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In which Leon Kennedy is assigned to protect a senator, but becomes the only person protecting you.
Words: 1.3k
The ballroom glittered beneath crystal chandeliers.
Government money had a particular look to it. Marble floors. String quartets. Champagne towers. Men in tuxedos discussing foreign policy like they weren't holding million-dollar glasses.
Leon hated events like this.
He stood near the edge of the room in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that had probably cost more than his first police cruiser. An earpiece disappeared beneath neatly combed blond hair. Black gloves. Polished shoes.
He looked like he belonged there.
He didn't.
His assignment was simple. Protect Senator Colin Whitmore. Keep him alive. That was all.
His eyes swept the ballroom. Entrances. Exits. Hands. Waistbands. Sightlines.
You.
His gaze stalled before moving on again. You were laughing politely at something Colin had said.
Polite.
Leon knew the difference. He'd catalogued every version of your smile months ago without ever meaning to.
The real one.
The tired one.
The one you wore for photographers.
The one you gave strangers because you were too kind to let them feel awkward.
The one that almost seemed reserved explicitly for Leon. Reluctant. The corners of your mouth barely tilting up. Your brow still half-furrowed from whatever he'd last done to piss you off.
Looking at you now, he recognized it immediately. The polite smile. The one you wore to spare someone else's feelings. Colin didn't notice. He was already speaking to someone else, one hand resting absentmindedly against the small of your back more like a possession than a partner.
You quietly drifted half a step behind him. No one noticed.
Except Leon. Always.
An hour later Colin had disappeared into another conversation with three ambassadors and hadn't looked your direction once.
You'd found the refreshment table.
Leon noticed something else. You were on your third glass.
He crossed the room like this was just another security adjustment. He stopped beside you without looking directly at you.
"You should slow down on those."
You turned toward him with a polite smile, but upon recognizing your new company, scowled.
"Excuse me?"
He nodded toward your glass.
You looked down at the bright pink punch.
"Why?" you asked. "What, is the sugar going to go straight to my thighs? Sounds like something someone like you would say."
Someone like him.
From how you said it, that wasn't a good thing. He ignored what you said. Then he ignored the way it pissed him off.
His eyes found yours. For just a second longer than they should have. Long enough to betray something before years of discipline locked it away again. Then his attention returned to the ballroom.
"You think that's just punch."
He said it like he'd already confirmed it.
You frowned. "...Isn't it?"
"No."
Your animosity faded. You scooted an inch closer, whispering, "What is it?"
"Vodka."
Your eyes widened. You stared into the glass.
"That's not good. I've had--"
Leon didn't smile. "Three. That's two more than you can handle."
You scoffed. "I can handle—"
"You can handle one."
He stopped scanning. Turned to you. On the rare occasions you had to suffer the full weight of Leon's gaze, it always left you a little breathless.
It was too attentive. Too observant. Like he could pluck whatever thought you were having right out of your head.
Feeling the tips of your ears turn pink, you looked away.
"And you've had three."
"Afraid I'm going to embarrass Colin?" you muttered.
You looked around the ballroom, eyes landing on Colin across the room. He was still laughing, still shaking hands, still completely unaware that his girlfriend had accidentally been drinking more than she could handle for the last half-hour.
"No. I'm afraid someone here isn't going to understand boundaries."
You looked back at Leon.
"Yeah, that fits this crowd. I think I'll go find somewhere to ride this out. Watch Love Island on my phone or something."
The corner of his mouth almost moved. Almost.
"Follow me."
You hesitated.
"But Colin..." Your eyes flicked toward Colin. "You're going to leave him?"
Leon finally looked in the senator's direction. Two Secret Service agents. Four local officers. Three visible exits. One sniper overwatch.
The man was safer than the President.
"He'll live."
Leon started walking. After a few steps he glanced over one shoulder.
"You coming?"
You lingered near the drinks. Looked around the room at all the other glimmering ballgowns and dark tuxedos. You felt the first sways of drunkenness, and, like your body knew where safety was, your gaze snapped back to Leon.
