miacakess

the sheets of your bed are rumpled, heated. leon's licking into your mouth, nipping your lips and caressing the side of your face. you moan softly, moving your hand beneath his shirt and massaging his abdomen, feeling his muscles twitch at your touch. he sighs, pulling back to take a breath. a string of saliva webs between you and breaks.

leon's eyes are lidded, blue irises all warmed up. reddened cheeks and the flush traversing up his neck making him look like an angel sent from above just for you. your eyes move from mole to mole, your hand still massaging into his skin beneath his shirt, while your other hand thumbs his cheek. he looks at you through his lashes, lips red and swollen from your kisses and bites. you press your forehead to his, sharing your heat. he rubs his thumb against your bottom lip, moving his hand to your jaw. your breaths are slowing, mingling in the space between you. you move back a bit, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. he scrunches his face and you both giggle. everything with him is so easy, flows so smoothly. you go back in, pressing another kiss to his cheekbone, then the edge of his lip. you continue leaving little, wet kisses all over his face, till he's - somehow - redder than he was before. you move to his ear, nibbling on the lobe and breathing in his fresh scent. the body soap he always uses, and his leftover cologne from the day.

"baby." he whispers, his breath hitching. you feel his abs twitch again, and something hard presses into your hip. you smile, teeth bared like a vixen.

"what is it, honey?"

he digs his hands into your shirt, groaning, leaning his head back and exposing his neck. you grab his jaw, squeezing his cheeks together and making him pout his lips. he whines and you chuckle at his behaviour. so desperate.

you lick up the column of his neck, then press kisses beneath his jaw. he makes a noise, squeezing your waist.

"you're so sweet." you whisper, continuing to cover his skin in more kisses. "so perfect for me, lee."

"mmh." leon hums, moving his hands into your hair. not leading you, just holding, like he needs to make sure you're real. that you're actually there with him.

you raise your head, studying his face. the sight of his flushed cheeks and utter adoration in his eyes giving you butterflies.

"my sweetheart." you whisper, eyes flitting to his lips. you see him do the same before moving his hand to the back of your head and pressing your lips together. you spend the rest of the night tangled together until neither of you can keep your eyes open.

wrote this in less than an hour, sorry for the messiness

btw, i'm working on making a masterlist but until then, if you want to see more of my works, open my tags and click #cursivevmwrites

Leon Kennedy doesn't try to hide the fact that he loves you. He always looks at you with wonder and adoration in his eyes. He kisses every inch of you, trying to prove (mostly to himself) that he's real, that he's here, that you two are together and that he loves you.

And even though he's hesitant, he'd always get worried that he'll go too far and that you'll look at him with less affection in your eyes for being so clingy. Please take care of him, deep down he's a bit of an insecure man.

At night, he’ll curl up next to you and cling to you, terrified of waking up without the feeling of your body against his. He also writes down a lot of stuff about you in a small notebook where he usually keeps important notes.

"My love likes to help others; seeing them run back and forth to look after everyone brings something inside me to life"

"Also carries more responsibilities than they should; they're so kind, so attentive"

"My love likes to listen to me talk about whatever I have to say, and when they kiss me, those lips are so sweet I wish I didn't have to stop kissing them"

Leon Kennedy is obsessed with you, obsessed with how you feel when you’re in his arms, like the most precious thing he’s ever touched. To him, you taste like honey. You smell like the last time he remembers being happy; he loves you more than he’s ever loved anyone in his entire life.

"I will love you until you are ready to love. And then, I will love you more, and I will never stop loving you. As long as you live on in my memories, I will not be able to love anyone else. No one else. And if the day comes when you leave, take me with you, cause I cannot exist in a world without you"

"Leon? What's wrong?" You whisper in the silent room as Leon takes your hand in his and lifts it up, staring at it intently.

"Nothing." He says quickly, a light pink blush spreading across his cheeks and nose. "I was just comparing our hands. I like your hands."

You hum, watching his reaction as he turns your hand to one side, before turning his to the other side and gently holding yours; his tired eyes shine brightly as he whispers. "Look, we're holding hands." A smile as bright as his eyes he looks so peaceful like this.

You look down at your hands now intertwined. "You're so clingy when you're sleepy, you know?" He only whines at that.

You smile at the tenderness this brings you, and let your hands fall between the two of you. His grip remains gentle yet firm. He’ll never let you go, and he knows you wouldn’t let him go either, even when he feels insecure. It was a kind of silent pact, something only the two of you and your love could understand.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Any suggestions or requests are welcome <3

The sun is there one second and gone the next, everything plunged into darkness like someone simply turned off the lights. The church tower that you're in is on the hill, looking down with a clear sight line to the supposed meeting spot of your target.

But when it's raining, you can't see shit.

"If this roof starts to leak, I'll be pissed," you mutter. "How much longer till shift change?"

Leon checks his watch. He's cleaning his pistol, one leg outstretched and the other bent at the knee, his back pressed to the cold, damp stone. If he feels the chill, he does a good job of hiding it.

"An hour," he says. "If they show up on time."

You press the binoculars to your face and peer through again, but it's a lost cause.

"Bravo team never shows up on time," you remind him. "This is so pointless."

Leon doesn't argue. He even smirks, mouth pulling up at one corner as he pushes the clip back into his gun with a click.

"We know the guy is here," he reminds you. "It's a start."

Your target is a former Umbrella employee who set up shop in a small Argentinian mountain town to allegedly make new viruses. But it's a delicate mission as far as diplomacy goes, so much so that you two, one of the best pairs in the whole damn organization, have been relegated to surveillance.

For now.

"I'm bored," you say. It probably sounds petulant. Usually, missions are not boring. But this is the most laid-back thing you've been assigned so far, and you both know it. "I wish I had a book, or something."

Leon perks up. It's subtle, but you're already fairly attuned to his small movements even though you haven't been partners for all that long. His shoulders roll back. He turns ever so slightly to face you more fully.

"What, I'm not entertaining enough?"

You mirror his position, turning from the vantage point to lean against the wall.

"I don't know, Kennedy," you tease. "Can you do a flip?"

You both know he can do a flip.

He doesn't bite. "You read?"

That gets an eye roll. "I know how to read, yes. Do you?"

He huffs, pleased as he always is when you show some attitude. He's full of it, though it doesn't always rise to the surface.

"I just read The Count of Monte Cristo," he says. "I don't have a copy to give you, but I can tell you about it."

That's just how he is -- sass one second, honesty the next. Leon doesn't say things he doesn't mean. It's like he doesn't see the point in being anything but truthful.

Still, you study him. He's singular, your partner. Better in the field than anyone else, sure, but it's more than that. Leon S. Kennedy is different down to his core, down to the golden heart that beats in his chest.

Sometimes it's just...hard to believe you're a witness to it. To him.

"Okay," you say. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it.

"And you're not going to read it?" he says. Leon likes to do this, you've learned. To check with you. To be sure. "You don't mind knowing what happens?"

"No, go ahead."

Something in him lightens as he talks. He's a good storyteller. He explains the main character’s imprisonment, his escape, the transformation. The revenge, the mercy, the forgiveness. It matters to Leon, you realize. That he gets it right, but also that you understand what it's about. That you learn what he learned, feel what he felt. He wants you there with him.

So you listen. You watch. You drink your fill just this one time.

Because while he's competent and beautiful and so, so good, you're partners. What you're doing here matters, even if it's raining and you can't see shit. And you're best at it when you're with him, so that's how it will be. Nothing can compromise that.

But you're allowed to look. To see the way he talks with his hands the deeper into the story he gets. The way he catches your eye even when you shift around a little. The way he leans forward just a bit and you mirror it, always meeting him wherever he wants to go.

By the end, he's basically resting his chin on a forearm slung across his knee. "But then the very last line --"

"HQ to Alpha Team, come in, Alpha Team."

You both jump, and Leon flips open his communicator. He looks a little irritated at being interrupted.

"Hunnigan, Alpha Team here."

"Bravo Team is delayed," Hunnigan says, her voice unusually staticky over the line. It drags you the rest of the way out of Leon's story and into the present – the mission. "Supplies restock went fine, but the road up is washed out. They're looking for an alternate route."

"Lucky us," Leon says, tipping his head back against the stone. "Thanks for the update."

You feel compelled to get to your knees and face the window again. It's a reminder of where you are, what you're doing.

The silence feels unwelcome. Not unnatural or awkward, but more like you expect it to be filled with Leon's voice. He's never said so much in one go, and you already miss listening.

"So he just...gives up on revenge?" you ask.

Leon nods. "He realizes it's an empty pursuit."

You finally look through your binoculars. Nothing, just rain.

"I admire that," you say. "I guess he wins, in the end. He's free."

"All human wisdom is contained in these two words: Wait and hope," Leon recites.

You turn back to him and meet his eyes. He swallows, looks away. Now he's shy. "That's the last line."

"Do you believe that?"

"I'm not very good at waiting," he says wryly. He picks up his gun, forgotten on the floor in his storytelling, and slides it into his holster. "Or hoping."

