DSO - Archives

Bite Down

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x Reader Setting: RE9 AU - City Under Siege Word count: ~2.7k

Premise: Reader is a civilian field medic scavenging supplies in an abandoned pharmacy when they find Leon S. Kennedy bleeding out from a deep side wound.

Warnings: graphic injury, blood, wound packing, medical trauma, pain

You find him by accident.

The pharmacy on Krovnik Street is supposed to be empty. BSAA swept it three hours ago. You’re only here because command’s triage unit got overrun and you ran out of gauze, antibiotics, anything that clots blood. Civilian medics don’t get supply drops. You get desperation.

You’re reaching for a box of sutures when you hear it — a breath. Not infected. Too controlled. Too human. Too pained.

Your flashlight cuts across the aisle.

Leon S. Kennedy is braced against the prescription counter, one hand clamped over his side, the other holding his 1911 so tight his knuckles are white. Blood runs between his fingers, black in the dim light. His face is gray under the grime.

He sees you and his whole body goes rigid. The gun doesn’t raise. That’s how you know it’s bad.

“Civilian,” he says. Voice low. Flat. A warning. “Turn around. Walk out.”

You should. Infected track sound. Gunfire brings hordes. Talking brings hordes. And a bleeding DSO agent is basically a dinner bell.

Instead, you drop your scavenged bag and hold your hands up. Empty. Non-threatening. “I’m medical,” you whisper. So quiet it’s barely breath. “St. Vittoria General. Let me see.”

“Negative,” he breathes back. “I’m fine.”

Liar. The blood pooling under his boot says otherwise.

A sound scrapes outside — concrete on concrete. Dragging feet. One of them. Close.

Leon’s eyes snap to the door, then back to you. His jaw works. Don’t, that look says. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move. Don’t get yourself killed because I was stupid.

You move anyway.

You cross the tile in three steps and drop to your knees in front of him, staying below the window line. He sucks in a sharp breath when you peel his hand away from his side.

“Shhh,” you breathe instantly, your free hand coming up to cup his jaw. Thumb brushing his cheekbone, feather-light. “I know it hurts. I know. But you have to stay quiet for me, okay? Can you do that, Leon?”

Using his name does something to him. His eyes blow wide. His whole body shudders. No one uses his name in the field. It’s always Agent, Kennedy, sir.

His hand grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just... stopping you. His eyes are blazing and guilty and furious all at once.

“You need to go,” he mouths. No sound. “I’ll draw them off.”

“You can’t walk,” you mouth back.

“I can crawl.”

“Shhh,” you say again, softer this time. The sound barely exists. You lean in, your forehead almost touching his. “No more talking. No more playing hero. Just breathe for me. Through your nose. Slow.”

You ignore his protest. Cut his shirt with the trauma shears from your belt. The gash is deep, ugly, still bleeding. Missed his kidney by an inch. Lucky bastard.

Another scrape outside. Closer. A wet inhale against the glass.

Leon’s hand moves from your wrist to your mouth, covering it. His palm is rough, smells like gunpowder and copper. His eyes are screaming quiet.

You nod against his hand. Then you take his wrist gently, pull his hand from your mouth, and press it to your chest instead. Right over your heart. Feel that? your eyes say. I’m alive. Because of you. So let me keep you alive too.

“Shhh,” you mouth, your own hand coming back to his face. You stroke his temple with your thumb. “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”

He shudders again. Bigger this time. His head tips into your touch before he can stop it. Like he can’t help it. Like he needs it.

You work. You don’t have light, but you have muscle memory from the first 24 hours of the outbreak. Bottled water. The last of the antiseptic.

When the antiseptic hits the open wound, he squirms. Can’t help it. His hips twitch, back arching half an inch off the cabinet. A tiny, punched-out sound escapes him before he slams his teeth together.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” you’re there instantly, your hand sliding into his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. “I know, baby, I know it burns. You’re okay. You’re doing so good. Just keep it down for me.”

Baby. The word slips out. You don’t take it back.

His eyes fly open. Wet. Glassy with pain. And something else — something wrecked and softening. He makes another sound. Not quite a whimper. Not quite a whine. Something broken in the back of his throat that he tries to swallow.

“Hey,” you whisper, so soft it’s just air. You shift, using your body to block him from the window, curling over him. “Look at me. Just at me. Not the wound. Not the door. Me.”

His eyes drag open. Blue, blown-out, and locked on you.

“Good,” you praise, barely audible. Your thumb sweeps under his eye, catching a tear before it can fall. “So good, Leon. You’re doing so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. The sound is tiny and gutted and he hates himself for it — you see it in the way his face twists, shame and pain and relief all tangled up.

“Shhh, no,” you murmur, cupping his face with both hands now. “Don’t you do that. Don’t be ashamed. You hear me? There’s nothing wrong with hurting.” Your thumbs stroke his cheeks. “Let me hear you. Just quiet. Just for me.”

When you have to pack the wound, his whole body tries to squirm away. Instinct. His knees come up, his boots scraping tile. He’s trying to curl in on himself, trying to get away from the pain, and he can’t.

“Leon, hey, shhh, shhh,” you catch his face, force him to look at you. “I need you to bite down for me, okay? Bite down and squeeze my hand. Don’t make a sound. You can do that. I know you can.”

You press your other hand into his, lacing your fingers. He clamps down so hard you think your bones might bruise. You don’t care.

You pack the gauze. His whole body locks, then squirms again, a full-body tremor he can’t control. A soft, wounded noise slips out — high, helpless. He slaps his free hand over his own mouth, eyes squeezing shut in horror.

“Oh, baby,” you breathe, heart breaking. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your hands never leaving him. One in his hair, one holding his hand. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. Shhh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He’s shaking. Full-on trembling now. The tough DSO agent, the Raccoon City survivor, whimpering into his own palm while you hold him together.

“It hurts,” he chokes out. So quiet. So small. Like he’s admitting to a crime. “God, it—”

“I know,” you shush him, stroking his hair, your lips brushing his temple with every word. “I know it does, sweetheart. You’re so strong. So strong for me. Almost done. I promise. Almost done. Just keep breathing. Keep being quiet for me.”

He nods frantically against your forehead. Tries. Fails. Another soft, broken sound escapes him when you put pressure on the bandage. He turns his face into your neck, hiding, his breath hot and shaky against your skin.

“Shhh, shhh, that’s it,” you soothe, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back. “Let it out. Just like that. Quiet. Good boy. You’re such a good boy for me, Leon.”

He melts. Actually melts into you. All that tension, all that guilt, all that “I have to be strong” just… gives. His arm comes around your waist, clutching you to him like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. He’s still trying to be silent, but the little whimpers, the hitched breaths — he can’t stop them anymore.

And you don’t want him to. Not when he’s finally letting you help.

You finish. Tape. Done.

The glass door rattles. The infected is right outside now. You can see its silhouette. Head tilted. Listening.

Leon’s gun is up, aimed at the door. But his other arm drags you into his chest and down behind the counter. His body is a cage around yours — warm, shaking, solid. He buries his face in your hair, and you feel him trembling.

“Shhh,” you breathe into the collar of his vest, one hand sliding up his back in slow, steady circles, the other carding through his hair. “Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just hold me. I’m right here. You’re safe. I’m not leaving you.”

He makes a sound against you — half sob, half whimper — and bites down on your jacket to muffle it. His shoulders shake.

“Shhh, I know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple. Just one. Just barely there. “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Leon.”

One second. Five. Ten.

The silhouette drags away. A siren wails three blocks over and the thing shambles toward the noise.

You don’t exhale until the sound is gone. Leon doesn’t either. When he finally does, it’s shaky. Broken. He doesn’t lift his head from your shoulder.

“Stupid,” he breathes. The first real sound he’s made. It’s wrecked. Wet. “You’re so damn stupid. Could’ve died.”

“Shhh,” you say, but this time it’s different. Softer. No coaxing, just comfort. Your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, holding him to you. “So could you. You were gonna bleed out in a pharmacy, Agent Kennedy.”

He makes a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. “Better me than—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, fingers tightening in his hair just a little. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. Not when I just got you quiet.”

