#claire redfield x leon kennedy

[lysa1201]

Successful mission celebration with Cleon???

+ reference below cut🥰

[delphi-shield]

Variations on a Theme

Claire Redfield x Leon Kennedy wc: ~2.6k post-vendetta, pre-death island. short fic that wouldnt leave me alone so i had to write it down. might write a continuation. happy sept. 30th, i miss my babies. dividers from @/adornedwithlight

summary: Sherry organizes a memorial service; Claire and Leon try to put aside their grief to mourn the way she does.

The call comes through at 11 PM the night before. Leon ignores most calls to his personal cell after nine, but for Claire, he makes an exception.

She never calls without purpose. Not anymore. There had been nights in the past when it had been anything and everything and the nothing in between that had kept them up until early hours of the morning. Calls crammed between operations and meetings, voicemails that still haunted his inbox. They had been better at this once.

The small talk hadn't been so stilted and forced like it was now. No ‘hey, I saw that report on Bali - was that you?’ because Claire would have known. He would have told her everything – or mostly everything. Leon would have redacted the parts that could get her into trouble. He'd leave out hostage scenarios gone wrong, spare her the inequity of his work even though she's sure to find out on her own.

Somewhere along the way, he'd started redacting so many details that his recountings had boiled down to ‘I'm glad to be back’. Somewhere along the way, Claire had stopped pressing for more.

Claire doesn't bother feigning interest in his last operation this time. She doesn't need to - TerraSave already put out a statement condemning the outcome.

She's good at small talk, always has been better at people than him. Conversation flows from her, connections come easy. He'd always admired that about her. Now, though, she's floundering. His short, to the point answers have her at a loss. That's new. Usually it just pisses her off.

“What’s going on, Claire?” he asks for the second time in their short conversation.

She lapses into silence. Redfield family trait - they love to go quiet on you when they've been found out. Like they're waiting for you to move on - like you'll forget if they just don't acknowledge it.

“Sherry's organized this memorial service,”  Claire finally broaches. “For - y'know. I think it would mean a lot to her if you were there.”

Dread weighs heavy in his stomach. Of course he knows. He's been dreading this kind of thing since Terragrigia, since the gritty details of bioterrorism had been shoved in the average American's home. It's not hard to put two and two together, to realize what the Raccoon City incident had been. Maybe the public would never know the full extent, the involvement of the government, but there's footage of a hunter on LiveLeak, for fuck's sake. You could cover this shit up in the 90's, but they hadn't been on top of things when the century had turned, when more information than ever had been pumped to the general populace. Now it was like sticking a bandaid on a hemorrhaging wound.

He didn't think it would be one of their own who did this, who dredged up Raccoon City's bloated corpse and put it on display. He thought some well-meaning intern, some politician looking for a bump in numbers, trying to seem empathetic might pull this stunt – but one of their own?

He can't tell if it's a dim sense of betrayal that's twisting his gut into knots or if it's anger. He's carefully curated his life to avoid this. The month of September is his memorial. He doesn't need the cameras, the spotlight - he doesn't need other people sobbing out their grief right next to him, not when he keeps his tight to his chest.

Jesus. Sherry couldn't have asked him herself? Not in person, God no – but sent him a calendar invite or emailed him a flier - something that would give him plausible deniability. Something he could ignore, slide into the recycle bin, claim he never received and curse technology. Sorry, Sherry. All this new technology is just tough for me to keep up with. As if he's not got the latest and greatest in hand at all times.

“Are you going?”

Claire is quiet on the other end of the line.

“It would mean a lot to her.”

Leon snorts. “That's a ‘no’.”

Claire's huff is almost lost through the phone, but he can picture her pout well enough. Lord knows he's the cause more often than not.

It's not just that he hates this kind of thing, or that he's still hot off the heels of Benson's death, that the media could have a field day with him showing up to an event like this. If the wrong people hear about this, they'll all be lambasted as nutjob conspiracy theorists. If the wrong people have found out about this, it could get dangerous fast.

Leon does the only thing he can think to. Deflect.

“She shouldn't be doing this shit,” Leon points out. “Raccoon City is still classified.”

He can feel Claire roll her eyes from the other side of the phone. He bites his tongue. Improvement, he thinks. A month ago he would have cut loose, blown this whole conversation up.

“She's not releasing classified info, Leon. It's a memorial.”

“Brass is gonna have a problem with this, and I don't know if I can bail her out.”

“She got it cleared months ago. You'd know if–” Claire stops herself. She's trying, too, he realizes when she swerves around the giant crater that was the way he'd spent a year drinking himself into oblivion. “You’d know if you actually checked your email.”

Damn. She's got him there. Maybe Sherry already tried the calendar invite and the flier. In his mind's eye, she's still 12 years old, ruddy cheeked and gap toothed - clicking clumsily around a computer to make a flier, sending it to him, waiting��

He stops that train of thought, pins the ache in his chest on a recently cracked rib.

