind your teeth.
“No?” Simon's laugh makes you shiver. One of his hands slides under your hips, fingers zeroing in on your clit. "Weren't givin' Gaz fuck-me eyes? 'E might not've noticed, the way 'e was eyein' ya. Bet 'e touched 'imself that night, wonderin' 'ow y'r pussy looks when she's gettin' what she needs."
Your brain conjurs up Kyle’s face, handsome and attentive, and you can’t help the way you whine again. Reaching back with one hand, you grab at Simon's hair as your body ratchets closer to climax.
"Might 'ave to let him find out," he growls, and his voice is starting to waver with his own orgasm approaching. "'E's got a real pretty cock, bet you'd make real pretty noises - "
Whatever else he says is drowned out by the way you nearly shout as the tension in your belly snaps. It’s hard to gasp for breath as he works you through it, ignoring the way you jerk as oversensitivity takes over. A second peak wracks your whole body, right on the heels of the first, and every muscle in your body goes rigid. That sets Simon off, and you echo the moans that tear their way out of his throat.
Simon’s breaths are heavy against the back of your neck by the time you float back down into your body. The weight of him is grounding, comforting, even as you put your face into the bedding and groan with exhaustion and embarrassment. Simon snickers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he rolls you both to the side and wraps his hands around your waist.
You scrub a hand over your face and leave your hand over your eyes as you moan, “What the fuck was that?”
“Experimentin’.”
“Simon.”
“Figurin’ some stuff out,” he mumbles, running a hand up your belly and cupping one of your breasts gently. “Jus’ playin, ‘s all. You liked it?”
You wiggle around until you’re laying on your back, then peek through your fingers up at him. He blinks sleepy eyes down at you, head propped on one hand and looking just as relaxed as he ever does. Like he didn’t just bring up flirting with and fucking his coworker. He grins when he sees you pouting, big and self-satisfied before dipping down to press his lips against yours.
You tug gently at his hair as he pulls away. “What’re you figuring out?”
“’Ow best to surprise ya,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Figure Gaz is a safe bet. Thinks y’ gorgeous.”
“You want to sleep with Kyle?” You gasp, then gasp again. “Wait. Why do you know what his dick looks like?”
“Communal showers.” Simon plucks at one of your nipples, just a tease, before cupping his hand over that side of your chest again. “After ‘n op, after the gym. Easy to get a bit worked up.”
“You’ve seen him hard?”
“We’ve all seen each other ‘ard.” He shrugs. “Rude to stare, but in close quarters, y’gonna see somethin’. I’ve seen Johnny strokin’ off more time’s ‘n I c’n count. Cap’s got more restraint, but ‘ve seen ‘is favorite porn star.”
“Focus. We’re talking about Kyle,” you remind him, poking at his chest. “You said his dick is pretty.”
“Oh, so ‘e is your favorite.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Yeah? You just wanna hear more about ‘is cock? ‘Bout ‘ow I bet it’d hit all those nice spots if ‘e ‘ad you layin’ on your back like this?”
His hand squeezes, fingers drawing up toward your nipple in the way that he knows prompts your letdown. The fuzzy static of it makes you slap at him. But Simon just catches your hand and brings your knuckles to his mouth for a quick kiss. It’s a trap, of course, and he grabs your other hand in short order before bringing them up above your head. With an arched eyebrow, he presses them against the pillow before letting go, and then his fingers are back to stroking and plucking at you until milk starts beading up under his fingers. There isn’t much to give, since you’ve already done your pre-bed pump, but it’s still an overwhelming sensation so soon after orgasm.
“’E’s thick, like you like,” he says, breezy and casual as you squirm. “Just a bit o’ curve. Y’r lips’d look real nice on it.”
Your stomach swoops as he licks his fingers. Then his touch drifts lower, light and almost ticklish until his fingers can pet gently over your clit. Sensitivity makes you twitch your hips away, but he follows, keeps the pressure consistent while he waits for you to settle. Only then does he pet over your mound and thighs, gentle and teasing.