You don’t think either of these things is true. Leon is incredibly patient. He is also hopeful down to his bones, even if he won’t admit it. He believes in doing as much good as he can, and he believes in saving people. It’s as much a part of him as his rare smile and piercing eyes.

But he would never say such things about himself. He’s allergic to internalizing compliments.

"Let's practice," you suggest. "I'll start. I hope Bravo team shows up soon."

For a second, you think Leon won't play. But he hums and says, "I hope they're muddy and soaked for making us wait."

"Leon!" you laugh. "How unkind to our fellow agents."

He shrugs. "A little rain never hurt anybody. Your turn."

"I hope...we get a few weeks off after this," you offer. It's impossible to know what will come next. Truthfully, you always miss being in the field with Leon after too long away.

Your partner attempts to look professionally discouraging but fails. "We barely did anything on this one."

"Well, it's not over yet!"

Almost like it was listening, the sky rumbles.

"I hope I sleep on the plane home," he says. It's aptly punctuated with a yawn. After Bravo Team relieves you, it's back to the safe house for a quick hot meal and as many hours of sleep as you can catch. He never says so, but you don't think Leon is a good sleeper. He's too alert, too ready for something to happen.

Maybe he's different in his own space. You wouldn't know, you've never seen it. Never seen him outside of work at all, really.

But you know how he looks now. Tired.

Despite his golden heart and mystifyingly confident attitude, Leon is a man like any other. Now that you think about it, you know he hasn't been sleeping well. You can hear him on the other side of the wall in the safe house, the methodical way he takes apart and cleans his gun, the soft grunts of a workout instead of closing his eyes. Nightmares, maybe. You don't know how to ask.

And telling him he looks exhausted might not be great for his ego. But he's your partner, and your job is to take care of him as much as it is to complete the mission, however you can.

"Get some rest," you tell him.

He frowns. "What?"

"I'll keep watch," you continue with a shrug, like it's no big deal. It is, and it isn't. He's put his life in your hands countless times since you were assigned together, but this is different. You're asking for a new kind of trust.

He blinks at you, unreadable as he comes to a decision.

"Just a little," he says. "15 minutes. Tops."

"Whatever you say, Kennedy," you say with a salute. He huffs, but settles back against the wall a little more, eyes sliding shut.

You're not even sure he'll fall asleep, but before long, his breathing evens out, and his head tilts a little more to the side. He looks younger like this. Less burdened.

If anything came through the door right now, you'd kill it. No hesitation. Just so he would keep looking like that.

MISSION: NEPAL, RECONNAISSANCE REGARDING POSSIBLE NEW VIRUS LABORATORY

Leon has three broken ribs, maybe four, and the extraction point is really fucking far from the lab.

Why did Hunnigan make it so far?

You'd ask her, but both of your coms are long gone. Fried from the blast and smashed to pieces from what came after. Probably 10 bullets left between the two of you, a shitty knife, and two vials of herbs.

Which Leon needs, desperately.

He's trying not to lean his entire weight on you, but you both know he can't walk on his own right now, let alone stand.

You slow your already glacial trudge away from the carnage in your wake and adjust his arm around your shoulders. He's holding his own ribs, stabilizing them as best he can. You keep your gun at the ready between you, just in case. He's trying really hard not to drag his leg.

"We should just walk home," he says. The cuts on his face aren't bleeding anymore, but he's still got crimson smears on his neck. "Shouldn't take too long."

"Oh, yeah?" you say lightly. He can probably feel your panic anyway, attuned to you as he is in the field. This joke is probably an attempt to get you to calm down. "Over the mountains, through the woods, across an ocean, and to Washington DC we go."

"See? Easy enough."

His breath is hot on your ear, head almost entirely lolled onto your shoulder before you start walking again. You can hear the pain in his voice, though he tries to hide it. You glance at him and find his face ashen and sweaty, hair hanging limply over his eyes.

He shouldn’t go on much longer. The sun is already below the tree line, clouds the color of bruises stretching over your heads. You’re really fucked if it starts snowing while you’re out here and you lose visibility.

"Leon," you say. "I think we'll have to stop for the night. The choppers won't come until tomorrow."

"If they're coming," he mutters. It's probably meant to make you laugh, a jab at the occasional disorganization of your jobs, but instead it deepens your already poorly concealed panic.

He's been hurt before. Hell, he got shot in front of you on your second mission together. You pushed on the wound with your own hands. It took weeks for the feeling of his blood under your fingernails to fade.

But this is different. You can't call for early extraction, and you have to survive the night in this freezing abandoned village, an Umbrella lab burning behind you. And he's hurt, and you don't even know how badly.

The noise he made when he hit the wall --

A new thought, sharper and more dangerous than all the rest, shoves its way to the front.

What if Leon dies here, and you have to watch?

"Let's try that one," he says, dragging you back from the edge of your spiral. He jerks his chin down the path towards a ramshackle building. "The top floor has some good sight lines from those windows."

"Can you climb stairs?" you ask. His knee is so fucked you're worried moving even at all makes it worse.

"That's what you're for."

The snow is slippery as you slowly hobble to the two-story building at the edge of the village. 

It’s impossible to stop your brain from going a million miles a minute. You're going to have to double back and cover your tracks as best you can. Maybe you can make a splint for his leg with the shit in your pack and anything left in the building you trudge towards. Should you make him a sled? Could you pull him to the extraction point?

You’ll do whatever it takes to keep that horrible, horrible thought from coming true. 

It takes some time, but you get up the stairs and settle near the window overlooking the main path.

"At least it's warmer in here," Leon says. 

He's slumped against the wall, gingerly taking pulls from your canteen to wash down the herbs he finally swallowed. His forehead is slick and his breathing labored from the effort. "All things considered, it was a pretty successful mission."

You can't decide between watching him or watching the windows, which means pacing between each one and glancing at him every few seconds. It's unlikely you were followed, but successfully completing the mission, injuries aside, feels a little too good to be true. You're waiting for the other other shoe to drop.

"Leon, you got thrown 30 feet into a stone pillar."

He shrugs, then winces. "Just another day at the office."

He rolls his neck, pressing his fingers into it like he can will away whatever aches he's feeling. 

You both get injured in the field all the time. Nothing serious, not usually, and it's rarely enough to require immediate attention. But you also know that Leon sits with his pain. He doesn't call attention to it unless you ask, and even then, you know he downplays it.

But he doesn't lie to you. You don't do that in your partnership.

"Leon," you say again.

He sighs.

"Been better," he admits. "After the stairs up here, I can be pretty sure my lungs aren't punctured. The knee isn't great, though. Hurts like hell."

You walk between the windows again. Did you even clear the room properly? Maybe you should clear the whole building.

"Do you think you have a concussion?" If he does, you can't let him sleep too much, though he needs rest desperately. It's going to be a long night.

Leon says your name in his you’re not being very calm voice. You ignore it. 

"You saw," he continues. "I hit pretty much everything but my head."

Oh boy, did you see.

The whole thing felt like slow motion. The lab was meant to be a virus research facility. You were meant to figure out what they were making and destroy it. But you got there too late -- most of it had been cleared out. Everything important, anyway. Not much left in the way of documents and research, and certainly no staff.

But then you found the fucking plant.

Something left behind unintentionally or on purpose as a trap, you're not sure. What you are sure about is that some virus-juiced up weed caused the otherwise dormant facility to go into self-destruct lockdown. Your coms got fucked, and then you had to figure out how to destroy the plant.

Leon drew its attention while you messed with the door systems, trying to trap it without trapping yourselves. He took hit after hit, his bullets only doing so much against the thick, slimy vines.

You looked up to tell him you found a path to the exit right as the plant managed to hook itself around his knee. It squeezed, and he screamed. You can still hear it.

But that was nothing compared to what came next.

The plant hoisted him into the air by his ruined knee and threw him clear across the chamber. 

He hit the wall with a horrible wet thud before falling to the ground in an unmoving heap.

There are no words for your terror in that moment. Not that you'd ever tell him what it felt like -- you don't lie to each other, but there are things he does not need to know.

The plant turned toward you, thinking its opponent vanquished, and that was its mistake.

You killed that motherfucker. Fueled by terrified rage and capitalizing on the damage Leon had already done, you managed it. And when you finally fell to your knees next to Leon and saw his chest rise and fall, well. There are few better feelings.

But you're not out of the woods yet.

"Yeah, I saw," you say. You check each window again, one by one.

"Can you sit down?" Leon says. "You're making me nervous."

"You don't get nervous."

"First time for everything."

You face him. He looks amused.

"I need to cover our tracks," you say. "Will you be okay for a little? You can have the bullets."

"Woah," he says. Amusement turns to a frown. "Slow down. We saw no signs of staff or guards. 

No one is here. You don't need to cover our tracks. We'll be okay."

The knot in your stomach loosens just a little. Leon is careful in the field. Maybe not with himself, but with intel, preparation, and execution. If he thinks there's no one here, there's no one here. And if he's wrong, he trusts both of you to be able to handle it. He doesn't gamble with your life.

"Come sit," he says. "I'll beg, if that's what it takes."

Somehow, he gets a laugh out of you. "I should make you."