“Nobody asks Valentine to go to this shit.”

“Jill's busy.”

“And I'm not?”

“Can you just show up for Sherry?”

“Can't we just take her out for ice cream after or something?”

“She's not–” 

Claire pauses on the other end of the line. Leon's not as good at this as he used to be, can't tell if she stopped herself so she doesn't laugh or so she doesn't snap at him.

Inhale. Shaky exhale. He can hear her struggling not to smile.

“She's not a kid anymore.”

He knows that. Of course he knows that. He's seen her in the field. She’s a powerhouse, full-grown and owning it.

Man up, Kennedy, he thinks. Do it for your girls.

The thought sends a jolt skittering across his skin, raises the hair on his arms. He hasn't thought of them like that in years - not sober, at least.

“I'm not sitting on the stage,” he says firmly.

“Me either.”

“And I’m not giving a speech.”

“I don't think it's a media thing,” Claire says, the way one might try to calm a spooked horse. “She just wanted to do something for people like us. It's gonna be low-key.”

Claire has a very different definition of ‘low-key’ than he does, but he hums all the same.

“All right,” he relents. “Send me the details.”

It doesn't take more than a few seconds for his phone to vibrate. She was ready for that, probably planned on sending it to him whether he said yes or no.

She sounds cheerful, reveling in her victory, when she winds up the call with the promise to see him next week. He can count the times Claire has been happy to see him lately on one hand; when he tosses his phone back to his nightstand, he counts that as a win.

The week flies by as if September 30th couldn't get there quick enough. Usually, the week of the 30th dragged - every hour of every day dedicated to a remembrance of the last normal hours of his life. Mourning is on hold for now - he’s saving it all up for Sherry's big event.

Claire texts him a reminder two days before. He types and retypes a response over and over, and somewhere in the revisions he realizes it's not just about him. She doesn't want to do this either. Not alone.

See you there. Ice cream after.

Leon’s locked in now. He prays for work to run long, for an emergency to crop up that sends him across the country - but the office is quiet. He's grateful not to run into Sherry, grateful that he won't have the chance to open his mouth and ruin things. There will plenty of time for that later.

You promised, he tells himself the morning of, phone in hand, debating on calling in sick. His feet are leaden when he dresses, hands heavy at the wheel of his car. He's in a daze the whole day, barely remembers driving to work. If anyone notices, they don't call him on it. He’s ghosting through another September unseen.

But the end of the day forces him back into his body. He'll be late if he sits in his car any longer. The engine turns over despite his prayers. He promised, he tells himself. He can't make them do this alone.

The park Sherry picked out for the memorial service is close to the office. He could walk, but he's not going to limit his options in case things go south, wants the ability to get in his car and bail. Halfway there, he realizes he's been followed. He stays in his car, watching the suburban in the rearview when they pull in a few spots down. Leon only relaxes when a gaggle of kids burst from the sliding door, run off ahead of their mother.

Claire's waiting for him when he hops out. She leans against her bike. Her hair is down - shorter than he remembers. Her thick jacket thrown over the seat of her bike, leaving her in a black turtleneck and a pair of orange corduroys.

“You know it's not formal, right?”

“I'm coming from work. Cut me some slack.”

Claire laughs, ducking her head. She pushes off of her bike and waves for him to follow. She swishes into the park ahead of him, her steps only faltering until he catches up to her side with a handful of long strides. Side by side like this, there’s enough room to slot Sherry in between them. Wherever she is - probably off playing party planner.

He always thought she’d be good at that. Sherry’s good at making sure people are taken care of, making sure they have what they need. She’s got a quiet sort of intensity that can spook people, sure, but she’s fun and exuberant - she could have had a shot at a real life, if things had been different.

She reserved a little gazebo for the event. White chairs in a handful of neat lines, a little charcoal grill off to the side, picnic table lined with candles and framed photos. It’s sweet, the way she’s done everything up. Probably put hours into this, getting things just so. She’s done a good job, honest.

Leon just can't stop checking every angle. He's braced for the sight of a flash - camera or muzzle, he's not sure which would be worse. Couldn't Sherry have picked somewhere more private? Couldn't she have rented out the basement of some bar, given him an excuse not to show? Sorry, Sherry, I'm working on myself - can't put myself through the temptation.

No. Of course not. She'd probably considered that already. The kid is too considerate for her own good. Rented out a gazebo just so no one had to face their demons.

Claire pauses at a row of chairs, gesturing for Leon to sit. He forgets to smile when he tears his eyes away from a suspicious copse of bushes. His hand ghosts against the small of her back, urging her to go first. He needs to be on the end, needs to be able to get to his feet quick when something happens.

If, he reminds himself. If something happens.

Claire slips into her seat without protest. Maybe the occasion has her feeling off, too. He tries not to read into it.

Leon lets out a low whistle as he sinks into his chair. “There's more people than I thought there'd be.”