“Likes to take ‘is time,” he murmurs, licking his lips. His eyes are dark and hungry when he meets yours. “Was waitin’ for exfil, once. Nothin’ to do. ‘E pulled up some porn, somethin’ slow. Don’t remember exactly what. But ‘e didn’t skip ahead. Said ‘e likes to let things build, when ‘e’s got the time.”
His thick fingers dip between your legs, and you have to bite back a small noise. Simon’s always talkative, in bed, but this feels different, fragile. There’s none of that almost frantic, middle-of-sex energy forcing the words out. He’s not trying to get either of you off, not quite, not… not yet. He’s just… admiring his friend, sharing the intimate views he thinks you’ll appreciate with him.
That image you have of Kyle changes in your mind, becomes something quiet and warm. You can almost imagine the two of them, in some small, dim hotel room. You know what Simon looks like, when he’s not yet focused on sex, but willing to be convinced. Is that what he’s like, after an operation? Does he drape himself on a bed or a pull-out couch and watch porn quietly on his phone? He never hesitates to lean over your shoulder to get a better look at whatever you’ve pulled up. Does he do the same to Kyle? Would Kyle let him? Do they sit close, pulling something up on a phone, until their hands end up down their pants?
“Showed ‘im a picture of you, last time we was out,” he chuckles, interrupting your musing and setting your heart racing again. His voice dark and smoky, the way it gets when he’s preparing to pull you along through something that’s going to push all of your buttons. He leans down to steal another kiss when his fingers start to dip into where you’re wet and relaxed. “That one I like, the one from the beach. ‘Is cock weren’t out, but I bet ‘e wished it was. Just lookin’, that time, we was on watch. No time to do nothin’ about it.”
“You did not,” you whimper around a hitching breath.
“I did,” he he counters, grinning against your mouth. “’E said I’m a lucky bastard, and ‘e’s right. Prettiest girl in the world, you are. Can’t blame ‘im for wantin’ a taste.”
Your stomach flutters, and you want to touch him, so you lift one hand to play with his hair. “Did… did he say that?”
“Might ‘ave.” Simon’s fingers push deep, slowly, and he grins when you shiver. “Might’ve just looked hard an’ bit ‘is tongue. Can’t exactly tell ‘is superior officer ‘e wants to fuck ‘is wife. Gotta wait for an invitation.”
You swallow a moan as he adds another finger, pressing deep. You’re so wet that the movement is loud in the quiet room. Still, he moves slowly, palm rocking purposefully against you, just the way you like. It’s impossible to resist chasing the sensation with slow rolls of you hips, so you don’t try. It’s hard not to let the pleasure drag you under again. All you can do is take a couple of deep breaths to remind yourself not to move too fast.
“You want…” you have to swallow twice, force your mind to concentrate on the words instead of the way his hand unravels you, again, “Want to give him an invitation?”
“Might ‘ave to, the way you’re gettin’ worked up so fast.” His laugh is just the slightest bit mean. “If ‘e was ‘ere, I bet ‘e’d already be fuckin you. Nice’n slow, like this, give this greedy cunt everythin’ she wants while I’m recoverin’.”
His cock is thick against your hip, not quite hard again, yet. The way he nudges his hips into you makes you want to spread your legs, so you do. And then you’re moaning into his mouth as his fingers massage steadily against your g-spot. Without your input, your hips rock up, chasing that sensation, trying to coax him to move faster.
“Look’t you, Pretty. So needy. What kinda man would I be if I wasn’t makin’ sure you’re taken care of, hm? Bet Kyle’d be real nice to you, ‘specially sweet as y’are right now. Soft ‘n wet, fuck, gushin’ all over ‘is cock jus’ like this. Messy, but ‘e wouldn’ mind.”
The building pleasure makes you pant up at him, eyes locked on his face. He looks hungry, the corner of his mouth quirked up to expose some of his teeth. A part of you realizes that he’s excited at the way he can thrill you, certainly, but this isn’t just for you, is it? He likes that you like the idea, but it’s his fantasy, his friend that he’s imagining fucking you.
“Si-” you whimper.