His arms tighten. For a second, you think he’s going to argue. But he just presses his face into your neck and whimpers again. Quiet. Exhausted. Safe.

“You shouldn’t have risked it,” he murmurs. Guilt coats every syllable. “I’m not worth—”

“Shhh.” You pull back just enough to see his face. Your thumb swipes under his eye, catching tears. You don’t comment. You just kiss his forehead, soft and slow. “You are to me. So shut up and let me save your life, sweetheart.”

He goes still. Then, slowly, his forehead knocks against yours. His eyes are red-rimmed, ruined, and fixed on you like you hung the moon.

“Thank you,” he mouths.

“How bad is it?” he asks, voice barely there. Finally admitting it.

“Bad enough that you’re not walking out of here alone,” you tell him, your hand sliding down to squeeze his. “So bite down, Kennedy. And when I say move, you move. Quiet. For me. Can you do that?”

He stares at you. Then, impossibly, his mouth quirks. Small. Real. Broken and beautiful.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, and his voice shakes.

How To Hold A Soldier

Pairing: Leon Kennedy × Reader

Summary: He walks through your door pretending he’s bulletproof. You make him human again.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of blood/injury, aftermath of violence, crying, emotional vulnerability, caretaking. No smut.

The door doesn’t slam. Leon never slams the door.

It clicks shut behind him, soft as a trigger pull. You hear his keys, his vest, his sidearm hit the table in that order. Ritual. Then nothing.

He’s just standing in your living room.

You find him there, still in his boots. Still wearing three days of blood and failure like a second skin. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s scabbed over. A split lip. His hands are curled into fists at his sides because if he relaxes them, they’ll shake.

“Baby.” The word falls out of you.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t.” His voice is shot. “Don’t baby me. I’m fine.”

You’re his girl. You know that’s a lie. You know it the way you know your own name.

So you make it hard for him to keep lying.

You walk to him. Slow. No sudden moves. He’s a live wire. One wrong twitch and he’ll bolt or shut down completely. You stop when your toes almost touch his. Close enough to smell gunpowder and copper on him.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then prove it. Look at me and tell me you’re fine.”

He can’t.

His breath hitches. That’s all it takes — you asking him to meet your eyes. His whole body locks up, bracing against the sob he won’t let out. Because Leon Kennedy doesn’t cry. Not in front of anyone. Not even you. Especially not you.

That’s the rule he made up.

You’re about to break it.

You lift your hand. Give him time to pull away. He doesn’t. So you cup his cheek. Your thumb finds that cut above his brow, skims it so light he gasps.

“Leon,” you say, soft like you’re talking to a spooked animal. “My brave boy. You don’t have to be fine here.”

And that’s it.

That’s the thing that undoes him. Not the blood. Not the mission. Your voice calling him yours.

A tear slips. Just one. He scrubs at it angry, like it betrayed him. “Stop it. Please.”

“No.” You catch his wrist. Kiss his knuckles. One, two, three. Little presses of your lips against skin that’s scraped raw. “I’m not gonna stop loving you. Not even when you’re like this.”

His knees almost buckle.

You guide him to the bathroom. He goes because he can’t do anything else. You sit him on the closed toilet lid. Kneel between his legs to work his boots off. His head is bowed. You can hear him trying to breathe normal. Failing.

The second boot thumps to the tile. You don’t stand. You look up at him from the floor, hands on his thighs.

“You’re safe,” you tell him. “I’m not gonna let anything hurt you tonight. Not even yourself.”

He makes a noise. Wrecked. Wet. His hand flies up to cover his mouth like he can shove the sound back in.

You crawl up. Into his lap. Straddle his thighs and wrap your arms around his neck and hold. He’s stiff for half a second. Then he breaks.

He folds into you. Face in your neck. Big, silent shakes wracking through him. No sobs. Leon doesn’t get sobs. He gets these quiet, devastating tremors while baby tears soak into your shirt.

“That’s it,” you murmur into his hair. “Let me have it. I can take it.” You rock him, slight. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

You make it impossible for him not to cry. Every point of contact is deliberate. Your nails scraping gently at the nape of his neck. Your lips in his hair. The way you whisper “you’re home, you’re home, you’re home” like it’s a prayer.

He cries harder.

When he can breathe again, you start the water.

“Up,” you coax. “I need to get you clean, love.

He lets you undress him. There’s no heat in it. Just care. You peel the Henley off and catalog the new bruises. Kiss each one. His ribs. His collarbone. The scar on his shoulder from Nanan that never faded right.

“Stop,” he whispers, but he’s leaning into your mouth.

“Never.” You press one last kiss to his sternum, right over his heart. “Get in.”

The tub is deep. The water’s hot enough to turn his skin pink. He sinks into it with a hiss, then a sigh that sounds like it was dragged out of his soul.

You don’t give him space. You grab a washcloth and kneel behind the tub.

“Head back for me.”

He obeys. Eyes closed. Throat exposed. Trusting you with all the soft parts of him.

This is where you wreck him, carefully.

Warm water first. You pour it over his hair, slow. Watch the blood and dirt swirl down the drain. Then your fingers. Shampoo, lather, massage. You dig your thumbs into the base of his skull where he carries everything. Small circles. Then harder. He makes a sound — not quite a moan, not quite a cry.

“Hurts?” you ask.

“Don’t stop,” he chokes out.

You don’t. You work down. His neck, his shoulders. The knots there are years old. You use the heel of your hand, the flat of your knuckles. He’s crying again. Quiet tears mixing with bathwater. Because no one touches him like this. Like he’s worth the effort.

“Tilt.” You guide his head. Rinse. Repeat with conditioner.

Your hands never leave him. When you wash his chest, it’s with the washcloth first, then your palm. Broad strokes. Over his heart. Over the scar tissue. You drop a kiss to his wet shoulder every thirty seconds, just to remind him you’re there.

“I can do it,” he mumbles. Weak protest.

“I know,” you say. “But you don’t have to.” You take his hand. Lace your fingers. Bring it to your lips. “Let me.”

You wash each finger. Under the nails. Around the calluses. These hands that have killed and saved and held you — you treat them like they’re made of glass. He watches you, tears still falling, like he can’t believe you’re real.

You move to his back. He leans forward, forehead on his knees, and you take the opportunity to press your mouth to his spine. One kiss for every vertebra.

“You come back to me,” you whisper against his skin. “You always come back to me. Do you know how strong that makes you?”

A full-body shudder. He turns, blind, and finds your face. Cups it with wet, pruned hands.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes.

“Don’t be.” You kiss his palms. “Not to me. Never to me.”

By the time the water’s lukewarm, he’s wrung out. Empty in the good way. You drain the tub. Wrap him in a towel yourself. Pat him dry like he’s something precious. Because he is.

He’s yours.

In bed, he’s still shaky. You pull the covers up and slide in behind him. Chest to his back. One arm around his waist, hand splayed over his stomach. Your lips find the back of his neck.

“Sleep,” you tell him. “I’m right here.”

His hand covers yours. Squeezes.

He sleeps.

Not the twitchy, gun-under-the-pillow sleep he usually does. Real sleep. Deep. His face finally, finally slack against your arm.

One of his hands stays fisted in your shirt. Like even unconscious, he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You won’t.

You press a kiss to his hair and whisper it into the dark: “I’ve got you.”

After The Echo

Fandom: Resident Evil

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major Character Death (child), Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Death, PTSD, Blood, No Comfort

Pairing: None / Gen

Characters: Leon S. Kennedy, Minor OC (infected girl)

Word Count: ∼850

The engine ticked as it cooled.

Leon Kennedy sat on the hood of the government SUV and let the rain have him.

Mission complete. Threat neutralized. Civilian casualties: one.

DRUGS. The neon sign across the street buzzed. PRESCRIPTIONS. Flickered.

A car rolled past, slow. The driver didn’t look at him. Smart.

He kicked his heel against the tire. Once. Hard. The pain cut through the static.

It played behind his eyes. Every time he blinked.

The church. The dust. The light coming through the broken stained glass in blades.

She’d been under the pew. Eight. Maybe nine. Muddy dress. Bare feet.

Not breathing. Not until she heard his boots.

She came out running. Arms out. “Mister?”