“I know,” Claire hums. “Sometimes it feels like we're the only ones.”

How many people had been there? How many had been on the streets, had escaped by the skin of their teeth? How many of these people were here to mourn someone who had wasted away before their time?

His eyes lock onto hands and mouths, tries to match them to ones he sees in his dreams. Teeth snapping, hands teasing at him, pulling him under a writhing mass of rot, ichor spilling into his mouth, choking him.

Claire nudges him, leans closer. Her shampoo wafts across him, the stench of decades old decay that stings his eyes soothed by cherries. Her fingers light on his wrist.

“Still doing ice cream after? I know a place.”

If they were here for anyone else, he'd have grabbed Claire's hand and pulled her out to the parking lot. They'd cut the shit, go get ice cream and pretend things weren't complicated. He'd get butter pecan and Claire would tease him for being basic. Ice cream is a fifteen minute treat, but they'd linger until the parlor closed, until the workers were shooting them dirty looks.

But they're here for Sherry. Leon makes himself smile, mouth thinning.

“Yeah. After.”

People file in, some alone, the same haunted look that he wears well, others with whole families. There's maybe thirty people - small number on paper, but packed in like this makes it feel claustrophobic. He scans the crowd for Sherry again and again, searching for a glimpse of her. Claire’s hand stays on his wrist, heavier now. He wishes he could turn his hand and capture hers. He doesn’t know how to.

“She still comin’?” He murmurs to Claire.

“She better. This is her thing,” she grumbles back. The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. He knew she wasn’t all-in on this whole thing.

Before he can call her on it, Sherry beats down the center aisle, clambering up the steps of the gazebo. Leon clicks his tongue, sits a little straighter. There she is, digging Claire out of a moment of weakness once again.

“Thank you all so much for coming,” Sherry starts, shuffling note cards in her hands. 

Claire lets out a coo under her breath. She leans closer, presses against Leon’s arm to whisper, “she’s so nervous. Look.”

Leon doesn’t need to be directed to see the tremble of Sherry’s fingers, but he looks anyway. Public speaking isn’t the issue, he knows that much - it’s got to be the topic.

Leon sits a little taller. He nudges Claire’s knee with his own, a silent ‘watch this’. He coughs into his fist, louder and longer than necessary.

Sherry tracks the sound instinctively. Her eyes light on them in the crowd. The apples of her cheeks bunch up, smile so wide that she's transformed right back into that little girl he knew, that clung to his hand and swung his arm as they walked down the road. Her words trail off, pause long enough to be noticeable but not to be awkward.

“I’m so grateful that each and every one of you have taken the time to come here tonight,” she continues, her eyes lingering on Leon, flitting back to Claire.

There. That’s his good deed for the month.

“You’re buying,” he whispers to Claire once Sherry’s eyes have finally drifted away.

Claire snorts. She pats his arm. He can see it all over her face - yeah, right.

Yeah, right. His girls are gonna burn an ice cream-shaped hole in his wallet by the end of the night.

[executivenerd]

Heads up Cleon Week is in the works for next month! More information coming soon ❤️

[homicidal-slvt]

{Redoing this poll}

[leon6w5]

— things don't (need to) end like this.

n/a: hi! i wrote this while reflecting how infinite darkness should ended up, building a path to re6 (archives) — where claire made leon and chris meet each other after everything happened. they ended in good terms, even when claire disagreed with leon's choice. i already posted it on ao3 with some changes, so hope y'all enjoy it. <3

warnings: light angst, friends to lovers, sexual tension, conflicted feelings, smut and fluff, good ending.

Regrets come after memories.

Not that memories were tangled, maybe it wasn't, maybe he was trying to find answers and fix things that couldn't anymore — that didn't belong to him anymore. And never weren't his own. Leon couldn't be responsible for everything bad that happened, he couldn't save anymore, either himself.

While he looked at Claire a few inches in front of him, his confused but determined eyes seemed to hesitate for a realistic answer. He didn't want any of that for him specially her. Leon knew that Claire didn't need protection, they went through Raccoon City together, it was a fact.

But trying to be fair, the world could be unfair to her and Leon couldn't deal with it again, couldn't bear to lose someone else… Again. Someone who had a massive value — an emotional bond with him, both similar.

He walked towards her unhurriedly, silently sighing, his throat parched because he knew he was delaying the inevitable. Leon buried his eyes on Claire's lips, the intact lipstick still on the flesh of her mouth, a few strands getting the way in her eyes, hiding her emotions. 'She's beautiful' was Leon’s first thought, Claire hadn't changed, maybe she had gotten better than him, Leon imagined that deep down Claire was aware that some things would be the same, but that didn't mean she would be part of it. She seemed so inaccessibly good for him, in a way he could never repay, so ethical that it showed the desperate contrast between his conscious thoughts.

