#leon x lest

[scootatwoni]

I've never forcefully woken myself as fast as when I'm in a dream where I'm underwater

Fuck that shit, get me OUTTA there

[leonkennedybreedingkink]

ANYTIME YOU WANT (JUMP BACK TO ME ANYTIME)

husband!leon kennedy x reader

tags: established relationship. you guys are beefing ngl. masturbation (brief reference, m receiving). leon loves his wife a lot. title from eve 6 anytime.

Your therapist takes in the way you both sit on her couch over the rims of her glasses. Your legs and arms are crossed and you don’t dare look in his direction, lest he thinks he’s not in the doghouse. The first fifteen minutes of this session have been an awkward, stilted silence.

Leon’s legs are spread, his arms folded as he sneaks glances at you from the corners of his eyes. His mouth is downturned at the corners, contrasting the thin line yours is pressed into.

Not to stereotype or anything, but she can definitely see which one dragged the other to marriage therapy. She’s just surprised it’s the man wanting to fix something.

Okay. Since neither of you want to speak, she’ll go first. “Would either of you like to tell me why we’re here this week?” She asks, writing the date in the top left corner of the legal pad’s page.

11 - 18 - 17

She watches you scoff and shift where you sit, balancing your temple on two fingers. “You’re a marriage counselor, aren’t you?” You don’t even look at her as you speak, words ground out from your teeth. “Why else does a couple come to you?”

Alright, not a good start. She watches Leon reach over before he stops himself, a hand returning to his lap. Instead, he says your name softly, begging you to look over at him with those big blue eyes.

You don’t look over.

He changes tactics, head lifting. “Be nice.” He says softly, body shifting to face you as he looks over, drinking you in.

You don’t respond, staring angrily into a space over the therapist’s shoulder.

Leon sucks in a breath through his teeth as he leans back, his hand midway between you two on the ugly upholstery.

Your therapist clears her throat, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Why are you two here?”

Leon takes the lead, his eyes sliding over to you. “We’re having… problems.”

You scoff immediately. “Understatement.” You mutter under your breath, arms folding tightly again.

Leon’s mouth presses into a line as he restrains himself from giving into your baiting before he says, “I’ll lay my cards out on the table.”

You bristle, eyes flicking over at him. Your face is stonily neutral, the slight knot of your brows betraying your frustration.

Wife and husband in habit of needling one another.

“I drank. A lot.” Leon leans back, crossing an ankle over his opposite knee. “And she did a lot to try and keep our marriage afloat before I got my head out of my ass.”

Your therapist notes this on her legal pad. “How long ago was this?”

“Three-ish years.” Leon offers, lacing his fingers together. His wedding band glints in the light—yours is conspicuously absent. His eyes land on you, the second time he’s spoken directly to you. “And I’m forever grateful.”

“Mhm.” Therapist writes that husband is apologetic and open, attempting to bridge the gap. Wife is unreceptive. “And how long have you both been married?”

Shit. That’s a better question for you, you have the dates straight, somehow. Your first time, the date you two got married, the day you two met, your first daughter’s birthday, your first son’s birthday, your second daughter and son’s birthday.

He used to tease you about your calendar brain early on. You’d look a little sheepish and he’d kiss it right off you.

Leon sneaks a glance at you like a drowning man looks at a float. “Um…” He can feel his face warming up, a pretty flush spreading across his cheeks.

You shift, sighing through your nose and picking at the seam of your jeans. “Sixteen years.”

Right. Wife seems to defrost when asked how long they’ve been together—sixteen years.

“And how did you meet?” Just so she has the dates straight.

“College.” Your face heats the longer Leon stares holes into your cheek. Wife seems nostalgic of the early days of relationship. “I worked at the campus dining hall.”

A small, helpless smile spreads across Leon’s face. “I came over to the sandwich and pasta stations as much as I could.”

Husband holds affection for wife still.

You don’t look up at him and your therapist can watch the heartache bloom in his eyes before he looks away.

“What’s your perspective, Mrs. Kennedy?” The therapist asks you, crossing her legs.

You stay silent for so long that the therapist wonders whether you heard her before you say emotionlessly, “He did drink.” Your eyes fall to your fingers. “And mope, and feel bad for himself.”

“I went through a lot of things.” Leon says quietly. Your therapist opens her mouth to hush him, but you beat him to the punch.

“Nobody’s saying you didn’t.” You look up at him for the first time. “If you’d let me finish, you’d understand what I’m saying.”

Your therapist holds up her hands before this can devolve into a full-on argument. “Excuse me.” Two pairs of eyes settle on her. “Let’s not interrupt one another, please. And let’s keep the hostility to the minimum.”

“I’m not being hostile.” You retort, brows furrowing in the middle.

“You’re not exactly being gentle, either.” Leon mutters, raising a brow when you look at him with a frown on your face.

Husband and wife have habit of speaking over one another. “Please.” Your therapist says a little louder. “Mrs. Kennedy, continue.” Wife is on defense.

You take a steadying breath and let it out slowly. Wife employs self-soothing mechanisms. “I was going to say that the previous drinking isn’t the issue to me.” You uncross and recross your legs, bouncing the one on top. “The drinking, frankly, wasn’t a surprise.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Your lips part, eyes flicking over to Leon as you attempt to figure out the best way to talk without breaking his confidentiality.

Leon doesn’t look at you, head balanced on two fingers.

“I…” You take another deep breath. “It’s his job. It’s… it’s a tedious and stressful job. And he’d—“ you cut yourself off, glancing at him again.

“You can say it, it’s fine.” Leon says, sounding particularly weary.

You look particularly conflicted when he says that, mouth turning down at the corners. “He’d got the job from a big incident in ninety-eight. He wasn’t supposed to have this job.”

Wife employing vagaries to protect husband.

“Mhm.” Your therapist looks vaguely uneasy at the omission, but lets you go on.

“He hadn’t started drinking heavily until he was working for the President.” You chew on your cheek, eyes on your husband. “Then after that, he tried to go away to Colorado for a week, leaving me pregnant with three kids.”

Leon’s mouth pulls into a line. “So that’s what this is about.”

Husband and wife hold vague resentment for husband’s job.

Your therapist refrains from rolling her eyes, clearing her throat and waiting for you to go on.

“And then,” you say pointedly, eyebrows raising, “you didn’t have a vacation at all because your job called you in. That’s what I was getting at.”

“More like it found me, but close enough.” Leon replies flippantly, crossing his legs.

You squeeze your eyes shut, measuring your breaths. Your therapist is almost tempted to write that husband has a bad attitude, but holds back.

You look away, one hand moving to twiddle your wedding band out of habit before you register that your finger is empty. You pull your hand away. “He sobered up after the Colorado thing.” You say quietly.

Husband’s work takes him away from the wife and kids fairly often.

Your therapist nods, looking between you two. Wife was angry at beginning of session, now looks downcast, switching role with husband who was earlier downcast, now is irritated. “And how many children do you share with one another?”

“Four.” Leon fills in, hand twitching for his phone as if to show pictures. “Two boys, two girls.”

Four children, two boys and two girls.

“And how has this break—“ When she asks, Leon flinches and you look guilty. “in your relationship impacted your children?”

You glance at one another in tandem. Wife and husband still look for support in one another when asked questions pertaining to them as a family unit. Leon looks away first, cheeks turning red.

You sigh, reaching up and rubbing the back of your neck. “Our eldest girl started acting out in school. She’s defiant, she’s antisocial. She…”

Leon waits as you trail off, then picks up. “She’s an extrovert, like her mom. Which is why it raised alarm bells when her teachers told us that she’d been angry about having to do group work because she wanted to be left alone. She had to be taken home one day because she got in a physical fight with some kids who just wanted to play with her.”

“And your other children?” Her eyes flick between the two of you.

“Our youngest two aren’t in school yet.” You inform her, shifting a little and fiddling with your nails. “Our eldest boy—he’s six—had begun isolating himself from everyone. He wouldn’t even sit at his desk, he just wanted to sit in the library area and do his work—which is completely fine and I don’t see why the teacher threw a fit about it, frankly—but he’d also refused to play with other children. He would just watch other kids at recess—and he’s a very energetic kid.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “I see.”

Leon’s mouth pulls into a small smile at all the information you throw at the therapist. That’s his girl, always motormouthing and talking about anything and everything. Though, you could start an argument with your echo, so maybe there’s a drawback to your ability to talk about anything.

Parental relationship affecting children in household.

“Our youngest two don’t really understand why mommy and daddy are fighting.” Leon muses, watching you play with your fingers. He has half a mind to reach over and hold your hand so you stop fidgeting, but refrains.

“How old are your children?”

“Eight, six, four, and two.” You sneakily reference a tattoo on your forearm of the kid’s birthdates with their initials—he knew you were cheating when it came to remembering their birthdates.

Your therapist glances at her watch, jotting down a few more notes before she closes the legal pad, marking it as Mr. & Mrs. Kennedy. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have this week. If you both are willing to come back, my receptionist out front will schedule you for another session next week.”

Leon watches his cum swirl down the drain miserably, leaning his forehead against the shower tile. What a waste.

That session last week could’ve gone worse, admittedly. It could’ve had you two throwing shit at one another and both of you getting arrested.

The silence during the drive home was excruciating. In the early days, you could fill up the whole fucking car just talking about anything: your coursework, which kid in your class you think is autistic, this new show you watched, anything.

Leon’s a quiet guy, he doesn’t have the capacity to talk about nothing and everything for an hour and you’re his favorite little chatterbox in the world.

He turns off the faucet and shakes his hair out like a dog, raking the curtain aside and grabbing his towel, mopping his face and hair before he dries off his body.

He wraps the towel around himself and steps out of the shower, slicking his hair back and wiping a streak in the foggy mirror so he can somewhat see where he needs to shave.

For good measure, he opens the window and leans forward to the mirror, inspecting his face.

You knock on the door thrice. “Can I come in?”

He turns around, one hand on the knot holding his towel up and the other unlocking the door and pulling it open. You step inside without so much as a glance at him, pausing when you see the streak on the mirror. “I hate when you do that.” you mutter, pulling open the cabinet and rooting around for some disinfectant.

“You hate when I do anything.” Leon mutters back, retrieving the trimmer from the cabinet and being careful not to whack you in the head with it. He jams the plug in the wall, undoing his towel both to dab his cheeks and jaw dry with a corner of it, but also to see if he can get a reaction from you.

You give none, coming back with some rubbing alcohol and cotton pads from the cabinet. Somebody must’ve scraped their knee. You bonk the back of your head on the way out. “Motherfucker!”

Leon puts down the trimmer with a stifled laugh, leaning down and stroking the back of your head gently. “Jesus. You okay?”

You swat at his covered thigh, sitting down on the tile. “It’s not funny.”

“Did you hear me laugh?” Maybe you did. His bad, he should’ve been quieter. He strokes the back of your head one last time before pulling his hand away.

“No, but I know you want to.” You grouse, getting up from the floor and picking up the rubbing alcohol and the cotton pads. Safe, just like a guy stealing a base at the last second.

You walk away without anything further and Leon feels stupidly self-conscious as he watches your ass. Is it the hair? No, you said you liked the body hair. Is it the body? Is he out of shape? Well, he’s not far outside the realm of dad bod. Besides, you told him a couple years ago that you liked seeing the give to his tummy, means he’s eating well.

He shakes his head, leaning into the mirror and picking up the trimmer as he buzzes his stubble down a little more. Your four year old runs into the bathroom with a smile and he pauses, face half-shaven to give some love to one of his three girls, plopping her on the counter as she talks his ear off and he continues shaving.

After a while, he helps her down so she can go run around with her siblings and so he can get changed, hanging his towel up when she’s gone and changing into a pair of boxers. He comes into his bedroom and heads over to his dresser, pulling out a shirt and some sweatpants.

He comes downstairs fully dressed to utter chaos.

Your kids are too busy running around the living room and body slamming one another to listen to you. You stand there frustratedly as you try to configure a game plan, one temple aching. You don’t like raising your voice at them, your voice goes too high and at a certain point, kids tune it out.

“Hey!” Leon, on the other hand, has no qualms about raising his voice. He doesn’t have to do much, he has a lot of diaphragm support.

The kids pause, immediately looking guilty.

Wordlessly, he points out to the back door and they scramble away, shouting and ordering each other around and back to playing with one another.

Leon goes over and shuts the door with a sigh. “They get that energy from you, you know.” He muses, heading over to the kitchen to get himself a snack.

“I know.” You sit down on your humongous couch, rubbing a temple. In the corner is your pillow, your blanket hung over the back of the couch. Leon’s heart dully aches when he sees that setup, he’s not sure it ever won’t. God, he misses cuddling you and his babies.

Your therapist holds up a hand in the last ten minutes of your session after having found a good place to cut you off. “So.” She says after letting out a quiet sigh, looking over her notes.

11 - 25 - 17

Making some headway in conversations about the other’s intentions. Husband and wife very similar: hardheaded, hate to lose, want their voices to be heard. Neither want their children to be in a broken home.

Wife sleeps on couch, lacks wedding ring for second session in a row. Husband longing for connection with her but wants her to give the signal that she’s ready.

She looks up. “I’m going to give you both some homework.” She watches your eyebrow raise and Leon smirk. “First, no matter what either of you is doing, when you first see each other for the day, I want you to hug for at least twenty seconds.”

You frown, Leon’s expression lightening. Amateur advice, or so you think.

“Second, I want you both to start keeping journals of your fights.”

Nevermind.

“Journals of our fights?” You repeat, crossing your legs at the ankle.

“I’m not finished.” The therapist reprimands gently, watching you frown. Wife has issues with authority. “These journals should take place over a week’s time. I want you to write down what the fight was about, what was said, how you both reacted. At the end of every week—Sunday, we’ll say—you’ll exchange the journals and read from the other’s point of view.”

Damn, that’s actually really good.

“Third,” The therapist pins you in place with a look. “I want you to wear your wedding band again.“

She watches the embarrassment cross your face, eyes cutting over to Leon when he looks too smug. “Don’t look so smug, Mr. Kennedy. I want you to recite five things you like about her—“

“That’s easy.” Leon says, meaning every word.

She gives him a look. “When you’re in an argument. Mentally, not out loud. Speaking of, you both need a code word for when the argument is getting to be too much and you need to walk away from it.”

She stands up, putting the legal pad in the folder in the Kennedy file. “I’ll see you both next week.”

After the third session, you move right back into the bedroom, after waking up to Leon laying on top of you on the couch.

Leon’s brushing his teeth as you change into pajamas, leaning over and spitting into the sink before he brushes his tongue. He rinses the bristles and puts the brush back in the holder, coming out and helping you ready the bed before your six year old son comes in, saying his tummy’s upset.

“I’ve got it.” Leon comes over and presses a hand to his son’s forehead. Warm. Five out of the six of the Kennedys tend to run warm, which isn’t a worry. “Let’s get you some Pepto, buddy.”

He takes his son’s hand and leads him downstairs, giving him a dose and taking him back up, laying him back in his bed. “Goodnight. Mommy and daddy love you.” He whispers, going over and kissing his three other children goodnight.

He comes back to your room to find you in bed reading, lights dimmed. Instinctively, he comes over to your side and adjusts the lamp so you’re not straining your eyes to read. He comes back around to his side and turns off his light, lying on his right side and facing you.

When you decide it’s time to sleep, you lean over and turn off the light, putting your book on your nightstand and slipping beneath the covers.

It’s silent for a while before Leon whispers, “Sometimes, I wonder if we should have another baby.”

Your head snaps over to his. “What?”

“Not—“ He scoots a little closer, almost reaching out to take your hand. “not, like, a bandage baby or anything. I don’t think a baby can fix this.” A pause before he gestures in the dark. “Us, I mean.”

You snort despite yourself. “I hope not.”

Leon scoffs, coming a little closer. “You know me. That’s not fair to a little baby. And you said four’s your limit.”

Your heart warms. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised he remembered.

“I love you, you know.” Leon murmurs, hesitantly and loosely taking your hand. Even in the dark, you can see him coming.

Your chest aches. “I know.”

Another long pause.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” When your head turns, he’s there, inches from your face.

“That it took me so long to pull my head from my ass. You are… my anchor in this crazy-ass world.” He squeezes your hand, hoping you’ll let him hold it for a while longer. “And I hurt you. You’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, and I love you, and I hurt you.”

Your burning eyes scrunch shut as you press your forehead to his.