Blinking once, in complete, utter disbelief, you followed after him.
He waited for you to catch up, then placed his hand on your elbow.
"You dizzy?"
"A little," you admit.
"I won't let you fall."
You laugh under your breath. It doesn't sound like you're having fun.
"I don't care about that. I just need you to keep me from looking stupid."
He didn't look at you. "Not even I can prevent that."
You frowned. "Asshole."
"Yeah, yeah. Just keep walking."
He led you through a quiet service hallway tucked behind the ballroom. The noise of the gala softened into distant music.
He opened the door to an empty terrace overlooking the city. Cool night air met your face.
"Oh." You breathed out slowly. "This is nice."
Leon remained by the doorway. Still watching. Still listening. Still working.
Even now. Even more, now.
You leaned against the stone railing.
"You know..."
He hummed.
"Thanks."
He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "For what?"
"For noticing."
He didn't answer. Because the truth was something he couldn't say: he noticed everything about you.
That you wore heels that made your feet hurt. Which is why he bought those inserts for you.
That loud rooms exhausted you after about ninety minutes. Which is why he always finds some little errand for you to do in a quiet section of every event.
That you laughed differently when you forgot people were watching. Which is why he liked to find you when you were mostly alone. He fucking loved that sound.
That you'd been quietly miserable on Colin Whitmore's arm for the better part of six months.
He nodded. "Gotta keep you from looking stupid."
He expected you to frown. Complain. Call him and asshole again.
Instead, you smiled.
Soft. Real. Not for cameras. Not for strangers.
Just for him.
He forgot to look away. Then he remembered who he was supposed to be.
His jaw tightened. With every ounce of his strength, he finally pulled his gaze away. Instead of love-sick idiot, he remembered what he was supposed to be: professional, detached, disciplined.
"Do you have a preference of what episode I put on?"
He looked almost like someone had finally gotten the better of super-soldier Leon Kennedy. Like someone had finally caught him by surprise.
"What?"
You glanced at him nonchalantly. "Of Love Island." You held out your phone in his direction.
He shook his head gently. Once.
"They're all the same. Someone pretending to be in love for money."
You roll your eyes.
"Handsome and romantic, huh?"
His eyes scanned the city line.
"I'm handsome?"
You grumbled. Blushed. Clicked an episode at random.
"Shut up. Its starting."
And surprisingly, he walked over a few steps. Came up right behind you. You could feel his warmth.
He watched a few minutes over your shoulder before resuming duty.
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The cuffs bite into Simon’s wrists under the table, cold steel against scarred skin. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they always do, but he’s not seeing any of it. Simon’s staring straight at you.
You sit across from him in that crisp blouse, skirt just modest enough to be professional, legs crossed at the ankle. Your voice is calm, clinical, asking about his “adjustment to the facility” like you always do. But Simon isn’t listening to a thing you have to say.
Fuck, look at her mouth when she says my name.
In his head he’s already got you bent over the metal table, that pretty blouse ripped open, buttons scattered across the floor. His hand fisted in your hair, dragging your head back so he can growl in your ear while he hikes that skirt up around your waist. No panties in his fantasy—just bare skin and the wetness he knows is waiting for him. He’d spread you with two thick fingers first, make you gasp his name like a confession instead of a diagnosis.
She’d be so tight. So fucking warm. Bet she’d try to stay quiet at first, try to keep that therapist voice… until I’m balls-deep and she’s moaning like she needs it.
He shifts in the chair, the restraints tugging as he tries to get some relief. His cock is half-hard already, pressing against the rough fabric of his prison uniform. You’re still talking—something about coping mechanisms—and all he can think about is how your thighs would tremble if he dropped to his knees right here, shoved your legs apart, and buried his tongue in you until your clipboard hit the floor.
She’d taste sweet. Wouldn’t be able to stay professional after that. I’d have her begging. “Simon, please—” like she’s the one locked up.