Kennedy wishes he could say the same: that traumas didn't define him — Because for Claire it didn't seem that way. Leon didn't deny the existence of her sorrows, but it seemed so easy for her to face things, it seemed so easy for her to continue separating right and wrong, yet for him it was like an existential purpose and it was tiring to remain that way, as if the answers he expected would lead him to his hopeless skepticism.

"Wait a little. I… I’ll change my clothes” Leon said. Expectations shook Redfield's thoughts, she watched Leon walk back to the White House, not in a hurry, but in a grief and guilt that he wore, wrapping Leon, suffocating him by his throat. She predict that the two of them would talk, a lot.

Patiently she waited, watched the sky, meditating her thoughts while looking at the sun-painted heaven, regulating her breathing and trying to organize them all into one. Then the sound of heel boots behind her ear made her remember about the real. She turned, let out a chuckle and said “There you are…” and Leon could interpret that in several ways: the suit wasn't him, Claire still saw him as the police officer she had known. Things had changed a lot, that nostalgic image carried pain and dreams that were too distant for a pessimist like Leon. He no longer followed what he loved to do for a long time. It hurted him. It was the kind of thought with a circumstance of expectation that he could no longer fulfill anyway.

“So… shall we have dinner? I know a good restaurant around here.” Leon smiled, grief in the corner of his lips. He wanted to forget for a moment the last few chaotic years, the deaths, the inability for saving Shen Mei from death. In the back of his mind, his subconscious brought up the underlying remember of what Jason had told him, that maybe all of Leon's fear was as real as his feet on the ground now. It was terrifying.

In silence, Claire followed Leon side by side, they walked. It was a mutual stillness, the empty head that they both hoped to have for a few minutes. There was so much between them that they considered they had nothing, it was the kind of situation that left them adrift from any presumption and uncertainty. Redfield had even forgotten what it was like to breathe and share peace comfortably, she offered help and support, even so for a long time she had not allowed herself to receive the same, she was — trying to be — strong and unshakable.

Claire then noticed a smell that was intoxicating, somehow unforgettable. She inhaled, moved her head slightly and looked briefly at Leon, noticed the dark blue t-shirt, the leather jacket, the rough skin from his beard and his distant blue eyes. She felt a shiver run through her body, her stomach twitching. The smell was his scent, his hair.

She hadn't noticed until now, how fine Leon was. The hair on his face growing slightly left something to be desired, she liked to see that in some way, he took care of himself. And in that moment, in the calmness, almost resistant pace between them, she realized that her attraction to him could not be normal.

A dissipation was made, Leon's voice took Claire from the back of herself and brought to now. He opened the door, waiting for her to enter the spor and when she did, he noticed the abstraction. They sat down near the windows, Leon shortly snatched the menu and Claire thought that maybe he had been waiting for a nice meal for while. 

Through the huge gap between Leon's eyes and the menu, they looked at each other. Claire carried a sweetness and curiosity, she wanted to know what Kennedy would choose. "What are you looking for? We could hm… share a bolognese lasagna.” Leon agreed. He was abrupt, he thought the menu was an opportunity to peek on her right in front of her. 

They were talking, a common conversation, the kind they would never imagine having, nothing about work, nothing about Umbrella, subordinates or infected people —  choosing to avoid the topic because, perhaps, they agreed that it could not be part of who they were, even individually. Claire and Leon wanted to say that they were getting to know the other part of them, the part that they didn't let show, within so much inhumanity. And when the food arrived, it was as if they were open to anything, because they were together and that was what mattered (the delicious food too).

Deep down, they didn't want it to end. Leon didn't want to stop hearing Claire's small giggles, which carried a tone of hope so good that it seemed like a dream, it was contagious, it made him smile too, despite being so disconsolate.

“How was your food?” Leon's voice was soft, short.

“We ate the same thing, silly…” Claire said and without much delay, she added “It was the best food I’ve had in a season”, wiping the corner of her lips, adjusting her jacket. Kennedy paid attention, the sentence had somehow come out vague, the first part mocking him and the ending suggestive, without her looking away from him.

He didn't continue the thread, his eyes widened due to the attention she gave her at dusk, they were probably thinking about the same thing, where they would go after everything. After this.

Leon didn't want to be rushed, he didn't like to think too much, even if he was doing it now, even if he were doing this for the last nine years. He wasn't used to being impulsive, but all the "If's" that popped into his mind made him make a decision, occasionally an irrational one. But he wanted more and — even if Claire didn't show it — she wanted it too, she wanted to stay that way, she couldn't stand to go back to her motel, spending the night with her own thoughts.

"Would you like to come to my apartment?” 

Redfield repeated the phrase several times inside her own head, she didn't think he would be so… right. Though she calmly agreed.

 [...]

Leon could hear Claire breathing inside the elevator, she seemed to have something to say, but she didn't dare do it. She bit her lips, released her chest carrying anxiety, occasionally her frame bumping into Leon's arms. The smirking of his lips made her nervous, in a reckless way. 