“Yeah. Gonna make ‘im work for you to say ‘is name?” he growls, crowding even closer and using one of his legs to spread yours further. He doesn’t speed up, but his fingers press harder, just where you want and need it to start really working toward another peak. “No, I don’t think so. I think once you start thinkin’ wi’ that pretty pussy, y’ gonna cry so pretty, callin’ for ‘im to speed up, get you right where you wanna be. Say his name nice, I bet ‘e’d give you whatever y’ want.”
You whimper as his other hand captures your wrists and presses them into the pillow. “Simon!”
“Yeah, y’ gonna come? Wonder if ‘e could resist comin’ w’ you squeezin’ all around ‘im. ‘Specially if ‘e gets his mouth on y’r tits. Bet e’ tries, but can’t. Bet ‘e gives you those deep strokes y’ like so much, fucks ‘imself deep and makes a pretty mess f’ me to fuck back int’ ya.”
The orgasm crests, easy and overwhelming and wet. Simon growls, shifting over you until he can remove his fingers and push his cock into you in three hard shoves. His groan almost drowns out the wet noises of skin against skin, but every thrust seems louder than the one before. All of your senses are filled with him, his panting breaths, his thick waist between your legs.
You wonder, wildly, if Kyle would hold you while Simon chases his orgasm in your body.
It’s so unexpected, so jarring, that your belly flips and your body locks up, again. An embarrassing noise squeezes past your throat, you think, as your arms wrap around Simon’s neck again. He feels it, of course, and laughs breathlessly as he lifts your leg so he can fuck himself even deeper.
“Ah!”
“Yeah,” he pants into your mouth. “One more, pretty, ‘m close, jus’ a little more, jus’ like that.”
You can’t make your tongue cooperate, but you try, “K-Ky! Please, Simon.”
He groans like you’ve wounded him and presses close and deep, until you can’t catch your breath. His cock jerks so hard that it pulls a gasp from you, and you bury your face in his shoulder as he huffs like a bull into your hair. His muscles are so rigid that your fingers slip on his sweat, but still, you wrap yourself around him the best you can as you both shake.
You stay like that for a beat, and then his breath explodes from between his lips. The muscles holding him up go slack, all at once, and he barely manages not to land directly on you as he collapses. You’re still a bit squished under him, but there’s just enough space that you can gulp a couple of hot breaths.
A giggle ripples out of you. “Oh my god. You want to fuck Kyle.”
“Fuck,” he laughs. “’S that all you got out of that?”
“You came when I said his name!”
Simon laughs, breathlessly against your hair. “You came thinkin’ about ‘im.”
“Yeah.” Post orgasm, it’s easy to admit. You pet a hand over his side, then tweak his hip. “Does that mean you actually want to fuck Kyle?”
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” He scrubs a hand over his face and props himself up on one elbow. “Give me twenty minutes, Bambi, I can’t feel my fuckin’ legs.”
In spite of his words, he’s smiling, warm and happy. You hum as he dips down for a slow kiss. A yawn interrupts you, first you, then him, and you giggle again as he flops back into the bedding.
hello! i know you have a lot going on, and I absolutely hope things are getting better <33
this ask is not to be a rush in any manner whatsoever so i sincerely hope you don’t take it as such, but i was just curious if there were future plans for kiss the skin that crawls?
it’s one of my favorite fics and i was just wondering!
i hope you’re healing okay :)
sending love <333
hi friend!
ktstc is one of the fics up next on the chopping block for me!
i've got this short drabble that i'm working on just to get it out of my head, i haven't been able to make much leeway on ACTG, so i'm gonna push out dt;st for patreon and then work on ktstc next!
i've got a weird way of keeping track of my shit and this is how i ensure that i don't go too long without updating a certain fic (brain power and health allowing)
hopefully within the next couple of weeks you'll see an update (:
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I learned a very long time ago that I could post in English on the Anglo internet about my experience as a sexual minority in the #middleeastandnorthafrica region. I could vent about every slight or slur, every indiscretion, all the doors that might not have closed in my face had I not been who I am. But that all it would do is earn me a seat at a table half the world away, a seat that I would lose the second I said “but my people are still human. But we are Arab women before we are queer women. But we are muslim before we are trans women. But we are imperialised subjects of the periphery before we are bisexuals. But we are ‘combat-aged males’ before we are gay men and boys.” A seat that I could only keep if I show a willingness to betray my people. And I will not. I do not want it. The price is too steep and the value too low.
