huh

Seven years retired.

Seven years of no more government black-site debriefs, no more “Kennedy, we need you one last time”. Just...Thailand. Just a sleepy beach town two hours south of Phuket where the worst crisis was the mango vendor shortchanging tourists and the occasional monitor lizard raiding garbage bins. Just him, a small stucco house with too many plants, and you.

You, who at thirty-nine still moved like you were made of water. Hair you usually tied up in a messy knot when you taught pilates on the resort patio six mornings a week. You still laughed at his jokes (most of them, anyway) and you still looked at him like he was worth the trouble.

They’d been married eleven years. Eleven years of you calling him “old man” in that teasing lilt that somehow never felt cruel. Eleven years of him pretending the nickname didn’t land like a small-caliber round sometimes.

Tonight had started ordinary.

A late-afternoon walk along the beachfront promenade, hands linked. Dinner at the little open-air place with the red lanterns; grilled squid, green papaya salad that made his sinuses burn in the best way, cold Singha beers followed by two glasses of cheap Shiraz because you liked the way it stained your lips darker. They talked about everything: the german couple who kept trying to haggle over coconut water, the new strain of dengue the news wouldn’t shut up about, how you’d caught one of your students filming you downward-dog ass for Instagram without asking. Leon had muttered something about breaking the kid’s phone and then his nose too. You had laughed and squeezed his thigh under the table until he forgot why he was angry.

Back home the air smelled like jasmine and sea salt. Lights off. Ceiling fan clicking. Clothes on the floor in a careless trail from door to bed.

He still wanted you the way he had at thirty-five. Maybe more. Age had sharpened the hunger instead of dulling it. Your skin still felt like the only clean thing left in the world when he put his mouth on your throat. You still arched exactly the right way when he dragged his teeth along your collarbone. Your legs still wrapped around his waist like they belonged there.

Leon braced one forearm beside your head, the other hand gripping your hip, guiding himself in slow. The kind of slow that made your breath hitch and your nails dig half-moons into his shoulders. He rolled his hips, felt you clench around him, heard the soft sound you made against his ear.

“Fuck, bae,” you whispered in a moaning-laughing tone. “You still got it.”

He smirked against your mouth. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

You kissed him hard, tongue sliding against his. He thrust again—deeper this time, chasing that little gasp you always gave when he hit just right.

And then his left calf decided it had suffered enough.

The cramp came like a gunshot. Sudden. Violent. A white-hot wire yanking every muscle from ankle to knee into a rigid knot. His leg locked straight. His hips froze mid-thrust. He made a sound that sounds like a wounded animal.

“Shit! Fuck! Goddamn it!”

Your eyes snapped open. For one heartbeat you looked alarmed; then you realized. Your lips twitched. Then you laughed. Not a giggle. A full, bright, can’t-breathe laugh that shook your whole body and made everything clench around him in ways that were frankly unfair.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “Leon. Baby. Are you—did you just cramp?”

“Shut up,” he gritted out, trying and failing to shift his weight. His calf was screaming. His dignity was in the corner crying. “Not. Funny. Princess.”

“It’s a little funny.” You were still laughing, but you reached down, gentle and sliding your palms along the back of his locked leg. “Hold still, old man. I got you.”

“Don’t call me that right now, woman.”

“Too late.” Your fingers found the knot, dug in with exactly the right pressure; the kind of pressure only someone who spent her life teaching people how to move their bodies could manage. You kneaded, slow circles, coaxing the muscle to let go. “Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like I taught you. Pilates 101."

“Fuck pilates,” Leon whined, but there was no real heat behind it. He braced one forearm beside your head and tried to shift his weight without making the cramp worse. The muscle screamed in protest. “Fuck my leg. Fuck gravity. Fuck being fifty-one.”

You laughed again, softer this time, and the sound vibrated through your chest into his. “You’re so adorable when you’re dramatic.”

“I’m in literal agony, baby. Some respect, please.”

The cramp finally began to loosen; grudgingly, like it knew it had already embarrassed him enough. Leon exhaled hard through his nose, dropped his forehead to yours.

“Better?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Marginal.”

You hummed, fingers still working the muscle. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m ancient and should be put out to pasture?”

“That pilates is good for you.” You grinned, wicked. “But you keep skipping my classes.”

“I don’t skip. I strategically avoid.”

“Same thing.”

He finally managed to ease his leg straight. The pain dulled to a dull throb. He stayed inside you, though. You felt too good, too warm, too alive for him to come out of you now. He rocked gently, testing the waters. No new screams from his body. Just the slow, syrupy drag of you around him. Thank God.

He fucked you slow after that—every thrust measured so his calf wouldn’t revolt again. He couldn't risk a second embarrassment. You wrapped your legs higher around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back, pulling him deeper. Your hands roamed his chest, his shoulders, nails scraping through the hair there. When you came it was quiet, almost surprised; like you hadn’t expected it to hit so hard. Your whole body shuddered under him, thighs trembling, a broken little “fuck” slipping out of your mouth. His favorite sound in the world.

Leon followed maybe thirty seconds later, burying his face in your neck, whimpering low as he spilled inside you. His arms shook. His back protested. But he didn’t care. 'Cause he had finally reaching his climax.

They lay there afterward, sweaty bodies with tangled members, fan pushing warm air across their skin. You traced idle patterns on his chest, following the scar that ran from his left pec almost to his navel—Umbrella’s parting gift.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

“Physically? Debatable. Emotionally? Still traumatized.”

You laughed again, softer this time and kissed the underside of his jaw. “I love you, cramp and all.”

He turned his head, and caugh your mouth in a lazy kiss. “Love you too, yoga princess.”

“Pilates,” you corrected.

“Same difference.”

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ׄ 　۪ 𓂃 final notes : due to leon kennedy's new look, and because at 51 he still looks soo hot, here's something i think would happen more often than desired (sorry leon 😭)‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎taglist : @chloeee20 , @mayanqueenxx , @cassieforu ‎| if you want to join my taglist or don't wanna be tagged anymore , click ( here ) ‎ ‎♥︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 2026 , ‎ ‎dolcefloral 𓂃　۪ ׄ