Like he was help. Like he was safe.

Her eyes were wrong. Yellow. Milky. The veins black, spidering up her neck.

She’d been crying. The tears were red.

“Please,” she said. “It hurts.”

Her voice was still a kid’s. Small. Broken.

Then it wasn’t.

The sound she made — low, rattling — it wasn’t human. Her spine bowed. Joints popped. Mouth opening too wide.

Leon didn’t raise his gun. Not yet.

He went to one knee. Met her at eye level, the way you do with a spooked animal. With a kid.

“Hey,” he said. Soft. Calm. The voice he used when Hunnigan was panicking in his ear. The voice that wasn’t Agent Kennedy. “It’s okay. I got you.”

She shuddered. Red tears cut tracks through the dirt on her face. “Mister?” she asked again. Quieter. Like she was asking him to make it stop.

He nodded.

And with his left hand, gentle, he turned her head. So she wouldn’t see.

So she’d look at the colored light on the floor instead of the barrel.

“I got you,” he said again.

Then he put her down.

One shot.

Clean.

Professional.

The sound it made when she hit the floor wasn’t.

It was small. Like a dropped book. Like nothing that should haunt a man.

But it did. It would.

Leon dragged a hand down his face on the hood of the car. Water. Just water.

He could still feel it. The weight of her skull against his palm. How light she was. How her hair was matted. How she went slack before she hit the ground.

He’d stayed there too long. Kneeling in the dust. Gun still up. Listening to the silence after.

“Shit,” Leon said to the empty street. The word came out rusted.

He remembered Raccoon City. A different girl. A different church. Sherry, clutching his hand. “Don’t leave me.”

He didn’t.

This one, he did.

He had to.

That was the job.

The job didn’t follow you home. Except it did. It sat in your passenger seat. Rode shotgun. Asked Mister? every time the engine turned over.

Leon tipped his head back. Let the rain hit his eyes, his mouth. It tasted like metal and cordite and the inside of that church.

He thought about the safehouse. Beers in the fridge. A bed that didn’t get slept in. A gun safe that got opened more than the front door.

Home.

The word was a joke.

He pushed off the hood. His boots hit the wet asphalt. The sound echoed.

Move. Drive. File the report. Be Agent Kennedy.

Agent Kennedy didn’t flinch. Agent Kennedy didn’t carry ghosts. Agent Kennedy put little girls down and went back for the next one.

Leon did. Leon carried all of them.

So Leon stayed in the rain.

He looked at the empty passenger seat through the window.

For a second, he could see her. Not yellow-eyed. Not wrong. Just a kid. Bare feet tucked up. Asking if they were almost home.

“Sorry,” he told the empty seat. Quiet. Raw.

The rain took the words.

His phone was dark. No light on. No one waiting up.

No Mister? that he could answer this time.

Except in his head. It was there. In the tick of the engine. In the buzz of the neon.

Mister?

Mister?

Mister?

Leon closed his eyes. Pressed his forehead to the cold roof of the car.

Just for a second. Just to make it stop.

Then he straightened up. Rolled his shoulders back. Wiped his face.

He got in the car.

He didn’t go home.

He drove.

Because there was nowhere else for Agent Kennedy to go.

Right Here Rosie Bear

Summary:

Rose is 4 and calling for Ethan in her nightmares. Ethan’s gone. Chris isn’t.

Warnings:

Implied Character Death [Ethan Winters], Child Grief, Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort

Pairing:

Chris Redfield & Rose Winters [Found Family, Dad/Daughter]

2:33 AM.

“Dada? Dada, where are you?”

Little voice. Scared. Lost. Not screaming — searching.

Chris is through her door in three steps. Knees hit carpet. Hands on the bedrail.

Rose is sitting up. Eyes wide, still half in the dream. Tears already coming. Reaching for empty air.

“Dada? Dada, it’s dark. Come get me.”

Chris’s heart does the thing it always does when she says that name. Cracks. Then welds itself back stronger.

“Shhh, shhh, baby girl. I’m here. I’m right here.”

She blinks at him. Confused. Lost. “No. Want my Dada. Where’s Dada Ethan?”

There it is. The name. The ghost in the room.

Chris takes her hands. So tiny in his. Voice goes soft. So soft. The voice no one at the DSO has ever heard.

“Baby… Dada Ethan… he ain’t here, sweetpea.” He says it plain. No grown-up words. No ‘passed.’ “He’s dead, Rosie-bear. He can’t come back. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her face crumples. “No. No no no. Want Dada. Want Dada now!”

She starts to cry for real. Big, hiccupy, 4-year-old sobs.

Chris scoops her up. Holds her tight to his chest. His shirt’s damp in seconds.

“I know, baby. I know you want him. I want him here too. So bad. But he can’t, honey. He can’t.”

“Why?” She wails it. “Why he leave me?”

“He didn’t leave you, Rosie. Never. He went away to keep you safe. That was his big, important job. And he did it. ‘Cause he loved you more than anything.”

She clutches his shirt. “But I’m scared. Want Dada.”

Chris rocks her. Back and forth. Back and forth. Kisses her hair.

“I know, baby girl. I know. But listen to me.” He pulls back, just enough to look at her. Wipes her tears with his thumb. So gentle. “Dada Ethan ain’t here. But Dada Chris is. Right here. Right now.”

He taps her chest, over her heart. Then his. “He’s in here. And I’m here. And I ain’t going nowhere.”

“Promise?” Baby voice. Broken. Hopeful.

Chris presses his forehead to hers. “Promise, Rosie-bear. Big Dada promise. I’m here. Now. Tomorrow. All the tomorrows. You got me.”

She sniffles. Thinks about that real hard. “You… you my Dada too?”

The air leaves his lungs.

“Yeah, baby.” His voice breaks. He doesn’t hide it. “Yeah. I’m your Dada too. If you want me.”

She considers. Then nods. Wraps her arms around his neck. “Okay. You Dada now. Both Dadas.”

Chris holds her tighter. Closes his eyes. “Both Dadas,” he whispers. “That’s right, sweetheart. Both.”

Leon’s at the door. He’s been there. He doesn’t say anything. Just gives Chris a nod. You did it.

Rose is already calming. Exhaustion and safety taking over.

“Dada?” she mumbles.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Stay?”

Chris lies down with her. Big guy in a tiny bed. She curls into his side like she belongs there.

“Dada’s not going anywhere,” he whispers. “Not ever.”

And for the first time since the nightmare started, she sleeps without reaching for a ghost.

Because Dada’s here.

Now.

Counting Tiles

Leon Kennedy x Rookie Reader

Rating: T | Warnings: Panic Attack, Descriptions of Infected/Confined Spaces, Aftermath of Violence | Word count: ∼2.3k

Tags: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attack, Grounding, Protective Leon, Rookie Agent, Field Partners, DSO, No Smut, Emotional Support Federal Agent

The lab’s backup generator stutters, coughs, and dies.

For half a second, the world goes true black. The kind of dark that lives underground, where the walls sweat and nothing’s seen daylight in years.

Then the red emergency lights bleed in. Thin. Weak. They paint the hallway in infection and bad memories.

Somewhere in the vents above you, something drags. Wet. Slow. A rhythm without breath.

Your own breath catches.

Leon’s two steps ahead, silhouette cut out of red and shadow, focused on the keypad by the sealed door. The soft blue glow of it cuts his jawline sharp. “Almost got it,” he murmurs. He doesn’t look back. He trusts you to have his six. “Thirty seconds. Just need it to—”

You try to answer. To say copy.

Can’t.

The air won’t go in right. It’s coming too fast, too shallow, sawing at your throat but not making it to your lungs where you need it. Your vision narrows to the pinprick of red light at the end of the hall. The one that’s too far away.

Your gun is up. Muscle memory. But your arms are shaking so bad you couldn’t hit the wall if you tried. Your finger is nowhere near the trigger. Good. Small mercies.

Not now. Not here. Not in front of him.

You’ve trained for this. Simulators, paper targets, instructors yelling. None of it covered the sound. The smell — antiseptic and rot and old blood baked into the vents. None of it covered the way your own body could turn on you faster than any B.O.W.