Still, you do as he asks. There's nothing to build a fire with, and while Leon's conviction of your safety is a nice one, you're not totally sold. Best to tough it out until morning.

Leon clears his throat, though it's more of a groan than a cough.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" he starts. "If they don't come tomorrow --"

The words fly out of you before you have time to think them through.

"Don't tell me to leave you."

His eyes betray his surprise. A little too wide, brows pulled together in the middle to form a crease you've often thought about smoothing with your thumb.

Embarrassment is hot in your throat. It's important to you to be calm in a crisis, to be able to think through it and come out the other side. But something about this whole fucking day is making you fray at the edges. The echo of his scream, of his body hitting the ground, plays on loop in your mind.

"I was going to say we'll need to find some food," Leon says, slowly. As if you're a deer about to bolt.

"Oh," you breathe. "Okay." You rub your palms on your pants. "You're right."

You need to get it together. You cannot fall apart until it's all over. You're not even the one who is hurt, for crying out loud.

"Hey," Leon says, so soft you have to close your eyes so you don't look at him and reveal everything you're feeling. "I won’t ask you that."

Someday, he might. And if that day comes, you’ll refuse just like you do now. The certainty of it settles in your chest, and it feels right. You’ll never leave Leon Kennedy behind. 

"Good," you reply. "Cause I wouldn't." You dig your fingers into your thighs and make yourself look at him with a smile that only feels half forced. "We can just walk home, remember?"

Leon snorts, then groans.

"Fuck," he hisses. "Damn ribs. Don't make me laugh."

"I'm too funny for you." Worry still simmers just under your skin, but all of this, his words, his laughter, just being near him, it's helping. "You've got a lot of blood on your neck," you say, softly.

The vines were covered in thorns that nicked him anywhere he was exposed. The small slices on his skin are shallow and already clotted, but your hands are desperate to help.

"It's always something."

"Stay still," you mumble. Leon seems to sense your restlessness and allows you to shift closer and clean him up with a bit of water and a bandage from your hip pouch.

"Look," he says, barely wincing as you work. "We got some intel, killed that thing, and the lab blew up. It's cold, sure, but we're inside, and tomorrow morning we'll make it to the field and get a nice, warm chopper pickup."

"You need medical now, though," you huff. The blood comes off easily. He swallows and you feel it against your fingertips. "I'm worried about your knee."

"It's not going anywhere." Leon cups your elbow gently, grounding you. And maybe himself. "We're going to be fine."

He honestly seems confused that you're not as sure as he is, like your fear has thrown him. 

Does Leon Kennedy believe in you that much? He trusts you, you know that. You wouldn't work so well together if he didn't. But he believes in you, in your partnership. The knot in your throat begins to twist into something else, something softer, something more dangerous.

He's not scared at all because you're here. Because you're together.

"Yeah," you allow. "Yeah, we are."

You ball up the bloody bandage and lean back against the wall next to him.

"I'll take first watch," Leon says. He sounds serious about it.

You check the clip on your sidearm and do him the courtesy of not laughing.

"Yeah, right," you reply. "You should rest. We'll have to walk the rest of the way to the field in the morning."

The absence of an argument is no surprise. He's stubborn, but he's able to be realistic. If you're getting out of here, he needs as much strength as he can find.

"The food in medical is going to be so bad," he mutters.

He rolls his head against the wall to look at you. The herbs are working because his skin is a little less pale, his jaw a little less tense. You can only hope he's not in as much pain.

"I'll bring you something good," you tell him. "Sleep, Leon."

He stays facing you, but closes his eyes.

"Fine," he says. "Just a few minutes."

You scoot closer to him so you're pressed together, shoulder to ankle. Leon runs cold, you've learned, but being this close means you can feel the innate heat of him in the otherwise frigid air. Heat means he's alive.

"Body heat," you say, mostly to yourself. "Don't freeze on me, okay, Kennedy?"

"I'll do my best," he huffs. "Just a few minutes, I'm serious. Wake me up if you need anything."

Leon sleeps through the night at your side.

You stay pressed against him with your gun in one hand, ready and willing to do whatever you have to to keep him safe. To get both of you home.

Something has changed. The place in your heart where he lives has shifted, softened, and grown. He is, you now know, essential to you. As fundamental as the blood in your veins, the air in your lungs.

Maybe everything has changed.

That's a problem for later. After you get him to the extraction point, after you see him to medical, after you write up your report and put this mission behind you.

MISSION: GREECE, ELIMINATION OF B.O.W.s AND CAPTURE OF SOURCE

You don't think Leon sleeps for the three days you're in Greece.

It's hard to tell. You feel well-rested each time he wakes you for your watch, which means he lets you sleep too long. And when you take over, he doesn't look like he's sleeping. It's not the soft, relaxed face you now know so well. He's just lying there, waiting for morning to come.

It must be nightmares. You just wish he would try.

The mission itself ends up being kind of fun. Greece is beautiful. Vibrant blue water and endless sky, picturesque beaches and a monastery with the most beautiful stained glass windows you've ever seen. You want to explore properly, to wander the streets for fun, not with a gun in your hand.

The island population evacuated before you arrived, so all you have to do is find the mad scientist billionaire living in the catacombs making B.O.W.s, and kill as many of them as you can on your way.

Bats with tentacles and lizards with thousands of teeth where you wouldn't expect teeth to be. 

Easy, right?

Except for the fact that you have to chase them up and down so, so many stairs.

And Leon falls down most of them.

Thanks to his body armor, he's only a little battered. His ego is probably more bruised than his skin.

But the whole thing takes a lot out of him when combined with how little rest he gets.

You apprehend the billionaire and send him off in his chopper. Your own extraction is quick after that, even if you have to basically haul Leon into the bird. He slumps next to you with a bleary-eyed fist bump.

The island is still below when Leon falls asleep. You turn to say something to him, to see why he's leaning on you with his full weight, only to find his eyes closed and his breathing even.

Just like that.

No nightmares.

Truthfully, this is why you wanted him to just try to sleep. But how would you say that? How would you tell him that you think his body knows he's safe with you just as much as his mind does? That he trusts you so deeply?

It is in this moment that you let yourself think it.

You love him.

Maybe this was inevitable. He's the best man you've ever known. You trust him with your life on a regular basis, and he returns that trust tenfold. You've washed his blood from your skin, relied on his steady aim in the heat of a fight, leaned into his warmth in the darkest, most terrifying places on earth.

Now that you've thought it, there's no going back.

There's no doing anything about it, either. It's too complicated.

Maybe he loves you. You're not sure. It doesn't matter, anyway. You'd never ask him to give more of himself to you. He gives everything to the world already. You won't be another person who takes from him.

So this? A successful mission, the weight of him settled firmly at your side, both of you alive and mostly well? This might be enough.

Leon turns his head so his face is pressed into your shoulder, his hair tickling your jawline. You let yourself lean into him, resting your cheek on the top of his head.

You make each other feel safe. Is that not love?

MISSION: U.S.A., AQUISITION OF ANTIVIRAL MATERIALS

It's too late.

You both know it the moment you arrive.

The pale door stands alone in the middle of the New Mexico desert, almost invisible among the hills of pristine white dunes unless you’re looking right at it. Just as the briefing said it would. A lab hidden from the DSO, from lingering Umbrella hostiles, from everyone. A lab working on antivirals of all kinds, invaluable resources that would be disastrous in the wrong hands.

But the door hangs open.

"Shit," Leon mutters, drawing his weapon. "Looks like we're late to the party."

You follow him through the door and down the stairs. The power isn't out, but the lights flicker when you walk under them like they want to hide whatever awaits you.

It's more bare bones than anything you've seen before. No lobby, no desk. No security room, no floor map. Just a corridor at the bottom of the stairs and doors on either side, all pushed open.

Glass litters the floor, as do crumpled wet papers. There is a sharp chemical smell in the air. You know in your gut that the antivirals are gone.

"No people," you whisper. "No corpses."

Leon nods, face grim. He knows what's gone on here just as well as you do. Whatever small operation was functioning before today is dead to the world. It’ll be a miracle to get any good intel from this place.

"We need to check every room anyway," he tells you.

But before you can start a sweep, someone coughs. It's so unexpected that you both twist on the spot and aim your guns in the direction of the noise.

"Is anyone alive down here?" Leon calls. "We're here to help."

Not entirely true per your mission, but Leon is always here to help. And where he goes, you go.

The coughing stops.

With a quick glance at him, you lead the way down the hall to the door you're pretty sure the survivor – god, you hope it’s a survivor – is in.

The closer you get, the more you hear it -- someone is crying.

The room ends up being an office, small and ransacked. Two people lean against one of the overturned desks.

A man and a woman, the latter crying softly into her hands. They're partners of some kind. You can tell right away. They occupy each other’s space in a way that feels familiar to you, that triggers a deep sense of horror once you put the pieces together. 

These are two people who love each other, and there is no other place they'd rather be, even at the end.

The man has his arm around her, but you can see his face.

He's infected. Not gone yet, but well on the way. Black veins run up his neck into his hairline. If the woman raised her head, you'd undoubtedly see the same.

You glance at Leon, but he's already looking at you, having reached the same conclusion.