“I just hope you forgive me—I hope one day, that I’m good enough for you to forgive me.” He whispers, voice wavering. “I want this to work. I want you. God, I miss you.”

Maybe that’s what you needed, you needed to hear him render his heart open.

You come closer, pressing your front to his.

“And even my job—“ He curses, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the spot between your eyebrows. “I’ll quit.” When you giggle, he huffs. “I’m serious. Give me the word and I’ll quit.”

The tension in his chest eases when you tuck your head beneath his chin. “God, no, don’t do that. At least one of us needs an income.” You mutter, throwing an arm around his waist.

Forgiveness never felt so sweet.

[venomvalley]

RIPE FOR THE PICKING (I)

pairing: ID!leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: Faking a marriage is easy—so you thought. But your life-or-death mission leaves the door wide open for feelings to fester. Feelings that you really do not have time for.

words: 7.2k

warnings: strong mentions of domestic violence, shady business practices, predatory Umbrella execs, kidnapping, canon-typical violence, partners to fake spouses to friends to lovers (soon)

notes: this has been a long time in the making, based on a smut week request that got a lot bigger than i ever could’ve imagined. i know nothing about government agencies but this is resident evil so who cares right (pls dont yell at me)!!

>> PART TWO

It feels wrong. Being with him like this.

Your ring finger’s been branded by the weight of cold metal—a gift from your supervisors for a long-term mission abroad. Just you and him, two rabbits trapped within a woodland wolf camp: the inner circle of Umbrella’s most elite. Hundreds of apex predators with their keen noses and hair-trigger reflexes and you cannot fuck this up. One wrong move means an unveiling means swift death.

Leon isn’t your husband. The marriage papers are forged, and the engraving inside of both rings (forever yours) means as much as his hollow affections. Barely even friends before this. Just two people with opposing skill sets and long-term bioterrorism expertise—a match made in USSTRATCOM heaven.

“Trouble in paradise?” asks the woman to your right. Elegant in her older age, bejeweled from hair to feet—she favors emeralds and silk fabrics, supplemented by her husband’s high-paying salary. A family you seek to infiltrate. One of many.

She’s made it very easy. Umbrella’s welcome party, apparently. Kind enough to invite you over for wine while Leon sets plans in motion back at home base.

“What makes you say that, ma’am?”

She scoffs, finishes the last of her drink, closes her book, removes her glasses. Leans over the armrest of a thick-cushioned chair to where you sit beside her. “You’ve fiddled with your ring this entire conversation, which means something’s on your mind. Most likely something husband-shaped.”

Every Umbrella higher-up possesses the same preternatural wit. Sometimes, you fear breathing wrong lest the members discover your ruse, and that perception only sharpens with age—couldn’t last long with the company otherwise.

This time, however, you’re one step ahead.

You breathe out a sigh and regard her with a pinched brow. “Can I ask you something? In confidence?”

She refills her glass halfway with deep red wine and takes a sip, smudging same-colored lipstick along the rim. “Of course, my dear.”

“How do you know if someone’s… cheating on you?”

Her lips purse, gaze casting to the floor. “You just know. But it wouldn’t matter anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“As spouses, we support our husbands in all their endeavors. No matter how much it hurts us.” At your widened eyes, she smiles. A broken thing, thin, resigned. “Think about it for a moment. With the resources at their disposal, what do you think they would do if we tried to leave?”

Not exactly the information you were seeking. Painful all the same. A perspective you hadn’t considered.

“That’s horrible.”

She rests a wrinkled hand over yours, thumbs at the metal of your ring. “You’re still young, which is why I’m telling you this. It’s not worth it. Let him do what he wants, and when the time comes, you swallow your pain.”

You carry her advice back to your false home where Leon awaits, files strewn across the dining room table, mid-conversation with a burner-phone Hunnigan.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps. Says, “We got word from the informant. I’m heading to the facility tomorrow.”

You take a seat at the table as Hunnigan greets you over the speaker, and you return with your own pleasantries. “So they got you a badge?”

He nods. Pulls out the chair to sit beside you. “How’d your visit with Mary go?”

“I still can’t get over how big their fucking house is.”

Hunnigan cuts in, voice rough from the static. “Did you find anything of note?”

“No. I mean, I know she likes to read in her library, she enjoys red wine, she—wait. Actually.” You turn to Leon with a solemn frown. “There’s trouble in paradise.”

His gaze sharpens, and the line of his back straightens. “What do you mean?”

“Well—okay. I might’ve told her that I think you’re cheating on me.” As his mouth opens, you raise a hand to give him pause. “I thought it would be a good way to cover our asses and get some dirt on them.”

What better excuse for aloofness than adultery?

“Did you?” Hunnigan asks.

“A lot more than I expected. From what I gather, the elite get up to a lot of… morally questionable shit in regards to the treatment of their spouses.”

“That’s kind of a given, Nightingale.”

He still hasn’t referred to you by your real name. Either by alias or code, despite the latter’s arguable lengthiness. And it shouldn’t affect you as much as it does. A silly thing to find hurt feelings over, but it sours your mood. Leaves you bristling.

“But to hear it from an actual victim. I saw the look in her eyes, Leon.”

He leans in close, drops his voice to a low grumble. “These people aren’t victims. Don’t let them get in your head. We have a mission to focus on.”

Through your nose you exhale a tired sigh and look away to follow the woodgrain of the oak-stained table. He’s wrong. Didn’t hear what you heard, see what you saw. “You seem to forget that my specialty is subterfuge. Reading people, blending in, manipulation. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I remember perfectly fine, actually. You seem to forget what Umbrella’s capable of.” You meet his glare, stubborn and unyielding, then lean back in your chair.

Raccoon City stains deep, leaves him wary and standoffish. You’ve read his file. Little more than two dozen pages of redacted writing, but word of mouth spreads. A man like him doesn’t just fall under the radar, and government officials love to talk. To you, especially.

After a long moment, he brushes the hair from his eyes and turns back to the messy spread of papers. “We just need to be careful, okay?”

“You need to stay focused. Both of you.” Hunnigan, bemused by your arguing. “Do whatever it takes to complete this mission.”

—

Your first real party as newlyweds. The ballroom is brightly lit, spanning half a football field of sparkling chandeliers and velvet settees and champagne glasses filled with diamonds. Neither of you belong here, but you walk through the doors hand-in-hand, and you wave to those who recognize you, and attempting to navigate public affection through the lens of realism proves difficult.

This was a sore idea, in hindsight. Choosing an era commonly characterized by the most intense love and affection and happiness of the entire relationship. You should have spun a different story. A better one. But Umbrella didn’t seem an arranged-marriage type. From your research, most of their scientists got married around this age anyway.

Maybe you try too hard to fit in, and maybe that’s obvious. The wolves love fresh meat, and you and Leon are fresh out the cradle. It puts you at a disadvantage, leaves you as vulnerable as a fresh wound.

“I’ve noticed that you and your husband aren’t quite as… in love as newlyweds usually are.”

Carina Voerman: an absolute snake of a woman. The wife of an exec. Nosy to an impressive degree. An unconventional beauty, a stand-out. Every facet of her personality perfectly engineered for subterfuge.

What you wouldn’t give to pick her brain.

“The move has been… stressful, to say the least.”

“Let me guess.” She joins you against the wall, glossy lips pursing, and gazes off to where Leon mingles with his new work friends. “He’s staying out late, won’t tell you where he’s been. He keeps his phone a little too close.” When you say nothing, she turns to give you a wincing smile. Soothes a palm down your arm. “I thought my last husband was cheating? Come to find out, he was looking to use me in his experiments.”

You swallow down your surprise alongside the bitter taste of white wine, and your tongue almost sours in response. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She brushes a dark curl away from her forehead and it falls immediately back into place. “I’ve heard much worse stories than my own. You’ll get used to it.”

A few weeks ago, you would have doubted that, but you’ve heard stories as well. Each more horrific than the last.

“But I digress,” she continues, plucking a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “Do you smoke?”

Rarely, but when in Rome…. “Of course I do. Cigarettes are my very own brand of Vicodin.”

She laughs into the back of her hand, and the bejeweled bracelets on her wrist jingle. “I’ve never heard such a thing, but I think I’ll steal that.”

“They said it a lot where we used to live.”

She lights up her cigarette and exhales from the corner of her mouth. “You moved from the States, right?”

From your peripheral, Leon approaches. Gives you a stilted smile and pauses a moment before you outstretch a hand. Embrace me, dumbass.

The exchange is painfully awkward, slow-moving, and Carina clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You’re supposed to pretend at these events, my dears.”

Leon’s fingers tighten about your waist, and your heart soars up into your throat, each beat pulsing and painful. Her eyes narrow to a piercing scrutiny, and Leon turns to kiss you soft on the cheek. She could mean two different things, and only one of them would bring you relief.

She hums. “Aren’t you just the cutest couple?” Stamps out the lingering burn of her cigarette’s filter in the ashtray sat on the high table. “I suggest you keep each other close. The wolves around here tend to prowl.”

You aren’t sure if it’s a threat or a warning—maybe both. But you know not to underestimate her. Anybody, for that matter.

She leaves with a wave of manicured fingers, and Leon slumps against the wall at your back. Says, “Well. We might be fucked.”

“To be fair, you could’ve at least acted like you enjoy my presence.”

“I didn’t wanna overstep.”

You turn to glare at him. “We are married. I implore you to remember that.”

“Then as your husband,” he takes the half-smoked cigarette from between your fingers and smothers it inside the ashtray, “it breaks my heart to see you smoking.”

“It’s social.”

“It also kills people.”

With a starry smile, you lean your head on his shoulder. “Wow. So you do care.”

“I kinda have to.”

With a roll of your eyes, you push him away. “Oh, fuck you.”

—

It seems like a great idea. Fantastic, really. Your intimacy appears staged. Your safety, along with your chance of success, is up in the air. Not to mention, he’s a pretty man and you’re undeniably caged by touch-starvation.

Be honest with yourself: it’s the only idea.

You work on kisses first. Practice loving pecks. His lips pillow soft against your own, over and over and over again until you relax into the motion and instinct takes over—the caress of an arm here, the cradle of a neck there. It isn’t weird. It should be, but you tell yourselves that the mission takes priority. Nothing matters above this: swearing fealty to your roles.

You practice daily. When you leave for book clubs and gossip circles and brunch. (Yes, you’re eating brunch now.) When he leaves for the facility and late night bar-hopping and some top-secret locations he can’t even divulge to you.

It becomes easy. Second-thought.

Mary hosts a wine-tasting and invites most of the spouses from the facility. It’s extravagant as always, the furniture cleaned to the point of glittering, the dining room stocked with a feast of military-sized portions. Everyone gathers inside one of two seating rooms, chatting and laughing and sharing gossip with razor-sharp glances.

But you miss Leon. He always accompanies you to the large events, and you’ve found a certain comfort in his presence. Umbrella’s social dynamics ensure that he holds power in conversation, that you’re little more than set dressing. Being here, nothing but a little lamb on stumbling legs utterly ripe for the picking, leaves you appreciating the buffer of his standing a lot more.

“Oh, you look so pitiful standing in the corner like this.” Mary embraces you with a comforting smile, then hands you a tall glass of pale pink wine. “My husband just received this new shipment from Italy and it’s absolutely wonderful. I think you’ll like it.”

She’s become somewhat of a friend over the last few months. Treats you kindly, offers advice, shares with you her books and recipes and jewelry.

Missions like this require a certain amount of vulnerability to keep masks authentic, but trust is a slippery slope and you’re sure to break a few bones lest you fortify a few on-guard spikes.

Regardless, you think you’ll miss her when this is over.

You’ll surely miss the wine that you sip from your glass. A note of sweet strawberry that lingers bitter on the back of your tongue. Whether from the nerves or your actual enjoyment, you could drink the whole bottle.

“This is amazing. Sweet wines are very under-appreciated.”

A look of pride gleams on her face, and she nods to your glass. “I can send you home with a bottle, if you’d like.”

“That would be lovely.”

She nods her head over to the center of the room, where the other spouses mingle. “Why don’t you join us?”

Everyone greets you with their usual pleasantries. A woman a few years your junior compliments your outfit. Another offers you a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

“So,” begins the woman to your right, “I’ve noticed a change between you and your husband at our last few parties.” Spoken hushed, like the truest form of gossip. “I could almost call you love birds.”

The smile that graces your face is genuine this time. Easy. “Yes. We had a bit of a rough patch, but we’ve worked things out.”

A few people coo in response, others gush amongst themselves. How sad, in a way, to find a smile so enviable. But the shift in attitude was easy. Just a few kisses and suspicions are destroyed. You aren’t sure whether it speaks to your experience or their own romantic yearning.

Then comes the hard part. Sharing a bed. Leon proves horrible as a bed partner. He steals the covers, rolls onto you, possesses a mean snore. But the most egregious sin is one he can’t control at all, that chills you down to your marrow, that breaks your heart into each individual atom: nightmares. They plague him frequently, and you wake to him calling unfamiliar names, to rogue elbows sore-ing up your face, to his childlike clinging.

Most everybody working in this field has nightmares, but his. His are different. Personal.

On very rare occasions, he whispers about them inside the pitch-black limbo of your shared bedroom. The split-second blink of his mother’s hair, the tick of his father’s watch. He can’t remember what they look like, not anymore, but slivers of memory cut through the empty longing.

It’s the first time you truly see him. Leon. Less star-striking agent and more man, wet clay shaped around a shell of suffering.

His transparency gives you permission to sink between the fresh gaps in his guard and dare to know him. It isn’t about the mission anymore. You come from a place of sincerity.

Maybe it’s the loneliness. He’s the only ally you’ll have for the foreseeable future. Why not learn about him? Become friends?But everything is… weird. Friends do not kiss each other. They don’t cuddle before bed. They aren’t faking a relationship.

The first time you both say I love you on instinct, you’re settled in for the night. The lights shut off, sheets cozy, his body warm against yours.

It just comes out. Good night, Leon. Love you.

He laughs, a puff of breath against your nape, and you wish for the mattress to swallow you whole. Your eyes squint shut. Your face buzzes to numbness. Until,

Night, Birdie. Love you, too.

You have the best sleep in weeks, and you wonder what the fuck that means.

—

Leon calls you early on a Tuesday morning. Says he forgot his lunch, that you need to bring it by the facility.

You aren’t sure how Hunnigan pulled the strings, but he works alongside the businessmen in charge of hiding Umbrella’s dealings. Access to secret files, special projects, names upon names names upon names of suspects.

Your target is here, somewhere in this building. Selling off Umbrella’s most dangerous viruses to the highest bidder, and catching him means busting the whole operation wide open. Linking who knows how many corporations and billionaires to shady dealings. Finding him amongst the sea of guilty faces will be difficult.

The facility is stark-white walls and fluorescent lights and open-plan rooms but you’ve never felt more claustrophobic. People mill about on their lunch break, bright red and green and blue badges hung about their necks. A headache starts behind your eyes just as you check in at the front desk.

Once your identity has been confirmed, the pretty receptionist hands you a bright yellow badge with heavy black font that spells out VISITOR, then leads you through a maze of hallways, past office doors and lounges and holy shit how big is this place?

Finally, she pauses before an inconspicuous door with a plastered-on smile. “Remember that guests are only allotted ten minutes in employee-only spaces as per our safety policy.”

“I won’t need more than five.”

With a narrow-eyed smile, she knocks thrice then opens the door. Steps aside to allow you entry.

Leon looks up from his computer before standing to embrace you with a relieved groan. Gives you a lengthy kiss before relieving you of his lunch bag. “You are amazing. I’ve been starving all day.”

“These walls are thin, if that’s of any concern to you,” says the receptionist, before she turns to leave with raised brows and a click of the door.

You blink. “Wait, is she—do people fuck inside their offices or something?”

He shrugs. “Probably.”

The room falls silent in her wake as Leon sits down at his desk, and you can’t help but think of how natural he looks like this: surrounded by monetary excess in the form of mahogany furniture, dressed in a silk button down and spit-shined shoes and the finest watch available. But it’s also odd. This isn’t him, and you know it. He looks more like himself when he’s a little disheveled, his clothes wrinkled from fighting, dressed in a tactical vest and belts and guns galore.

“Did you get my favorite?” he asks, unzipping the bag.

“Plus dessert,” you say, moving to hover over his shoulder.

Beneath the actual food, slid beneath a cut-out slice of fabric, he pulls out a set of items. A USB drive, an SD card, and a slip of paper with the email of Hunnigan’s contact written upon it.