Both got out of the cabin, he brought down the door knob and Claire saw the room in complete darkness. She knew it wasn't his style fancy or luxury stuff, inside it looked very clean, tidy. He turned on the gray lights, said “Come in” leaving his leather gloves on the central furniture.

She sat on the couch, watched him move around the house and for the first time, Claire didn't have much to say. “Would you like to drink something?"

"Beer.”

It was a request quickly accepted. The odd intimacy made Leon undo his leather jacket on the back of the armchair, he sighed tiredly, said “We didn’t sleep” and with her lips on the bottle's hole, Claire chuckled sheepish “You look terrible, Leon” and he replied “Not much as you do… and your arm?”

“I’ll be fine” ended the dialogue. Claire felt tension in the room, inside her chest. She knew that running her eyes over Leon's body didn't seem right and she didn't understand exactly why, this attraction was vicious, mutual; Redfield wondered that maybe he was there to talk, she knew what Leon was like, she knew everything he had been through. 

Claire stood up, she looked at Leon's eyes for the first time from so close up, they looked gloomy and cloudy. It was as if Leon was saying that he couldn't stand another day like that.

“I know what you have to tell me.” Leon's heart hit faster, did she know? How? Was he being so obvious…? 

"You know…?" He tried to reformule the question, his breathing shallow, his throat with a very large amount of saliva swallowed forcibly.

“I know… I feel angry with you... for making me go in a nice place, for having your company that makes me feel so good, for bringing me here just to say that you won’t give me the chip…” The condescension in Claire’s voice intrigued Leon, his posture fails, the stillness becomes greater “Look Claire…'

“I'm not finished yet, Leon” she said firmly, she approached dangerously, his lips almost brushing her top one “I feel angry, but I put myself in your shoes and I imagine you're doing the same to me by making this decision. I feel angry because… Lord, I can't— think about us. I'm mad with myself for thinking about us.” 

“What do you…” Claire saw Adam's apple moving eagerly, she focused her eyes on Leon's neck, on the strong cologne and smell of perfume that were addictive. "What do you think?”

Redfield thought about the various possibilities, she could verbalize anything, because that was what she wanted: to say something. But saying it wasn't enough, because the words accumulated throughout her body as if it wanted to transcend their meaning, because it did. She wanted to say much more than just words to Leon, it was an internal conflict that seemed want to unchain her pride.

She guided her blue irises syncing with his, left the beer bottle on the table, carefully took his hand, brought it to her face, the scar on his palm was kissed and Claire heard a soft, pleasant moan from Leon.

Kennedy brought her close, they kissed between the taste of alcohol and sighs gave, his tongue curled around hers, hot and wet, sticky in an addictive way, she seemed impatient, she moaned between the seals, even with the movements limited by one arm, it was Claire who calmly led everything. He moved away millimeters, let her take him to the wall, felt her nails sliding down the torn fabric of his t-shirt to his belt, grinding his body against hers, dominant. 

“I don't like this situation, you know” she says, perhaps a ready-made speech, but she still has contact with his body, his belt undone, her lips marked on the skin of his neck and chest, leaving him dizzy, intoxicated. “You… could have— asked me on a date” she teased, squeezed Leon's ass, pushed his torso onto the bed and silently demanded that he wait. 

It was all hectic, Leon had a bulge between his legs, witnessing Claire's skillful semi-nudity, he kept his eyes on every curve, on the adorable disarray of her underwear, on the scratches and scars on her shoulders and hip, there was so much admiration that it left he more aroused.

“I would have ended up here, in your sheets anyway, Leon. Because I like you, but I know that now, we are opposite” and that statement ended with Leon, even though he was involved in an overwhelming passion and arousal, feeling her mouth on his chest, on his skin, maybe in another moment they would have been perfect to each other “Claire—fuck, I-I…”

“S-shut… up, don’t make this worse” she exposed herself, undid Leon’s zipper and climbed on top of him with her bare breasts, her loose hair falling over her arms, the tip of the strands touching her hardened nipples.

Claire leaned her body, limiting the movement of her injured arm, she moaned when she felt Leon's fingertips on her thigh, a touch so affectionate that it didn't feel like him or she hadn't had the chance to try his touch yet. “You smell so good…” the compliment made her cheeks heat up, a lovely redness.

“D-don’t say things like that” she exclaimed, wrapping Leon’s boner between her legs, her core still being divided by the fabric of her panties. Claire rubbed herself and in response Kennedy's eyes narrowed, darting to her every curve. 

With his digits, Leon felt the slight bruise on Redfield's arm, she grunted bitterly but he placed a kiss on her bare jaw and then on her nipples, lovingly, enveloped in her lust.

“I don't want to rush things, Claire. I can’t do this to you, to me— to us.”