"You work here?" Leon asks.

"I'm sorry," the woman mutters wetly. "I'm sorry, we didn't know they would come, we didn't know --"

"What happened?" you press.

"It's all gone," the man snaps. He barely spares you a glance. "Can't you tell? They took it all."

"The antivirals," Leon fills in.

The woman looks up. She doesn't have long left. Minutes, maybe. Her speech is slurred, and her eyes are cloudy, the whites of them spiderwebbed black. You don’t even know if she can see you.

"They... threw a gas grenade down the stairs and... then destroyed it all," she says. "We could hear them smashing vials while we were..."

The woman begins to cough, droplets of blood spraying the ground under her as she heaves. 

It splatters over her wedding ring. Fuck. You were right.

"Shh, Mack," the man tells her. "Don't talk."

She doesn't listen. "Simon," she manages to say, "The files, I--"

The man -- Simon -- rubs at her back until she pushes him away.

“I’m not leaving you,” he says. “Don’t ask me to.”

The words hang in the air. You can hear your own voice saying them back in Nepal.

"Please," she begs.

You take a small step towards Leon.

"What's she talking about?" he says. 

There's no tremor in his voice, but you can hear his horror, his rage. Neither of you can stop what’s happening here.

Simon gets to his knees and reaches for a drawer in the overturned desk. Using a key, or a combination, you're not sure which, he opens a secret compartment with a hushed snick.

And pulls out a stack of files.

"There's no time for us," Simon tells you, holding them out in a shaking hand. The veins in his forearms are steadily turning black. "But you can make more with these. We thought this might happen someday." He glances at his wife and the blood dripping down her chin. "Not like this."

Leon seems frozen in place. It's the worst-case scenario. Two people trying to do good who become victims, casualties, and there's nothing you can do to save them.

You surge forward to take the files. Simon collapses back beside Mack.

"Can we do anything?" you offer.

"Yes," Mack gurgles. "End it."

It's an ask that gives you pause, even after all of your time as an agent. You've killed many B.O.W.s by this point, and your fair share of human beings. It comes with the job. 

It keeps you up at night.

But could you kill someone like this, because they asked you to? To spare them the indignity of turning into a monster?

Leon saves you from deciding. He hands over his gun, and Simon takes it with wide eyes.

"We'll wait," Leon says. His words are shot through with regret. "Outside."

He turns on his heel before the pair can say anything. You think it might kill him to hear a thank you for this.

There's no choice but to follow. You don't want to be here for what comes next, nor should you. 

You shut the office door behind you and find Leon standing in the hall, arms crossed and back pressed against the wall. His eyes are on the floor.

What is there to say?

You stand next to him, shoulders brushing.

And you wait. And wait. And wait.

What does it feel like to die? To sit beside the person you love most as it happens? To be the one who kills them, who ends their suffering? To be the one who keeps them human, in the end. Could you bear that burden?

It's hard not to glance at Leon. For him, maybe you could. For him, you sometimes think you could do anything.

The first gunshot makes you both inhale sharply.

The second, only moments later, is an exhale.

Leon looks up from the floor and catches your gaze. He looks so young and so tired. You're missing something, something big that's making this harder for him. It settles over his shoulders and drags them down.

He heads back to the office and you follow. Of course you follow.

You won't make him do this alone.

The two of you stand in front of the closed door and breathe. It feels like before and after, like there's no coming back from whatever this is.

You squeeze Leon's shoulder.

He reaches for the knob.

The debrief back at base is awful and takes forever. The mission was technically a failure, since you didn't actually get the antivirals, but the files will help immensely. When you're finally done, you amble out of the windowless room into the hall and find Leon waiting for you.

He looks as exhausted as you feel, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He's showered and changed into stuff he keeps around for long nights post-mission, dark sweatpants and a hoodie. He looks soft but weary.

"Hey," he says, straightening up. "You okay?"

You offer him a small smile. "Define okay."

"Yeah, fair enough," he says. He runs a hand through his damp hair. "That was fucked up."

"Yeah." You step a little closer. "Are you okay?"

Leon tilts his head to the side, eyes on your face but not seeing you, not really. He's seeing whatever ghosts are haunting him about this.

"I will be."

"Leon," you say, without knowing what will come next. Just to say his name, to bring him back to this moment. It works, refocusing him, drawing him back to you. You both saw something horrible today. You can feel it in the air -- you can see his distress, the way he's carrying this differently than most other horrible shit you do in this job. It's weighing on him.

"I don't want to be alone right now," you say. It’s no lie, but it’s also disguising what you really want to do – take care of him. After what you saw, you don’t want to leave him alone. "Do you want to come over?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies you. You try not to squirm. Maybe it's plain as day on your face how concerned you are. Maybe he can see your care for him as easily as you feel it.

"Okay," he says.

It's not that unfamiliar. He's been over a few times when you've been injured over the course of your partnership thus far, dropped things off while you recovered. He even made soup once.

So when you're standing in your kitchen, each holding a sweating glass of water, it's not discomfort you're feeling. If someone asked, you'd say he looks at home in his soft clothes and socked feet, bags under his eyes. More relaxed than before, at least.

"Should we talk about it?" you say.

Leon sighs. "Do you want to?"

No, not really. But the pain in their voices, the horror on Leon's face. The way those two people, utter strangers to you, loved each other in the midst of this fucked up world of viruses and vaccines and corporations that you all find yourselves in. In the face of death, till the very end.

Here, in the safety of your kitchen, looking at the man you love, you think about telling him how you feel. It makes your heart feel like an open wound. You imagine it, what you'd do for him. What you suspect he'd do for you. 

Would it scare him away? How far you would go to save him?

"Not really," you admit. "But it might make us feel better. That shit was nightmare fuel. Not that we need any more of those."

Leon huffs. You still need to shower and change, but this is important. You hop up on your counter. He leans against the cabinets across from you.

"Thank you," he says. "For taking the lead back there. For talking to them."

You wouldn't describe it as such, but you don't say so. You've heard this tone from him a few times before. It's like he's somewhere else.

And he is.

"Did it remind you of something from Raccoon City?" you ask carefully. Not because you think he'll be mad, but because he deserves some care.

You've gotten bits and pieces from him about that day over the course of your partnership. You know how he carries it with him, how his entire life as an agent started there, with the people he lost, the things he saw. You often think about him as a rookie police officer standing as tall as he could against a crumbling city, against threats he couldn't even begin to understand.

You'll never know that Leon, but loving this one means you love him, too.

"Yeah," he replies. He sets the water glass on the counter and crosses his arms. "There was this man who owned a gun shop," he says. "Kendo. He was upset and scared. He told me I was supposed to know something about how it all happened because I was a cop."

The smile on his face is a bitter one. You don't like it, so different from the ones he saves for you.

"I didn't even know how little I knew, at that point," he says. "We're talking to him, and then his daughter stumbles into the shop from the back room. Emma."

You can see where this is going.

"Was she...?" you ask.

Leon nods. "It was too late. He told us to leave them alone and took her back to the room. And then we heard one gunshot. Didn't stick around to hear a second."

You breathe out. "That's...wow."

"A lot of innocent people died that night," he says. "And those scientists today -- Simon and Mack -- they were involved more than Kendo and his daughter, sure. But they were doing good, working against bioweapons. And they died for it."

He says it with resignation, with exhaustion. You know he'll never forget their names. Never forget that he couldn't save them.

"Like us," you tell him. Leon looks confused. "We're doing that, too," you continue. "And we'd die for it, right?”

For each other, you don't say.

He holds your gaze, then nods. “Yeah,” he says. "Don't get any ideas, though."

You smile at him even though his words are serious. "Okay, Kennedy."

Leon stands and holds out his hand for your glass. Your fingers brush in the exchange.

"You know," he says, turning to put it in the sink. "This was nightmare fuel, but I never have nightmares when you're around."

If asked, you'd say it's a strategic move not to face you. Giving you space to figure out how you want to respond.

The perpetual knot of feelings in your chest twists tighter. All those hours he's slept by your side while you watched over him, all those nights without a bad dream, it all sits heavy in your throat. How much it means to you that he trusts you, that he feels safe next to you.

"Really?" you ask, softly. Pretending not to have come to this conclusion yourself. "I'm glad."

Leon turns, blue eyes finding yours once again. He's told you this for a reason, but now that it's out there, you don't know what to do with it. If he feels the same way, if you are similarly essential to him, then what do you even do about it? What would change?

You're too raw for it right now. So you hold his gaze, but hop down from the counter.

"I'm going to shower," you tell him. "Help yourself to anything in the -- well, anything. You know where it all is."

There's no disappointment from him, no deflation. Just solid patience. Leon Kennedy, immovable object. Living weapon. Love itself.

"Take your time," he says.

When you come back, clean and comfortable, Leon isn't in the kitchen.

You find him asleep on the couch.

His face is turned into the pillow, one leg hanging off the side like he hadn't meant to close his eyes, but it happened anyway. It's like telling you the story about Kendo has lifted a weight from him, and he's exhausted from the memories.

All of it -- the entire mission, really -- just shows you what you already know. He trusts you, he feels safe with you. Maybe it's even more than that.