“That’s what you wanted, right?”

“It’s perfect. Looks good, too.”

The code speak may be a bit too much, but you put nothing past Umbrella. Eyes and ears could be anywhere. These walls are thin.

“I’ll see you at home, then? Wouldn’t want the receptionist to come looking for me.”

He exhales a laugh before glancing up at you. “I may be a little late tonight, but I’ll text you.”

“Don’t forget like the last three times. You know I worry.” That they’ve figured out our secret and you lay dead in a gutter somewhere.

“I won’t. Promise.”

As you step out of his office, an odd mourning hits you much like an ice-cold wave. Always that fear—the last meeting, the last goodbye, the last fake I love you. You don’t think it’s too outlandish to say that you care about what happens to him. You wring your hands every time you imagine his potential fate.

“Excuse me.”

You blink to attention at the voice, and a man you recognize from your files approaches you, suit perfectly ironed, hands stuffed into his pockets. Leon’s boss, for all intents and purposes.

“Hello,” you say, glancing over his shoulder to where the double doors open up to reception. So close to freedom. “Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to properly introduce myself. Carl Voerman.” You accept the hand that he offers to shake. “You and your husband have been here, what, three months?”

“Four this Saturday.”

His smile makes your skin crawl. All teeth, plastic in its falsity. Sharpened canines. Every bit the wolf Carina—his wife—warned you of. “You’ve been the talk of this facility.”

“Oh, I’m sure. My husband does fantastic work.”

“That he does.” He takes a step forward, and your thighs tense to keep you in place. Much like a skittish deer. “But I’m more interested in you. Maybe we can discuss your contributions to this company over dinner.”

Your heart drops to your stomach. The last thing you wish is to be alone with this man. But he’s in your files. Could have information you need.

‘Do whatever it takes to complete this mission.’

Goddamn it, Hunnigan.

“I’d have to ask my husband, but—“

“Why? It’s just dinner.” When you give him little more than a blink, he lowers his head with a deep sigh then meets your gaze again. “The culture here is different than what you’re used to. I forget that sometimes. But my wife will be there as well, if that eases your worries.”

Soon, you’ll walk straight into the wolf’s den, and you can do nothing. The worst part? He truly thinks you believe a word he says. But you know types like him—he won’t take no for an answer, and you need no more suspicion on your behalf.

“In that case, I accept.”

“Fantastic. Friday then. I’ll have a car fetch you around seven.”

Leon doesn’t come home until eight. A fact that Carl must know. Not that it matters. You’ve already sealed your fate.

After arriving home, you beeline to the office where your files sit inside a false bottom of the desk drawer. Carl Voerman. One of many suspects. A seedy individual with a very undocumented past—a possible identity change somewhere during early adulthood. The earliest information you can find of him is when he started working for Umbrella around twenty years ago as a temp, then quickly worked his way up the corporate ladder. And now, he leads an entire department.

A few HR complaints that led nowhere, business dealings with unnamed companies. He sounds like your guy, but most every higher-up shares a similar story.

So you need a plan to get him talking. Need him vulnerable.

You research late into the night, long after Leon comes home. Hunnigan helps from her place on speaker phone, finding connections with other members of the company, helping you fill in the blanks of Carl’s timeline.

Neither of them know what you’re planning, that you even spoke to him earlier, and you hope to keep it that way.

Leon does his part in all this. He needs no more danger breathing down his neck, weighing on his shoulders. It’s time you do yours.

—

Friday evening rolls around, and Carl shows up not a minute late. He greets you at the front door with his usual smile, says you look lovely, then escorts you to the car where the driver awaits. Carina sits on the opposite row of seats, legs crossed at the knee, a half-smoked cigarette in hand. The burning tobacco bursts an ominous blister in the dark as her husband’s warmth seeps into the line of your side.

Carl turns to you, expression marble-esque. “We’ll be having dinner at my home tonight. I hope you like salmon.”

You won’t be eating anything if you can help it. No telling what he’ll do to your plate. “I love it.”

“Fantastic. My chef is one-of-a-kind. The best of the best.” He turns to his wife, and from the bleary street lights, you see her force a thin smile. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Of course.”

You arrive to a home of extravagance. Mansion-like in size, pearly stone on the exterior, a curved set of concrete steps leading up to the towering double doors. You’ve never felt so bottom-feeder in all your life, living in a one-bedroom apartment back home.

And you thought Mary’s home was large. How ignorant of you.

Once inside, Carina leads you to the sitting room. Her red-bottom heels snap against the marble flooring, and the black dress she wears accents the curve of her hips. Her jewelry reflects the golden accents scattered about the place, like the glorious chandelier and the statues and the photo frames.

Carina Voerman looks way too good for a man like him.

You take a seat on one end of the couch, and she occupies the one across from you. When Carl returns with a bottle of champagne and three glasses, he chooses the cushion beside yours.

“You don’t have to sit so far away. I won’t bite,” he says.

If you scoot any closer, you’ll be pressed up against him.

From the corner of your eye, Carina downs her drink. Still, she never looks at you. Instead, she reaches for the champagne again, eyeing her husband’s empty glass.

This was a goddamn mistake. Your chest fights pangs of anxiety, and your heart threatens to break open your ribcage. You knew where this could lead, and the knife holstered at your hip provides comfort, familiarity.

But you’ve been here, done this before. Threatened your own safety for the sake of a mission. Still, it never gets easier.

“I’m not sure my husband would appreciate me cuddling up to his boss.”

He laughs, a loud, bassy sound that sends your skin crawling. “I can see why he likes you. Everyone else is quite boring, wouldn’t you say?”

“I quite like boring.”

“And I don’t believe that.”

He moves in closer, spreads out a knee so it collides with yours then takes a long drink from his glass. Across the clawfoot coffee table, Carina exhales a cough.

What a horrible man, to do such a thing before his very own wife. To flirt so extensively with another man’s spouse. But you aren’t surprised. If anything, awed by his brazenness. As if you would ever entertain the thought.

“I do have a question, however.” Carl throws an arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress shirt. “How would you like it if I gave your husband a well-deserved promotion?”

Carina then stands and leaves to the other room, almost on some unspoken cue. You remember the dinner he supposedly arranged. Hasn’t mentioned it since. This—bringing you here, the isolation, the attempted seduction—was his plan all along.

Your mouth stretches wide into a boxy smile. “I would be ecstatic.”

“Unfortunately, these things come at a cost, you see. I have to put in a mighty good word to my peers, which I’m not sure he’s earned yet.”

He moves in closer, until you’re hip-to-hip, then leans forward with a wide grin. Every bit a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“I thought you said he did good work.”

His grin falters, glaciers forming in the blue of his eyes. “No, you said that.”

“And you agreed. Did you not?”

Tension swells in the room, and you soothe the sudden stiffen of his body with a hand upon his knee. Squeeze just enough that the line of his shoulders calm.

“That I did. But I require a bit more persuasion.”

“I’m not sure I can give you that.”

Amidst the lengthened silence, your phone rings inside your pocket. A perfect out. A gift from the universe itself. Leon guised under a different name—a heady balm for the pain in your chest.

“I’m sorry. I need to take this.”

You measure out your steps to keep from rushing into the hallway, but your hands tremor as they answer the call. You press your back to the wall, Carl just out of sight on the couch.

Stay calm. It’s fine.

“Hey, honey.” You lower your voice, barely above a whisper.

“Hey. Everything okay? You didn’t answer the house phone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m with some friends right now, so…”

He stays silent for a moment before the sound of fabric muffles against the speaker. “I thought we agreed to let each other know when we went out.”

“No, we did. I just forgot. I’m sorry.”

“When will you be home?”

“I’m not sure. Later.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“I can’t—“ Carina rounds the corner barefoot, tight curls freed from her updo. Takes guard against the opposite wall and stares your way. “I’m sorry you’re sick. Do you need me to come home?”

“What?”

“I know you always feel better when I make my special soup.”

You lock eyes with her, pinned in place by her raised brows, and all you can do is keep talking.

She knows. You know she knows. She knows and Carl is in the next room and you need a plan to get the fuck out. You’ve been in situations much worse than this, can lie with the best of them, but something about the Voermans—their ooze of power, control, wickedness—renders you novice-level in skill.

“Okay, uh. Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

“Good. You can tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

You hang up, and her shadow falls upon you. A whisper of, “Follow me,” into your ear before she turns away.

You remove your shoes to heed her order, feet a light pitter against the floor, and she leads you further down the darkening hallway.

“He looks to punish me for my misbehavior,” she whispers, eyes lidded and bloodshot. “If you would like a promotion for your husband, I suggest you take him up on his offer.”

“I would never.”

“Oh, don’t act virtuous on my account.” She pauses to lean in close, perfume cloying and thick. “You think you’re the first?”

Feigning surprise, your eyes widen. “No, I don’t.”

“At least you’ve done better than them.” You see it, then. Hurt, raw and visceral, tucked between the wrinkles of her brow. “They jumped at his little opportunity. Every single one of them.“

Maybe this is why she confides. Sees some shred of loyalty within you, needs some way out to prevent drowning from her own desperation.

“Listen,” you say. “I love my husband, and I would rather lose everything than betray him like this.”

She tilts her head back. Stares down the line of her nose for a long few moments, jaw working beneath the skin. “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually believe you.”

You aren’t sure where you stand with her. She shares her suspicions—rightfully so—but still, she’s never acted untoward or disrespectful. Not like the others you’ve met. Blunt, but never rude. Shit, she even gave you advice.

“I have a question,” you say as she leads you into an office. Locks the door after you enter. “When you talked about prowling wolves, who were you referring to?”

She heads for the desk then takes a seat in the thick-cushioned chair. “Many people, dear.” She nods you over. “I slipped something into Carl’s drink, so get what you need while he’s asleep. But make it quick.”

“What?”

Her fingertips clack against the keyboard before the home screen sunburns to life.

“To protect my own safety, I can tell you nothing, and tonight never happened. Do you understand?” She rolls away from the desk to allow you room to take her place.

Oh. You get it now.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

You search through his web browser, emails, personal files. A few emails from upper management, more business related. B.O.W. incrimination, salary cuts for bottom-rung employees, buyer information. Most of it makes little sense to you, heavily coded as it reads.

But one name sticks out. Nolan Reed. The lead virologist linked to a secret project that Carl helps fund, who pops up in files dating back three years ago—around the time USSTRATCOM had been tipped off to Umbrella’s dealings.

Okay. You have a name. Another lead. Maybe you could track this Nolan to the head of the project.

With a heavy sigh, you shut off the computer then turn to Carina. “How did you know?”

“You’re good at what you do, make no mistake. But I’m the best.” She gives you a smile, almost prideful if you squint hard enough. “As it speaks to your talents, I wasn’t entirely sure until your phone call.”

You exhale a sheepish laugh. “I panicked. Your husband’s quite scary.”

Her face falls, darkness shadowing her eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

You escape the Voermans alive. Carl snores on the couch. Carina wishes you well.

She never tells you why she helped.

Leon does a poor job at hiding his anger. A cloying tension festers throughout the house as you enter, as he rises from the couch with a huffing sigh.

“Where the hell have you been?”

You pass by him in a rush, and he grabs on to your arm. Spins you half-around, enough to catch the ghost in your eyes. “Leon, please. I don’t have time for this.”

One thing about him—he knows when to back off, leave shit for later. And he must see those ghosts swimming around, fresh as a bullet wound. Bitter as a blow to the ego. That’s why he lets you pass.

The office is a mess by the time you’ve finished pulling out files. Separating the names you recognize from the names you don’t. Leon hovers in the doorway, ice clinking against the inside of his glass. You’re guessing whiskey, but can’t chance the time-waste of looking back.

“What are you looking for?” he asks, and you almost snap. At him, in two. For all the government’s resources, all the preparation and the research—not one goddamn mention of Nolan Reed in almost a hundred files.

Maybe it’s the stress of the day. Maybe you’re worn down, threading a lost-cause needle. But biting back your anger takes every ounce of empty-tank energy left inside you.

“Nolan Reed. That name ring a bell?” You rest your head in your hands, elbows propped up on the desk.

“Who?” he asks. Steps into the room, footsteps muffled by his socks.

You look over at him, a palm clasped over your mouth, and note his lack of outfit change. Still in his suit from work, jacket undone, tie loosened. And you think.

Either an alias, or Carina Voerman played you. The latter catalyzes your downfall.

Shit. You might’ve fucked up the whole operation.

“I went to see the Voermans for dinner tonight. Had a… very lovely time.”

His shoulders tense, fingers white-knuckling his glass. “What?” You nod. It’s all you can do. “You—” His eyes close, lips drawn into his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t wanna put you in any more danger.”

“That’s bullshit.” His glass slams to the table, and you expect a shatter than never comes. “I knew the risks when I agreed to this. So did you. And we made a deal to HQ—to each other—that we would never act alone.”

His disappointment cuts quick, and it cuts deep. Festers and wells, and fuck. You really don’t wanna cry. Not in front of him. Unprofessionalism to the highest degree. But you suppose you already crossed that bridge and burnt it to ash.

“I know. I fucked up. You don’t have to tell me.”

He spins your desk chair around, plants his hands on each arm, and stares at you. Asks, “How long have we been here?”

“Four months tomorrow.”

“And you still don’t trust me.”

“Listen, Carl approached me. Right outside your door. What was I supposed to do, say no?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how that would’ve looked? You don’t say no to these people, Leon.”

You wish he would understand. He hasn’t heard what you’ve heard, seen what you saw. You are nothing but fodder, disposable, breakable, a means to an end, a prize. You are nothing.

“Carina told me her last husband tried to experiment on her. Mary told me that if you’re cheating, I should mind my fucking business. Lucia’s husband beats her for fun—”

“You’re in too deep with these people.”

He might as well have slapped you across the face. Given your shock, maybe he did. “I can’t fucking believe you. What happened to saving innocent people, hm? You suddenly forget about that?”

Raccoon City cuts deep.

“You seem to have forgotten a lot of things.”

He sleeps on the couch for the next week, of his own volition. Can barely look at you from across the dinner table, when you see him off for work, when you ready for bed—as if you give a shit.

You don’t need him.

You don’t.

Too busy anxiously dreading a phone call, a knock on the door, an interception of life-ending proportions.

Four months, two weeks, three days in: your mistake comes back to break your skull wide open.

—

Okay, so it doesn’t. But a blow to the head sure feels like it, and the blood seeping into the collar of your shirt doesn’t help.

“Sorry about that,” says the woman, swimming soupy behind the opaque sheathe of your blindfold. “We didn’t expect you to put up such a fight.”

“Good. How’s your boy’s windpipe?”

“Severed. Where did the spouse of a businessman learn experience with knives?”

You exhale a humorless laugh, working numbed wrists beneath their bindings. “I dabble.”

“Oh, I know.” A chair scrapes, and your head follows the motion, until gooseflesh prickles along your forearms. She sits close. Close enough that you smell her expensive perfume. “I guess I should cut the act, huh? We know you’re USSTRATCOM.”

“And I know that if you wanted to kill me, I would’ve been dead in that parking lot.”

“You’re right. That’s not why we’re here.” Someone steps up behind you, fiddles with the knot holding your blindfold in place. Then, inky darkness. Plying shadows dance across the basement. “I’m here on behalf of Carina Voerman. You know her, right?”

Your poor vision fails to adjust, instead a gentle sway that incites nausea. “I guess you could say that.”

“She has a proposition for you. Let’s say it’s a good-faith agreement between like-minded individuals.”

“Like-minded?”

“Two talented spies after a similar goal.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“And I’m the Queen of England.” Bathed in shadow, she leans in close, and you note the curve of her features. Hooded eyes, full lips, an aquiline nose. Little to go off of, but you’ll take anything at this point. “Nightingale, we can help each other.”

She’s done her homework. Unsurprising, given Carina’s efficiency. Her intelligence.

But you still don’t trust her. Any of these people.

“So what’s in it for me?”

“You want Nolan Reed, yes? Carina can get you to someone even higher on the totem pole. All you need is to dig up some dirt on Carl, be a little birdie in the government’s ear—”

“The U.S. doesn’t have that kind of jurisdiction over here.”

“Not yet. But Umbrella’s claws dig deep, do they not? He gets extradited to the U.S., that’s one more player out of the game.”

“He’s a small fish in one very big pond.”

The woman grins, laughs under her breath. “A win is a win is a win. Think of the long-term.”

“Carl Voerman isn’t our target.”

“But a bioterrorist is still a bioterrorist, right?”