It was the last thing he said to her. And somehow, that made her chest twitch and tingle, feel a contraction and a supernatural heat between her legs, arousal increasing. “Finish taking off those clothes” Claire commanded and his agility made her chuckled clumsy. She bit the inside of her cheeks, watched Leon's body closely as he moved, the muscles in his arms, the prominent abdomen and the throbbing cock hitting his stomach.

Redfield wanted to moan but prolonged any sound, she saved all that desire for Leon to take it and keep it, cherishing this moment as a memory.

Leon's waist was hugged by Claire's thighs, he felt the temperature of her pussy in contact with his skin, he let slip deep breath and rubbed himself, opened her lips and teased her folds. “I hate that shameless smile of yours…” Claire whispered, letting him guide her hips in a delicious ‘back and forth’. “Yeah?" he replied smugly, a roguish smile that made her bite his top lip.

Then, Claire supported herself on her knees, twisted her body and the tip of Leon's cock came down, being swallowed by her core, so sopping wet and hot that it was as if he was drowning in a bubbling sensation of genuine desire. As if they could both know exactly what the other was thinking. “Oh… This” Redfield continued on top of him dictating the rhythm, moving up and down without stopping while Leon held her ass cheeks, bouncing.

“Careful… Redfield” he mumbled, lifted his torso and hugged her, leaving her legs raised, without much difficulty. Claire was whimpering, she she felt as if his touch was permeating every layer of her body, his warm flesh transforming them into one, into a drop of them, into a universe... she could simply enjoy it.

Tired, Claire let herself lie down on the mattress, she closed her eyes, sighing intensely, feeling the texture of the sheets on her back, her injured arm resting in front of her body. She felt one of Leon's fingers waltz with her free hand, felt the touch of his lips on her fingers, and sobbed when Leon stuck one of those fingers in his mouth. 

His tongue wrapped around her finger, erotically, Leon watched her expressions, waiting for her to come. Their eyes met once again, afterwards Leon felt the breath leave his lungs, the air was lost for a few seconds, he swore he was seeing the most beautiful and ethereal woman of all; Claire with her hair messy, her eyes watering and her body naked, sensitive and intimate. 

“Shit.” Kennedy swore, thrusting against Claire slowly, passionately and affectionately, he made sure not to miss any of her expressions, any sign of her body, as hips slammed together, mouths and fingers on her breasts. “You are so gorgeous… This is— Fuck, I need to stop, I need—” 

Listening to his incoherent mumblings, her nails buried into his wrists, like an unspoken request, Leon placed both hands next to Claire's head, left her legs floating in the air and went deep, the tip of his dick reaching her unfold places, hitting against her cunt in an inconstant firm rhythm. 

With her free arm she hugged his neck, whimpered bashfully and moved her hand down to Leon's ass cheek, stimulating the movements he made.

Claire needed more, she wanted more, she wanted them to be one for a moment.

The scent of both together made Leon weak, he started kissing her, slowing the movements to taunt her — she’d led him to continue, perhaps even stronger, making her forget all this confusion... how they were more than just all those problems that covered them.

“Leon! Leon! I-I…!” Thereafter, a wild tension took over Claire's dripping walls, she seemed lost between words, her mind blank, an orgasm that had mixed her essence with Leon's. 

Supportive, he remained there, together, affectionate, sometimes kisses, sometimes caresses, one touch softer than the other, conflicting with the past but fitting so well at the moment. When they moved away, Leon experienced the sincere smile, the naive happiness that transpired and almost became material around.

Claire lay down next to him, tangling in the sheets, tired and satisfied “I don’t know how many times I’ve said this today… but you—” Leon was interrupted, she silenced his lips with her index finger and waited for him to lie down.

“I don’t know…” she started, she didn’t know where to look, she alternated between Leon and his hand fixing her strands “That was… good… it was really good.”

Shaken, Leon thought, maybe she had something negative to say, good moments are still moments; “But…” he continued, as if he were inside her mind, waiting for anything.

“We could do everything differently” Claire states and continues “I understand a lot of your purposes, like the impulsive behaviour of yours. I don’t agree with them, but I understand it’s the world we live in.”

"What do you mean?" Confused, Leon was surprised by the answer: “Everything… I mean, things don’t have to end like this, we don’t.”

Kennedy didn't want to judge between the lines, he shared the same thoughts as her, perhaps beyond. He didn't want to create expectations that the environment could break, he knew that trust and loyalty were two sides of the same coin, he knew that hurting her was a way to save her and vice versa.

“Let's talk…” Claire peeked at Leon, her peace saying a thousand things, but no answer that satisfied her. “I… I'm filled with fear, doubts that I don't know what they are, that scares me. I can't drag people into this, that's not part of them”, he added, real and sensitive. Kindly, Claire, once again that night, showered hot kisses on Leon's hand, she kissed the scar, closed her eyes and focused her mind on the heat, the thickness, how big and sensitive his hand was, carrying weights that went up to his neck. 

“It’s okay… I understand you, I have it too, a lot to be honest” she comforted, her voice sleepy and warm “You don’t have to go through that shit alone, Leon.”