“Rookie?”

Leon’s voice is closer now. You didn’t hear him move. He’s quiet when he wants to be. That should terrify you. Right now, it doesn’t.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t startle you. Doesn’t bark an order that would shatter what little hold you have left. He just shifts until he’s in your eyeline, crouching slightly so you’re not craning up at him, so he’s not towering.

His gun is lowered, pointed at the floor, finger off the trigger. Deliberate. Safe. All that sharp, tactical focus he uses to clear rooms, to calculate angles and survival rates, is on you now. Completely.

“Hey,” he says.

Quiet. Steady. Like still water at midnight. Like the first safe thing you’ve heard in hours.

“You’re with me. You’re safe.”

You shake your head. A jerky, involuntary no. Because that’s a lie. Not safe. Nothing’s safe. The door’s still locked and the thing in the vent is still moving and I can’t breathe I can’t—

Leon doesn’t argue with you. Doesn’t tell you to calm down. He just nods once, like he believes you. Like your fear is data, and he’s factoring it in.

“Okay,” he says. “Not safe yet. That’s fair. But I am here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He lifts his hand slowly, palm up, where you can see it in the red light. No sudden moves. An offering, not a demand. A question.

“Can I?”

You don’t know what he’s asking permission for. Your brain is white noise and bad radio. You nod anyway because it’s Leon and right now his voice is the only thing that isn’t trying to kill you.

His hand settles on your shoulder. Not grabbing. Not shaking. Just… there. Warm. Solid. Real. The weight of it grounds you through the tac vest, through the sweat-damp shirt underneath. His thumb presses once, gently, against the strap. Right over your collarbone. Where he can feel it — the frantic, hummingbird flutter of your pulse trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“Breathe with me,” he says. “Just that. Nothing else. The door, the mission, the thing in the vents — that’s all me now. That’s my job. Your job is air. Can you do that for me, rookie? Just air.”

You try. God, you try. It hitches halfway in. Catches like a snag in your throat. Your chest hurts. Burns.

“Good,” Leon murmurs.

Like you succeeded. Like that broken, half-breath was a victory.

“Again. In through your nose. Four counts. I’ll count. You just follow. One… two… three… four. Hold it. Hold… You’re okay. I’ve got you. And out. Slow. All the way out. I’m with you.”

You follow his voice because there’s nothing else. The hallway, the red light, the vent — it all goes fuzzy at the edges. He’s the only thing in focus.

His thumb moves against your vest in time with the counts. A quiet tap. One. Two. Three. Four. A metronome. A heartbeat that isn’t yours, so you can borrow it until yours remembers how.

“In… two, three, four. Hold… That’s it. Out… There you go. See? Still here. Still with me.”

The hallway swims back into focus. Inch by inch. The red lights aren’t so tight. The walls aren’t so close. The sound in the vents is still there, but it’s farther away. Or you are. Or maybe it doesn’t matter as much with his hand on your shoulder.

Leon’s eyes never leave yours. Blue, even in the red light. Impossibly calm. The kind of calm that’s seen worse than this and lived. The kind of calm that says you will too.

“Good. You’re doing good. Keep going. I’ve got point, I’ve got rear, I’ve got everything except your lungs. Those are yours. But I’ll count ‘em for you.”

Another breath. This one doesn’t snag. It goes down, all the way. Your shoulders drop half an inch. You didn’t realize you’d pulled them up to your ears.

The keypad behind him beeps. Sharp. Final. Green.

Door unlocked.

Leon doesn’t move. Doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t act like the mission just moved forward. Like your panic attack was an inconvenience. He just says, like it’s an afterthought, like he’s got all night:

“Door’s open. We’re good. You ready to move, or you need another minute?”

No judgment in it. No hurry up. No we don’t have time for this. Just the question. Asked like your answer is the only variable that matters. Like he’d wait here in this red-lit hell until you said go.

You suck in a breath. This one is yours. It fills your lungs. It doesn’t hurt. You nod. “M-move.” Your voice is wrecked. Scraped raw.

Leon nods back. Once. A confirmation. A heard you. He squeezes your shoulder, just once, before he lets go. The warmth lingers.

“On me, then,” he says. “Slow steps. I’ve got point. You watch the corners with me, yeah? Just like training.”

He turns, gun up, and steps through the door. But he doesn’t go far. He waits in the threshold, body angled so he can see both the new room and you. Glancing back until you’re moving too. Until you’re with him.

Making sure. Always making sure.

The room is clear. The mission gets done.

You don’t remember most of it. Flashes — Leon’s back, the steady line of it. His voice, low, in your earpiece: “Corner. Clear. You’re good. With me.” The weight of the sample case in your hand. The way he took point on every door, but never left you alone at rear.

You remember the debrief. Vaguely. You remember sitting very still while the DSO medic checked your vitals, Leon leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Not the medic. You.

“You’re dehydrated,” the medic says. “Adrenaline crash incoming. Eat something.”

You nod. Don’t move.

Leon does. He crosses the room, grabs a water bottle and a foil MRE packet from the table, and sets them down in front of you. Doesn’t say I told you so. Doesn’t say anything.

He just meets your eyes. And you hear it again, even though he doesn’t speak: You’re safe. I’ve got you.

You eat. Because he’s watching.

Hours later, back at the safehouse, the adrenaline is gone. In its place is a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion that feels like you’ve been hollowed out and left in the sun.

You shower. Change. Find your gear by your bunk, restocked by someone on quartermaster duty. Magazines. Knife. Clean shirt.

Water bottle. And a protein bar you don’t remember packing. Chocolate peanut butter. Your favorite, from the vending machine at HQ.

There’s a sticky note stuck to the wrapper.

Two words, in Leon’s slanted, messy handwriting. The kind of handwriting that comes from filling out forms with his non-dominant hand because his right was in a sling.

Count tiles.

No name. No signature. He doesn’t need one.

You don’t see him put it there. He never mentions the hallway. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not ever.

But on the next op, when the lights flicker in a different abandoned building, when the air gets too thick and your breath starts to go short, he falls back a step.

Just one.

Just enough to be in your peripheral vision. Just enough for you to see the set of his shoulders, the calm line of him. Just enough to remind you:

You’re with me.

You’re safe.

I’ve got point, I’ve got rear, I’ve got you.

And you breathe.

In for four. Hold. Out for four.

Count tiles.

You’re okay.

---

Let Them Hear

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Sexual Tension, Implied Sexual Content, Suggestive Situations, Mild Language, Zombie/Infected Violence Mentioned, Trauma Aftermath, Fade to Black

Tags: Leon Kennedy x Reader, Resident Evil, Safehouse AU, Post-Mission, Stress Relief, Sarcastic Leon, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Smut, No Explicit Details, DSO Agents, Horde Outside, Do Not Interact

Summary:

Mission failed. Motel room. Horde outside.

Leon’s exhausted, sarcastic, and watching you too close. You’re wired, stubborn, and done pretending this is professional.

The shutters won’t hold forever. Neither will your restraint.

Some nights you don’t talk through the trauma. You drown it out.

Minors Do Not Interact: 18+ only. Do not repost, reblog to discourse blogs, or use in AI datasets. Do not copy, translate, or reupload anywhere.

The safehouse is shit. One room, boarded windows, blood on the floor that isn’t yours. And the noise.

Infected. Dozens. Scraping at the metal shutters, moaning, hungry. The sound rattles your teeth.

Leon kicks the door shut behind you, throws the bolt. He’s bleeding from a cut on his temple, kevlar scratched to hell. You’re both breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pressing his back to the door, listening. “Whole damn horde followed us from the lab.”

He turns. Looks at you. Really looks. And his face changes.

Not soft. Never soft. But something dark. Hungry. Pissed off.

“You hear that?” He jerks his chin at the shutters. The moaning gets louder. A hand slams against the metal. You flinch.

“They know we’re in here,” he says, voice low. “They’re gonna keep screaming all night.” He steps toward you. “So we might as well give ’em something to scream about.”

Your go-bag hits the floor. He unzips it with his knife. Doesn’t ask. Dumps it.

Ammo. Gauze. And your toys.

