pairing. leon s. kennedy x f!reader
summary. leon's jealousy during an undercover gala mission explodes into a night of possessive passion.
warning. (18+) NSFW, sexual content, strong language, jealousy/possessive behaviour, minor violence (choking/threatening), alcohol consumption, undercover mission setting
a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!
The invitation was embossed in gold leaf, heavy cardstock that felt expensive between your fingers. You ran your thumb over the raised lettering — The Annual Charity Gala for Biomedical Advancement — and tried not to roll your eyes at the irony. Pharmaceutical companies and their charity events were all the same: polished surfaces hiding dirty secrets, champagne flowing while deals were made in shadowed corners. It was just another Tuesday night assignment, another ballroom full of targets wearing tuxedos and diamonds, another evening of pretending to be someone you weren't in order to get what you needed. You set the invitation on your vanity and reached for your lipstick, checking your reflection one last time before he arrived.
You looked up from the vanity mirror, lipstick poised halfway to your mouth. Leon Kennedy leaned against your bedroom doorframe, and the sight of him made you forget how to breathe for a solid three seconds.
Not the tactical gear you'd grown accustomed to seeing him in during training exercises. Not the rumpled button-downs he favoured at the office. This was a proper, tailored, devastating black suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body by angels with a very specific agenda. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders, the vest emphasized the narrow taper of his waist, and the trousers — God help you — did things to his legs that should be illegal. His tie was deep burgundy, and he'd actually styled his hair, the usually messy brown locks swept back in a way that showed off his sharp jawline and those impossible cheekbones.
His eyes, that particular shade of blue that seemed to shift with his moods, travelled down your body with an intensity that made your skin feel too tight.
"You're staring," you said, trying to sound casual as you finally applied your lipstick — a dark red that matched his tie in a way that felt intentional.
"You're worth staring at," he replied, his voice lower than usual. He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, moving with that predatory grace he usually reserved for combat scenarios. His reflection appeared behind yours in the mirror, and you watched his expression darken as he took in your dress.
It was black. Of course it was black — it had to be for the mission. But it was also dangerous. The bodice was structured corsetry that cinched your waist and pushed up your breasts, the neckline plunging in a way that revealed the valley between them and the elegant line of your collarbones. The back was open, dipping low to show the curve of your spine, held up by nothing more than willpower and a few strategic seams. The skirt hugged your hips before flaring slightly at the thighs, slit up the left side to reveal your leg when you walked. You'd paired it with heels that added four inches to your height and made your calves look spectacular.
"You look..." Leon's hands came to rest on your bare shoulders, his thumbs tracing the exposed skin there. His touch was warm, calloused from years of handling weapons, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "You look like you're trying to get me killed tonight."
"Is that a complaint, Kennedy?" You met his eyes in the mirror, watching the way his jaw tightened.
"It's a warning," he murmured, leaning down until his mouth was level with your ear. His breath ghosted over your neck, raising goosebumps. "Every man in that room is going to want you. Every man is going to look at you the way I'm looking at you right now. And I'm going to have to pretend I don't care. I'm going to have to watch you smile at them, dance with them, let them put their hands on you while I sneak upstairs to steal files from a safe."
"That's the job," you said softly, though your voice had gone breathless. "I'm the distraction. You're the thief."
"I know what the job is." His grip on your shoulders tightened, not painful, but possessive. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."
You turned around to face him, the movement bringing you chest to chest, close enough to smell his cologne — something woodsy and clean, with a hint of spice. His hand slid from your shoulder to your neck, thumb resting against your pulse point where he could feel how fast your heart was beating.
"Leon," you whispered. "It's just acting. It's just-"
"I know," he said, but his eyes said something else entirely. They were dark now, that storm-cloud blue that meant he was feeling something intense and trying to hide it. "I know it's just the mission. But (Y/N), when I see you in this dress, when I think about those bastards looking at you, touching you..." He trailed off, his jaw working like he was physically restraining himself from saying more.
"Focus on the objective," you said, placing your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the expensive fabric. "Get the files. I'll keep them busy."
"Two hours," he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, smearing your lipstick slightly. He didn't seem to care. "Two hours of watching you be charming and gorgeous and completely untouchable, and then we're leaving. And when we leave, (Y/N), I'm not going to be able to pretend anymore."
Your breath caught. "What does that mean?"
His smile was slow, sharp, and sent heat pooling low in your stomach. "You'll see."