But tonight isn't for dwelling on that. It's for the two of you, safe and together for another day, to rest. Filled with gratitude for that, you brush his hair back from his face as carefully as you can before draping a blanket over him.

When you wake, you're curled up in the chair next to the couch with the same blanket draped over you.

MISSION: DATA NOT AVAILABLE

You usually tell people you like writing reports. It's not as exciting as actually going on missions, sure, but there's something satisfying about looking back on everything you did and explaining it, picking it apart for details and errors and good choices.

Maybe because you and Leon are good agents, which makes your mission reports much easier to write. But this one is taking you forever. And Leon is no help.

The mission, well. 

The mission went utterly sideways. You almost died. Infected with a mystery fever virus and no antivirals to be found, part of you really thought it was the end. That Leon was going to have to watch you turn and kill you.

But he saved you. He saved you by doing the unimaginable -- putting his body on the line for yours. With yours.

And you lived.

And now you know how he feels. How you both feel.

It doesn't mean he's helpful in writing the report, though.

You banished him to your bedroom nearly an hour ago because he was being too distracting. Without his quips and the temptation to touch him every five seconds, you're finally done.

"Sorry to whoever has to read that," you mutter, shutting your laptop. It's almost dinner time. 

"Leon?" you call.

Nothing.

You stand and stretch, the hem of your t-shirt -- it might be his, you're not sure -- riding up a little. Maybe he's got his headphones on.

There's evidence of him all over your place now. His jacket over the barstool, his boots by the door. Two books he wants you to read are stacked on the table, his gym water bottle is in the drying rack. But it's more than that. You know he's here. It's a strange feeling, the safety that comes with that knowledge. Like everything makes a bit more sense, your world righted just so.

You worried before that exposing your feelings would affect your partnership in the field, but you know now that you passed the threshold of a normal relationship a long time ago. You will do whatever it takes for Leon to be okay. It was true then, and it's true now. It's the light that guides your path, the direction your compass points towards. Him, always him.

You find Leon in the bedroom. He's in your bed, shoulders sinking deep into your pillows. A book you got him balanced on his chest, spine cracked.

He's asleep.

He looks younger this way, like he always does, jaw relaxed and brow smooth. His face is turned into the pillow like he's chasing your imprint on it from this morning, echoing the way he’s always aware of your presence when he’s awake. Orbiting you, filling the space you leave him, the answer to every question you’ve ever had.

You just stand there and look because you can. This man who loves you, who protects you, who trusts you. He's given you everything. His mind, his body, his heart, without hesitation. You would have happily spent the rest of your life watching over him, keeping him safe, having his back, and asking nothing in return.

But he loves you.

You sit on the edge of the bed and know he wakes immediately, but he allows you to pull the book from his torso, mark his page, and set it on the nightstand.

"Can I join you?" you whisper.

Leon opens his eyes and smiles easily, a delicate pull up of his mouth at both sides.

"Please do," he says, voice a little rough from his nap. "Mm, come here."

He sinks even further down into the pillows and holds out his arm. You go happily, your head on his shoulder and your leg over his hips.

Leon presses his lips to your hairline and inhales.

"How's the book?" you ask. His heart beats steadily under your palm.

"Good," he says. "Just thought I'd catch a few minutes. It smells so good in here. Smells like 

you."

He says shit like this all the time, now. It always takes your breath away.

"Well, it's my bed," you remind him. He just hums and closes his eyes again. He drags his fingers up and down your arm.

It's a revelation to touch him like this. You never get enough of it, how solid yet pliant he is under your hands. How many times have you wondered what it would be like to do exactly this?

"Can I hold you?" you ask, trying not to sound too shy.

Icy blue reappears between his long lashes.

"Sure," he says. He sounds amused but fond. "Are we sleeping?"

We, always we. Always in step with you, always ready to follow wherever you’re going. 

"For a little."

Leon turns onto his side, showing you his back. You curl yourself around him, puzzle pieces finally back where they belong. Your knee slides between his and his arm rests over yours where it's slung across his torso.

"You okay?" he murmurs.

He might not feel it, but you press your lips to his shoulder blade.

"Yeah," you say. "You?"

Leon squeezes your hand.

"Doesn't get much better than this," he tells you.

You can feel his heartbeat through his back, feel every breath in and out as you match it to your own.

Breathless laughter. You run a hand through your wet hair. "Trust me, it did. Gosh."

This older gentleman is Suguru Geto, your boyfriend of nearly one year. He lives five hours away by car, in an rural town surrounded by thick clusters of cypress and cedar trees, far from the hustle and bustle of the city you've settled down to study in. You met him there on a trip with your friends, and the rest is history. He's the best boyfriend you've had to date: caring and patient, supportive but comfortable in redirecting you when you need it. Obscenely handsome. Obviously. Your age difference was never an issue, because Suguru is always transparent with you, and never treads around speaking candidly.

The single downside is how far he is.

(Of course, the issue came up early. Suguru has roots where he's at. History. A stable line of work. He knows all of the locals by name, is well-loved by all of them. Between the two of you, it's obvious who'd be expected to move. 

Except you don't like that. You don't like that it has to be you, that you'd have to build your life around his just because he's older. 

And neither does he. So, at least for the time being, you're at a standstill.)

But now, he's right in front of you. Greeting you with a sunny smile, smelling lightly of oakwood incense and coconut oil, looking better than ever. Hair tied into a half up-half down bun, white threads gleaming silver in between the ink-black. He never believes you when you tell him they're sexy. Age wears him perfectly.

Hunger stirs in your gut.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he murmurs, leaving a kiss below your ear that really, really isn't helping his case. You're gonna eat him up. "I know you've been stressed lately… I was hoping I could keep you company tonight."

"Why are you apologizing?" you huff. "This was the best thing I could have come back to."

The corners of his eyes soften. They're dog-like, adoring, taking you in. Seconds pass without him speaking. You share a long, weighty look, the patter of rainfall crescendoing behind you: the summer shower is only getting worse. 

"Let's go inside," you hasten, tugging at his bicep. Fishing for keys in your front pocket. 

Your boyfriend follows, cluelessly.

As soon as the door closes behind you, a dull thud echoing down the hall— you pounce. Wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him down to your lips, sticky chapstick tethering you together when you mash them against his. A noise of surprise rasps in his throat, muffled against your mouth, but he's quick to catch himself; falling into your rhythm, parting his lips when you nudge at the seam of them, tongues gliding together in a sloppy, heated waltz. He tastes of pocket mints and need. An arm sneaks around your waist, hefty fingers dipping underneath your shirt to caress the dip of your lower back, causing your trembling frame to press closer. This ache in your chest feels like it'll never go away. Missing him, wanting him, drinking the oxygen straight from his lungs. Both the umbrella and plastic bag clatter on the doormat. 

Your breaths mingle in the dark corner.

When you have to pull away, slack-jawed and doe-eyed, you're met with his swollen lips and molten expression, honey-brown eyes hot with desire. He looks like he could eat you alive like this: cornered, taking a shallow, quiet breath. His cheeks dusted pink with peach fuzz.

But he maintains his composure.

(Age has made him patient, you think. He's always been good at holding back with you. Sometimes it makes you want to push and prod at that part of him— just to see how he'd react. If you could hit on something. Wear him out. He is weak to you; that much you're sure of.)

"… Oh, baby," he's breathless as he speaks, reaching down to pick the plastic bag off the floor. "I almost forgot to give you these."

Inside it is a blue bouquet, hydrangeas paired with clusters of baby's breath. The syrupy scent of rainy season sticks to their petals. He hands them to you with a sweet smile, all-together unfitted for the animalistic need you feel right now, tongue heady with the taste of his saliva, but it still makes your heart bleed. Your boyfriend is something of a flower buff: because of that, you know what they represent. You know about the story of the emperor who gave hydrangeas to his neglected lover, in apology, in repetance. You understand what he's trying to say.

Suguru doesn't just talk to you in words. He speaks to you in actions, expressions, even bouquets. That's part of why you love him. You don't have to look hard to see his care for you.

"… They suit you," he compliments, watching them find home in your arms. 

"Thank you, baby." You give him a kiss on the cheek, struggling not to grin at how pleased he looks. "I'll put them up by the window."

"Good idea. They'll look perfect there."

"Did you bring them from home?"

"I didn't," he shakes his head. "The temple is practically overgrown with them, though. I could have bought a bouquet from Mrs Satsuko, but I didn't want to risk them wilting during the drive. They're sensitive flowers, you know."

"Huh. Are they?"

"Yes." He smiles. "They need cool air and moisture. It's why they bloom so vibrantly when the weather gets like this."

Curiously, you look at the bundle of blossoms in your arms: their petals shaped like fallen stars, the colour of an evening sky. Sucking on a quiet hum. "I'll take good care of them."

…

Silence settles. Then tension returns, even stronger than before— impossible to resist. You bat your lashes, closing in like a coyote.

"Now," you purr. "Where were we?"

Suguru's throat bobs. It's the only tell you get into how much he's holding back, otherwise the picture of composure, your saliva still sticking to his bottom lip. "… Where indeed," he croons. Pulling you closer, and closer, letting you tug him away as you stumble to your bedroom.