You’re worn down. Exhausted. Sore as all hell. Really miss your bed.

Fuck your pride, you miss Leon.

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk to my contacts, see if I can’t get something worked out. Widen our field of view.”

“That’s all we ask. You do that, Carina will pay you back tenfold.”

The car dumps you a few blocks from home. Shoeless and battered, you hope Leon still holds his anger close. Can’t imagine his reaction otherwise.

Unfortunately, you experience a string of misfortune. He’s on you as soon as you unlock the front door then step inside. Asks where the fuck you’ve been, drags you over to the kitchen table to play doctor.

Worry. Worry tenses up his shoulders, furrows his brow, leaves him tender and malleable.

“I should probably apologize,” he says, discarding another square of bloodied gauze.

“I mean, I kinda deserved it.”

He treads carefully around your blunt-force wound, crusted with dried blood. The wet cloth burns regardless, despite his cautious touch. “Maybe. Some of it.”

“You are a very shitty apologizer.”

“Cut me some slack. I’m not exactly used to this.”

“Oh, I can tell.”

He smiles at you and the world rights itself. Your headache ceases. You forget about the last few days so easily it almost makes you sick.

“What’s that saying? You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone?”

You don’t expect him to kiss you, and if anyone asks, you absolutely do not pull him closer. Definitely don’t curl a fist in his hair. Definitely don’t sigh in relief.

No. God, no. You’re playing pretend. Faking a relationship built upon foundational love.

This means nothing.

It means nothing.

[lipglossanon]

Moon Drunk

Hunter!Leon S. Kennedy x Hunter fem!reader

fic commission from the lovely @porcelainseashore 💜 thank you so much!!!

word count: 2228 (went over again! 🫣 lol)

Warnings: mdni, blood/gore, fighting, violence, death

proofread ✍️ but the formatting is odd cause tumblr is lame 😒

previous ~ Moon-Scented

After dropping like a stone into the dark water below, you come to on the other side. It feels like you’ve woken from a dream— 

(Ah, welcome home, good Hunter). 

Moonside Lake is empty except for her. 

Shimmery water meets your eyes everywhere you look; a serene silver lake, host to— 

The Byrgenwerth Spider. 

The one who holds all manner of secrets; the one whose existence answers questions even as she leads to more.

She is beautifully hideous. 

Rom, the Vacuous. 

She is a terrifying realization—the fruit of Provost Willem’s labors. She has been granted eyes. 

It’s a horror nearly beyond your comprehension. 

She flees from you, this pitiful creature, and you pursue. 

After all, a Hunter must Hunt. 

Your weapons slice through her body like wet paper. She tries to fight by summoning her Children, smaller arachnids that do her bidding. You cut them down one by one, your Hunter’s Axe hacking through their thick bodies until they collapse in on themselves. Turning your sights once more to Rom, you steel yourself. 

She never stood a chance against a Hunter.

Her death brings no satisfaction once you’ve slain the Vacuous One. As you gather your breath, drenched in Rom’s blood, you see a figure in the distance. Bracing for another fight, you cautiously move closer. 

A regal lady, dressed in white with blood coating the stomach of her gown. Bile rises in your throat from the implication of such a garish stain. She weeps, hands clasped together as if in prayer, face angled at the sky. Allowing your own gaze to follow hers, confusion and dread douse your thoughts until it’s not but white noise. 

A Red Moon fills your vision. 

Coming to yourself with a start, you look for the lady but find nothing except empty space. Shifting in place, you gaze out on the quiet lake. Aside from the lantern’s glow, there is nothing to break up the monotony.

The note you found next to the Lunarium Key comes to you now, taunting you with knowledge that only makes sense in hindsight—

When the red moon hangs low, the line between man and beast is blurred. And when the Great Ones descend, a womb will be blessed with child. 

Kneeling at the lantern, the exhaustion seeps into your bones. The wish for sleep is never ending. 

🩸 🌙 🩸 🌙 

Seek the nightmare newborn.

The infant's wailing never ceases. Like a parasite in the brain. It worms its way into every corner and crevice of Yharnam. The haunting cry dogs your steps—the only reprieve coming from your visits with The Doll, channeling your strength for further nightmares. The blood echoes in your veins, a heady amalgamation that leaves you dizzy in the wake of yourself. 

Rising once more under the lantern’s glow, the Blood Moon hangs pregnant in the sky, a dark omen heralding something sinister to come. The scraps of parchment you’ve stumbled upon on your journey run through your mind on a loop. 

To escape this dreadful Hunter’s Dream, halt the source of the spreading scourge of beasts, lest the night carry on forever.

The Forbidden Woods, an apt name for such a blighted place, leads you to hidden paths. One such path has you finding your way back to Iosefka's clinic, this time from the other side of the building. Strange ethereal creatures leave your weapons coated in a clear liquid, unlike the blood and viscera from the lycanthropic beasts roaming the streets. 

Infiltrating the clinic through an open window, your bootsteps echo in the quiet hallway, resonating eerily and putting you on edge. The air feels foreign, heavy with a weight you haven’t encountered before. Pressing forward into the next room, an alien creature attacks you, head bobbing sporadically. Dodging from their spindly grip, you make quick work disposing of the odd beast with the serrated edge of your threaded cane. 

You gaze down on the emaciated body, eyes taking in the blue, disjointed limbs and swollen cranium. A small blood vial rolls out from the side of this gross deformity, the glass rocking slowly on the wooden floor until coming to a stop. Dropping to a crouch, you pick it up to examine the vial, watching the light play across the pale yellow liquid inside. 

“Iosefka’s blood,” you murmur to yourself, a scuttling fear creeping down your spine like spider legs. 

Standing, you pocket the blood vial, forcing your gaze away from the entity that used to be the blood-healer. Peering into the gloom, you can make out a blood-stained letter delicately placed on the edge of a gurney. You see your name written in a beautiful hand. Picking it up, you realize it’s a summons, inviting you as an honored guest to the forsaken Castle Cainhurst.

A faint memory of a rune on a crumbling and collapsed bridge; a rune that etched itself into your mind—LAKE—

For great values of water serve as a bulwark guarding sleep, and an auger of the Eldritch Truth.

Your mind shudders under the weight of knowing more than a Hunter should. A mild frenzy tries to settle itself in your brain, but you’re able to breathe through it. Leaving the cursed clinic behind, you journey ever onward. Now, in search of this strange castle you’ve only heard in passing. Sticking to the shadows, you retread the same streets, the same monstrous townsfolk dying on your blade—cursed to hunt 

  and 

hunt 

and 

hunt.

Hacking, slashing, ripping, tearing of their beastly flesh. No matter how many times the blade pierces through their chest to reach each of their still beating hearts, you will forever feel hollow.

The never-ending cycle repeats—not an end in sight for this horrible town of Yharnam. The only kindness shown by a Doll, who is an odd outlier in and of herself itself. You haven’t seen another living soul since bidding Leon farewell above the lake. The night is long, and the beasts hunger for more than just blood. You hope he hasn’t met a gruesome end.

🩸 🌙 🩸 🌙 

Nightmarish rituals crave a newborn. Find one, and silence its harrowing cry. 

Leon stands alone in the decrepit library, peering into the nothing. Silence consumes the space around him, and yet his thoughts plague him ceaselessly. He can feel himself beginning to spiral. 

He is broken. And there are too many pieces to slot back together, too many pieces that will not fit, jagged edges that have been sanded down with time and penance—he knows he’ll never be the same.

Never granted eyes. 

Hopes, dreams, and enlightenment are forever meant to be foreign concepts in his mind.

Too much the beast, not enough the man.

Machinations of a deranged mind.

He will never be the same.

Never granted eyes on the inside to see.

He can feel his anger—overwhelming in its clarity—seize him in its tumultuous grasp.

He had hoped to suffocate his demons—smother their putrid, stinking whispers in his ear.  

His fists clench momentarily as he bows his head in anger, frustrated that the answers still yet elude him. He hopes you’ve fared better than he—mind flashing to your determined face when you stepped off the ledge. 

He stood next to Master Willem for ages, waiting, hoping for a sign of your wellbeing—giving in to the frail wish that you would somehow appear before him, hearty and hale. The aged man seated in his chair ceased his rocking, wizened lips parting on a soft exhale. Leon frowns down at the old man before glimpsing a red light from the corner of his eyes. 

He gasped, mind overflowing with theories and questions as the Blood Moon stained him with its sanguine light. It truly was pulchritudinous.

He shakes himself from his maudlin reverie. Pulling a book from the shelf, he searches through its pages, eyes skimming over the brittle pages. An energy tinges the air, and it draws his attention. Lips twisting into a frown, Leon places the book back on its shelf before going to investigate. 

He walks through the hallway, footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting placed on the stonework. His dark blue eyes take in the crumbling architecture and warped oil paintings lining the walls. Dead royalty gaze upon him, still-life eyes following his every move. A shift in the air elicits the hair on the back of Leon's neck to stand. He slowly slides the Kirkhammer blade from the holster on his back, slowing his pace to a stop.

A loud screech sounds from above as a pair of gargoyles drop from the ceiling like a malformed bat. Leon spins around, blocking a swiping attack as his black cape flutters with the motion. He snarls at the ugly creature when it slices through his coat, leaving a shallow cut across his left arm. Pulling the Blunderbuss from its holster, he shoots point black at the gaping maw of the gargoyle in front of him before bringing his Kirkhammer up to decapitate it.

The second gargoyle screams at him, making his ears ring from the power of its voice. He stumbles down onto one knee, giving the vile creature an opening to lunge at him. Muscle memory is so ingrained within him, his hand comes up and lets off a shot at the gangly monster. It collapses down onto its legs, stunned, giving Leon enough time to clamber back onto his feet. 

Sheathing his blade, he snaps the great hammer attachment into place. He heaves the cumbersome yet powerful weapon over his shoulder and brings the hammer down onto the gargoyle's head. The entire body folds under the force of his attack, head crunching like a fallen leaf. He grimaces, watching as the blood spills from the mangled body to paint the flagstones with a ruby hue. 

A loud snarl echoes from behind him, and he slowly turns to face off with this new enemy. Before he can wipe the blood from his face, a chained whip lassos around the servant dressed like a Cainhurst Knight. Joining the fray, Leon charges forward, using both arms to swing his weapon down onto the knight. 

A bloodcurdling scream echoes in the hallway before a trio of ghostly women rush towards Leon and his unseen companion. He reloads his blunderbuss and turns to face off against the deadly widows. Whoever’s helping him is a blur of movement and grace, fighting off against their own horde of wraithlike noblewomen. 

Unlike his counterpart, Leon knows he has no lantern for him to wake under. He only has one chance at all of this—one chance to find a way to end the nightmare; one chance at understanding why he should fear the Old Blood. Left with one last ghost, he switches back to the quicker version of his weapon—dropping the power of the hammer attachment for the swiftness of his silver blade.

Once all of the enemies have been felled, Leon steps away from their lifeless corpses and seeks out his partner in arms. You appear before him, like a fever dream. More beautiful than any fever dream, he thinks. You’re here and alive, coated in the offal and blood of various beasts. Haunted eyes meet his own, and he knows you have found more than anyone ever bargained for in their pursuit of ending this ghastly hunt. 

“My dear Hunter,” he murmurs, warmth suffusing his tone. “I must thank thee heartily. You have saved my hide.”

You nod, eyes glancing away, “How did you get here, Leon?”

His smile widens, manically, but he can’t help himself. 

“I have my ways. What do you seek here in this forsaken place?”

Narrowing your eyes at him, he can see the suspicions blooming in your brain. 

“I..” you clear your throat. “I received a summons.”

He nods but says nothing else, hoping it will prompt you to say more. 

Your shoulders draw back, and you stand tall, a fearsome Hunter daring him to cross you. You are as pulchritudinous as that bloodsome moon. A fleeting thought of taking your comely hand in his own crosses his addled mind.

“I took audience with the Queen,” you state, fearfully proud. “She is a lady of high standing.”

Leon steps closer, ignoring your wary gaze and cautious stance. He lets that intrusive thought from earlier win over, grasping one of your hands in his own—thankful neither of you are wearing gloves as your heat suffuses his cold skin. 

“You’ve spoken with the Undead Queen? Annalise, the first of the Vilebloods?”

Your lip curls upward in disgust. “What a hateful term. She is a gentle lady, one who doesn’t deserve the hardship she has been given.”

Leon grips your hand tighter when you try to pull away; he knows his face is being too expressive, his eyes too wide—his mouth too beseeching. 

“Will you take me to her? I wish to be granted an audience.”

Whatever you must see in his expression has your mouth softening. “If you swear to me you mean her no ill will, I shall take you to her majesty’s throne room.”

Leon drops to one knee, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand. “I swear to you, dear Hunter. I only wish to learn.”

He hears you snort under your breath, head jerking up in time to see you stifle a smile on your battleworn face. 

“Get up, Leon. The Queen awaits.”

[bg-brainrot]

Hugs for a Vampire (Astarion x GN!Reader) - Chapter 13: Before Facing Cazador

Chapter 13: Before Facing Cazador

Each chapter can be read as a standalone hug.

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Rogue!Tav)

Genre: Fluffy, Filling in Canon

Rating: Teen

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Act 3, Canon-typical violence, Astarion's coping mechanisms, Astarion's quest, cw: Astarion's trauma

WC: 2.1k words, 13/18 chapters

Summary: Set in Act 3, set prior to facing Cazador (part of the Pale Elf questline). Rogue!Tav and Astarion face some of the his past.

Ao3 | [Hug12][Hug14] | Hugs for a Vampire Masterlist

Your mind is racing, your heart is pounding, and, to be quite honest, you don’t know how to deal with what your lover just said. Name me your new master. We will get our revenge, and you will all live again. The words buzz in your ears, their blatant, painful lie only known to your ears. You’re glad that everyone else remains blissfully asleep, lest they see this farce for themselves. But that does mean this is up to you– you can’t let him do this, not to himself and not to his siblings.

“Have you no heart, Astarion?” you ask, before his siblings can respond to the offer. “You’re asking them to die for you in this ritual.”

Astarion turns to you, a touch of annoyance on his face. “Don’t look at me like that,“ he says, his tone almost accusatory. “With the sweet little ‘disappointed I’m not getting cuddly Astarion’ pout. I can’t take it.”

You try to right your face, but you’re certain the pout is, in fact, present. The disappointment can’t leave your face, especially when you know that he can be better than this. That he’s been better than this. He needn’t feel chained to Cazador in any way, let alone taking his place in this profane ritual. “I don’t need cuddly Astarion right now, I just need you. The real Astarion.”

“I can’t be what you want to see in me,” he says, a desperate, pleading tone to his voice. You’re not sure how to respond to that, as his expression just about tears your heart in two. You want to say that you see him, a man who just wants to pave his own path, a man who has already overcome so much and can overcome so much more– but who are you to say that?

You don’t have the opportunity to respond, because his siblings interject. “‘Die’ in the ritual? Whatsoever are you speaking of? We are going to cheat undeath.” Aurelia says, self assuredly. 

Dropping your eyes from Astarion’s searing crimson gaze, you turn to her. “You’re slaughter-lambs,” you say, refusing to paint the picture any prettier. “Cazador needs your souls for the ritual.”

She doesn’t need to roll her eyes to express her disbelief, but she may as well have. “The master doesn’t need to lie to us,” she says patiently, as if you’re another pretty fool for her master. “He controls us, fully. Why go through the trouble of giving us hope.”

Leon speaks up, understanding dawning on him. “Because it’s more cruel. Shit. We’re doomed.” A moment of silence passes as he processes, but he’s surprisingly business-like as he continues, “Alright, what do you need from us? We’ll help you.”

You don’t get to enjoy the breakthrough though, as they begin to glow red with compulsion, their bodies struggling against some invisible force. It seems like no matter what you’ve managed to say, whatever warning you’ve been able to deliver, a vampire’s bidding will win out.

What follows is an intense few minutes of fighting, but between the two of you, Astarion’s kin don’t stand much of a chance– not even Shadowheart, the lightest sleeper of your party, stirs. It certainly helps that the vampire spawn are not aiming to kill, rather capture and stay alive. You can see clearly how careful Cazador is with his spawn, summoning them back the second they seem to be imperiled. 

Of course, this doesn’t mean your blades don’t find purchase, that blood now litters the floor of the Elfsong Tavern, and that your companions won’t have a plethora of questions in the morning. 