His eyes drop to your lips again, then lower to the modest neckline of your blouse. He imagines marking the soft skin there with teeth and stubble, leaving bruises only he gets to see. Imagines you crawling into his lap in the middle of a session, sinking down on him slow while the guards outside the door remain blissfully unaware. Your hands in his short hair, nails scraping his scalp, riding him while the cuffs rattle with every thrust.
She wants it. I can see it in the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She gets wet thinking about the monster in orange. Dirty little therapist.
Simon exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight behind the mask they let him keep. You lean forward slightly, concerned, asking if he’s all right.
He gives you the smallest smirk beneath the fabric, voice low and gravel-rough.
“Fine, doc. Just… thinkin’.”
In his mind he’s already fucking you against the wall of his cell, one hand over your mouth, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, pounding into you until you forget every clinical term you ever learned, leaving you with only thoughts of him.
You have no idea how many times he’s imagined ruining you in this exact chair.
And he’s not planning on telling you..
Not yet, anyways.
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a/n: nonny who requested this bless you for getting me out of my writers block funk <3
Princess Correspondence goes out in an hour. This week has slightly darker themes. The men will show attachment in ways that can be controlling or toxic.
I don't want to surprise anyone with any triggers.
falling asleep on accident for 6 hours and leon breaks into your fucking apartment bcs he thinks something happened and youre just sprawled on the couch dead to the world so he just sighs and tucks you in and starts figuring out how hes going to fix your door hinges. when you wake up you just start laughing at the ridiculousness and hes basically pouting because he was worried and you give him a long hug and baby him the rest of the night to make up for it. it will probably happen again. leon you poor worried baby
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imagine like femreader having a really high sex drive like just being really horny and needy around leon and. always wanting to jump him but he's getting old 😔 and tired so he puts her in her place (or smth, you can choose, i just had this idea of a freaked out reader and old leon)
✰ cw. 18+. established relationship. sex toy. overstimulation kinda. multiple orgasms (f!reader). unprotected p in v.
an. thank you so much for this request anon!! hope you like it <33
it had started reasonably enough. you'd tried, in your defense. you'd been good about it all week and it had been four days and you had needs and leon was right there and you'd asked nicely.
"i'm tired," he'd said, not looking up from his book.
"you're always tired lately."
"i'm getting old."
"you're not that old."
"forty three next month."
"leon that is not old—"
"tired," he said again with a finality. he turns a page.
you stared at him. "you're seriously choosing a book over me."
"it's a good book."
"i hate you," you said pleasantly, and went to the bedroom.
the toy had been a recent purchase. you'd mentioned it to him once, held it up, and he'd looked at it and then at you and said "hm" in a tone that gave you absolutely nothing to work with. you took it out now with the energy of someone trying to make a point. you tried to not be petty, to be mature.. quiet and dignified.
you managed to… for about four minutes.
it felt good and you were frustrated and four days was a long time and the sounds started soft and then got considerably less so, and somewhere in the back of your mind you were aware of this and didn't particularly care anymore.
leon read the same sentence five times.
he put the book down. picked it up. put it down again.
sat there listening to the sounds coming through the wall with an expression doing several things at once.
then he got up, walked to the bedroom, and leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed.
you looked up at him flushed and breathing hard and had the audacity to look unbothered. "can i help you?"
"just checking on you," he said.
"i'm fine."
"clearly." his eyes moved to the toy and back to your face. "don't let me interrupt."
you stared at him. "seriously?"
"go on." he nodded at the toy. a slight curve at the corner of his mouth. "you started without me. finish."
"leon—"
"make yourself cum," he said simply. "go on. since you clearly don't need me."
your face went hot. which was annoying because you were already most of the way there and he'd just made it significantly worse, standing there in the doorway looking completely unbothered while you were falling apart. you tried to look indifferent about it. you failed. and when you came it was with your eyes on him and a broken sound you couldn't quite swallow and his expression shifted into something that made your stomach drop.
"there it is," he said quietly. and finally came into the room.
he took the toy from your hand before you'd even finished catching your breath.
"hey—" you started.