Vibrator. Plug. Wand. Suction clit-sucker. Nipple clamps. All of it clatters onto the dusty mattress.

Leon goes still. Then he picks up the rabbit vibe. Turns it on. It screams over the infected.

He raises an eyebrow. “You bring a fucking air raid siren to a biohazard zone?” Sarcasm drips. “Christ. No wonder we got tailed. They heard this shit from three blocks over.”

You open your mouth. He points the buzzing vibe at you.

“Uh-uh. Save it.” He drops his pack. Starts unstrapping his gear. “You’re gonna be real loud tonight, sweetheart. Only difference is, I’m gonna be the reason.”

The infected slam the shutters again. BANG. You jump.

Leon smirks. “Scared?” He steps into your space, backs you against the wall. “Good. Means you’ll scream louder for me. Drown ’em out.”

His hand’s on your throat. Not choking. Claiming.

“You packed all this,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your pulse, “and you didn’t think I’d use it? On you?”

He grabs the metal plug. Holds it up. “Start with this. Since you’re so fucking full of surprises.”

You’re shaking. Not from fear. From want. From the noise outside and the noise he’s about to make you.

“Strip,” he orders. “Or I’ll cut ’em off. And I’m not in a careful mood.”

You fumble. He watches. Unimpressed.

“Jesus,” he drawls. “Takes you longer to get naked than it does to clear a room. Pathetic. Hurry up before I change my mind and make you beg in your gear.”

Clothes hit the floor. You’re naked. Panting. The infected are howling now.

Leon drinks you in. Then he shoves you toward the bed. “Hands and knees. Ass up. Let’s see if you can be louder than them.”

You go. He lubes the plug with two fingers, slicking you open, crude and fast.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he says, but it’s not a compliment. It’s an observation. “Gonna be worse when I’m done with you.”

He pushes. The plug’s cold. Big. It burns going in. You gasp, loud.

A chorus of moans answers from outside.

Leon barks a laugh. “Hear that? They like it. Think you’re one of them.” He seats the plug with a shove. You cry out.

He slaps your ass. Hard. “Louder.” Smack. “I said louder, agent. Make ’em jealous.”

Wand’s next. He slams it against your cunt, full power. You scream. The bedframe rattles.

“There we go,” he growls over the noise. “That’s the sweet spot. Now they can’t hear themselves think. Only you.”

He drops to his knees behind you. Grabs the suction vibe. Latches it onto your clit without warning.

You howl. Back arching. The infected go feral outside, pounding the shutters.

“Fuck,” Leon groans, watching you fall apart. “You’re gonna bring the whole city down on us.” He twists the wand. “Good. Let ’em come. Let ’em hear what happens to girls who pack toys instead of extra mags.”

He stands. Unzips. His cock is already hard, leaking, angry.

“You want it?” He fists himself, smearing pre. “Beg. Loud enough that they hear you. Loud enough that they know who you belong to.”

You’re sobbing. Shaking. Full of toys, full of noise, full of him.

“Please,” you scream, and it echoes over the moans outside. “Please, Leon, fuck me, _please_—”

He lines up. No prep. You’re soaked.

“Say it again,” he snarls. “Louder.”

“I’m yours!” You’re screaming now, past caring. “I’m yours, I’m yours, _only yours_—”

He slams home. Bottoms out in one stroke, hitting the plug, making you see stars.

“Good girl,” he spits, and starts fucking you like he wants to break the bed. Like he wants the infected to hear every fucking slap of skin, every filthy wet sound, every time you scream his name.

“Let ’em hear,” he pants in your ear, hand in your hair, yanking. “Let the whole dead world know who’s making you cum. Say my name.”

“LEON!” You shatter around him, cunt pulsing, plug shifting, toys buzzing. You’re so loud you don’t hear the shutters anymore. Just him. Just good girl good girl good girl growled into your skin.

He fucks you through it. And when you’re done, he’s not.

He pulls out, flips you over, yanks the wand away and replaces it with his mouth. Then his cock. Then the rabbit.

“We’ve got all night,” he says, grinning, feral, while the horde screams outside. “And I’ve got four more toys. Let’s see if we can make ’em break the door down.”

He doesn’t give you a second. You’re still spasming, cunt fluttering around nothing, and he’s already grabbing the rabbit off the mattress. It’s still slick with your cum from earlier.

“Open,” he snaps, fingers digging into your jaw. “Mouth. Now.”

You do. He shoves two fingers in, then three, fucking your mouth in the same brutal rhythm he used on your cunt. “Get it wet. Since you’re so fucking loud, might as well put that mouth to work.”

You gag. Drool. He watches, pupils blown, cock twitching against his stomach.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters. “Look at you. Tears and spit and still begging.” He pulls his fingers out with a pop. “Pathetic. I love it.”

The infected slam the shutters. BANG BANG BANG. Glass cracks somewhere.

Leon doesn’t even flinch. He just picks up the rabbit, coated in your spit now, and slams it into your cunt in one stroke. You scream. It’s still buzzing. High. The ears hit your clit instantly.

“THERE’S the noise I want,” he growls, talking over you, over the horde. “Fuck the dead. Let ’em hear you come undone.”

He doesn’t fuck you with it gentle. He’s pounding it in, holding the base, using it like it’s his cock. The plug shifts in your ass with every thrust, and you’re sobbing because you’re so full, so overstimulated.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he says. Not a question. “Right fucking now. And you’re gonna be louder than every single one of those bastards outside. Understand?”

You nod, frantic. Can’t speak. Can only scream.

“Words,” he snarls, slapping your thigh. “Use your fucking words, agent.”

“Y-yes! Yes, Leon, I’m gonna— fuck, I’m gonna cum, please—”

“Good girl.” He says it like a curse. Like a prayer. “Now do it. Let ’em hear who owns you.”

He twists the rabbit, grinds it against that spot, and you detonate. Your back arches off the bed, cunt clamping down so hard it stalls the vibe for a second. You’re screaming his name, over and over, drowning out the infected, drowning out the fucking world.

“LEON! FUCK, LEON, I’M— AH!”

He keeps fucking you through it with the toy, relentless. “That’s it,” he pants, free hand fisting your hair, yanking your head back so you’re forced to look at him. “Look at me when you fall apart. I want to see it. Fucking gorgeous.”

The horde outside is frenzied now. Screaming. Scratching. The metal shutters bow inward.

Leon laughs. Actual, dark laughter. “You hear that? You’re driving ’em crazy.” He leans down, bites your nipple hard through the sting of the clamp marks. “Think they want a turn? Think they want to hear you scream for them?”

“No,” you sob, shaking your head. “Only you, only—”

“Damn right only me.” He rips the rabbit out. You wail at the emptiness. He tosses it aside and replaces it immediately — with his cock.

He slams home in one stroke. No warm-up. You’re still cumming, still clenching, and he groans like it hurts.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he grits out, bottoming out against the plug. “Soaking wet, squeezing me like a fucking vice. Shit.”

He sets a pace that’s pure punishment. The bed’s slamming against the wall. The headboard’s cracking. The infected are roaring.

“You’re louder,” he pants in your ear, snapping his hips. “You’re so much fucking louder than them. Say it.”

“I’m louder!” You’re screaming it, crying it. “I’m louder, Leon, I’m— _fuck_—”

“Good girl. My good, loud, filthy girl.” He grabs the chain between your nipples — he put the clamps back on when you weren’t looking, the bastard — and yanks.

You shriek. It’s pain and pleasure and too much, and you cum again. Violently. Your whole body seizes, cunt strangling his cock, ass clenching the plug.

Leon curses, slams in deep, and comes with a roar that drowns out everything. The horde. The shutters. The world. You feel him pulse, hot, thick, filling you up while he chants “fuck, yes, take it, good girl, take all of it” into your neck.

For a minute, there’s nothing. Just panting. Just the drip of sweat and cum. Just the infected, still screaming, but they sound far away now.

Leon collapses on you, careful to not crush you, but not pulling out. He’s still hard. Still inside. The plug’s still stretching you.

He mouths at your jaw, lazy, wrecked. “Told you,” he rasps. “We’d give ’em something to scream about.”

A particularly loud BANG hits the shutters. Dust falls from the ceiling.