I have come to know now that this western voraciousness for our stories was never an impulse born out of empathy; it has always been little more than a gathering of intel, of reasons to hate us and to justify the destruction of our bodies and the pillaging of our lands and the looting of our resources. So I no longer see the utility in being one more primary source for the proverbial NYT opinion editorial manufacturing consent for the latest campaign of imperial slaughter in my backyard on account of our inherent backwardness.
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | one shot/drabble
you have something that belongs to simon. something he wants back.
cw: intoxication, dub-con to non-con, force masc, afab and fem presenting reader, misgendering
It's been three years since Simon watched Johnny's body crumble to the ground—brains scattered on cement, blood soaking into stone, blue eyes rolling behind eyelids he'll never watch flutter again—so he's a bit taken aback when he sees him at the pub.
He's younger. Stubble hardly even noticeable along his jaw and lips, skin softer with less worry lines. That scar that used to bisect his eyebrow is even gone. Smoothed out. Fully covered and wrinkling as he smiles. It's so tangible Simon can almost smell him. Sour gun powder coated in the mint gum he always chewed on deployments. A tick. Not a nervous one. Johnny was always thrumming with life, with the need for movement, a desire to do something with his hands.
Then, you look over your shoulder at him.
You slap your wallet shut, smothering the image of Johnny behind faux patterned leather before shoving it into your pocket. The glare on your face is challenging. A silent spitting at his feet as you look him up and down, drinking in the height and broadness of him like the mere size of him is a challenge. A threat.
"Can I help you?" Short. Cutting. You don't trust him, and he doesn't blame you. A stranger in a pub with his chest nearly up against your back as you try to order a drink after a long week of work.
"Maybe."
Your distaste at his lack of tactfulness screws the features on your face until your fingers are curling. Simon's not sure why, but he wouldn't mind the taste of your knuckles against his cheek, bone pushing flesh into his teeth until the blood floods his mouth to wash down the aftertaste of you.
"How do you know 'im?" Simon questions, chin tilting up as his words die down.
"The fuck are you talking about?" you bite.
"Johnny. MacTavish."
Recognition freezes over your features until your fingers are tracing over the thickness in your pocket where his old teammate (No, something more, someone more. An importance he doesn't know how to utter but something that burns through him all the same) resides like an urn upon a mantle.
"Do you know him?" You answer his question with another one. Simon refuses to speak until you're breaking, eyes falling to the floor, teeth catching between your lips. "He was my donor."
Your response only stirs up more confusion in Simon's mind. "Donor?"
"Yeah, like…" You awkwardly glance around the area before your fingers move up to the collar of your shirt and then gently pull down. You're not showing much that he cares to look at, except the scar. It's long. Vanishing beyond where you refuse to show, it spans the length of your sternum. A straight line, still puffy. Still healing. "My heart donor."
Everything makes sense. Why he's drawn to you. Why you have a picture of Johnny in your wallet. It's so fitting of him to give up the best parts of himself. That man gave you a gilded heart so you could continue to draw breath all while his stopped deep in that tunnel, too far from the Scottish highlands he always spoke so fondly of. Now, his Johnny resides within you—so deep he's not sure he can dig him out.
"Let me buy you a drink," Simon offers, fingers twitching. "I can tell you everythin' you wanna know 'bout 'im."
You fold easy. Tissue paper caught in the rain, dissolving at the mere touch of his fingers against your arm, leading you towards a private booth once you've both got a proper pint in your hands. He tells you everything. The pristine details of it, anyway.