“What a mess,” Astarion says with his usual flippancy, as he shakes off some blood. “Well, at least you’ve met my family now.”

You entertain a brief thought about how this comment might normally be cute. Unfortunately your concern and a building fury take far greater precedence. “I can’t believe you tried lying to them,” you say, unable to hold back your rage any longer. “You would have them die for the Rite to happen?”

“What does it matter? There’s only six of them,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you, as if the equation is basic arithmetic, as if you weren’t just speaking to two of those six a moment ago, witnessing their struggles under Cazador’s thumb firsthand. “And they are vampire spawn.” The comment is added as an offhand comment, but there the answer is– he’s not valuing their lives any higher than his own. He only sees himself as the lucky sod who gets to take advantage of them. 

“You’re a spawn, Astarion,” you say, quietly. “Don’t you have any sympathy for the others in your exact situation?”

His tone changes to something angry, centuries of torment weighing each word. “No one ever looked out for me. No one ever said a kind word to me.” Then, realizing you’re right there with him, he softens, “You’re the only one. Other people don’t have a heart like you. You’re… you.” The shock in his voice tugs at you, as if he’s constantly surprised that you’re still there. He follows it bitterly with, “No one is like that.”

“There are others like me,” you say, a worry creeping in that he may be blind to the love of each and every one of your companions. But you’ve seen him. He talks and jokes with the others, but he never lets this side of him show, not fully. “They will care for you, if you let them.”

Astarion scoffs. “Don’t sell yourself so short.” When you don’t react to his compliment, he continues, “I’m doing this for you too, you know. To make sure that we’re both safe. Forever, for good.”

“I appreciate that,” you begin, treading lightly and aiming to understand his fears. But you can’t help it, sometimes you just want to flick his pointy little ears and jolt some sense into him. “I just want you to know that we can make it through this without completing this ritual, without sacrificing your siblings. We always figure something out, don’t we?”

“Oh, I know we do. Though it’s not always what I envision,” he says, a sigh escaping him. “I just want you to keep an open mind when we reach Cazador, love. That’s all I ask for.”

“Fine, but I only ask the same of you,” you say, pointing a stern finger at him.

He grimaces, but nods, a solemn look on his face. “Very well, as long as we deal with Cazador soon.”

“We can go in the morning,” you assure him. “As long as we finally manage to get some sleep. I swear this inn could do with some better locks.”

“My dear, I don’t think you’re allowed to critique any establishment’s security,” he laughs lightly, cleaning some blood off his hands and preparing to return to bed. “No one is safe from your lockpicks.”

You grin before joining him with soap and sponge. “Quite right. And between the two of us? Cazador can’t hide behind his palace walls for long.”

– 

As it turns out, getting into Cazador’s palace wasn’t the difficult part. Unlocking the inner door was actually quite trivial and his guard dogs fell easily. You don’t truly find yourself facing an impasse until you’ve made it to Cazador’s hideaway, the very depths of Szarr Palace. There, Astarion comes face-to-face with the truth of his last 200 years of life, the meaning behind the endless parade of lovers.

“He’s played us for such fools.” Astartion tilts his head down, an angry and dangerous look in his eyes. Seeing his glare, reading his posture, Karlach and Shadowheart move on ahead, leaving you a moment to yourselves. “Not just seven spawn to placate the devil. Seven spawn and seven thousand souls bound to them in blood. Everyone who ever trusted me to let down their guard… innocents, idiots, and the unlucky.”

“Not that it needs to be said,” you step forward softly, gauging his reaction as you do. “But you didn’t know.”

He doesn’t move, either toward you or away. Instead, he shakes his head, clearing it of the dark cobwebs that have begun to cloud it. “It doesn’t matter. I will need to sacrifice them all if I want to perform the ritual.”

“Or…” you begin, tentatively exploring his mood, probing gently. “You could choose to save them.” You take another step toward him, palms open.

“What’s the point? They’re as good as dead,” he says, frustrated. It feels like you’re losing him, the weight of his sins a suffocating burden he wasn’t accounting for. “I thought they were dead.”

“But they’re not,” you reach for one of his hands, only to find it limp and despondent in your own. You thumb over the back of it, aiming to infuse your own life, warmth into him. “They’re alive, your siblings are still alive, and you can give them all the chance you didn’t receive.”

“If they are unleashed, they will cause incredible carnage. They will be ravenous. They must die. Better they serve a purpose.” He sounds like he’s convincing himself more than you at this point, and you sense the barrier around him is cracking. Another few prods and you may break through.

Despite the pounding of your heart, the worries of pushing a broken man to a precipice he may not be ready for– you steel yourself for your next words. “We’ve narrowly missed each other so often. In another life, you’d have led me here,” you say, plaintive. “Not that pretty clearing in the forest.”

“Gods,” he breathes out in anguish. “I can’t say you’re wrong. I can only say I'm so glad we didn’t meet then. I don’t even want to think what would have happened to you…”

You’ve never been above challenging your lover’s sullen moods, facing his avoidances head on. So you stare him down fiercely when you say, “Don’t you avoid this, Astarion. Face it, like you must face them. You would have killed me.”

And just like that, something in him buckles. All of his blustering blown away in the stark reality of his previous life. “I would have killed you.” Astarion’s shoulders bow, his head turns away from you and it’s all you can do to hold back a fierce, rib-shattering embrace. 

Not yet, you think. You’re not done yet. “And?” you ask. “Would you kill me now?”

“Gods no,” he hisses. “I… I can’t even bring myself to think it.”

“Good, let that be a reminder to you: you’re not under Cazador’s control.” You release his hand to grab both of his shoulders, pinning him down with an intense look. “You choose for yourself, remember?”

Astarion nods at you wordlessly, and you know now’s the right moment. You pull him toward you by the shoulders, avoiding his armor as best you can to wrap him in a smothering hug. He reciprocates slowly, but firmly, his own arms wrapping around you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulder blades.

You hold the position for as long as you can, deeply breathing in the familiar scent of his hair and drowning out the stench of decay, blood, and mildew. It’s clear that neither of you want to let go this time– as though by holding each other you can keep in one piece. 

After some amount of time, you hear whispered in your ear, “Whatever might happen, I just want to say: Thank you.”

Finally drawing away from him, you take a moment to look at him somberly. His words sound so final, it scares you. Placing a single gloved hand on his cheek, you say, “You don’t need to thank me. I’m just here to remind you that you have choices.”

“I know.” He turns his nose toward your hand, placing a single kiss on it before continuing, “But does this real Astarion of yours know that?” You think back to your conversation with his siblings, just last night. It feels like a lifetime ago now.

However long ago it was, you need to make sure he understands what you meant. “Spawn, elf, whoever you think you are. You’re Astarion before any of that, and I just need you to know that.”

As he takes in your words, his face hardens, he turns away from your hand in a gentle rebuke. You’ve tried your best, but know his mind won't be swayed by you, not now. “Maybe I don’t know who that is. Maybe that man doesn’t exist, never existed outside these palace walls.” He steps away, and a part of you leaves with him. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

You nod tersely– the only way out is through now– and you follow him deeper into the bowels of Cazador's lair.

[pushtidarling]

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[endlesslystarlitskies]

Lost and Found- Part 1

A/N: Okay, here is the official first chapter, edited and extended. I am still playing the game so I don’t know how long it will be until the next chapters come out, but hopefully it will be soon. I am going to try to have each chapter follow the chapters in the game, but this one is already pretty long, so I don’t know how that will work out. Do you guys like long chapters, or no? Just let me know. And please give me all the constructive criticisms! Especially with how I am portraying Leon. I am trying to be accurate but I may be slipping up. If so, just let me know.  I will continue to leave physical characteristics out of it so you can put yourself in Ella’s shoes, though it is She/Her pronouns. I just don’t like the way Y/N looks in a story, so hopefully that works for you guys. If enough people request it, I might change it. I don’t know. I want everyone to be able to read it.  Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Named Reader (Named but not Described) Genre: Horror, action, adventure, Slow-Burn, Romance Summary: Ella was one of the missing hikers who was kidnapped by the villagers. She narrowly escaped being sacrificed, but her friends weren’t so lucky. Managing to survive out in the woods with her previous skills and knowledge, she runs into Leon, and that meeting begins the longest, most dangerous adventure of her life as she tries to help him save the girl she saw being taken into the church. What will happen along the way? Only one way to find out.  Warnings: Canon typical violence and gore, suicidal ideations mentioned, Ella has little regard for her own life and is dealing with the loss of someone closest to her while also fighting to survive with waning self-preservation instincts. Please be cautious if that triggers you.  Word Count: 6,812

Story Masterlist

 xXx

It was quiet, the sun high in the sky as the farm animals calmly picked at the limited food around them without a care in the world. It appeared to be a normal day, with a couple of villagers going about their business tending to the area, and at first glance, one would assume that everything was as it should be; however, after spending four days running and hiding in the woods, Ella knew better. 

She crouched behind the old, worn down wooden shelter, peeking around the corner to get a look at the villager who had his back to her, his focus on the object in his hands which gave Ella an opening to sneak up behind him. 

Her heart was beginning to race in her chest, and Ella had to take a deep breath to calm her nerves as she readied to put herself in another dangerous situation.  She really did not want to risk going into this small settlement of the village, and if it weren’t for the fact that she was starving, she would still be in the woods where there was a significantly lower chance of engaging with anyone, but she would never make it out of this hell if she didn’t keep her strength up as much as possible. The mint leaves, dandelions, and few other edible plants she found weren’t cutting it anymore.

Fortunately, Ella could see that there weren’t many villagers around from the woods, only noticing the one in her view and another woman behind the barn, who wouldn’t be able to see her take out the man. 

Gripping the rusty kitchen knife tightly in her hand, she began to slowly stalk forward, keeping low as to not be noticeable. Her combat boots made it hard to keep her foot falls quiet, but she had gotten used to walking lightly over the past few days, as she had been doing a lot of sneaking around, and she was to the point that her steps made virtually no sound. 

Because of this, the villager was none the wiser, and as she neared the front of the building, she looked around to make sure there was no one else. She could see the slightest movement of a pitchfork that she knew was the woman she had already accounted for, but otherwise, it was clear. 

Moving forward once more, she did her best to not disturb the animals that spilled out of the barn, lest she startle them and give herself away, and she managed to sneak up right behind the male villager, keeping her breathing quiet as she assessed her best move. He was a bit taller than her, but she would have to work around that, it being far too late for her to turn back now.

She had enough knowledge to know where the jugular was, and with a quickness she had gathered over the course of the last few days, she stood up straight, jabbing the knife deep into his neck and moving her hand around to cover his mouth to keep him quiet. He flailed lightly, but his body began to drop, and Ella did her best to help him fall quietly. However, grown men were heavy, and she stumbled back, falling on her ass as the man’s body thumped to the ground. She grimaced, looking behind her and praying the other villager behind the barn hadn’t heard anything. She was met with silence, and after a few moments, Ella determined the coast to be clear. 

She looked to the dead villager in front of her, doing her best to ignore the twist of her heart at the sight of his wide, lifeless eyes; blood still spilling out of his neck and seeping into the dirt below him. This was the third person she had to kill since coming on this trip. Beforehand, she had never even punched another person outside of her defense classes, Ella being a pacifist for the most part. She knew these people were infected with something that made them violent and homicidal, and they wouldn’t even bat an eyelash while gutting her, but that didn’t change the fact that Ella was killing other human beings. 

It was a fact she couldn’t dwell on if she wanted to survive and escape the this place, turning away from the dead man and pushing him from her mind. She couldn’t stay in one place for too long, and she still had to clear the small barn area, or she risked being caught as she tried to cook her meal. 

Getting up, she dusted her torn and dirtied tights off as much as she could, before wiping the bloodied blade of her deteriorating knife on the dead villagers clothes, her eyes purposefully avoiding his face. She would have to find another one soon, the one in her hand visibly about to break. 

She straightened her back, turning around and beginning to slowly walk forward to gain a better view from behind the barn to where the other villager had been. As she got closer and closer, she saw the hay, but not the pitchfork, her brows furrowing. They must have left, but then where did they go? Ella stopped, her eyes widening as she took in the limp body of the female villager, questioning what had happened and if the woman had just died suddenly. 

Ella supposed it was possible considering the infection, but she hadn’t seen them just keel over before; however, what was the alternative? Was there someone else here? 

The very thought made her heart pound. She had just adjusted to the villagers and the large man in the hat and robe walking about. What else could there be? 

It was then that Ella heard the slightest sound of movement behind her, the hair on the back of her neck standing as panic rose within her. Every possibility ran through her mind in a single second, her fight instincts kicking in as she spun around, ready to do whatever she had to to defend herself. However, what was behind her made her heart stop and her mind reel. 

A gun was pointed at her, the man behind it giving her a suspicious and cautious look. He appeared. . .normal, and not from around here, with his not pale and sickly skin, steel blue instead of red eyes, relatively clean clothes, and damning of all- the gear she could see peeking out from his jacket. 

An outsider. Possibly a police officer, or an agent. She didn’t know, but maybe he was someone here to deal with whatever was going on in this hellhole, hope blooming in her chest for the first time in days. 

Finally coming back to herself, Ella immediately put her hands up and dropped her knife, showing she meant no harm. 

“Wait-” She breathed, her throat a bit hoarse considering she hadn’t used it since escaping. “I’m not like them- I’m not infected.” She tried to explain in a rushed and panicked voice, but her mind was still reeling from the shock of suddenly running into someone who wasn’t a villager here. “I-I was out here hiking with friends, but we- we were attacked, and I escaped,” He still wasn’t saying anything, his eyes not moving from hers. Ella could only assume he wanted her to continue. “I just want to get out of here and go home, please. I swear I’m telling the truth.” Surely he could tell she wasn’t a villager, with her combat boots, black tights, dark jean shorts, black t-shirt, and dark green flannel. He had to know she was telling the truth, because why else would she be out here in the middle of nowhere? People had to have reported their group missing.

The blonde man seemed to take in her words, considering them a few moments before he lowered his gun, holstering it. Ella let out a breath of relief, though a dark part of her mind that had surfaced since this hell had started, wondered if him shooting her would have been the best thing for her after everything she had endured. She ignored it, her waning self-preservation instincts shoving the thoughts into a faraway corner. 

“How long have you been out here?” He spoke for the first time, a gruffness to his voice that hinted to a tortured past. 

“Um. . .a few days. I think four,” She answered as she tried to think back to how many nights had passed. She had stopped keeping track and instead focused on surviving. This man didn’t seem like he was one for facial expressions, but the twitch of his eyebrow made Ella think he was shocked. Sensing his curiosity, Ella moved her flannel shirt to the side, revealing a metal water bottle hanging at her hip. The bottom of it had an orangish to dark brown to black gradient, revealing it had been burnt multiple times. 

“I boil water and add iodine tablets for good measure, I know some edible plants, though there aren’t many around here, I was about to kill a chicken, and these villagers leave a lot of kitchen knives lying around.” She answered his unspoken questions, and when he didn’t say anything, she shrugged. “I was the survivalist nut of my friends,” She murmured, leaving the explanation at that. The very mention of her friends sent a sharp pain through her heart and she had to quickly think about something else.

“It shows.” Was all he said in response, before turning his head to scan their surroundings. When he noticed the dead villager on the ground, he glanced at her once more, but didn’t say anything about it. 

She waited for him to ask anything else, but he was quiet, Ella wondering what he was thinking. His expression was well guarded, making it almost impossible to tell, but after a moment, he reached into a large pouch at his hip, before holding something out for her. Her brows furrowed as she looked to see what it was, taking in the wrapping and the words across the front.

It was a granola bar. Food. 

Without another word, she practically snatched the snack from his hand, unable to find it in herself to care as she almost tore it open with her teeth. She refrained, opting to tear the wrapping with her fingers and making sure not to waste a single bit. 

“Thank you.” She breathed, relieved she didn’t have to kill a defenseless animal for now. He nodded in acknowledgement, before he moved to the open building to look around as Ella focused on her food.

She was careful not to eat too fast, taking a couple bites before unclipping her water bottle and taking a swig. It didn’t taste great, especially compared to the honey flavored granola, but when you were in survival mode, it didn’t matter how the water tasted. Just that it was clean. Despite trying not to eat fast, it wasn’t long before the granola bar was practically gone, Ella turned to the man as her curiosity grew.

Her eyes took him in for a few moments. He wore a leather jacket with a navy blue shirt underneath, black jeans and boots, and a pouch that clipped around his thigh. She had also taken notice of the fingerless gloves and combat belt that was at his waist when he had the gun to her face. He was ready for a fight, that was for sure. 

