#residentevilgames

The final week of the mission arrived with the same deceptive calm as the rest of the suburb. White fences gleamed beneath the soft glow of porch lights, lawns carried the scent of fresh-cut grass, and Brenda still waved far too cheerfully from across the street, her endless casserole dishes a constant reminder of the strange life you’d been living. Yet beneath that postcard-perfect image, you could feel the weight of the end pressing down—each glance with Leon edged with the unspoken question: what happens after this?

HQ’s call came the night before extraction. Umbrella’s operatives had been neutralized, evidence secured, and your cover assignment officially ended. By morning, you’d hand back the house keys and return to being just two agents with badges and files—not rings and routines. You were supposed to feel relief, but instead the thought left you restless and hollow. The house was too quiet, as though it knew it was about to be stripped of the warmth it had borrowed. The rooms still carried traces of you both: laughter echoing faintly in the kitchen, the scent of burnt lasagna clinging like an inside joke, the low rumble of Leon’s laugh drifting through the living room.

Sleep eluded you. You sat up in bed, staring at the fake wedding photo still pinned to the fridge across the hall, the stiff smiles now softened in your memory. That’s when you heard it—Leon’s knock. Not sharp or professional, but soft, hesitant. He stepped inside, hair tousled, sweatpants and a plain shirt replacing his usual tactical edge. He looked less like the legendary agent whose name carried too much weight, and more like the man who had fallen asleep beside you during late-night surveillance shifts.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice thick with something unsaid.

“So are you.”

He lingered at the doorframe before crossing the room to sit on the edge of your bed. His eyes searched yours, as if trying to memorize every detail before it slipped away. Finally, he exhaled.

“I don’t want this to end.” His tone was steady, though you could hear the storm behind it. “Not the mission. Not… us.”

Your throat tightened. “Leon—”

“I know it sounds insane. We were supposed to fake a marriage. Maybe it started that way, but—” His hand brushed yours, thumb tracing small circles. “It stopped being fake a long time ago.”

The silence felt fragile, like glass holding a whole world inside. You laughed softly, nerves bubbling through the smile tugging at your lips. “Good. Because I was afraid I’d have to be the one to say it first.”

Relief washed over him so vividly it made your chest ache. He pressed his forehead against yours, and when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or stolen between mission briefings. It was slow, deliberate—every second steeped in the weight of everything you’d been holding back. The walls of the fake house didn’t matter. The neighbors didn’t matter. For once, it was just you and him.

Morning light crept through the blinds, gilding tangled sheets and warm skin. For the first time in weeks, the house didn’t feel like a set. It felt like home. Cheryl arrived promptly at nine with her clipboard and overenthusiastic smile, chirping about “the next lucky newlyweds” as you handed back the keys. You nodded politely, but when you slid into the car with Leon, you noticed the gold ring still on your finger. You started to remove it—then paused, seeing he hadn’t taken his off either. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Back at HQ, bureaucracy took over. Debriefings, forms, endless reports. The mission reduced to black-and-white text, stripped of the color that had defined it for you both. Yet when Leon walked out beside you afterward, his hand brushed yours and didn’t retreat. In broad daylight, in front of colleagues and strangers alike, he didn’t let go. No cover. No neighbors. No charade. Just you.

Weeks later, life had shifted into a new rhythm. No surveillance gear humming in the background, no Brenda knocking at your door with questions about children. Instead, it was Leon’s jacket slung casually over your chair, his mug sitting beside yours in the sink, a playlist you’d made together filling the kitchen as you cooked—burning Brenda’s lasagna recipe spectacularly but laughing until you cried. On nights when nightmares clawed at you both, comfort came not from pretending to be married, but from knowing you truly weren’t alone.

One evening, Leon stood in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, fixing the jammed drawer he had once silently repaired during the mission. You caught yourself smiling, realizing just how much had changed—and how much had stayed the same.

The motel room was suffocatingly hot, the thin curtains drawn tight, the only light coming from the amber glow of the candle Chris had set on the nightstand. Its flame bent and flickered, waiting to be turned into something more than just ambiance. He stood over you like a wall of muscle and intent, shirt discarded, veins roped in his forearms as he pinned you down to the creaking mattress with nothing but his weight and his stare.

“Open,” he growled, voice a gravelled order you couldn’t disobey.

Your lips parted and his thick fingers pushed past them, two knuckles deep on the first thrust, his calloused skin scraping your tongue. His eyes never left yours as he shoved deeper, thumb pressing under your jaw until your mouth stretched around the intrusion.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Chris muttered, watching your cheeks hollow as you sucked. “Get ‘em nice and wet.” His free hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise when you gagged softly around his fingers, the sound making him groan low in his chest. He pumped them in and out of your mouth like he would his cock, using you, stretching you, saliva slicking your chin.

When he finally pulled them free with a wet pop, a strand of spit clung from your lips to his hand. He smeared it across your cheek, then down to your throat, marking you with it.

“You’ll take everything I give you tonight,” he said, lighting catching in his eyes, “and you’ll thank me for it.”

The candle was in his hand before you could breathe, wax pooling at the top. He held it above your chest, tilting slowly until a single drop fell—scalding heat splattering over your skin.

“Ahhhhnn—fuck!” you cried out, back arching, the sting sharp then giving way to a throbbing pleasure that pulsed through your nipples, your stomach, down between your thighs.

Chris chuckled darkly, leaning close enough that his breath grazed your ear. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Hurts good.”

Another drop fell, then another, then a stream—hot rivulets trailing down your stomach, dripping into the valley of your breasts, solidifying against sweat-slick flesh. You writhed beneath him, crying out with each hiss of wax, every nerve lit with fire.

His fingers were back in your mouth instantly, stuffing your cries into gagged moans. He worked them against your tongue as molten lines dripped over your ribs, down your navel, dangerously close to your clit. You whimpered around his hand, hips bucking helplessly, tears pricking your lashes as the burn made your cunt clench empty.

Chris pulled his hand away just long enough to shove his spit-slick fingers down between your legs, pressing them against your soaked folds.

“Goddamn—already dripping for me,” he groaned, circling your clit before thrusting two fingers inside, the same ones you’d been sucking raw moments earlier. The stretch was brutal, his pace relentless, fucking you open while the last drops of wax hardened against your stomach.

Your screams were muffled by his mouth now, Chris devouring every sound in a punishing kiss, his tongue dominating yours while his fingers pistoned in and out of your cunt, rough and wet and merciless.

“You taste like sin,” he growled against your lips, curling his fingers just right until your thighs shook violently. His other hand smeared the cooling wax across your skin, grinding it against your nerves to make you whimper louder.

The coil snapped suddenly, violently, your orgasm tearing you apart with a scream swallowed into his kiss, your body shuddering under him, slick soaking his hand. Chris didn’t stop, didn’t slow, fucking you through the climax, growling into your mouth as though dragging every last drop of pleasure out of you was his mission.

When you finally collapsed, trembling, spent, he licked his fingers clean with a wolfish grin before shoving them back into your mouth.