#poor man

Aaaaaah, but also Sherlock Holmes, fucking twenty seconds earlier: If you were John Watson, I suddenly couldn't keep my hands off you (Nor his eyes off. Sherlock, there are clients in that room!)

“Again,” Leon says quietly, standing behind you in the kitchen with patient hands guiding your wrist. His voice is devastatingly steady.

“Thumb here. Turn into the weak point.”

You try it. Mess it up on purpose a little because every time you do, he sighs softly and steps closer.

Leon Kennedy standing behind you in gray sweatpants and an old academy shirt, broad chest warm against your back while he carefully repositions your hands, might actually be God’s most dangerous creation.

“C’mere,” he murmurs eventually, voice roughening as he reaches around you again. “You’re thinkin’ too hard.”

His fingers slide slowly over your knuckles, adjusting your grip with impossible gentleness for a man trained to kill people efficiently.

He handles you like something precious, even while teaching you violence.

You finally manage to twist out of his grip correctly, and he gives you this proud little smile that nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

“There she is,” he says softly. “Knew you could do it.”

You laugh, flushed and triumphant, and Leon just looks at you for a second too long.

“Christ.”

“What?”

His thumb brushes absently over the inside of your wrist where he’s still holding your hand.

The way he looks at you suddenly has absolutely nothing to do with self defense anymore.

he didn't sign up for this