"you'll get it back," he said. and settled between your thighs and pressed it to your clit and turned it on and you immediately tried to close your legs and he held them open with one hand, patiently. "you wanted this so bad," he said. "so have it."
"i already—"
"again," he said. "come one more time. prove to me this is enough. that you don’t need me." his voice is gruff.
you tried very hard not to make noise for him. you really did. you bit your lip and gripped the sheets and stared at the ceiling and lasted approximately thirty seconds before a sound slipped out that you could not in any way defend, your hips rolling up toward the toy despite everything your brain was trying to tell them.
leon made a soft sound like a proud mocking tut. "there she is."
"i hate you," you breathed.
"mhm." he kept the toy exactly where it was and watched you with dark eyes as you tried and failed to stay quiet, and when you finally came apart the second time it was humiliatingly loud and he watched every second of it.
he let you come down for exactly long enough to mock you about it.
"aw," he said. tilting his head slightly. "are you all done now?"
"don't," you said.
"all worn out?"
"leon i swear to god—"
"tired?" he asked innocently . and you grabbed his collar and pulled him down and he laughed against your mouth, low and warm.
except he doesn't laugh for long.
because the thing about leon is that he'd been holding himself together this entire time. standing in the doorway all composed, sitting between your thighs like he had all the patience in the world, keeping the toy exactly where it was while you came apart twice and made sounds you'd probably be embarrassed about tomorrow. and it had cost him. you could see it now that you were paying attention. his breathing was coming a little short, a little patchy. he shifted his weight, restless, and you looked down and looked back up and raised your eyebrows.
"leon."
"don't," he said.
"you're—"
"i know," he said, clipped.
you almost smiled. "this whole time?"
his breathing was, a little uneven, and when you reached up and curled your hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss he made a sound against your mouth that was very close to a whine and very far from the composed man who'd stood in that doorway looking unbothered. his hips shifted forward without permission. his breath kept catching in these short little bursts against your lips, like he'd been clenching his teeth through it for so long that now that you were touching him he couldn't quite get himself under control.
you slid your hand down and wrapped it around him and felt how hard he was, hot and rigid, the veins along his length pulsing under your palm, and he grabbed your wrist. not stopping you. just gripping it, jaw tight, breathing hard through his nose.
"leon," you said again, softer this time.
"yeah," he said. rough. a little wrecked. and then something behind his eyes just gave out entirely. "okay. no. i can't."
and all that patience he'd been so smug about evaporated completely. he reached over and grabbed the pillow and tucked it under your hips and then he pressed forward and the first slide of him into you made you both go still for a second. you were so wet, embarrassingly so, slick and warm and your walls gripping every ridge and vein of him as he pushed in slow, filling you up inch by inch until he bottomed out and exhaled hard through his nose.
"god," he groaned.
he hooked your leg up over his shoulder and the angle shifted and you felt him impossibly deeper, hitting somewhere that made your eyes flutter, and when he started to move it was not slow or patient and the sounds you both made were the kind that the neighbors would probably complain about tomorrow. his hips drove forward in deep rolling thrusts, every ridge of him dragging against your walls on the pull back, and you reached up and gripped his arm and held on.
"couldn't wait?" you breathed.
"no," he said. simply and without apology. and pressed in deeper.
“gonna fill you up,” he’d said right before, voice wrecked, almost like he wasn’t meaning to say it out loud. “fill this up.” his hand pressing down just slightly, possessive, and you’d clenched around him so hard he’d moaned and his hips had stuttered.
now he looks down at you, panting, and presses a little firmer against your belly. watching your face.
“you feel that?” he says quietly.
“yes,” you breathe.
“yeah?” his thumb moves in a slow circle against your skin, that same unbothered focus he gives everything, except his voice is rough and his chest is still heaving. “you like that. being filled with me.”
it’s not really a question. he can feel the answer in the way you clench around him, still so warm and gripping onto him, and the sound you make is small and helpless.
he stays there for a long moment, hand still pressed to your stomach, neither of you moving. then he exhales slowly and drops his forehead to yours.
he presses his lips to your temple and says nothing for a while.