He nodded silently, not that he didn't want to keep that topic, but perhaps the quietness in that minute fed confidence. Leon smiled awkwardly and embarrassedly, caressing her cheek with his thumb, lavishing affection and care. Leon wanted to keep that vision, to tattooing in his memory her lips breaking from her smile to exhaustion and yet, conveying security and vulnerability, not only because they were the same, not only because they went through the same impact, but precisely because they trusted in a uncertain hope.

Sleep resting them both.

Changes follow memories.

[daily-leon]

[via01lactea]

Claire imitating Leon

USJ | Biohazard Night of heroes

[eggnogtoast]

hire this man to find your missing brother

[cbrcbbr]

who did this??

[lysa1201]

I am NOT late, I would NEVER…

Cleon Week 2024 day 2 “Behind Bars” 💖

“Claire! It is so nice to see you…”

“Leon! We gotta stop meeting like this…”

[glettokono]

i felt lack of cleon parents content. so here we are - sketchy cleon (and extra sherryxjake!!!) comic!!

Leon, Claire and Sherry stop at different motels, and in one of them in the nightstand they found a record player, headphones and one cassette of the black metal band left by previous guests. it is old memory but sherry keeps it deep in her heart

[a11ia]

Claire being that who bought him his jacket on r4!!

Oh the moment he comes back and tells her he lost the jacket he’s screw. Besides that jacket it’s soo cool deffo Claire’s choice. And his casual outfit with the blue jacket match’s with her’s jacket I just know that 🤞

[delphi-shield]

ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴜᴛꜱ ↪ strap-on hcs

mdni

strap in and strap ON sorry

took a break from working on fluff pieces to slap this together. all i do on this stupid website is reveal what a huge sub i am im furious.

characters included: jill valentine, claire redfield, rebecca chambers, ada wong, helena harper, a very special secret guest (leon kennedy)

content: feat. reader receiving and giving, oral, piv, licking of fluids, light humiliation, talking you through it, established relationship assumed, reader is afab in helena & leon's parts, strap-on gratuitous referred to as dick and cock.

You don't need to convince Jill the strap is real. She already knows. She's convincing you the strap is real.

She's informing you as a courtesy that she's going to knock you up, and the way she has you all knotted up, hands pressing the backs of your thighs up, up, up, as wide as she can get you, you believe her.

She drills down into you, tits bouncing, making you go cross-eyed. You try to keep your noises locked behind your lips, sweet little whines muted. Your hand reaches for her and she swats it away before you can so much as brush a nipple. Jill grips your jaw so hard it stings, squishing your cheeks together until your noises are loud enough for the neighbors to complain.

Her hands leave you once you melt into the mattress. The rustle and chime of her removing her harness is a lullaby to you, wind chimes on a muggy summer night.

When you're finally boneless beneath her, limbs heavy, body covered in a sheen of sweat, lube, and cum, she trails the backs of her fingers along your spine. Her palm presses to the small of your back, velvet voice in your ear purring praise for you.

But when she dangles her gear in front of you, the bumper that had sat flush with her cunt still gleaming with her cum.

“Clean this up for me,” Jill instructs, hand curled around the base of your skull while you gorge yourself.

Claire, on the other hand, is secretly flustered by your attempts to convince her the strap is real.

You're jerking her off mid-make out and she's rolling her eyes because c'mon, you know I don't feel that, right?

Sure, baby. Anything you say. Her hips keep rocking to meet your fist, her nipples peaked, arching into your touch. She drags you in by your shirt until you're straddling her, dick wedged stiffly at the apex of your thighs. When you squirm, she laughs.

“Wanna ride it, huh?” Claire taunts, her hands trailing against your side. She doesn't expect you to say please. If it were real, it would have twitched.

Claire can be so mean when she teases but she falls apart when you dish it back to her. You grind against her, palming her dick to keep it right where you need it, right where it feels best, because Claire can't stop lifting her hips, can't stop bucking against you even though she insists she ‘can't feel it’.

You begged her to cum inside you just once and her hips snapped against yours, like she was trying to buck you off.

Your hands brace on her shoulders, grinning in the face of Claire's scowl.

“Just get on your hands and knees already. Jesus. I'm gonna make you ask next time.”

Rebecca can't stop slapping it around just to watch it wiggle. She bats at it like a cat, tugs it down with one finger just to watch it spring up and nearly slap her stomach.

“It's so funny,” she insists, not realizing she's dangling a piece of meat in front of a hungry lion.

As much fun as she has just fiddling with it, she's not truly sold on the strap-on experience until you gift her a harness with a little pouch for a bullet vibe.

Her technique falls to pieces, but the way she fucks you is so enthusiastic that it's hard to be mad when she ruins your orgasm with her sloppy thrusts.