“So what about you? You look prepared, you’ve clearly come out here on purpose for who knows what reason, and you don’t seem like a cop to me.” He stopped at that, turning his head enough for her to know he was listening to her. “Why are you here? Did someone you know come out here and go missing?” She probably shouldn’t pry, but he was the first non-infected person she could talk to in days.

“Something like that.” He grabbed a green herb that was growing into the barn, picking a piece off the stem and putting it into his pouch. He had more knowledge on plants and herbs than she did, as she had no idea what he had just grabbed.

“Does it happen to be a young girl? Blonde, kinda like you?” She went out on a limb, and it was the correct one, because his eyes snapped to her, the most emotion she had seen from him thus far showing in his expression. 

“You’ve seen her?” He questioned, having clearly been traveling blind thus far. 

“Yeah, they carried her into the church up on the hill. I tried to help her but. . .she was surrounded and all I have are these crappy knives. I was hoping to get help once I got out of here.” If the girl, or herself for that matter, lived that long.

After everything Ella had lost, the last thing she had wanted to do was leave that young girl by herself with the villagers, but she knew going in with just a rusty, deteriorating knife wasn’t going to be of any help to her, and her best bet was finding help. It seemed she had found some much sooner than she thought. 

“The church. . .” He was speaking mostly to himself, taking in the information Ella had given him. Ella wondered if it was the first piece of information on the girl the man had gotten since coming here.

“Yeah, it’s that way.” She pointed in the direction she had come from, the man's eyes following her finger. His brows were furrowed lightly in determination, and Ella could easily see that getting that girl back was important to him. 

She didn’t know why. The girl seemed a little young to be his girlfriend, but maybe she was his family. They were both blonde, but that was about where the resemblance ended. To be fair, Ella hadn’t gotten a great look at her.

“Is she your sister or-?” She asked, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t get an answer. This man was very clearly reserved, and he didn’t talk more than he had to. 

As suspected, he looked back to the area around him, preparing to leave without answering. Ella pursed her lips, unsure of what happened next. 

Was he going to leave her here? That was likely for the best since he was venturing deeper into the area and she was trying to leave it, but at the same time, she had no idea if she was going to make it out alive by herself. She didn’t even have a sure way out of here, having just been winging it thus far and hoping for the best. 

That, and the girl kept flashing into her mind. Ella couldn’t shake the guilt of leaving her behind even though Ella knew there was nothing she could have done for the girl. All she could think about was Alice’s terrified expression right before- 

Her heart twisted, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to push the feelings down. 

“If you’re going to save her, I want to come with you.” The words were spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them, but she looked at him with determination nonetheless. He met her eyes then, his expression unreadable. 

“I know some basic self defense, and I’ve clearly handled myself this far. Plus, I don’t think I’m going to make it if I keep going on alone anyway, so I don’t have anything to lose,” She explained before he could reject the idea.  “I won’t get in your way. I just want to help.” She hoped that would be enough to convince him, but his expression made her believe that he was unsure.

“Look. . .I lost the most important person in my life to these cult assholes. If there’s a chance I can help stop whatever the fuck is going on here, and save someone in the process, I want to take it. Even if I die trying.” She hadn’t been kidding when she said she had nothing to lose. Alice had been everything she had, and she was gone. Ella could do nothing but watch as those people in robes murdered her on the stone table. She didn’t want to sit by anymore. 

And truthfully, she didn’t see a life for herself after all of this. Not after everything that happened. Not without Alice. So if she was going to die, it might as well be trying to do something good, like saving someone else’ person. 

“Also, you don’t seem like the kind of guy who leaves people behind so. . .” Maybe that was a low blow, and for all she knew he was the type, but it was her last ditch effort. She saw his chest fall in exhale, and she knew then that she had read him right.

What she hadn’t expected, however, was for him to grab another handgun from his waist belt, holding it out for her. 

“Do you know how to use this?” He asked her, seemingly doing some of his own reading. Ella looked to the black weapon, reaching out to take and examine it. She tested the weight of it, and noted its specs, before looking back up at him. 

“Well enough,” She answered, and it was true. She knew he knew that by the way he had watched how she handled it- the way she purposefully kept her finger off the trigger, and how she checked to make sure the safety was on, as well as the way she seemed to know how it was meant to be held. 

Ella had handled guns when she was younger. Her dad, who also taught her all the survival skills she knew, wanted her to know how to use one. Ella didn’t like guns, and because of that she had left the skills in the past, but considering their situation, she knew this was an exception. 

She’d get the hang of it quickly, considering it had only been a few years since she last handled one and she remembered the gist of it.

The man seemed satisfied with her answer and his own analysis on whether or not she should have a firearm, turning as he continued his exploration of the area around them. She tucked the gun in the waistband of her shorts before grabbing her dropped knife and moving to follow him. Her waistband wasn’t the safest place to keep the weapon, but she didn’t have much of a choice so it would have to do. 

“What are you looking for?” She questioned curiously. Maybe she could help if she knew what he was searching for. Because she had come from the woods, she didn’t really know the area, but two sets of eyes were better than one.  

“A way to open the gate.” He answered simply, proving that once again he was not a man of many words. 

“Gate?” She had not seen one when she snuck into the area, but she hadn’t been looking for it, concerned more with the animals and the amount of villagers nearby. 

“Do you know another way around?” He didn’t look her way as he talked to her, not slowing down for even a moment as he now had a clear direction to go thanks to Ella. 

“Not a quick way.” She sighed, knowing that going through the woods wasn’t a good idea. First, she had almost gotten lost multiple times, and she was lucky she knew how to tell where North was. Second, it would take a while if they went the way she came, because there was a fence that she had to find an opening in to get to here. 

Something told her he’d rather go through than around if it meant saving time, and with that, she began looking around herself.

Eventually, they found their way into the windmill, and Ella stayed behind as the man climbed the ladder to the top. 

After some rustling and shuffling, Ella contemplated going up herself, not being a very patient person. Especially in this situation she had found herself in.  

“We need to find a wooden cog.” His voice called down just as she moved to climb up. A wooden cog? She didn’t remember seeing one anywhere they looked. 

“Oh, maybe it’s in the barn!” She suggested. They hadn’t been able to find a way in, but perhaps there was a way from up there as she remembered seeing a wooden platform on the outside. “I’ll head that way.” AKA, she stayed where she was to wait for him to open up the barn from the outside. Fair enough. 

She sighed, crossing her arms as she awaited any news or a sound from him that told her if he found a way in. She began to look around the windmill for something to do, and she noticed another green plant just like the one he grabbed before. Hm. He clearly wanted them, right? Doing as he did, she grabbed a sprig of it, putting it into her back pocket. 

There wasn’t anything else of interest, and she no longer heard him walking around above her. Taking that as her que to head to the barn, she left the windmill, and it was then that she noticed the large man with a boar head and a giant hammer, her eyes widening.

 “Hey!” She shouted just as he slammed the large hammer into the wood of the barn, hoping to get the guys (she should really figure out his name) attention, as well as the boar man. 

She pulled out her gun, ready to test her neglected skills as she took a moment to aim, before opening fire. The recoil shocked her, as she hadn’t remembered how that felt, but hopefully the shot still landed.

She barely managed to get him in the side of the head, which was close enough to where she had been aiming, but the thing didn’t even flinch. To make matters worse, other villagers were spilling into the area.

Before she could think of what to do next, a loud bang rang through the air, making her flinch and look to the barn in shock. 

The boar man was on his knees, and the guy came out with a shotgun, before landing a spin kick to the creature's head. 

What the- where the hell did this guy come from?! 

She couldn’t focus on that, deciding to take care of the villagers that were on their way to him. She took aim again, and this time when she fired a head shot, it was effective. 

Feeling more confident than she had in days, she stepped forward, focusing on the villagers while the man took care of the bigger threat. There were quite a few, but soon the last fell to the ground just as the blonde finished his threat off. Ella was glad that she had remembered her previous gun lessons, because otherwise she would still be running off into the woods and hoping for the best when she alerted the villagers. 

“What the hell was that?” She questioned as the adrenaline slowly left her body, turning to the man as she lowered her gun and focused back on what she had seen him do.

“I’m not sure.” He responded, clearly thinking she had been asking about the boar head villager. 

“No, not him. You. That was skilled training. Knowing how to use multiple kinds of guns, remaining calm under this kind of pressure, and that spin kick? Who are you?” She couldn’t help but ask, having not expected that from him. He reloaded his shotgun, seemingly contemplating his answer, and it was then Ella knew she wouldn’t be receiving one. 

“I’ll explain later. Let’s go.” He replaced the shotgun on his back, which had been hidden behind his jacket, before grabbing the wooden cog they had been looking for off a table and walking past her. 

Ella took a moment to process, before letting out a sigh and turning to follow him. She supposed who he was didn’t matter, but she still wished she knew a little more about her new traveling companion. 

He was back up the ladder a little bit later to place the cog in its rightful place, and it was then that Ella decided to ask a question that she really hoped she’d get an answer for. 

“Can you at least tell me your name?” She called, though a moment later she heard the mechanism start and the creaking of the door sound from outside, Ella turning her head to look as if she’d be able to see it opening from inside the windmill.

It was then that the man decided ladders were unnecessary, jumping down and practically startling Ella to death as she flinched lightly, letting out a breath and putting a hand to her heart as she willed it to calm down.

“Leon Kennedy.” He answered, and Ella could have sworn there was a hint of amusement in his eyes and a smirk pulling at his lips as he walked past her again.

 She narrowed her eyes at him and followed him out, her look turning into a half heartedly glare at the back of his head as they passed through the gate. 

“Ella Monroe.” She returned, deciding to keep her full first name to herself. She hated it anyway and no one but her father called her by it when he had the pleasure of ever speaking to her. He didn’t respond, but she knew he had heard her. Even if he hadn’t, it probably wouldn’t matter anyway considering he didn’t speak much. 

Letting it go and focusing on the journey, it only took a moment of walking before they came across something that made Ella stop in her tracks. 

“Oh hell no.” She found herself saying as she took in the rickety old wooden bridge. Leon turned to look at her with raised brows then. She could practically see the question in his eyes. “Oh come on, that looks so unstable.” She pointed out (even though it wasn’t really true), but he didn’t budge, and she sighed, relenting. 

She guessed he could see that she had as he started forward once more, and Ella pushed the fear from her mind as she reluctantly followed behind him. 

“I said I wanted to die helping out your friend. Not falling to my death after going over an obviously deteriorating bridge.” She grumbled, missing the way Leon’s steps faltered just slightly as she was too busy looking over the edge of the rope. Wasn’t looking down something they told you not to do? Even so, she found that she couldn’t help herself. 

All it showed her was that if she fell, it would probably be an instant death because she couldn’t see the ground, so there was that. This trip was already putting her in life threatening danger. 

But, she supposed that’s exactly what she wanted. 

xXx

There was a large door on the other side of the bridge, but it was locked.

“Maybe there’s another way in?” Ella suggested as she began to scale the wall.  She went around the left side, Leon going around the right, (not that there was much on that side), but it was no use. 

Her side came to a dead end, and the wooden fence was impossible to climb with its spiked tops. Meeting Leon back around, she shook her head.

“Nothing.” They would need to find a way to open the large wooden doors.

“How did you get through before?” Leon asked her, and she wished she had a good answer for him. 

“I didn’t. I was in the woods, over there,” She gestured in the direction to the left of the wall, and Leon sighed. “I could see down into the area, but I haven’t been in it.” Ella looked around, hoping to see anything that might help them get through, and that was when she noticed the wagon. “Oh, look!” She pointed. She was sure Leon had noticed that before, but he didn’t think they’d have to go that way. But maybe they could find a way around. It was really all they had right now.

She moved over to the back of the wagon, though she almost gagged at the scent surrounding it. A dead bull was inside, flies buzzing all around it as Ella swiped one out of the air in front of her. The bull would make it heavier and harder to push, but it wouldn’t stop them.

“Gross.” She murmured, before holding her breath as she pressed her palms against the wood, attempting to push it out of the way. It moved just a bit, but she definitely wasn’t going to be able to get it on her own, Ella letting out a grunt at the effort before giving up. She looked to Leon, who was watching her in amusement, his arms crossed. “A little help would be nice.” She sassed, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” He really thought he was funny didn’t he? “Move over.” He told her, and she rolled her eyes before she did as he said, giving him room to push as well. With his help, the wagon practically slid out of the way, Ella almost falling forward onto her face as she let out a yelp, catching herself.

She was pretty sure she hadn’t even helped much. Leon, seeming very pleased with himself, began walking forward down the path.

“Well, I’m glad I could help wipe that permanent scowl off your face. It definitely makes you a little softer on the eyes.” She huffed, her jab of course halfhearted, and he looked at her, the amusement still there. The fact that he didn’t respond only annoyed her further, and she felt like throwing her hands up in defeat, to which he seemed to chuckle the slightest bit at.

She had only spent a little over a half hour with him, and she could already tell he was hopeless. However, if she was being honest with herself, this banter between them was a great distraction to keep her mind from wandering to everything that had happened, and she appreciated that immensely.

The way she could tell he had a comedic side to him that seemed to be suppressed told her he had been through some heavy things as well, and maybe, just maybe, he knew at least some of what she was going through. Maybe he knew he was helping her stay afloat in a shitty situation.

That was a lot to assume about someone she just met, and maybe she was projecting, but she had a feeling.

Either way, she- “Watch out!” Ella reached over, grabbing ahold of his arm with both hands and pulling him out of the way of a flying ax, the blade just missing his shoulder. They had been too distracted to notice the villager rounding the corner, and it was then they shouted out to the others. Leon readied his gun, and Ella followed suit.

These bastards were everywhere.

xXx

“You’re welcome by the way.” She pointed out as she checked the ammo on her gun. She was just about to run out. 

Taking care of the villagers they had stumbled on hadn’t taken too long, Ella getting better and better the more she used her gun. Killing the villagers was still making the weight in her chest grow, but she was trying to accept that she didn’t have a choice if she wanted to survive long enough to help the girl out. She reminded herself of that every time she watched a villager's body fall limply to the ground, combatting the guilt in the only way she could. 

“Thanks.” She looked up at him, a little surprised he had actually said it as she had only been joking around. She definitely wouldn’t complain. 

She had been very conscious about not getting in his way, so to actually be helpful was a big plus.

“You’re welcome.” She smiled, her words more genuine this time. She was clearly satisfied with herself, and Leon had to refrain from shaking his head. “By the way, do you have any ammo in there?” She asked hopefully. Leon reached into the pouch at his side, his hand seemingly disappearing right into the thing before he held out bullets.

“What is that? Mary Poppins’ pouch?” She asked in surprise as she took the bullets and began reloading her gun.

“It holds what I need it to, for now.” Leon responded, though he seemed to find the reference entertaining, it showing in the slightly raised pitch of his voice.

“Oh, so he can show emotion in his voice.” She teased, though she was glad she could get a reaction other than a smirk out of him. With that, he rolled his eyes, making her laugh lightly as she put the rest of the bullets in the pocket of her flannel. That would hopefully hold them, and she buttoned the top for good measure.

“Alright, we’re coming up on another small village. Stay low and quiet.” He instructed, and she nodded, following behind him as he began to move forward.

There was a small shack leading up to the settlement, and the sound of beeping could be heard as they neared.

Was that a tripwire? Ella hadn’t even known they had those, but considering all her traveling was done in the woods, she wouldn’t have come across one. 

Fortunately, Leon seemed to know how to disarm it, making it a non-issue as long as they kept a lookout for them. 

“You’re going to have to teach me how to do that.” She murmured, thinking that useful information considering the situation they were in.

He nodded, moving forward before putting his back against the wall, and Ella knew he was going to survey the area beyond the shack to get an idea what they were up against, staying out of the way and hanging back.

“There’s a few of them, and it seems they have bear traps scattered around.” Leon stated as he looked around the edge, Ella nodding.

“Okay, what if we split up? This area is bigger than the barn, and maybe we can clear it faster.” She suggested, though Leon didn’t immediately seem on board with that plan, his look of disapproval showing.

“Oh come on,” She sighed. “I promised I wouldn’t get in the way, right? And you need to find a way to that church sooner rather than later. This will get us through faster. Besides, if you refuse, I’ll take that as an insult to my survival skills and assume you don’t think of me as capable of taking care of myself.” She gave him a pointed look. She knew that he was just concerned that she would get herself hurt, but she didn’t want him worrying about her. It would slow them down and take up more time if he was trying to keep her close and watch over her, which was the last thing either of them wanted. 