Johnny's a hero. A good man. Died fighting for what he believed in, and apparently continued to save lives even after his death. You got to taste the fruit of his labor. You taste it every day in the blood running through your veins, pooling on your tongue, warm and tangy. Simon wonders, if he shoved his mouth onto yours, would he be able to taste him? The essence of the man he loved to get lost in?
A few more pints later, and you share your side of the story. It was a birth defect that got you like this. Sick your whole childhood, it wasn't caught until it was nearly too late for you. Hospital stays, missed school days, the loss of friendships and events that should have been special but were tainted by medication and needles. Johnny's heart isn't your first. In fact, it's your third. Complication after complication—a body that rejects all the help that's shoved inside of it.
"It's been almost three years since the transplant, and I've never felt better," you admit, speech slurred, eyes shining with the tears you've been fighting back the whole conversation. "I've tried to meet his family, but either he doesn't have any, or they want nothing to do with me. I guess I can't blame them. I get to live because he died. How fucked is that?" You wash a sniffle down with a gulp of beer before you wipe your mouth. "You don't know how nice it is to meet you, Simon. I can't thank you enough for this. For letting me know more about Johnny."
He likes the way you say his name. He likes how it sounds like him saying it. Cotton swirls in Simon's head as heat flushes throughout his body, superheating his loins until his hips are rolling in his seat.
If you note the change in his demeanor, you don't say anything. Your ignorance only makes the space in his pants tighter.
"How 'bout we take this back to my place, yeah?" Simon prompts. He would shove his fingers in your mouth at the way you nod at him—glassy-eyed and slow—if there weren't so many people around. "Good boy."
It's easy getting you on his bed. Your clothes slide off of your body as if the very weaving of the fabric comes undone at the hungry prodding of his fingers. When you're undressed, he can't help but trace the path along your sternum to feel the raised skin that slices through you. An old war wound. A roughness he recognizes like stubble on the inside of his neck. Johnny's heart jumps out at him like he's kissing him. Trying to break free. Trying to return to where he should be.
Simon stares down his nose at you while he unfastens his trousers, pulling himself free, hot and eager. His thighs knock against the edge of the mattress as he beckons you forward with two fingers. "C'mon, you know what you gotta do. 'Nless you want it to tear."
He can see how your head spins in the way your eyes are unable to lock onto one place for longer than half a second, and it only worsens as you crawl towards him. Your mouth is on him quick. Tongue lapping along the underside of his cock as you bob your head and hum at the sourness of his skin.
If he closes his eyes and leans his head back, Simon can almost pretend your mouth is Johnny's. You're a bit softer around the edges than he was, and he wishes you'd use more teeth, but the fantasy alone is enough to get the tension building in his abdomen as his thighs begin to shake. It's been a long time. Too long. He feels the end arriving before he's even had the time to enjoy this.
Rigid fingers curl into the back of your neck as Simon pulls out of your mouth. You cough and spit drips down your chin as you stare up at him, trying to catch your breath. A smile breaks over your lips as his fingers gather the mess before he's digging in the back of your throat. He goes until you choke. Until you gag. He yanks his fingers out with a content chuckle.
"Atta boy."
Your brows draw together. "I'm not a-"
Your protest is silenced with his cock in your mouth again. This time, he doesn't allow you to bob your head, but rather forces himself until he's reaching the back of your throat and then holds himself there as his still wet hand reaches for your rump. You try to squeal as his fingers prod the tight ring of your ass. There's little give to you, but Simon's always been good with breaking things in.
"Not a what now?" Simon asks facetiously as he manages to stretch you out on one, lonely finger. "Not a boy? Got a boy's heart in ya, yeah? My boy's heart. I already know everythin' 'bout ya, handsome."
It's easy to spin you around when you're already intoxicated. Body stumbling, crumpling on your stomach, hands desperately attempting to claw at your mouth as you suck in as much air as your lungs will allow. Simon's weight dips down on either side of you once he's managed to shuck his trousers off. Hairy thighs pressing your own together as he paws at your ass until your hole is exposed enough for him to butt up against. There's no amount of wiggling that you can do that will knock him off course.