Everything else can wait. You need him now. The rest of the world will sort itself out.

You end up straddling his lap, clutching onto his broad shoulders, panties pooled around your ankles as you sink down on his cock. Suguru likes to prepare you thoroughly, with his fingers and tongue and dollops of lube,but the need between your thighs is too great for that kind of patience. He lets you go at the pace you like best. Trusting you to know your limits. The fullness is a comfort, familiar, as much as it strains your pussy to take him to the root— nudging the line of too much, too fast.

Still, you can't help but want all of it. So you take every inch, carefully, from the bulbous head to the curved middle, waiting until you're relaxed enough to sit down fully. Once you've planted yourself on his lap, you pause to take a deep, steadying breath. The stretch burns. Your head spins. Suguru leans in to lick up the drool at the corner of your lip. He's got his palms on either side of your hips, tethering you to the sweltering need between your bodies. 

"Take your time, little one," he murmurs.

It encourages you, if anything.

You start to move. 

He guides you seamlessly, steadily, up and down his condom-clad cock— he slipped it on before you could protest, firm in his choice, more careful with you than you sometimes think is necessary— lips drawn taut around a silent moan. You want to stick your fingers down his throat and pull it out, but you suppose you'll have to do it with your hips instead. "Good girl," he praises, palms slipping underneath your thighs. "You look so beautiful like this." 

The smooth, baritone cords of his voice make you dizzyingly wet: head spinning, slick sticking to his pubes, your feet planted on the mattress to support your pace. Up, down. Up, down. Suguru's thickness is there to welcome you every time, mushroom tip smearing kisses at your cervix. Up, and down. 

A whimper splits your lips.

"I can tell you missed it," he sighs, holding you close, breathing down the side of your neck. It jolts through your fluttering pussy. Something embarrassing scratches at your chest, but you swallow it back down, digging your nails into his shoulders. "You're working it so sloppy."

Knowing him, he means it as a compliment, but it makes your neck burn terribly. He must feel the heat at your cheeks. With a sharp inhale, you flick his hands off your body, sinking down harshly just to hear his breath hitch. You squeeze around him, pointedly.

"Just… lay back," you pant. "No more talking."

Without protest, he does as you say; elbows cushioning his fall, biceps straining deliciously under your watchful gaze. His body is lethal. Firm and muscular, yet softened by age, perfect for resting your head against on days where your thoughts are too turbulent to carry. He hums, eyes flickering with something not quite amused, but endeared, like watching you ride him so desperately is cute to him. It makes you wanna tug at his roots and make him yelp. 

(… Actually, why don't you?)

"Ah—" he sucks on a sharp noise, caught halfway between a moan and a wince, his grip on the sheets tightening like a snare. Desperate, just like you. You watch his throat jump, rosy lips falling open as you get a good grip on his silky black locks, pulling just the way he likes. "Oh, I missed you. I missed you so much, baby." 

Almost unconsciously, you speed up. Raising your hips, then sinking down, using his hair as leverage. The rhythm grows sharper, more purposeful, smacking his pelvis every time you spear yourself open around him. Plap, plap, plap. Sparks firing through your nerve-ends. His balls feel firm underneath you, heavy. 

"A little harder," he encourages, giving your thigh a tender— needy— pat. "I can take it."

"Don't… be greedy," you chastise, out of breath, flushed with heat and trembling. It's a struggle not to stumble on your words; all you're focused on is fucking him, working his cock until you're satisfied. So hungry for him that you feel it like a knot in your stomach. But you listen, tugging harsher, moving your entire body with every loud, slick bounce on his lower abdomen, legs straining with the tempo you've set. 

"Good girl," he moans. There it is. Whatever triumph you feel evaporates under the heat of his hands, coming back to cup your hips, not guiding, only resting. You think of chastising him, but all that leaves your lips is half-whimper, half-whine. "Look at you…"

For a while, he lets you use him. Laid down like a meal with hearts in his eyes, breath hitching around sinful, broken noises, muscles tense and coiled. He reminds you of a tiger. Broad, sharp-eyed, lying in wait. What would that make you— a house cat? Needy and in heat? Playing with his cock like it's yours.

(It is, he told you once. He'd tell you again if you asked. There's no shame there— never was. Only yours. You can have it any time, honey.)

Eventually, when your hips slow to a sluggish grind, exhausted by the effort, the tides begin to shift. Violently, a boat rocked sideways. The band of his patience snaps, your chest pulled flush against his own; his cock pumping in and out of you with steady rolls of his hips, lovingly firm, knocking the mewls out of your mouth. You're being cherished— you know that— but it's intense, sweaty skin slipping against sweaty skin, his pulse thundering through your body, hot like a furnace. Intense enough to make you want to run from it, even though it's all you've been dreaming of for the last two weeks. 

Not that you could— even through the fog in your head and need in your belly, you understand that. Suguru is just as pent up as you are. You're staying right here until you're tuckered out and boneless, no ifs or buts about it. The promise is unsaid, but you feel it in the hold he's got on your body. He's not as harmless as he seems. Not when you need something of him and he's promised to deliver.

Only when you're shaking and writhing around him, wetting his abs with your come, does he focus on his own orgasm. Using you harshly, yet lovingly still, dragging you over his cock. He makes little noise when he gets there, flooding the condom with sticky batches of warmth that you can still feel through the latex, panting at your ear while his palm rubs down your back, like you’re the one coming undone.

Then he lifts you off his lap. Sweat dripping down his brow, a drunken haze over his eyes, fingers hooked against your ribcage. 

"I need to taste you," he pants. Eyes dark with greed, pupils overblown. Gone is the control he keeps such a tight hold of. "On your back, baby."

Your heart beats hotly, foreboding twisting in your belly. Thighs sticking together with slick. Breath stuck in your throat. You almost want to ask for a break, but he's already tied his hair up.

Quietly, you swallow.

He's nowhere near satisfied, is he?

After hours of being ravaged, made love to, held and taken apart and put together again— your bodies finally run out of fuel. 

You're tended to with steady hands, every touch intentional, familiar with the process: cleaned in the shower as you drift in and out of consciousness, floating somewhere underneath the blank slate of your mind, then made to drink from a water bottle to soothe your worn throat. Wrecked. Wrung dry. Cunt buzzing like a livewire. The culprit walks into your bedroom with a hot plate of food, wearing an expression so content you'd think he just came back from a week-long excursion to a hot spring. 

Shameless. Stupidly sexy.

"Can't feel my legs," you whine, sprawled out on the mattress, tucked in like a child. Stretching out your sore limbs with a groan. "God, I needed this."

Warm, rumbling laughter. Suguru walks over to your bedside, wearing nothing but his boxers and a cardigan he'd left behind in your closet, hickies sucked into his neck and collarbone. Your canvas. Sunset kisses smudging skin. "I'm glad to hear it," he croons. "Here you are. Make sure to clean your plate, alright?"

Suguru leans towards quick, easy cooking for your aftercare. This time it's fried rice with plenty of vegetables and thin slices of meat, cooked a perfect golden brown, smelling of sesame oil, soy sauce and ginger paste. Your weary hands reach for it, bringing it to rest on your chest. Warmth spreads through the blanket he wrapped around your shoulders.

"Ahhh—" you sigh, scooping up a pile of rice with the spoon he gave you. "I love you."

One of his palms brush against your cheek, eyes bright with satisfaction. Delighting when you lean into the touch. "I love you too, baby."

Without having to tell him to, Suguru crawls under the covers beside you. Offering his shoulder as a headrest while you eat. The room is coated in a thin sheen of shadow, only lit up by a half-broken lamp by the windowsill. It lulls your mind into a state of docile fatigue. Your body grows softer with every bite, entirely limp once he takes the plate off your hands and puts it on the nightstand. This security is what you like best. Sex with Suguru is mind-breaking in many ways, but this is the most staggering. How ready he is to hold you when it's over, even though he's nearly as tired as you are.

Badump, badump.

Your ear at his heartbeat. His palms at your back, arms around your waist, securing you against him— a shipwreck to his shore. There's nowhere else you'd rather be. Boneless in your boyfriend's embrace, aching terribly between your legs, but only in good ways. Quietly, a pitter-patter rattles at your windowpane, smattering against the glass. 

The world outside your apartment is just as it should be. It's a comfort to listen to, bleeding into the mantra of Suguru's steady pulse.

"When are you leaving?"

He shifts above you, planting a gentle kiss between your brows. It makes your lashes flutter shut. "Not anytime soon," he promises. His voice barely-there, as if he's terrified of startling you. You believe him. "Go to sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up."

…

"Hey, Suguru," you whisper, feeling your mind sink into slumber. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"… Yes, my love."

You nose at his pulsepoint. Burying yourself in him. Murmuring, beneath your breath:

"I missed you."

Suguru stills. His wandering hands, his doting lips, even his rhythmic heartbeat. Before he can respond, your mind grows dull and quiet.

“I can handle it tonight.” He said.

“It’s just some cooking. Trust me, I’ve been through worse things on the job, a recipe will be a piece of cake!” He said.