The ballroom was everything you'd expected from a high-society pharmaceutical gala — crystal chandeliers that probably cost more than your apartment, marble floors that reflected the golden light, an orchestra playing something classical and forgettable in the corner. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns that cost more than cars circulated with champagne flutes, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, networking with smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
You and Leon entered separately — standard protocol for a two-agent operation. You came through the main entrance, pausing at the top of the grand staircase to let the room see you. The plan worked immediately. Conversations stuttered. Heads turned. You could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on your body, assessing, admiring, wanting.
You smiled — a practiced, dazzling thing — and began your descent.
By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, you had three offers for dances and two business cards pressed into your palm. You accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and began to work the room, keeping your movements languid, your laughter musical, your attention focused on the men who mattered.
The target was Richard Vance, CEO of Vance Pharmaceuticals, currently holding court near the bar with his inner circle of executives. He was fifty, silver-haired, handsome in a shark-like way, and absolutely the kind of man who would keep classified documents in his private safe on the third floor.
He was also, unfortunately, exactly the kind of man who thought he deserved beautiful things.
"Miss..." He approached you as you lingered near the dessert table, his smile showing too many teeth. "I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Richard Vance."
"(Y/N)." you said, offering your hand. He took it and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving your cleavage. You suppressed the urge to shudder. "Your home is beautiful, Mr. Vance."
"Please, call me Richard." He didn't let go of your hand. "And I must say, you are the most captivating woman in this room. Where have you been hiding?"
"Here and there," you said lightly, extracting your hand with a graceful twist. "I do love a good charity event. So many... interesting people."
His laugh was too loud, too pleased with itself. "Then you must let me show you around. The art collection on the second floor is quite impressive. Private viewing, of course."
Perfect. The second floor was exactly where you needed him — away from the main party, close to the staircase that led to the third floor where Leon would be working.
"I'd love that," you said, touching his arm lightly, letting your fingers linger. "Lead the way."
As you turned to follow Vance, your eyes scanned the room and found Leon. He was across the ballroom, near the terrace doors, talking to some politician's wife who was hanging on his every word. But his eyes weren't on her. They were on you, and the look in them made your steps falter for just a moment.
Not the hot, explosive anger of an argument, but something colder, more controlled, and infinitely more dangerous. He was watching Vance's hand on your lower back, watching the way the CEO leaned in to whisper something in your ear, watching you laugh and nod and let yourself be led toward the stairs.
His expression didn't change, but you saw his hand tighten around his champagne flute until his knuckles went white.
Two hours, he'd said. Two hours of pretending.
You'd barely made it through twenty minutes.
The second floor was quieter, the sounds of the orchestra muffled by thick carpets and closed doors. Vance was talking about some painting — Dutch masters, you thought, though you weren't really listening. You were positioning yourself near the window that overlooked the side garden, making sure you had a clear view of the hallway that led to the third-floor staircase.
"You're different from the usual women at these events," Vance was saying, moving closer, invading your personal space. "There's something... sharper about you. More interesting."
"You're too kind," you said, stepping back until you felt the wall behind you. You hadn't meant to get cornered, but it worked for the mission — if you were here, Vance was here, and if Vance was here, his security detail was focused on protecting him rather than patrolling the upper floors.
"I'm not kind at all," Vance said, his smile turning predatory as he placed one hand on the wall beside your head. "I'm honest. And honestly? I want to take you upstairs. Show you the view from the penthouse. Very... private. Very exclusive."
Your skin crawled, but you kept your expression inviting. "That sounds tempting, but I should probably get back to the party. My date might miss me."
"You didn't come with a date," Vance said, his other hand moving to your waist. "I asked the concierge. You're alone, which means you're looking for something. Someone."
"I'm looking for a lot of things," you said, your voice staying light even as you calculated how quickly you could break his nose if necessary. "But I'm afraid I'm quite particular about who I go upstairs with."
"Particular?" Vance laughed. "Darling, do you know who I am? I could buy-"
"She said she's particular."
The voice came from the shadows of the hallway, cold and cutting and unmistakably Leon's. Vance startled, turning to find Leon emerging from the darkness, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed in a way that was completely at odds with the violence in his eyes.
"Who the hell are you?" Vance demanded, straightening his jacket.
"Her date," Leon said, moving closer with that lethal grace. He didn't look at you, keeping his attention focused on Vance, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he'd been glaring. "And you're in her personal space, Mr. Vance. I suggest you step back."
"This is my house," Vance sputtered, but you heard the uncertainty in his voice. Leon had that effect on people — he radiated danger even in a suit, especially in a suit. He looked like a weapon that had been dressed up for show but was still very much functional.
"And that's my partner," Leon said, finally looking at you. The anger in his eyes shifted, became something hotter, hungrier. "Come here, (Y/N)."
