that is not groovy...

Girls will take it

Nsfw alphabet (Leon re9)

Leon x fem!reader

Tags: nsfw, adults only, kissing, vulgar, etc.

A - Aftercare

Leon will ask you lots of questions about how you’re feeling to make sure everything went smoothly. He loves to hold you close in his strong, protective embrace, run his fingers through your silky locks, and lie there, enjoying each other’s company in the silent stillness.

B - Body Part

Leon adores your neck, and especially loves leaving crimson marks of his love and devotion there, drawing quiet sighs of pleasure from you. Kennedy doesn’t overlook your tummy either—the one you often feel self-conscious about, whereas Leon finds it very beautiful, feminine, and sexy. He loves to slowly trace a trail of kisses starting from your neck and ending at your belly, showering it with long, tender kisses from all sides.

"Leon, look at this." You lean over, extending your arm to display the TikTok you'd just found.

Resting against the other arm of the couch was your husband, reading glasses slipping down his nose while his fingers tapped absent-mindedly against the spine of his book. He turned his head in your direction, craning his neck to set up a good angle to read whatever nonsense you were shoving in his face. With a sigh, he set the book down and shifted in place, getting comfortable again. He pulled his head back, furrowed his brows, and squinted at the screen. You couldn't help but let out a laugh.

Immediately, his eyes left the screen and flew to you. After years of marriage and even more dating, he knew when you were laughing at him and not something else.

"What?" He questioned suspiciously. His voice was low and soft, the tone reserved for peaceful Sundays with just the two of you; no work or worries permitted in the calm before another grueling work week. You grinned and shook your head.

"You're just silly, that's all." His mouth twitched but he didn't badger you for a better answer, returning to his position of trying to read the text on the screen you were still holding up. He finally took your phone from you, holding it a considerable distance from his face.

You lifted your now-freed hand and ran your fingers through his gray-streaked hair while admiring his wrinkles—yes, the ones from his dorky phone-viewing frown, but also—from all the years of stress and fear and hopelessness. His shirt rode up a bit, letting you see a sliver of soft tummy between it and his boxers. How lucky you were to have him sprawled on the couch, not a care in the world, looking like a midwestern dad attempting to comprehend whatever it was the cool kids were up to online these days. And, you supposed, he kind of was.

He pulled his reading glasses from his face with one hand, passing back your phone with the other. He did not appear impressed.

"So who is Cheesy Michael and what's the deal with his door? This seems like a waste of time."

Leon was so unbelievably cute.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. i have not been locked into writing and i apologize my life has been get high, eat, watch tiktok, think about leon 😅

leon kennedy’s heart wasn’t immune to love, after all.

character: leon kennedy (re9),

content: leon kennedy is canonically awkward around women, so here is my take on what it would be like for him to fall in love.

leon was fine with living alone. he was also fine with coming back to an empty home after each mission, not expecting anything — but that was until he met you. it caught him off guard, and he sure wasn’t even ready to fall for someone… not after decades of loneliness. but you were just… you. young, smart, funny — but most importantly, you loved life. and that was something leon found fascinating. it’s the way your mood would instantly brighten because of a sunny day, how you would take a deep breath, a gentle smile spreading on your lips, when you stepped outside in the morning, how you would enjoy the smallest things in life, grateful to be alive. to him, you were the light guiding him through the darkness, leading him to a brighter future.

but because leon’s brain doesn’t know the difference between fighting for his life and flirting with someone… things were a bit tricky for him. far from being a ladies man, he made terrible jokes, hoping some would eventually stick, and because you were someone that could be described as (very) easily amused… you would always laugh at them, anyway. and my god, your laugh… his one and only mission was to hear it again, and again. he’s awkward, doesn’t really get your flirtatious attempts because he’s old, a bit inexperienced in this field and he just can’t believe someone as pure as you would even be interested in him… but god does he try to be good enough for you.

Like, because he's polite: he opens doors for you, walks on the outside of the sidewalk, remembers how you like your coffee

But because he's unwell: he checks every exit constantly, he needs to hear your voice after nightmares, little things become huge things with him

And that's the thing. The romance isn't that he would die for you. Lots of characters would die for you. The romance is that he's trying, every day, to live for you. And some days that is clearly the harder thing.

For example: you mention offhand that your car has been making a weird noise. Three days later he hands you the keys back and says, "Should be good now." You find out he spent his only free afternoon under the car teaching himself how to fix it from a repair manual because the thought of you breaking down alone on the side of the road made him physically ill. He never tells you that part. He just asks you to text him when you get home. Immediately. Every time. Forever.

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.”

For the Clairejills 😊🩷🌈