Leon doesn’t move. Just shifts his hips, grinding into you, making you whimper.

“Hear that?” he murmurs, lips on your ear. “They want an encore.”

His hand slides down. Finds the base of the plug. Twists it.

“You got another one in you, sweetheart?” His voice is pure sin. Pure sarcasm. “Because I do. And I’m real curious how loud you can get before that door gives out.”

He reaches for the wand. Clicks it on.

“Round five.”

The wand roars to life in his hand. The infected answer with a chorus of screams. Metal shutters bow.

Leon doesn’t care. He’s staring at your mouth. Red. Swollen. Gasping.

“Open,” he says. Quiet. Deadly. “You wanted to cum? You’re gonna choke on it first.”

He pulls out of your cunt — you sob at the loss, cum leaking out around the plug — and climbs up your body. Knees on either side of your head. Cock heavy, wet, right at your lips.

“Hands above your head,” he orders. “And don’t you fucking bite. Unless you want me to leave you like this. Edged. Plugged. Empty.”

You obey. Fingers clutching the headboard.

He feeds you his cock slow. Lets you taste yourself. Taste him. You’re already drooling.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmurs, and fuck, he sounds reverent when he wants to. “Taking me so well. So fucking obedient when you’re desperate.”

Then he moves. No warm-up. He fucks your throat. Deep. Brutal. Hips snapping. You gag, eyes watering, but you take it. Because it’s him. Because he told you to.

“That’s it,” he pants, thumb brushing tears off your cheek. Mocking. Tender. “Cry for me. Fucking beautiful.”

His other hand isn’t idle. He shoves the wand between your legs, pressing it flat against your clit. Full power. The plug shifts in your ass with every thrust of his hips.

You scream around him. It’s muffled, wet, obscene. The infected go insane outside.

“Fuck, listen to you,” Leon groans, fucking your face harder. “Can’t even scream right. Just choking and taking it. Pathetic. Perfect.”

Your vision’s spotting. You’re drooling down your chin, cunt pulsing around nothing, clenching the plug. The wand is evil. The sound is filthy — gagging, buzzing, the wet slap of his hips.

“Gonna cum like this?” he asks, voice breaking. “Gonna cum with my cock down your throat and a toy on your cunt? Like the desperate little slut you are?”

You nod as best you can. Tears streaming. Nose running. A mess.

“Say please,” he snarls. He pulls out just enough to let you breathe.

“Please,” you sob, gasping. “Please, Leon, let me cum, _please_—”

He slams back in. “Good girl.”

He hits the back of your throat and stays there. Grinds the wand against your clit. Reaches down and twists the plug.

You shatter.

It’s violent. Whole-body. You’re coming so hard you can’t breathe, can’t think, can only take as your throat convulses around him and your cunt and ass clench empty air. You’re screaming, but it’s silent around his cock. Tears, spit, snot — you’re ruined.

Leon fucks your face through it, snarling curses, and then he’s coming too. Hot, thick, down your throat. He holds you there, grinding, making you swallow every drop while you cum and cum and cum.

“Fuck_— swallow it,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Every fucking drop, good girl. _All of it.”

You do. Because he said good girl. Because you’d die for him.

He pulls out finally. You gasp, choking on air and cum and relief. He collapses beside you, hauls you into his chest. You’re shaking. Still buzzing from the wand he killed. Still full of the plug.

The infected are still screaming. But it sounds distant. Dull.

Leon’s hand is in your hair. Gentle now. Real.

“Breathe,” he murmurs against your temple. “I got you. You did so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me.”

No sarcasm. Just Leon. Just yours.

He reaches down. Pulls the plug out slow. You whimper at the emptiness, at his cum leaking out of you. He shushes you, fingers pressing inside to smear it back in. Possessive.

“Gonna keep you full of me,” he rasps. “All night. So when those bastards break in, they know who you belong to.”

He wraps around you. Cock half-hard against your ass. Arms like steel.

“Sleep,” he says. It’s not a suggestion. “I’ll take first watch.”

Outside, the horde screams.

Inside, you’re safe. Wrecked. His.

Recoil Management

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy / DSO Recruit!Reader

Summary: When a DSO recruit fails her night qualifier, Instructor Kennedy keeps her after hours for one-on-one training that gets too personal.

The rest of the rookies cleared out 20 minutes ago. You didn’t. Because you failed the CQB qualifier. Again.

“Congratulations, Recruit,” Leon drawls from behind you, boots echoing on concrete. “You just died. For the third time today. New record.”

You flinch. He’s 49, gray at the temples, and built like the last 28 years tried to kill him and missed. The Requiem leaks called him “weary.” They didn’t mention the way his sarcasm could strip paint.

“Sorry, sir—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me. ‘Sir’ died in Raccoon City.” He dumps your Glock 19 on the lane table. “You’re anticipating recoil like it’s gonna apologize first. It won’t. It’s rude like that.”

You pick up the gun. Your hands are sweating. Not from the gun.

He sighs. Loud. Theatrical. “Jesus. Put it down before you shoot your foot off and I have to fill out paperwork. Again.”

Then he’s behind you. No warning. Just sudden heat and the smell of gun oil + something stupidly expensive that has no business in a DSO armory.

“You’re squared up like you’re waiting for prom photos,” he mutters, right against your ear. “Widen your stance. Unless you want the muzzle flip to kiss your forehead.”

His boot nudges your ankle out. Rough. His chest brushes your back when he reaches around you. Not quite touching. Not quite not touching.

“Breathe,” he says. “Raccoon City didn’t give me time to hyperventilate, and I’m not giving it to you.”

You try. You really do. But his left hand wraps over yours on the grip, adjusting your fingers. Calluses. Scars. 28 years of triggers. His other palm flattens low on your stomach, just above your belt. Pressing you back into him.

“Stop locking your elbows like that. You’re not a—” He stops. Clears his throat. “Front sight. Target. Exhale. Not me, Recruit.”

Sarcastic. Dominant. And you’re gone for it. Awkward, stammering, trying not to lean into the solid line of his body.

“Problem?” His thumb drags, just once, across your hip bone. Barely there. Maybe accidental. Bullshit it was accidental.

“N-no, Instruct—Leon.”

“Good. Because if you’re thinking about my hands and not your sight picture, you’re already dead.” Beat. “Again.”

You fire. Center mass. The shot punches through the ringing in your ears.

“Finally,” he says, but his voice dropped an octave. He doesn’t move. His hand is still splayed on your stomach, thumb now hooked in your belt loop like he’s anchoring you. Or himself. “Again.”

You’re trembling. From adrenaline. From him. From the way his breath is uneven against your neck now.

You turn your head, just a fraction. Dumb. Rookie move. His jaw is right there, unshaven, clenched.

He sees you looking. His eyes flick down to your mouth. Back up. Sarcasm dies in his throat.

“Recruit,” he says, quiet. Warning. Pleading. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Your voice cracks. God, you’re so bad at this.

His grip on your hip tightens. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m old enough to be—” He stops. Laughs, bitter. “No. I’m old enough to have buried people who looked at me like that.”

The air leaves the range. Just gunpowder and grief.

He steps back like you scalded him. Runs a hand down his face. Instructor Kennedy is back. Cold. 49 and carved from Raccoon City ash.

“You passed,” he says, not looking at you. “Get out before I do something that gets me court-martialed.”

You gather your gear. Hands shaking. When you’re at the door, he speaks to your back:

“And Recruit? If you die in the field because I taught you bad habits... I will never forgive myself. Or you.”

You don’t see him for two weeks. Sherry tells you he transferred you to another instructor. “Said he’s ‘too compromised’ to teach you. Whatever that means.”

You know what it means. He taught you how not to die. Then took himself out of the equation so he wouldn’t have to watch it happen anyway.

Ghosts Wear Badges

Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy / DSO Rookie Reader

Summary: Raccoon City wasn’t done with him. Neither was his partner.

Rating: T | Tags: Flashbacks, PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Sentimental Leon, Rookie Partner, Raccoon City, Angst with Fluff

You thought this would be boring.

“Non-combat survey,” the mission brief said. “Assessment of old Raccoon City quarantine zone for memorial documentation.” You, the rookie, got stuck with Agent Kennedy because quote: “He knows the terrain.”