You didn't hesitate. You ducked under Vance's arm and crossed to Leon's side, fitting yourself against him, feeling the tension radiating through his body. His arm came around your waist instantly, pulling you flush against him, his hand spread wide against the open back of your dress, skin against skin.
"Partner?" Vance's eyes narrowed. "You said you didn't have a date."
"I said a lot of things," you replied, leaning into Leon's chest, feeling his heart hammering against your shoulder. "I'm afraid our evening is over."
Leon didn't smile. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his hand spread wide against the open back of your dress. "We're leaving."
"The hell you are," Vance spat, stepping forward with his hand raised.
Leon moved faster. He stepped in front of you, catching Vance by the throat and slamming him back against the wall with a force that made the paintings rattle. Vance made a choked sound, his feet dangling inches off the floor as Leon held him there, his expression terrifyingly calm.
"Don't," Leon said softly, almost gently, "ever touch her again."
"Leon," you said, placing a hand on his back, your gaze flicking toward the hallway and the distant sounds of the gala below. Any second now, someone would hear the commotion. Any second now, Vance's security detail would come running. "Leon, let him go. He's not worth it."
For a moment, you thought he might not listen. You could feel the violence coiled in his muscles, the desire to hurt, to punish, to mark his territory in blood. But then he exhaled, and some of the tension left him. He let Vance drop, the CEO collapsing to the floor gasping.
"You're right," Leon said, turning to face you. His eyes were wild, the controlled mask completely gone. "He's not worth it. But you are."
"Car's waiting outside," he interrupted, his voice rough. "We're leaving. Now."
The drive back to your apartment was silent, the tension in the car thick enough to choke on. Leon drove with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He hadn't said a word since he'd pulled you out of Vance's estate, hadn't looked at you during the entire walk to the car, hadn't touched you until he was practically shoving you into the passenger seat. He looked like a man barely holding himself together, and the energy rolling off him had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the way Vance's hand had felt on your waist.
You should have been annoyed. You should have pointed out that he'd compromised the mission by almost revealing himself, that his jealousy had nearly blown the operation, that he had no right to be possessive when you'd just been doing your job.
But you couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at you when he'd said you're worth staring at.
And you couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd said my partner with a kind of fierce pride that had made your knees weak.
Your apartment building was quiet, the hallway empty as you unlocked your door. Leon followed you inside, closing the door behind him with a click that seemed too loud in the silence. You kicked off your heels, suddenly exhausted, suddenly nervous in a way you hadn't been during the mission.
He was on you before you could finish the sentence.
One moment he was by the door, the next his hands were framing your face, and his mouth was crashing down on yours with a force that drove the air from your lungs. He walked you backward until your back hit the wall, his body pressing against yours, hard and hot and demanding. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting like mint and desperation, and you moaned against him, your hands fisting in his jacket.
"Jealous," he growled against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, his thumbs pressing into the exposed skin of your hips. "I was so fucking jealous, (Y/N). Watching him touch you. Watching you smile at him. Watching you let him-"
"I was doing my job," you gasped as his mouth moved to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
"I know," he said, his voice harsh. "I know you were. But I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand them looking at you like that. Like you were theirs." His hands moved up, cupping your breasts through the corset bodice, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. "You're not theirs. You're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should have been a red flag. It should have made you push back, assert your independence, remind him that you didn't belong to anyone. But instead, it sent a thrill through you, heat pooling between your thighs, your body arching into his touch.
"Say it," he demanded, his mouth returning to yours, biting at your lower lip. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you breathed, and the truth of it shocked you both.
He made a sound like a wounded animal, his control shattering completely. His hands were everywhere — tugging at the zipper of your dress, palming your ass, lifting you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist. He carried you away from the wall, stumbling toward your bedroom in a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses, neither of you willing to break contact long enough to see where you were going.
You hit the bed with a bounce, Leon following you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He reared back just long enough to tear off his jacket, his tie already loosened and askew, and then he was back, his mouth finding yours again, his hands pushing your dress up your thighs.
"You have no idea," he panted between kisses, his fingers hooking into the edge of your underwear. "No idea how long I've wanted this. Wanted you. Watching you in training, watching you on missions, watching you tonight in that fucking dress-"
"Leon," you whimpered as his hand slipped between your legs, his fingers finding you wet and ready. "Please-"
"Please what?" He asked, his voice dark with a kind of wicked intensity. "Please touch you? Please make you come? Please fuck you until you forget anyone else ever existed?"