"W-Wait, not there, please," you beg. You squeeze so tight around him that it's difficult for Simon to get the head in. He grunts as he pushes through despite your whimpering. "I can't, not there."
"Just shut up 'n let me have this, yeah?" Simon grunts, now halfway in. "I'll give your cock all the attention it wants afterwards."
Your moans are animalistic. Grunting, teeth biting into the bedding, fingers curling until your nails pierce flesh—primal. Just like him. As Simon begins to piston into you, it's all he can imagine. Him. His boy. His Johnny.
"Missed you so fuckin' much," he hisses through his teeth, fingers curling deep enough into your hips to dent the bone. "What'd I always tell ya, huh? Gonna find ya in every life. Not gettin' away from me."
Simon comes without warning. It shudders through your body until he's spilling into you with no care for the weak cries that wet your nose. He can hardly keep himself up, and when you collapse underneath the weight of him, he follows not too far after you. Body curling over yours, head resting between your scapulas as he tries to catch his breath. Dull teeth nip at you in places you can't reach yourself, but you don't say anything as he continues to mutter words you wish you could cut from his vocabulary.
My boy, good boy, did so well. Don't worry, I found ya, here to take care of ya again. Can't do much without me, huh?
The two of you lie there long enough for your cries to die down as you quietly mourn the ache of your body instead. Content with the silence, Simon stays where he is, ear pressed against your body, listening to each heartbeat reverberate through you.
With each lub-dub, lub-dub that hits the side of his face, he can only hear:
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thinking about garrick and reader on a gruellingly long stakeout, stuck in a cramped bachelor apartment where a queen mattress is tucked into the only space a bed could go, with a thin cotton sheet as a separator when someone needs to catch a few zzz's while the other camps out.
there's an ac unit that blasts somewhat cool air over the dining room where all the gear and notes are stored. so many bottles of water. shitty, carb-heavy snacks, nothing fresh unless it crosses someone's mind (it doesn't). when ghost and soap come by on occasion, the toilet's never flushed properly. garrick's a decent roommate; not the best, but not the worst. usually remembers to close the lid and shut the fridge and offers you the best shifts unless you're bitchy.
and you are bitchy. it's the job, but fuck me, trailing these dead end leads in their shit apartments, watching through night vision goggles that hurt your scalp and make you sweat buckets is fucking brutal work. you scrap at each other like cats, claws never fully extended, but scrapping at the nearest thing. better than bringing it home to your boyfriend, who hates when you're on stakeouts. gets jealous easily. you tell him you sit in parked cars and try not to piss yourself for hours.
but, it turns out, he had reason.
garrick starts getting antsy. must be the heat, the tedium, the proximity — give it any sort of origin you want — but there hasn't been a better way to pass the time than getting railed at the dining room table while garrick forces your chin to table, eyes locked on the window to make sure you don't miss any movements from the target's apartment, your body bent over the shiny laquered wood, your pussy squeezing its tight fist around his thick cock. he's mean to your tits, scratches at them when he wants, knows it'll fade by the time you go back home. your pants are never yanked down further than your knees, just enough to find the hole he wants, and smear his dripping cock all over your ass, your crack, your lower back, until he slides down just so, into your pussy. likes to mark you up with it. pisses you off and makes you cranky as fuck when he does it; you gotta stand in the bathroom on the edge of the tub, twisting this way and that with a wet rag, wiping the evidence off your skin before it dries.
when the target suddenly moves, something out of the ordinary that a street unit's got coverage on, garrick bullies you onto the mattress and fucks you so hard that when dispatch trills through, he has to answer for you — she's in the toilets — as his thick, pearling cum leaks out of you onto the fucked up bedsheet. the look on his face when you stare at it, fucked-dumb and pissed off all in one, has him rolling you onto your side, legs still tangled in pants, so he can make you squirt with his two middle fingers curled up inside your cunt until you have to muffle your growling screams into the yellowed pillow.
"fuckin' sick of me, yet?" he grins as you use a spare t-shirt of his as a cum rag right before you chuck it at his head. "'m fuckin' proper sick of you."