Leon seemed to consider her words, before relenting. 

“Shout if you need help.” He told her, Ella unable to hold back her grin of satisfaction at succeeding. 

“I won’t, don’t worry.” He wasn’t happy with that. Whether she meant she wouldn’t need help, or she wouldn’t shout for him, she didn’t clarify, which seemed to be the main reason for his unhappiness. 

She just winked, and he sighed through his nose in disapproval, but didn’t comment further, already catching on that it wouldn’t change anything.

He was a fast learner; she’d give him that.

“You go on ahead and find the best way through or anything useful. I’ll stay back and make sure the villagers to the right are taken care of and no more show up. Deal?” She suggested, and he nodded in acceptance.

“Watch the traps.” He warned.

“You too. And be careful.” She returned, and he nodded his head at her, Ella knowing he was returning the sentiment. With that, he went forward first, and Ella was right behind him, taking care of the villagers to the right so he didn’t have to worry about his back. She had realized thanks to the crop of villagers on the way here that she needed to be more frugal with her ammo, so she decided she’d use the bear traps to her advantage. She shoved a villager into it, watching as the teeth of the trap clamped down on his leg, leaving him immobilized and allowing her to use the kitchen knife she had, stabbing him through the neck.

Unfortunately, the knife broke in his flesh, and Ella cursed to herself as she threw the handle down. So much for her plan to save ammo. She’d just have to try and make every shot a kill shot.

She got through her portion of villagers, letting out a sigh as she checked her ammo. She still had a bit left, but it wouldn’t last her long.

She noticed one of the cabins had an open window, thinking maybe it would be good to check it out. She didn’t see Leon, but she wasn’t worried. Even in the small amount of time they knew each other, she knew he could take care of himself just fine. She’d go on ahead to look for him and see what he found in a moment.

For now, she jumped through the window of the cabin, gun at the ready in case there were any straggling villagers. Fortunately, it was clear, and as she searched the small house, she found another kitchen knife, smiling.

See? They just leave them lying around everywhere.

With that being the only useful thing she found, she moved to exit back through the window, but movement caught her eye.

Her eyes widened as she noticed the large man in the hat and robe walk through the small village, her eyes widening as she quickly ducked out of sight.

She had seen him around the village before, and he always gave her a really bad feeling. He was different from the others. He seemed to have authority over the villagers, and he was clearly more intelligent and in control, like him. 

She quickly shoved all thoughts of him from her mind and focused on the threat at hand. There was no way she could take him with the limited skills and ammo she had. Hell, she didn’t know if Leon could take him.

Leon.

He was going in the same direction her new companion had.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Ella murmured as she began to panic, looking out the window and seeing that he was gone. She had to do something, but what?

She jumped out the window, moving as quickly and quietly as she could in the direction the man went. She didn’t see him, but there was only one way he could have gone. Nearing the big house at the end, she had just gotten to the kicked-in door when she heard the distant crash, fearing she was too late.

She froze as she tried to think of what she should do. Should she run in and help? But what if the best thing she could do is wait, lest she get in his way? But maybe her extra bullets could be of help! But she may also just distract him?

She had no idea what to do, but she couldn’t just sit out here. 

Just as she was about to run inside, she heard heavy footsteps begin to come towards the entrance. Leon was a big guy, but he wasn’t big enough to have those kinds of footfalls. Plus, he was stealthy, something she had picked up on along the way. That could mean only one thing.

Ella quickly ran to the side of the house, hiding behind it and waiting, hoping she was wrong. However, she knew she wasn’t when she saw the large man walk outside of the house, her heart dropping.

He was carrying two people; one man she didn’t recognize, and Leon. Ella had to look very closely, but she could see he was breathing, relief flowing through her.

But now she had no idea what to do to help him. If he couldn’t take the guy on, then she sure as hell couldn’t. 

What did he want with Leon? He wasn’t killing him immediately, which meant he probably wasn’t going to kill him at all, unless he wanted to do a ritual like the one- 

No, Ella wouldn’t let that happen if that was the case. She may have only known him for a couple of hours, but she would not sit by and let him die if there was anything she could do about it. 

She had a gun now, and while it wasn’t much, it was far more than she had before. 

For now, she had to put her stealth skills to use once more, and follow the man carrying Leon.

A/N: Again, let me know if you like it! If I don’t get a lot of notes on this I might not continue it, but who knows. I’ll probably post it elsewhere too. If you have any issues with it or think I should have put better warnings, please let me know! Also let me know if you think my portrayal of Leon should be different. Thanks for reading! 

[skull-fvcker]

feed on me, you know im never far

❥ Leon Kennedy x Gender Neutral! Reader

A/N: I try really hard to nail his character (: cross-posted on ao3

Summary: Leon never asked for these things. He never asked for anything. Your friendship, your kindness, your time. Nothing. He always seemed to be stuck in a perpetual loop of self-pity and responsibility, as if he was in charge of not only himself but you as well.

Warnings: 7383 words, MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, gentle sex, hand jobs, finger fucking, reaall slow burn, mentions of mental health issues(both the reader's and Leon's), awkward moments on purpose, no use of y/n

PT 1

"Maybe, in another life, you could've been given the life you desired and deserved."

The words you spoke to yourself echoed repeatedly in your mind. They seemed to play on a loop, like a record that refused to stop, even when it had been damaged beyond repair. It was like hearing a broken CD play, despite its rough surface. Leon didn't hear you, and for that you were grateful, but at the time, you wanted nothing more than to huddle next to him and run your fingers through his heavy hair. You knew not of how he felt about you, even after his promise—could it even be called that?—that you two were friends.

Maybe, despite it all, some things were just simply not meant to be. 

That, you knew all too well. There would be things that, no matter how hard you tried, would simply be out of your control. Like Leon's borderline alcoholism, or his constantly changing phone numbers. The man was an enigma to you and always would be. He kept you within arms reach, never taking you in yet never pushing you away. You knew what he wanted you to know, and things were always left at that. You had your life, and he had his. No matter how curious you were about his vigour. You let not it dwell, lest you want to be dragged into a world of your own without any means to drag yourself back out.

Friends come and go. Nobody who promises forever thinks that they will leave the other eventually, but it comes, even if you don't like to think about it. And here you were, overthinking again, just as you told yourself that you wouldn't. Fate truly is an unkind mistress.

Which was exactly why you were left staring at your phone in complete confusion. You barely saw Leon after the incident at the pub—but then, you never saw him much in general. He was probably embarrassed. What a thought—and here he was, leaving a very straightforward, yet cryptic message on its own. "Are you free tonight?" That was what it said. The words, on their own, left nothing to be desired. But Leon never asked for these things. He never asked for anything. Your friendship, your kindness, your time. Nothing. He always seemed to be stuck in a perpetual loop of self-pity and responsibility, as if he was in charge of not only himself but you as well.

Despite yourself, you typed in a solemn, "Yeah. You want to make plans, or?" which ached you to your very core to even ask. Your message was immediately read. You felt nervous and intimidated, similar to a high school student asking out their popular crush when they were considered nerdy and unpopular. At a moment's notice, the triple dot began to read at the bottom of the screen, signifying that Leon was not only right there, but that he had an answer at the ready.

"Yes." Was his answer. The triple dot appeared once more, and he sent another message within just a couple of seconds. "Please, I mean. I'd like to hang out. A thank you for taking care of me." Before you were able to reply, he sent yet another message. "If that's okay with you." It was almost as if Leon was fiending for your attention and approval, but you knew that the Leon you knew—or lack thereof—would never desire to do such a thing.

Would it be worth it, could you face him? The answer was, of course: Yes. Of course, you could face Leon. You were an adult with responsibilities and a part of you saw Leon as one of those responsibilities, as childish as it may seem to someone who knew nothing about you or him. "Sure." Your message was short and straight to the point, but Leon liked things that way. In fact, he sent you a thumbs-up emoji and that's where things were left. He wasn't much for talking when it came to texting—one of the little things you knew was that he preferred to speak over the phone or in person.

When the sun made way for the moon to rise in its place, your heart was racing like a gazelle escaping a cheetah. Your body is wracked by a wave of despair and overwhelming despondency and dread. The feeling of anxiety may grip your heart at times but it is a familiar companion that you've learned to manage. It's like a child that never leaves your side, always there to remind you of the love and care you have within. And that's fine—you've found a way to make peace with it.

Sometimes, though, you felt like even just a single hug would be enough to make you feel better, like if someone simply acknowledged your misery it'd make it easier to bear. You could feel your entire body aching for just the single touch of someone, anything to know that you're not alone in the world and that someone loves you. You weren't even alone and these thoughts plagued the fragile mentality of your brain. But, you know, it does get better. Takes some time, but it can't rain forever. The sun always shines again, even if only for a second.

The knock at your door shook any thoughts from your brain, and so you stood up from your sofa with a grunt and sauntered over to the door. You made no effort to check who it was as you knew it was Leon, so you answered the door with a smile on your face, the corners of your eyes wrinkling in delight. And Leon met with the same smile, though far more awkward; the corners of his lips barely tugging upwards to create a tight-lipped smile. A rare occurrence, but a welcomed one nonetheless.

There stands Leon, tall and impressive, leaving a lasting impression with his physique. The way his shirt completely clings to his well-built body, the way his trousers leave nothing to the imagination. It was as if you were staring at a Greek statue of a bygone God that nobody thought to admire and worship—no one but you. He was gorgeous, he was your God, he was your everything. You wished he wasn't.

"Glad you could make it," you suddenly said to Leon as you stepped aside for him to walk into your home. "Take your shoes off, preferably..."

Leon made a grunt in response to your wishes, crouching to take off rather plain-looking sneakers. "You answered the door quickly," he said in a gruff tone, "try not to do that. It's not—" Leon paused as he took off his shoes, standing up to his full height and rolling his broad shoulders. He had a kind look in those eyes of his. "It's not safe to not check. I knew you were expecting me, but..." His voice trailed off, letting his words truly soak in through your skin. You knew what he was getting at, and you were thankful, you really were, despite the dry laugh that came from your throat, your nose twitching as you rubbed your index finger and thumb at your philtrum.

There was a small "Thank you", but other than that things were rather silent and awkward. Truth be told, Leon had never actually been in your apartment before, it was a foreign concept to him and you could tell by the way he stood there with his hands at his sides, eyes scanning every nook and cranny with a twitch of his furrowed brows and clenched jaw. He wasn't angry, you knew that, but he was on edge. You wished there was a way you could make him completely calm and without a care in the world. What plagued Leon's thoughts, you wonder.

"Would you like a glass of water?" "Sure, if it's not too much trouble."

Leon sounds almost teasing and amused now, his voice still filled with that awkward, yet sardonic passion. He was trying to make things less embarrassing and you couldn't help but thank him beneath your breath and he didn't even notice that. Your entire kitchen was cleaned from top to bottom before Leon came over. Maybe you were the embarrassed one. You didn't want Leon to judge your decorum or to think you're a slob or anything. The glass of water you grabbed for Leon was tall and filled nearly to the brim with water, ice cubes floating inside and slightly crackling at the temperature difference.

When you handed it to Leon, he inspected it before taking an experimental sip. "Thanks," his lips meet the glass and you feel the hairs at the nape of your neck begin to stand on end at the sight. It was a mundane sight but it reminded you of those pesky romantic feelings that you had for him. Leon could never tell, even if you'd make it obvious he would never seem to notice. Besides, you knew he was hung up on Ada Wong, and taking him away from what he wanted was not something that you wanted to attempt to try. Leon deserved to be happy.

Maybe you didn't deserve him, but he deserved to be happy.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Leon asks with a slight nod of his head, leaning back with the glass held in his hand tightly. His grip was firm but you knew for a fact that it was gentle in its own regard. You wouldn't call Leon a 'gentle giant', rather, you'd just call him gentle. He was kind if not awkward, in which he cared more for others than he cared for himself, his selfless nature and prioritization of others' needs were unmistakable. You knew not of his line of work besides working for the government and he kept it that way—but you weren't stupid. It was dangerous, you knew that.

With an experimental chew on your bottom lip, you shrug your shoulders and shift your weight onto the balls of your feet. "Just thinking about things. Not really important, you know? Say, how about I pop a pizza into the oven and we watch shitty TV shows?" You were trying to get Leon's mind off of the thought of your worries and it seemed to work, his knit eyebrows upturned in genuine glee. He sure was a sucker for pizza. Though, he probably would've been even happier if you said steak.

He sets down his now-empty glass of water. "Pizza? Count me in. I needed a cheat day anyway." A dry chuckle escapes his mouth, and Leon even darts his tongue between his lips to wet them. Although it was an adorable sight, it amplified your desire to kiss him even more than you had originally intended. Oh, Leon...

With the pizza in the oven and Leon planting himself right on the sofa—you had to reassure him that, yes, Leon, you can sit on the sofa, it's okay—you felt okay enough to sit down beside him just as friends would. His legs were spread, but when he caught you sitting down next to him, he closed them to give you more room. Leon's actions said so much even if he did not. With those handsome features of his, the cleft in the middle of his chin, the slight roundness to his face despite the chiselled features—who wouldn't fall for him? You felt stupid, kind of, for thinking this way about Leon when he was right there next to you.

But, oh... You couldn't help but notice how his shirt hugged his chest and how his sleeves fit snugly around his strong upper arms; thick waist and well-built thighs. What did they look like without those layers, you wondered. How could you not ogle and stare? Maybe it was a bad idea, considering how he was paying attention to the television with paying little to no regard to you, the occasional clench of his fist and his blue eyes fixated on the screen. You did not deserve Leon, while Leon deserved nice things and you could only dream of giving him those things. 

The silence in the room was sinking deep into your flesh like fangs and whispering into your ear in the form of gentle whisps in the air. It reminded you of the car ride when you asked Leon if you two were friends. He was so tired, he probably didn't even remember it. You knew that he had a killer headache in the morning, however, and he did formally thank you, though, at the time, you didn't know that he wanted to spend time with you.

"Thank you," Leon suddenly spoke, turning his focus from the television to you. His lashes fluttered as he blinked, and you subtly noticed the flare of his pupils. "For... Caring about me. It— Well, it means a lot to me." He clears his throat, obviously trying his best to properly articulate the way he feels. "You pulled me out of that stupor and I just, I don't know. I hadn't realised how reliant I was. Having you by my side, it meant the world to me." He suddenly lurches forward and sets his hand on your thigh, his grip gentle yet firm, his calloused fingers dragging against the fabric of your jeans. If only he knew how those words set your heart afire.

A sigh escapes you with another dry chuckle, and you set your hand atop Leon's. His hands were so big. "It's okay," your voice is soothing, at least you hope it is, "I'm just doing what anyone would do, I-" The words are caught in your throat because Leon interrupts you.

"No," he breathes, "not just anyone would do that. Everyone has the capacity to be a good person but you... You are always a good person to me," Your name falls from his lips like a forbidden prayer, his pink, cracked lips curling up into a rare—but cute—smile. "You are a good person." His hand confidently turns and gently grips your own, his thumb smoothly rubbing over the strong bone of your knuckles.

You're conflicted.

"Because I care about you, Leon," You say with a hushed tone, eyebrows knitting together and your fingers clenching around the palm of his hand as he did to yours. "You're my friend," it hurt so much to say those words, "and I will always care about you. It's okay, It's okay to not be okay. It's okay to want an outlet, but it was unhealthy and I needed to help you." It was my duty to help you, Leon, you wanted to say. But that would merely worry him even more than he seemed to be. You've never seen Leon with such admiration in his eyes, at least when he stared at you.

You two stared at each other for what seemed like hours. You found yourself getting lost in those beautiful eyes of his, the way the light reflected off of his blue eyes; flecks of grey and black spreading throughout the ring around his dilated pupils. He was gorgeous—Leon was breathtaking. And you were... You.

One of Leon's hands moved to your upper arm, his gentle thumb rubbing over your tense bicep, pressing against the muscle that quickly decompressed from his touch. A friend, you were a genuine friend and he was to you. You never asked each other for anything; you two gave and gave until nothing was left of your bodies but skin and bones. However, Leon was more than you were ever going to be and he would give more than you could ever even attempt to give. His existence was a gift from the Gods, though he did not see it that way.