Boy, what did Leon dig himself into?

He would always watch you when you cooked. You make it look so easy, making him memorized as you chop ingredients and turn to cabinets, stoves, and the sink with what seemed as perfected ease. Even though he would look on over your shoulder with his arms around your waist with a soft smile, enjoying the domesticity in it all, on the inside, he would always feel bad about you always cooking every time the two of you would have a date night in. Leon wanted to treat you for all the love you give him, and he wants to do it right.

Except, it isn’t going right at this moment.

He knew he shouldn’t go too far ahead of himself when choosing the dish for the night. A simple chicken alfredo: classic, but always delicious. As he looked online on his home computer for recipes, his mind got stuck on the idea of making homemade pasta instead of the boxed, premade option. While there is nothing wrong with using it, maybe he can make you swoon with his pasta made by hand. It couldn’t be too difficult, it is only made with eggs, flour, and a pinch of salt.

Now he is staring at the pile of what should be noodles laying on his cutting board as the kitchen is surrounded by flour.

They sure don’t look like your traditional mix of soft doughy goodness that can be coated perfectly with any sauce you mix it in. It currently looks like really thick cuts of dry cheese. Leon even brought a pasta roller machine and it still didn’t look like the one in the recipe he printed out. Thousands of thoughts are rushing through his head. Is this pasta too thick? Should he start over? His mind then remembers about the alfredo sauce currently running on the stove and his head snaps to see it is still just simmering. Okay, good.

Leon decides to clear his mind by going to wash his hands that are caked with dried up pasta dough. Everything is fine, he tells himself. Maybe he can just reuse the same pasta and shape it again. He’ll cut it by hand this time and maybe it’ll end up better looking- wait, is that smoke?

His nose picks up on that bitter aroma, and as he follows it, his sights lands back on that pan of alfredo sauce. Instead of that creamy, cheesy liquid gold, it’s in flames.

“Oh fuck-”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Exhaustion settled deep into your bones as you reached Leon’s apartment level. Work was not kind to you today, and right now, you just want to pull Leon onto the couch with you and use him as a heated weighted blanket and sleep the body pain off.

Just thinking of Leon brought a soft smile to your face. He said he will take over dinner for date night tonight, making you feel all giddy inside. Leon has cooked for you before, well, has made you eggs on toast… a turkey sandwich… Okay, this is the first time he is making you a decent meal according to him. It’s not like he is lazy, he admitted to you that he isn’t too confident in his cooking skills, but thinks he has prepared enough to conquer it this time around. You accept his offer with a chuckle and a kiss to the cheek, which made his posture strengthen with delight and a newfound assurance.

You stand in front of his door, putting the spare key he has given you into the lock. You swear you can smell the drool-worthy scent of whatever meal he conjured up with already as you push the door open until-

“Oh fuck-”

Well, this was not the sight you were expecting.

Leon looked shocked from the sink as a pan from the stove across from him was set ablaze. Your panic mode immediately sets in as you rush in, not bothering to shut the door behind you, grabbing a washcloth and then the pan, bringing it under the running faucet Leon was still next to. The pot sizzles into a light grey haze as you turn to look at your boyfriend.

“Is everything alright?” You ask, your heart pounding in your chest as you look him up and down for any injuries.

“It is now,” he responds as he looks at the pan still in your hand, a slight quirk on his left brow. The alarm in the room settles as you put the pan down into the sink, sighing out in relief.

“Good,” you wheeze as you look around the kitchen. It’s a total mess, with ingredients scattered about, all dusted with flour. Your eyes then meet the cutting board on the counter, seeing what is practically playdough on its very floured surface. “What were you trying to make?”

“It was supposed to be a chicken alfredo,” Leon starts, walking to the front door to close it from earlier. “But it all sorta got out of hand.”

You look after him as he turns back to you. He tries to lighten the situation with a smile, but you can see the sad puppy look right through him. You then spot the packet of the recipe he was using next to the cutting board and approach it.

“I don’t know where it went wrong,” he started to rant. You flipped through the pages, your heart melting more with each flip. “The pasta feels nothing like how the recipe says it should feel, much less looks like it does in the photos. And I swore the alfredo sauce was just fine a second ago, but I look away for one second and it decides it’s a good time to light up.”

Leon wanted to make everything from scratch. The recipe spoke for him that he wanted to put in every ounce of work needed to create you a lovely, warm dish. Now here he is, feeling like he ruined the entire night. You smile as you put the packet down and look at him, confusion running through his face.

“You’re way too good for me.” You walk towards Leon, throwing your arms over his shoulders as you peck the tip of his nose. He hesitantly wraps his arms around your waist, and from this close, you can see swipes of flour on his forehead, probably from trying to move the bangs from his face.

“And you got that from what basically is flavorless taffy on a board and burnt milk?” He asked, which you giggle at as you wipe the flour from his face before pressing another kiss.

“Yeah. Despite in your head you think you have nothing to give me right now, you have shown me that you want to work hard to please me. To me, that’s enough.” Leon looks down to you, awestruck at your words as if you’re a philosopher.

“And this?” You say as you motion around the kitchen. “Is fixable. Don’t think this date night is all ruined, we can make this work.”

Leon huffs out a breath, and you don’t know whether it’s a laugh or a sigh. He stuffs your head into your neck, pressing a soft kiss. “This is why I love you. You’re always here for me at my best and worst.”

“Of course, where would you be without me?” You quip as you lean back to look at him.

“Miserable and face first in some cold Chinese takeout,” He pouts dramatically. You both burst out laughing together until his awkwardly fades out. “At least I didn’t touch the chicken yet…”

“Perfect, the rest we can remake together.” You say as you go to remove your coat, moving to the front door to hang it. “Clean up the counters and the pan and we will get right to it.”

“Yes ma’am.” He says as he goes to follow your instruction.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

You and Leon lean back in your seats as you finish demolishing your feast of the night. You managed to make the chicken alfredo and make some mini cheesecakes, all over some glasses of red wine. This date turned out to be more eventful, but fun than originally planned. You enjoyed getting to teach Leon how to make the pasta and the sauce. He followed your motions with enthusiasm, asked to check in every once in a while, and took in every note with a nod. You kept catching his brows furrow every time he got focused, it was cute. Don’t even get started when you both finally sat down to eat a little after 8pm. He moaned at the first bite and cleared his plate within minutes.

You both went to settle at the living room couch after changing into some comfier clothes, some television programmed movie playing in the background. You laid on top of Leon as his hands rested on your back, his thumb rubbing circles on your side as you both mindlessly stared at the TV. At some point, you felt a pair of eyes on you and you turned to look at Leon. His attention wasn’t on the TV anymore, but instead on you.

“What? Got something on my face?” You ask teasingly. Leon brought one of his hands from your back and traced down your nose lovingly.

“No, just appreciatin’ you,” he said softly as he kept taking you in. You bashed under his stare, but he then cupped the side of your face to have you look at him. He then slowly leans in to press a firm kiss on your lips. He then leans back, but you then move forward, chasing for more. He gives you a couple more kisses, all gentle and innocent until you both move away for some breath.

“I had fun tonight,” you said after a beat. “We should have cooking lessons more often.”

“Anything you want to do, I’m in. As long as it’s with you.” He responded, his words soaked in adoration for you.

You smile and hide in his chest for a bit. You move your head to the side, listening in on his heartbeat. “Then let's go skydiving one day.”

“Like I said, if that's what my love wants, we’ll do it.” You both then softly giggling together before settling back into that comfortable silence from before.

“Y’know, I’m kinda in the mood for dessert,” Leon points out a minute later. You turn to him with your eyes squinted in suspicion.

“Leon, we just had some.”

“We can always make room for more,” he replied as his grip on your lower back tightens.

END NOTES: Leon is either a really good cook or a bad one, there's no in between. But, for the sake of this fic, we will go with the latter. I hope you liked this entry and as always, thank you for reading!!<33

TAGLIST: @nocturnalstar, @kennedysbbyy (Let me know in the comments below if you want to be tagged in this celebration's fics!!)

13 DAYS OF LEON KENNEDY: 100 FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION

LEON S. KENNEDY MASTERLIST

REQUEST GUIDELINES

Once a week, you write Leon love letters. You made it a routine after telling him you loved him for the first time, in the dark of your living room after a heated makeout session. You had told him you loved him, that you were in love with him and it scared you that you were only a little over a year into your relationship and you felt like this, but he had said it back quickly, had cupped your face and smiled so wide it looked like it had ached.

Afterward, when he went to answer the delivery at your front door, you had scribbled a little note, ily with a heart under it and had stuffed it in his jacket pocket. The next day he had called you, saying that finding the love letter had been the highlight of his morning.

That was nearly six months ago, and it was a routine you both loved.

You rarely kept it the same, leaving love letters in his cup holder or under his keys. Beside his tooth brush or tucked into his shoes. You liked to change it up, to keep the surprise going, and Leon loved every bit of it.

You also changed what you wrote. Sometimes they were silly, little doodles of hearts and clouds and flowers with fluffy words. Other times they were bone deep, your affection for him rooted in words you struggled to say aloud.