"All of it," you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "All of it, Leon, please-"
He didn't wait for more encouragement. He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them in a way that made your vision blur, his thumb circling your clit with devastating precision. You cried out, your head falling back against the pillows, your hands gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises.
"Look at me," he commanded, his free hand gripping your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. "Don't look away. I want to see you. I want to watch you fall apart."
You held his gaze, drowning in that storm-blue intensity, as he worked you higher and higher. The pleasure built like a wave, cresting, crashing, and when you came it was with his name on your lips and his eyes burning into yours, watching every second of your undoing.
Before you could catch your breath, he was stripping off the rest of his clothes, revealing the body you'd only ever imagined — lean muscle and scars and strength, all of it yours for the taking. He pulled your dress the rest of the way off, leaving you in nothing but your underwear, and then he was settling between your legs, his hardness pressing against your thigh, his mouth finding your breast, sucking your nipple into wet heat.
"Leon," you moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I need you. Now."
"Tell me what you need," he said against your skin, his hand guiding himself to your entrance, teasing, tormenting. "Be specific, (Y/N). I want to hear you say it."
"I need you inside me," you demanded, your nails digging into his back. "I need you to fuck me, Leon. Hard. Now."
He slammed into you with a force that drove the air from your lungs, filling you completely, stretching you around him. You both froze for a moment, adjusting to the sensation, the intimacy, the reality of finally being joined.
"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead pressed against yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "You feel… you're so…"
"Faster," you begged, your legs wrapping tighter around him. "Please, Leon, faster."
He pulled back and thrust forward, setting a pace that was fast and deep and exactly what you needed. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, and neither of you cared. He was relentless, his hips snapping against yours, his mouth devouring yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head when you tried to touch him too much.
"Mine," he growled with every thrust, the word becoming a mantra, a claim, a promise. "Mine, mine, mine-"
"Yours," you agreed, your voice breaking as another orgasm built inside you. "Only yours, Leon, always-"
He released your wrists to grip your hips instead, tilting you up to change the angle, hitting a spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes. You came screaming his name, your body clamping down around him, and he followed you over the edge with a shout that sounded like your name and a prayer mixed together.
He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting blanket, his heart hammering against your chest in time with yours. For long minutes, neither of you moved, too overwhelmed, too spent, too there in the aftermath.
"I was jealous," he finally whispered against your neck, pressing soft kisses to the marks he'd left there. "From the moment you walked down those stairs. I wanted to kill every man who looked at you."
"I know," you said, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. "I could see it. That's why I kept looking at you. To remind you that I was only acting."
"It didn't help," he admitted, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes were soft now, the storm passed, replaced by something tender and terrifying in its intensity. "Nothing would have helped except getting you alone. Getting you here. Getting you under me."
"Well," you said, a smile tugging at your lips, "you certainly accomplished that."
He laughed, the sound warm and surprised and so Leon that your heart ached with it. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand traced lazy patterns on your back, his lips finding your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth.
"I've wanted this for so long," he said quietly. "Wanted you. I thought... I thought if I kept it professional, kept my distance, it would go away. But tonight, watching you with him, I realized I was done pretending. Done waiting. Done being careful."
"Leon Kennedy," you teased, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Since when are you the careful one?"
"Since I met you," he said simply, his hand cupping your face, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. "You're the only thing I've ever been afraid to lose, (Y/N). The only thing that matters."
You kissed him then, soft and slow and full of everything you hadn't said, everything you'd been hiding behind professional courtesy and mission protocols. He responded in kind, his arms wrapping around you, holding you like he never planned to let go.
"So," you said when you finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, "does this mean we get to be partners in more than just the professional sense?"
"It means," he said, rolling you onto your back and settling between your thighs again, already hardening against you, "that you're mine. And I'm yours. And the next time we have to go undercover, I'm going to be the distraction, and you're going to be the one sneaking around, because I cannot handle watching another man put his hands on you ever again."
"Possessive," you observed, though you were grinning, your legs wrapping around him willingly.
"Completely," he agreed, his eyes darkening again as he entered you slowly, filling you with a gentleness that was somehow more intense than the frantic pace from before. "Is that a problem?"
You arched into him, your hands framing his face, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like forever.
"Not even a little," you whispered against his mouth. "Now shut up and make me yours again, Kennedy."
He did. Thoroughly. Completely. Until the sun came up and the mission was a distant memory and the only thing that mattered was the man in your arms, the weight of his body, the promise in his eyes.
And as he whispered it against your skin, over and over like a vow, you knew that some missions didn't end when the operation was over.
Some missions lasted a lifetime.
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