You figured he’d be cold. Professional. The guy who survived Raccoon City, killed Saddam-looking tyrants, and dated the president’s daughter doesn’t exactly scream chatty.

He’s been quiet the whole drive in. Until you cross the old city line.

Then he stops walking. Just... stops. Three steps into the zone, like he hit glass.

“Agent Kennedy?” You frown. “We good? Mapping grid says we—”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on the corner of Cedar and Victory. Empty street. Cracked asphalt. A gutted pharmacy with a faded ‘CLOSING SALE’ sign. Nothing threatening.

But Leon’s breathing wrong. Too fast. Too shallow. His hand is hovering near his hip where his gun would be if this wasn’t a no-firearms assessment.

“...Leon?” You try again, confused now. Is this a security thing? You don’t see anything. “If there’s a threat, I’m not picking it up. No heat sigs, no—”

“Marvin.”

The name drops out of him like a stone. Raw. Barely a whisper.

You blink. “Who?”

He flinches at your voice like you slapped him. And that’s when you see it — he’s not here. Not really. His eyes are twenty-six years in the past. His knuckles are white.

Then the sound hits. A low, metallic groan from the condemned building ahead.

You barely register the panel breaking loose. You just move. Training kicks in and you grab his vest, haul him back two steps as rebar and concrete slam into the spot where he was standing.

Dust explodes. Leon stumbles into you, gasping like he surfaced from underwater.

For a second, neither of you talks. You’re both staring at the rubble that would’ve taken his head off.

Then he laughs. It’s awful. Hollow. “Huh. Guess the city still wants me dead. That’s... sentimental, in a way.”

You’re still confused. And pissed. And scared. “What the hell was that? You froze! You could’ve—” You cut yourself off, because his face crumples.

Not much. Just for a second. But you catch it.

This isn’t Agent Kennedy, DSO legend. This is a guy who looks lost.

“...You don’t know,” he says, and his voice is scraped raw. “Right. You wouldn’t. You were probably in kindergarten.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “This corner. Cedar and Victory. My first day on the force. September 29th, 1998.”

It clicks. Oh. Oh.

Raccoon City. His first day. The outbreak. You read the declassified summary in training, but it was all stats and timelines. Not... this.

“Marvin Branagh,” you say quietly. The name from the reports. “He was your—”

“My training officer,” Leon cuts in. Then he corrects himself, softer: “My friend. For about six hours. He was bitten. Barricaded himself in the west office. Gave me his last clip and told me to run. To get to the station. To live.”

His eyes are wet. He’s not crying, but God, he’s close. And suddenly the sarcastic, untouchable Leon Kennedy from the mission briefs makes sense.

He’s been running ever since.

“I walk by here and I still see him,” Leon admits. The words cost him. He sounds embarrassed, like he’s admitting to believing in ghosts. “Stupid. It’s just a street. Just... brick and asphalt. But for a second I could smell the blood. Hear the sirens. I was 21 again, and absolutely fucking terrified, and—” He breaks off, jaw tight. “Sorry. Shit. I’m fine. I’m—”

“You’re not,” you say. It’s not an accusation. It’s just the truth.

He looks at you, startled, like no one’s called him on his bullshit before.

You don’t touch him. Not yet. You remember the psych eval notes: Avoid unsolicited contact during episodes. Ground verbally first.

So you just shift. Step to his left, blocking his view of that corner. Putting yourself between him and 1998.

“Breathe with me, okay?” you say. “We’re not running. We’re not 21. It’s 2024. The city’s dead. The monsters are dead. And you’re not.”

He stares at you like you just spoke Greek. Then, slowly, he nods. In. Out. In. Out. His shoulders drop an inch.

“...I hate this place,” he whispers. It’s the most sentimental thing you’ve ever heard him say. Not angry. Just... grieving. “I hate that I survived it and he didn’t. I hate that I can’t come back here without turning into that kid who had no idea what he was doing.”

You finally reach out. Just your hand, resting on his forearm. Solid. Warm. “You didn’t know what you were doing. And you still saved people. You still made it out. Marvin would’ve—”

“Don’t,” Leon says, but it’s not sharp. It’s pleading. “Don’t tell me what he’d think. I do that enough in my own head.”

Okay. New tactic.

“Then I won’t,” you say. “But I’ll tell you what I think. I think you just had a flashback in the middle of a mission, and you still tried to make a joke about it. I think you’re allowed to hate this place. And I think...” You glance at the rubble. “I think you’re lucky your rookie has good reflexes.”

That gets him. A real laugh, wet and surprised, punches out of him. He ducks his head, and when he looks up, his eyes are clearer. Embarrassed, but human.

“God, you’re insufferable,” he mutters. “Pulling the ‘I saved your life’ card already. We’ve been partners two weeks.”

“Two weeks, one near-death experience,” you counter, smiling now. “At this rate I’ll have a whole medal by Christmas.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s leaning into your hand now. Just a little. Taking the weight. “Don’t get cocky, rookie. I was gonna move. Eventually. Probably.”

“Sure you were.” You hand him the water bottle from your pack. “Drink. And then we keep walking. No running. Like I said.”

He takes it. His fingers brush yours, and they’re cold. He doesn’t let go right away.

“...Thanks,” he says. It’s so quiet you almost miss it. “For... not doing the pity thing. For just... being here.”

Your chest does something stupid and warm. “Anytime, Kennedy.”

You start walking again. Slow. Side by side. And after a block, he speaks up, voice steadier but still soft. Like he’s testing how it sounds out loud.

“He would’ve liked you, you know.”

You glance over. “Marvin?”

Leon nods, not looking at you. Staring ahead at the dead city. “Yeah. He liked rookies with guts. And good timing.”

The ache in your throat catches you off guard. You didn’t know Marvin. But for a second, you miss him too.

“Then I’ll take that as a compliment,” you say.

Leon’s mouth quirks. Not a smirk. A real smile. Small, sad, and honest. “It was.”

And just like that, Raccoon City feels a little less like a grave.

Permission Not Granted

*Explicit | 18+ ONLY | NSFW

*Warnings:* Mature themes, intense content, trauma/PTSD.

*Additional Tags:* Leon Kennedy x Reader, Reader-Insert, Post-Mission, Hurt/Comfort, RE9, DSO, Emotional Whump, Minors DNI, Adult Content

*Summary:*

Leon comes back from his latest DSO mission exhausted and haunted. He’s used to keeping everything locked down tight. You decide tonight’s different.

*Tumblr Post Note:*

`[MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. Fictional adult characters. Do not repost.]

The hotel room reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and whatever the hell they’d been pumping through the vents in that biohazard shithole. Leon Kennedy shoved the door shut with his boot, flicked the deadbolt, and dropped his gear. His jacket hit the floor with a wet slap. Blood. Not his. Mostly.

He hadn’t slept in 43 hours. In his head, the screams were still echoing. The Licker that almost took his throat. The kid who looked like Sherry.

He peeled his shirt off. Dirt caked to his chest, a fresh cut splitting his brow, bruises blooming purple across his ribs. He was shaking. Not from cold. From everything else.

The bed was the only thing that looked clean. He sat, elbows on knees, head hanging. That’s when you stepped out of the bathroom.

“Didn’t realize I ordered room service,” he muttered, voice gravel and sarcasm, even though his hands were still trembling. “You here to debrief me, or just stare?”

You didn’t answer. You crossed the room, grabbed his wrists. He could’ve stopped you. He’s Leon fucking Kennedy. But he didn’t. His eyes flicked up — blue, bloodshot, pissed, and something else. Overwhelmed. Like the pic. Jaw tight, breathing hard through his nose, trying to keep that DSO agent mask on.

You pushed him back. The mattress hit his shoulders. Before he could get a snarky “Easy, cowgirl” out, you had the hotel tie-downs — yeah, this place was that kind of hotel — around his wrists. Click. Click.

“Shit,” he hissed, testing them. Strong. “Kinky. Should’ve known RPD training didn’t cover this.