Now as you stare at the blank paper, your mind goes the same; blank. Nothing newly astounding had happened, nothing that needed extra tenderness, but you wanted to do this for him all the same.

You tap the pen against your lip, frowning at the paper. No grand moments to write about, no first kiss anniversary, no “I'm so proud of you” for passing a test or landing a new job. Just… him. Your Leon. The one who leaves his socks in weird places and hums off-key in the shower and always remembers your coffee order.

A small smile tugs at your mouth.

You grab another sheet, crinkled notebook paper, and start drawing: tiny stick figures holding hands under a lopsided sun with rays like fireworks. One has blonde hair, spiky, messy. The other wears glasses, round frames slightly askew. Above them: “Good morning my favorite cop. Thank you for coming home every night.”

Folding it, you press your lips to the paper and slip it inside his lunch box before standing to grab your own mug of coffee. You’re halfway through with it when Leon stumbles into the kitchen, his uniform crisp but his eyes bleary, a little sleep ridden.

“Well hello sleepy head,” you laugh, putting down your mug. “Sure you’re awake?”

Leon blinks at you like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time, hair sticking up in three different directions. He shuffles forward barefoot, uniform perfectly ironed but clearly slept on, his tie a little loose and one button undone.

“Mmm… morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. Without missing a beat, he leans down and kisses you right on the lips. A soft one, slow and sweet despite how half-asleep he looks. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes slowly focusing now that coffee scent is hitting him full force.

“I’m awake,” he lies through a yawn before reaching past you to grab your mug, not his, and taking a long sip of your coffee like it belongs to him too, which you supposed it does. “I’m up.”

“Sure you are,” you giggle as you study him, and reach up to flatten his hair. “I made your lunch and coffee, it’s on the counter.”

That quiet little joy flashes across his face, the one that only shows when you do something small but so meaningful to him. He turns toward the counter, still cradling your coffee mug like a lifeline.

He sees the thermos first, steam faintly rising, and picks it up, twisting off the lid to sniff. Black coffee. Just how he likes it. No sugar. Then he spots his lunchbox, the bright blue one with dog bones printed on the sides, a gift from you after adopting Rover. His chest tightens just looking at it.

Setting both items down, Leon turns back to you. In two strides, arms are around your waist and pulling you into another kiss, this time deeper, as if every morning could start like this forever.

You hum against him, eyes fluttering shut faintly. He tastes like his tooth paste and your coffee and if his job wasn’t so important you’d ask him to stay.

“You’re going to be late.” You murmur, lips parting as you speak and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue along your bottom lip.

He does, a teasing brush of his tongue that sends warmth blooming down your neck. Leon’s never been in a hurry with you. Even when he should be rushing, like now, uniform half-tied and badge still hanging loose on its lanyard, he lingers.

But the clock ticks.

A distant part of him knows this: patrol shift starts at 7:30 sharp. Chief Daniels has already given him one warning about tardiness after last month’s rain delay, not that it was his fault.

Still, he nips gently at your lip before pulling back just enough to rest his nose against yours again, breathing you in like oxygen.

“I hate mornings,” he whispers hoarsely, and then steals one more kiss because screw punctuality for thirty seconds. “When I have to leave you.”

“But you come back.” You reply and grin, your hand cupping the back of his neck to play with the blonde hair there. “I have to get ready for work too.”

He steps away from your hold, grabbing his keys and coffee in one hand and his lunch box in the other. “See you tonight?”

You nod as you follow him to the front door, placing your hand on the knob. “Should be back by five.”

“I’ll see you at five then.” Leon’s grin is boyish as you open the door, holding it for him. He dips down, kissing you once and you inhale him, the pressure of his mouth on yours like clouds.

Leon steps out first, boots hitting the porch with a quiet thud. He turns back just once before heading to his squad car, a black-and-white RPD cruiser parked at the curb, and gives you that smile. That Leon smile: bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners, hair messy from your fingers.

He raises his coffee in a silent toast to you as he walks away.

You watch him go, the way he adjusts his vest strap while walking like it's second nature now after months on patrol duty; how carefully he places both items into their designated spots inside that pristine vehicle; even how neatly folded down those stupid little air fresheners hang from rearview mirrors, you teased him for putting one up.

When he reverses you give him a little wave and vaguely through the glass you can see him wave back. As you close the door, you realize you’re grinning, again. You always seem to be when it comes to him.

Rinsing out your coffee cup, you stare out the sink window, wondering when he’ll find the note, and wondering if it’ll make him smile. You smile to yourself at the thought.

-

Leon sips from the lip of his mug carefully as he turns into the station before throwing the car into park. Twisting his neck to stretch, he gets out, gathering his items before walking in. He’s greeted by his coworkers and he nods to them, his hair bouncing with the movement before he makes it to his locker. When he opens it, he takes in the picture of you and him on Fourth of July, a sparkler in your hand and a grin on your face. It’s infectious, the way you look when you’re happy.

He places his keys on the hook before opening his lunch box to survey the contents. A sandwich, probably ham, a yogurt and a bag of nuts, with a disposable spoon tucked in the corner.

There’s another item tucked into the side though, and he fingers the paper before pulling it out.

The note is slightly crumpled from being wedged beside the yogurt, but carefully folded, neat creases like you took time with it. Leon’s breath hitches just a little.

He recognizes your handwriting immediately: that loopy G in ‘Good morning,’ the heart-shaped dot over the i.

His fingers smooth out the paper as he unfolds it, and there they are, the stick figures under their wonky sun. He stares at them for a solid five seconds, lips parting into that soft expression you exude from him.

One of his fellow officers passes by and gives him a knowing look. “Love letter?”

Leon doesn’t even snap back or play it cool like usual, he just nods once, quietly proud about something so simple as his girlfriend loving him enough to draw silly hearts on paper every week.

He tucks it gently into his breast pocket, right over where his badge sits, and closes up his lunchbox with new energy, and a grin pulling at his mouth.

x

Divider @pixopix 

AO3 link

Leon K taglist: @yours-truly-andrea @causeofmykoophoria

Leon Kennedy ML

● Like I said, he'd talk you through it. He loves talking to you through intimacy, and he doesn't even need you to reply.

​"Tell me what you need. Speak up, let me hear it."

​"Look at me. You're doing perfect."

​"Yeah? You like that? Thought you said you weren't going to let me win that easily."

​"Can't even find your words right now, hm? That's a first for you."

● He doesn't let you cover your face or hide in general. He'd say something like, "Don't hide from me now. I want to see exactly how you look when I touch you like this"

● He gets into this weird habit of treating your body parts like separate entities. If he’s trying to move your legs, he won't look at your face. He’ll tap your knee gently, and murmur a very dry, barely audible, "'scuse me..." as if he's politely asking a stranger on a crowded sidewalk to step aside.

● When you're in control, again, he doesn't shut up. He wants you to know that he completely trusts you to hold all the weight for a while.

​"You look absolutely incredible looking down at me like that..."

​"You have no idea what you do to me."

​"Guide my hands... where do you want them?"

● If you were into degradation, he'd be willing to try it with you. He usually doesn't force his words. They just come out naturally, which makes them 10× more effective. But, I don't think he'd be into anything extremely mocking or degrading. Just a very average amount, I feel like.

"Look at how worked up you get just from me looking at you. You really are pathetic for me, sweetheart."

"Look at you, barely able to keep your eyes open and chasing after my hand like a needy little thing. You really can't help yourself, can you?"

● He constantly narrates exactly how you're reacting to him. He isn't guessing how you feel, he's actively reading your body language like a map and reflecting it back to you.

"Oh, so now you're being shy? Pretty sure it's a bit late for that, sweetheart."

​"You always turn your face away right when you get flustered. Don't do that. Let me look at you."

​"Every time I slow down, you completely shift to match me. Look at how you're leaning into it, sweetheart. You're letting me guide your entire pace right now."

● He loves really lazy morning sex, and it's when he's at his most vulnerable. It's a certain point in his day where he's not performing or being a protector for anyone, and his most honest, unguarded words come out.

"I love you so much. More than you'll ever know. I can't even put it into words."

"You're so fucking perfect. I don't understand it."

"You've saved me in so many ways just by existing. I don't know what I'd do without you."

● If you were ever insecure about any part of your body during intimacy, he shuts it down immediately. Not just to make you feel better, but because he's genuinely confused at your feelings as he loves that part of you so much. He doesn't just say "you're beautiful" or just tells you that he loves that part of you. He makes you feel genuinely worth.

"There isn't a single version of you that isn't completely worth having, through every single flaw and every good day."

​"Hey. Look at me. You're way too hard on yourself. You don't have to be flawless to be incredible and sexy, which you are, you know?"

​"Don't hide from me. Please."

● He loves talking to you during sex, as you know very well, but sometimes he gets so caught up in the pleasure that he stops for a bit, and all you're left with are his groans and moans and occasional whimpers when he really likes something you do. The only words that escape him when he gets like that are breathless curses or your name when he gasps it like a lifeline. Sometimes followed by the occasional, ragged "please," whether you're in control or not. It just escapes him every single time.