She's finding her third orgasm when her stamina wears out. Rebecca collapses against your back, hips still flush with yours, dick buried in you to the hilt. Your chest falls flat and she faces in after you, pressing a groan to your skin when the vibe hums against her clit just right. Her hips thrust staccato, chasing herself over the edge again, fucking herself somehow deeper into you.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rebecca whimpers, finally pulling out of you. She wiggles out of the harness like it's in fire, the vibration suddenly too much all at once.

When she finally catches her breath, she asks, “did you..?” and she's mortified when you shake your head before she even finishes her sentence.

Her hands pry your thighs apart before you can even tell her it's okay. She demands you lay back, hands gliding under your ass to move you where she wants. Her jaw isn't tired.

Ada really doesn't bust it out that often. She has no inclination towards penetrative sex, insists she can make you feel just as good without it - but she does acknowledge that sometimes these tools serve their purposes.

It's like you can hear a chorus of angels when she opens the soft case she keeps her glittery black strap in. She rolls her eyes, tells you not to look so eager.

How can you not? She passes you her gear and lets you guide the harness up her legs, lets you kiss her cunt in preemptive thanks before you fit her cock over it - and then you kiss the head, too.

Once, you thought you saw her drool when you looked up at her, strap down your throat, eyes wet with tears. It seemed so unlike her, so messy in the place of her usual curated stoicism. You'd clung to that image for months, hung it in your mind as the real Ada shining from between all her layers, and you'd spent months gagging yourself on her cock for a glimpse of her.

She coaches you through it no matter how many times you take her. She sets her palm against your cheek, watches you lean into her touch, cock prodding against your other side.

“So pretty like this, aren't you?” Mhm, yes ma'am. You can't say that, but you try to tell her with your eyes. “You're doing so well. A little more. Think about where you want me next.”

There's always a next with Ada. She doesn't do anything in half measures and that includes you. Maybe there was a time where she would have taken her pleasure quickly, where she'd have been gone before your own could crest, but now the only time it truly feels like you have her is when she's in bed with you.

Helena leaves you wobbling around like a newborn deer every single time. Her arm curls around your waist the morning after, tugs you back to bed in apology when she sees you stumbling.

“M'sorry baby.” She presses her nose just behind your ear, inhales deeply, fits her body against your back. “I'll be more gentle next time.”

So that was a fucking lie.

Helena's got a thing about windows, likes to fuck you up against them, her feet planted wide, grinding her strap into you hard and deep.

Her promise to be more gentle is long forgotten. She keeps you crowded against the glass, your shirt yanked down so your tits press flat on the window. Large or small, tits or pecs, she wants them out and on display for anyone who galena to look up and see how good you're getting it.

Helenas's other hand stays pressed to your navel, like she's trying to feel herself moving in you, “all the way in your stomach, huh? You feel me?”

On rare nights when she wants it, she wants it hard. She wants her brains scrambled she tells you, tightening the harness at your hips. She presses a kiss where the fat of your hip bubbles up, runs her fingers reverently along the dips and divot of your skin.

It's the most softness you'll get until she's satisfied. If you can't or won't pound her into the mattress (or carpet, or countertop, or backseat, or…) then she has no problem forcing you to sit still while she fucks herself on your cock.

Leon is so fucking angry when you slap your strap against his cheek. He's scowling up at you, all puffed up and defensive. Maybe now that he knows how it feels he'll stop doing it to you. (You hope not.)

“I think you've done this before,” you muse when he finally takes you into his mouth. You waited ‘til he couldn't respond, of course, just to see him glare at you. It's hard to pout when your mouth is full of cock, but Leon manages it. (See? He's a pro.)

This was his idea. You don't know what he's being so pissy about it for. You'd have thought it was Christmas the way his eyes lit up when he found your strap-on, shoved to the very bottom of a box. It had been an interesting moving day. Leon had found it in him to wait until his friends were gone to tell you about his discovery. The teasing, you'd expected. The interest, not as much.

“You gonna be pouty if I'm bigger than you?” You teased, expecting a laugh, not a fucking moan.

The pattern develops quickly. You brush his hair gently from his face. He pulls off your cock. Your hand fists in his hair, urging him back. He moans, fits even more of you into his mouth, nearly gags himself and recovers like a champ.

Leon pulls off you, lips swollen and spittle trailing. You need to ask him if he's okay with pictures, you realize, stomach squirming and heat pooling. Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone and the gentleness has him rocking into his knees, reaching past you for a bottle of lube. He tosses it to you and you nearly drop it, too busy watching him lay back, cock flushed and leaking against his skin.

When you finally remember how to breathe, you wobble in between his legs. You line your cock up with his. It takes both your hands to wrap completely around the two of you. Leon's eyes flutter shut.

“I'm bigger,” you whisper, unable to help yourself. Leon glares at you, jaw clenching. You'd think he was mad if his dick hadn't just jumped in your hand.

[lopshachu]

🍓 🍓🍓

[lovelycleon]

So close, yet so far away 🥺