You straddled his hips. His cock was already half hard through his dirty combat pants. Stress response. Adrenaline. He hated that his body betrayed him like that.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, but his voice cracked. “This is just—fuck—residual combat stimulus. Read the manual.”

You palmed him through the fabric, slow. He jerked, chains rattling. His abs flexed. He turned his head, jaw clenching so hard you thought his teeth would crack. He would not give you the satisfaction. He would not think about Raccoon City. About the dead. About the way he still smelled burning flesh when he closed his eyes.

You unzipped him. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, leaking at the tip already. Dirty. Sweat and pre-cum smeared at the slit. He was big — and he knew it — but he played it off.

“Christ, you planning to file a report after this?” Sarcasm dripping, but his hips twitched up into your hand when you wrapped your fingers around him.

You stroked. Slow. Base to tip. Thumb swirling through the wet spot, spreading it. He bit the inside of his cheek. A muscle in his neck jumped.

“Stop that,” he ground out. Not a command. A plea he’d never admit to. “I’m not—ngh—some rookie you can—”

You pinched his nipple, hard, twisting. His back arched off the bed, a strangled noise punching out of him. His cock jerked in your fist, another bead of pre-cum dribbling down.

“Fuck!” He glared at the ceiling. “You get off on this? Torturing federal agents? Real patriotic.”

But his thighs were shaking. His cock was throbbing, veins bulging. You kept the pace cruel — slow, edging strokes, never enough to let him fall over. Every time his breathing hitched, every time his abs tightened and his cock swelled more, you eased up.

“Tease,” he spat, sweat rolling down his temple. “If you’re gonna kill me, use a gun. This is just—ah, fuck—inefficient.”

You leaned down, flicked your tongue over his other nipple. He made a sound — wrecked, almost a sob — then swallowed it. He turned his face into the pillow, hiding. He wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not after Raccoon City, not after all the missions, not after watching everyone else die while he-

You pinched both nipples at once and gave him a firm, twisting stroke. His whole body locked. “God—fuck—stop—” He was babbling now, sarcasm gone, just raw. “Can’t—don’t make me—please—”

You stopped. His cock was purple, drooling, his balls drawn up tight. He was right on the edge and you yanked him back. He let out a broken laugh, humorless.

“Yeah. Real funny. Tie up the guy with PTSD and blue ball him. You should work for Umbrella.”

His chest heaved. Tears were actually in his eyes now, but he blinked hard. He wouldn’t let them fall. “I’m fine,” he lied, voice raw. “Just… just keep your hands to yourself, agent.”

You stroked him again, lazily, watching his face. Every flinch, every clench of his jaw, every time he squeezed his eyes shut and saw the city burning. You weren’t letting him cum. You were letting him feel.

His hips started to stutter up helplessly. “Stop,” he whispered. Not to you. To himself. To the memories. “Stop, stop, stop…”

You leaned in, lips at his ear. “Forget Raccoon City, Leon.”

He made a noise — half laugh, half sob. “Yeah? You gonna shoot it out of my head for me? ‘Cause I’ve tried.”

You twisted your fist on the upstroke and pinched his nipple again. His scream was silent, mouth open, body bowed, cock pulsing furiously but denied release. Tears finally slipped down his temples into his hair.

He collapsed back, panting, wrecked, cock still weeping and untouched, tied down and shaking and furious and broken and alive.

“Fuck you,” he breathed, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just a man who’d carried the dead for decades, finally not having to hold it alone.

You kept stroking. Slow. He wasn’t allowed to cum. He wasn’t allowed to hide. Not tonight.

You didn’t let up. Your fist stayed wrapped around his cock, slick with pre-cum and sweat, stroking at that maddening pace that kept him hovering on the cliff without ever letting him fall.

His wrists yanked against the tie-downs. The metal bedframe creaked. “You sadistic little—ngh—shit,” Leon spat, but his voice broke halfway. His cock twitched in your hand, fat and red, the head swollen and sloppy wet. He was drooling pre-cum like a faucet.

“Gonna ruin me?” He laughed, but it was wrecked, desperate. “Joke’s on you. I’ve been ruined since ‘98.”

You pinched his nipple again, twisting until he choked on a moan. His abs clenched, hips bucking up helplessly into your grip. “Fuck—fuck—stop that—” But he didn’t mean it. His cock pulsed, thick veins throbbing against your palm, begging to cum. You wouldn’t let him.

“Color me shocked,” he hissed through gritted teeth, tears still drying on his face. “Federal agent tied up, getting his dick milked. This some new kind of interrogation? ‘Cause it’s working. I’ll confess. I’m a fucking mess. Happy?”

You leaned over, reached into the nightstand. He heard the click of the lube bottle and went still.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered, eyes wide. “You are not—you don’t actually—”

You dragged a lubed finger down his taint, circling his hole. His whole body jolted. “Jesus Christ! That’s—ah—off-limits. Read the fucking DSO handbook. No pegging on duty—”

You ignored him. Pushed one finger in, slow. His mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. His cock jerked so hard it slapped his stomach, smearing pre-cum across his abs. He was leaking everywhere, desperate, untouched, and denied.

“Fuck!” His head thrashed. “You can’t just—ngh—finger my ass like you own it—” You crooked your finger, brushing his prostate, and his words died in a strangled moan. His thighs shook. The tie-downs rattled.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he babbled, eyes squeezing shut. “That’s cheating. That’s so fucking—ah, goddamn—cheating.”

You added a second finger, scissoring, stretching him open while your other hand kept that cruel, slow stroke on his cock. He was sobbing now, not even trying to hide it. Sarcasm stripped away, just raw and filthy and overwhelmed.

“Please,” he choked out, hips rolling helplessly, fucking himself on your fingers. “Please don’t make me—please, I can’t—I’ll—I can’t cum, right? You said—fuck—you said I couldn’t—”

You strapped on. The harness clicked. His eyes snapped to it, blue and blown wide, panicked and needy.

“You’re insane,” he whispered. “You’re actually gonna—fuck me? Me? Leon S. Kennedy? Do you know how many BOWs I’ve killed? And you’re gonna—”

You lined up, the silicone head of the cock nudging his hole. He was trembling head to toe, cock purple and dripping, balls tight and aching.

“Last chance to use a safeword, hero,” you murmured, pressing in just the tip.

He let out a broken laugh. “Yeah, right. Like I’d give you the—fuck!—satisfaction.”

You slammed home.

His back bowed off the bed. A noise tore out of him — not a scream, not a moan, something guttural and ruined. “FUUUCK!” His cock pulsed, untouched, spurting a thick string of pre-cum across his stomach without you even touching it. He was that close. That destroyed.

“Move,” he sobbed, all pride gone. “God, please, move, I need—fuck, I hate you—I need it—”

You set a brutal pace. Pegging him hard, deep, hitting his prostate with every thrust. The wet slap of your hips against his ass filled the room. His cock bounced on his stomach, sloppy and leaking, never once getting touched.

He was a mess. Crying, cursing, babbling. “Ah, god—fuck—right there—you’re gonna make me—no, no, don’t, I’ll cum, I’ll fucking cum—”

You reached down and wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, squeezing. Denying him.

His eyes rolled back. “You BITCH,” he wailed, tears streaming. “Let me—please, let me cum, I’ll do anything—fucking anything—just—ngh—don’t stop—don’t stop fucking me—”

His ass clenched around the cock, his whole body shaking. He was sweating, dirt and blood still streaked on his skin, hair stuck to his forehead. Mission-rough Leon Kennedy, DSO’s golden boy, tied down and getting his ass fucked until he forgot his name, forgot Raccoon City, forgot everything except the need burning him alive.

“Pathetic,” he gasped out, trying to claw back some sarcasm. “Look at me… some hero… getting railed and crying… fuck…” But his hips kept chasing your thrusts, desperate.

You pinched his nipples hard, twisted, and his cock gave another helpless spurt of pre-cum. Still no relief. Still denied.

“Please,” he sobbed, broken open. “I can’t—I’m gonna—if I cum, I’ll—fuck, I’ll die—”

You didn’t stop. You fucked him through it. Through the tears, through the begging, through every shattered piece of Leon Kennedy hitting the mattress. His cock was weeping, his ass was clenching, his voice was hoarse from moaning.