"not that old," you said eventually.
"no," he agreed. comfortable. satisfied. "not that old."
i think leon would love facetime and unfortunately be one of those people that always facetimes you instead of a phone call. he just wants to see your face. even if its just to ask a singular question. god forbid you set the phone down while doing something or point it somewhere else. he doesnt even have to say anything you can see the disappointment on his face when he cant see you
he will 100% insist on you staying on until you fall asleep and sometimes he dozes off after you've fallen asleep and when he wakes up he can see just the very edge of your sleeping face and your bedhead and he just thinks wow. what a gift technology is that i can wake up sort of next to my partner from miles away
In which Leon Kennedy uses his carpentry skills to prove he lives you
Words: 340
Other HouseHusband Leon link here
You mentioned, once, over breakfast, that your favorite bird had started visiting the feeder.
"The little red one?" Leon asked.
You nodded. "The cardinal."
"Hm."
That was the entire conversation.
Three days later, he handed you your matching his and hers mug. There was no explanation but there was the hint of a smirk on his face.
Almost like he was trying to be nonchalant. And failing.
"Come sit with me?"
You stepped onto the porch.
Leon sat in his usual chair, one boot propped on the railing, shirtless, morning light catching the soft stomach you'd worked very hard to put on him.
He sipped his coffee. Didn't point. Didn't say anything. Just waited.
You settled into the chair beside him, eyeing him over the rim of your mug. Then you followed his gaze.
The old bird feeder was gone.
In its place stood what could only be described as a luxury condominium development for local wildlife. A handmade cedar feeder. Two different seed compartments. A shallow water dish. A suet cage. A little roof to keep everything dry. Wildflowers had somehow appeared beneath it.
"Oh,” you breathed.
He took a sip of coffee. "Figured they'd appreciate options."
Right on cue, a cardinal landed on the perch.
Your hand found his without thinking.
"You built all this?"
He shrugged. "You said he was your favorite."
The cardinal ate a seed. Took one to go. Flew off.
You looked back at Leon. He was pretending to watch the feeder. You launched yourself into his lap before he could keep pretending, peppering kisses all over his face.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
He tried to survive the onslaught, laughing along.
“Hey, you're going to scare off all the birds.”
You stilled.
“Oh, you're right.” Then you settled in his lap and looked out. “Is this better?”
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Leon's just so cute it makes you wanna die, or make him die, you're not exactly sure.
based on this request
Since retiring after his return to Raccoon City, Leon has…changed. He no longer has to undergo strenuous training exercises at headquarters, and he definitely isn’t using the muscles gained there to fight mutant infected anymore. So, he may or may not have gainedalittleweight.
The only thing keeping him from wanting to take a pair of scissors and snip off the new pudge around his waist is the way it makes you feral. Like a rabid animal at the scent of fresh meat, you’re drawn to it whenever he takes his shirt off or wears an especially tight pair of boxers, the thick band digging into the handles of fat on his sides.
“You’re so–ugh–fucking cute,” you squeal, burying your head into his gut, nuzzling your nose against it. “I love you so much. Ugh! I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“Okay now,” he says, patting your head. “That’s enough.” It really isn’t.
He can’t exist in the kitchen, washing dishes, or fresh from a shower with a towel wrapped around his hips without you smacking his ass with a force he didn’t know you had in you. If he’s lying on his stomach, it’s a guaranteed bet that you’re pulling down his boxers and digging your bite into his glute, hard enough to take with you a piece of skin and muscle if you wanted.
And his cheeks. Once round and prominent when he was just starting his career, before his body was chiseled into a fighting machine of marble and stone, they have since hollowed, but not to the point of being completely unpinchable. He’s figured out that much, his face constantly being smooshed together between your thumb and the rest of your digits.
“So cute,” you squeak, gobbling up his lips. “I could literally eat your face off. I could skin it and eat it, Leon. I could literally rip it from your skull and eat it.”
What the fuck?
Why does he like that?
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