As you both get closer, you notice that Leon seems to be keeping some distance. It's as if he thinks that something is not right and that this closeness was not supposed to happen. His hand moves to your face, gently cupping your cheek. His rough thumb rubs the soft flesh of your face, taking in every line, every wrinkle, every blemish and every scar. It left you breathless and you knew exactly why. The spark never leaves after all, but it does get covered like a flame from a fire that doesn't cease.

"Tell me to stop," he says while he draws closer, staring down at your face, into your eyes. "Tell me to leave. Tell me I'm delusional for wanting to kiss you—"

"Please don't stop," Was your response. "Kiss me, Leon."

Leon's lips meet yours in a gentle, feverish display. It's almost as if he's scared of you, scared of hurting you—but it feels so good. The rough tips of his fingers move to grasp your face and hold you close to him like you're the last human being on earth and that he needs you to survive. His lips are dry and almost cracked but there's a hint of mint on his breath. His eyes, awkward and staring directly into your own, begin to close as he inches closer to you. Leon is pulling you into his lap, he's holding you, he's cradling you.

He becomes more passionate with his kisses and more needy, but he never pressures you to do anything against your will. "I love you," Leon mumbles against your lips, "I always have. I always will. Please, I don't— I'm sorry," Though his words are soft unlike his lips, you know that he means everything he says. He means it. Leon loved you.

"But, Ada Wong—" Your words cause him to pull away from the kiss, his hands cradling your head like you were the one keeping him safe from the world. Like you were an angel that fell onto his lap; something that he needed to protect.

"Don't talk about her," He says softly, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones as he opens his piercing blue eyes. "This is about us. Us. Not her." Leon is so gentle in his actions, you almost forget about all of your ailments and your sorrows. The fact that you had been pinning for him for so long, the nights you fell asleep wishing he held you—it was now all real. It was real and you almost couldn't believe it.

You eagerly seek Leon's approval, and his words have a substantial impact on you—you believe him. With little to no resistance, no arguing, or any objections. You smile at him, and he responds with an awkward, barely visible grin. He wants to belong to you. Like he belongs to the government. Like he belongs to his past.

You're pulled onto Leon's lap, each of your thighs pressing against either side of his. Your heart is pounding against your chest and when your fingertips gently rest on Leon's warm, broad chest, you feel his hammering heart. It matches the rhythm of your own, a gentle song that you hoped would soon lull you to sleep—a lullaby. Leon was consumed by a burning desire for you to take control of him like never before. His eyes gleamed brightly, resembling those of a new police officer on their first day of duty. Leon loved you.

Leon's fingers find the back of your head, running along the nape of your neck in a gentle fashion. "Let me kiss you," he begs, "please, I want to kiss you again." His words are pleading and small, your name falling from his lips again like another forbidden prayer. Although the affection remains evident in his words, it's not currently his primary motivation. Nonetheless, the love is always present and not distant. You were his home away from home though you knew it not. You may not have been aware of the depth of his feelings for you, but this was only the beginning.

You respond without speaking, allowing your body to act on its own as you kiss him once more. The tender and romantic moment sends shivers down your spine, and you can't get enough of Leon's minty breath. It's everything you could ever desire and more, and you adore it. It was the perfect moment, a perfect heated display of love and deprivation between the two of you.

Through Leon's kisses, his depravity and passion shone through the cracks of the facade you stared down each time you saw him. He craves you in every way possible, and his thoughts run wild. He can't let himself give in, but he wants to. He craves this. He's always been the quiet, stoic type—his life is a series of secrets. He was trained that way. And he's never had anything to call his own. But you are everything he's ever wanted. And you've become his; you're going to become his.

A spark, maybe even a little flame of lust inside of you blossoms, overriding your emotions and your coherent thought process. It's a flame that you would love to stomp out; but one that you keep breathing oxygen into. Fuel to the fire, value to the pain. Whatever poetic thoughts cross through your mind, they're immediately pushed away by pure horniness and greed for Leon. And you hate it.

"I want you, Leon," you breathe out against his hot, wet lips. He groans in response to your words, almost immediately catching onto the sultry tone that sends shivers down his spine.

"You have me," He whispers, "I'm yours." And that was how it began.

Your hands travelled further than your brain wanted you to go, but your heart and groin controlled your movements at this time. Leon did little to resist you and aided in taking off his shirt that hugged his body. The pads of your fingertips gently weaved against the curvature of Leon's abdomen—his abs soft and without the urge to flex. There were scars that littered his body but you did not care. He was gorgeous. Leon was the most attractive man you had ever laid eyes upon. Your fingers moved up to his chest though your eyes were glued to his happy trail, a trail of light brown hair curling from his belly button and disappearing into his trousers. It made you groan at the sight.

"You," Your lips are dry, suddenly, "You're so hot, Leon. You're so attractive. You look so good," Your breath is heavy against his lips and you catch your incisors between his plump bottom lip, a rueful moan escaping his throat at the feeling. Leon feels the same, you know this now. Despite all the time you spent pinning over him, all the days and weeks you spent convincing yourself that nothing would happen. Here you are, touching him just like your dreams urged you to.

Leon responds to your words with a dry chuckle, nervously swallowing which makes his Adam's apple move. "Takes one to know one, doesn't it?" He throws a random quip into the field in an attempt to lessen the mood, but the lust that surrounds the air is slowly overtaking him as well, clouding his judgement and making him wish he could see you beneath your clothes. He can, you can tell by how his fingers clench the dip in your waist, the rough palms of his hands pressing right up against your hip bones.

In response to him, you groan with an eye roll, never forgetting just how painfully awkward Leon was in these types of situations. Your fingers drift down to where your eyes sit. The tips of your fingers tease at the buckle to his belt, to the zipper to his trousers. There's a noticeable bump that presses against the harsh fabric, desperate to be freed and aching for your touch. Your touch. No one else's.

"It's yours," Leon says. "Go ahead. It's okay."

Despite your body moving on its own, you're still shaking with slight tremors of your hands as you work at unbuckling his belt and undoing his trousers. Once you have his cock in your hands, you notice how it's half hard with precum leaking from the tip. There's a predominant vein that ran along the side of the shaft and when you ran your finger alongside it, Leon groaned with hitched breath. You're teasing him. And, oh, he's all here for it.

You're not entirely sure of what you're doing, but you do it anyway and begin to rub along the shaft, down to the hilt with his curly pubes, and up to the leaking tip. Leon's cock was just as pretty as he was but you bit back that thought and instead focused on trying to make him feel good. One look at his face and you can see that he's staring directly at you with half-lidded eyes and parted, wet lips. His cheeks are flushed a pale pink, extending down to the sides of his neck and casting an angelic glow that makes you want to kiss him again.

"You're such a tease, you know that, right?" Leon suddenly breathes out through clenched teeth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "You're so gentle." He doesn't say it like a bad thing, in fact, Leon welcomes it with open arms, loving the sensations of your gentle touch and the love that flows through you and seeps into his skin.

The groans and moans that escape him make your hair stand on end, arousal pooling down in your gut while your thumb rubs over the slit of his tip. "Anything for you," you say breathlessly, working your best to satisfy him, to make Leon proud of you and happy. Your hand begins to pump up and down with the pre that leaked from Leon's tip. It wasn't much but it was what you had for now.

His breathy moans and soft gasps were all you needed to push this forward. Leon was trying so hard to keep still, he even moved one of his hands to his thighs and clenched his veiny fist. His hands were so large, you think, he's so perfect, the thought finishes. How could such a perfect man exist at the same time as you? A sigh escapes both of you at the same time, though Leon's was more pleasurable rather than a gasp for air. His hips are subtly bucking up against you, his thighs tensing up, the stiff muscles pressing against your inner thighs delightfully.

One of Leon's calloused hands moved up to his face, slithering over his mouth with his thumb settling on the bridge of his nose. You can hear soft grunts muffled against his palm, sharp exhales and inhales from his nose as his nostrils flare—Leon was enjoying this, enjoying you. He was enjoying what you were doing to him.

"Oh, fuck—" The sudden groan catches you off guard; it was accompanied by Leon idling his head to the side with his fingers gripping your hip almost painfully. The noises are growing more audible but it's still muffled by his palm. "Yeah, just like that, shit," a remarkably loud, gasping moan slips past the cracks of his facade, his eyelashes fluttering beautifully. You'd never seen Leon experiencing such pleasure before, and you could see the tips of his ears turning bright pink. 

Your hand twisted slightly, thumb running alongside the sensitive vein of his shaft before extending up to rub along his slit. "Are you close, Leon?" You say breathlessly, a soft chuckle laced within your words. Leon merely groans in response and squeezes his eyes shut, his thighs shaking below you. Despite yourself, your pace begins to pick up, face leaning closer to Leon's. 

"Yeah, yeah," his response came quicker than expected, a groan silenced in his voice. "So close. Fuck. Don't stop." Those noises were music to your ears. You can feel his cock pulse and twitch in your gentle, yet firm grip.

It didn't last long, though, to your surprise, as Leon let out a high-pitched whine before he came all over your hand, ribbons of cum seeping in between your fingers and dripping down onto the rough fabric of his jeans. Though this was welcomed, you couldn't help but giggle at his dazed expression. When you pulled away, you noticed how his cock visibly deflated, twitching against your escaping fingers.

Leon hums, pulling his hand away from his mouth, lips dry and eyes glazed over. He rolls his head before shaking it like a dog, his fringe falling over his eyes. "Oh," he breathes, "That was—" It doesn't take him long to catch his breath before he's moving his palms against your hip bones, that glazed-over look still present in his eyes. His pupils completely overtake the blue of his iris, the sweet blues and greys succumbing to the black. "I'm proud of you," Leon whispered, his words sort of slurring together as he leaned in for a kiss. Without a second thought, you kiss him back.

"You're the best-damned thing that ever happened to me, and I'm never gonna let you go," Leon confessed. He was intoxicated by the lust of everything, but you could hear the genuine care and affection in his intemperate voice. Leon loved you.

"Can we," Leon's voice drops barely below a whisper when he draws away from your welcoming lips. It was like a layer of sin was washed away by the rushing warm tides of tomorrow.

"Yes," Was your immediate response. "I—I mean, If you want to. I'd love to. I think it would be— Yeah." Your lips pressed concurrently to form a thin line, and Leon's face had nothing but unadulterated adoration for you. Both of you were apprehensive. The blame fell on neither but both.

Without much thought, Leon was the one who made the first move, pressing you down to the sofa and gently laying your head on a nearby pillow. The palm of his hand held the back of your head before riding his fingertips along your neck to your clavicle. Much like he always was, Leon was gentle. Not one touch was out of reach or aggressive in nature, only harbouring pure love and tenderness. Though his fingers were rough, his touches were not. It was like an angel's kiss, you thought, he's amazing.

He hovered above you exactly like an angel would, the artificial lighting of your room casting soft shadows across his features, emphasising his cupid's bow and the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. How could such a man exist, you wonder.

Leon suddenly halted before a breathy chuckle slipped past his parched lips, despite that tall glass of water you offered him earlier. "Oh," he breathes, "You have any...?" 

"Lube? Ah, erm... Haha, in the drawer right here," You nervously indicate to the drawer at the side of the sofa. You can feel your cheeks swell with warmth at the notion, and that was further amplified by Leon's hazy stare as he reached over you with a grateful sigh. The delicate, loving stare that never left his face made you feel comforted, even if it was a little bit.

"Haha," He starts, working his way to remove his trousers. "Were you expecting this? Or do you... get around a lot, huh?" He's obviously trying to make this position less gauche than it already was whereas all it was doing was making you even more ashamed. A part of you knew that he was simply joking around, though, the irrational part of you believed otherwise. "I'm kidding." He says gently.

The subsequent few instants are a blur, leaving nothing to be desired but the thought that this is going to happen. Leon is going to claim you just as you are going to claim him. You were apprehensive, but so was Leon, you could tell. He was just trying to mask it beneath a sarcastic and sardonic veneer. The truth is not hard to see when you know the man that Leon is. Nevertheless, you don't let your own ludicrous ideas prevent you from having fun.

The squelching noise of lube pressing out of the bottle and against Leon's fingertips shakes you from your thoughts. You watch as the fluid covers his thick digits, leaking down to his wrist and suddenly you're at a loss for air. Arousal is spiking through your body and Christ this was going to be a long night. His unsoiled hand rubs at your inner thigh, his thumb creating slight divots when they press into your flesh. Leon could tear you apart, and at this point, you'd thank him.

"Don't worry," he whispers, his index finger pressing up against you in a thrilling display of lust before pressing inside of you gently. The extra lubrication eased his thick finger inside of you, and you felt yourself involuntarily clenching around him. "You feel so warm on the inside," he hums, "I can't wait you stretch you apart." Leon's voice drops an octave, a passionate growl lacing within that sultry voice of his. It makes you mewl.

One finger soon became two, and you felt his lubricated middle finger slip in with little to no resistance. "Leon," you moan out, arching your back with your incisors digging into your bottom lip almost painfully. "Shit, you're so— so good at this, oh, fuck—" Your head unexpectedly feels heavy and you feel light-headed, so you lay it back onto your delicate, silk pillow. Whimpers and mewls escape you as his fingers gently fuck you; soft thrusts and devoted touches, curling up into that one spot that makes you see stars. 

The sardonic wit returns with a smile cast upon his face, his eyebrows scrunching together in concentration. "Good," the hum that came from his throat was mingled with lust that he was barely controlling below the surface. The muscles in his arms tense, his bicep flexing with each gentle thrust into you. "Feels good, yeah?" His breathy voice sends shivers down your spine. You can see the veins on his bicep pulse as he hovers over you. 

Leon's middle and forefinger stretched you open to the point that you were seeing stars dancing around in your vision, like the blinding light of the sun. Amidst your pleasure, you didn't even notice Leon subtly squirting more lube around his fingers, trying to ease you into everything just for your enjoyment.

And then, as quickly as it came, his fingers left you, leaving you at a loss and whining softly.

"It's okay," he whispers, grabbing the base of his cock with his lubed fist, giving it a few experimental pumps, causing it to twitch lightly. Leon hovers above you gently, with the light casting deep shadows on his face. His nostrils flare a bit as he breathes, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. "Are you ready for me?"

Without a thought, you answer: "Yes."

Despite your eager answer, Leon seems to halt for just a moment out of pure worry for you. His head bows and he presses his nose directly against your breast bone, deeply inhaling your scent as he peppers kisses along your smooth chest, winding up to the side of your jawline. He does not bite nor nibble, but he kisses so gently as if you were something fragile, something made of pure Selenite that he was sworn to protect. One crack would cause you to shatter and never be the same again. 

Without much of a thought, one of your hands tangles into the back of his head, your fingers running against his soft hair. Leon hums in response, his tip prodding against your entrance and slipping inside with little to no resistance, an immediate grunt tumbling past his lips. The warm, wet feeling of his breath sent shivers down your spine, causing your back to arch, your sternum pressing directly against Leon's. 

"It feel good?" He asks softly and breathlessly, one hand positioning itself above your hipbone. His cock presses into you until the hilt reaches your pelvis, completely filling you to the brim with him. It was an ache that burned deep inside your guts, and yet you pushed it back for the greater good. You'd get used to it, it was nothing.

And so, you shakily nod, fingers running through Leon's hair. "Yeah," you breathe, "you feel so good, Leon." With the subtle praise that fell from your lips, you felt Leon's entire body tense up. It worried you at first, but with his cock buried deep inside you, there was no time for debates or sorrowful apologies. A part of you almost preferred it that way.

Moments pass, and with your legs wrapped around Leon's hips, you feel pure bliss and arousal coiling around your gut. A whine slips its way past your mouth, a sound that immediately causes Leon to snap his head up at you. He stares at you momentarily, before his facial features soften and he smiles gracefully, lifting his head to rest his forehead against your own. Leon's eyes flutter shut, his thick yet short eyelashes pressing against your scrunched eyebrows. 

"What have I done to deserve you," he whispers softly. You can feel Leon's hips shudder and his muscles tense up from him unmistakably controlling the impulse to thrust into you. "I love you so much." Leon's grip is gentle and romantic, his thumbs pressing against your hip bones, the pads of his fingers digging into your skin, coating you in his love and appreciation.

Leon doesn't allow you to speak your mind, instead, he presses his lips against your own tenderly, The sensation of his lips and wet tongue causes your back to arch. His teeth grind against your own in a feverish display of passion and lust, his tongue pressing flat against your own and coating your mouth with his own saliva. He tastes of mint and a hint of bourbon. A familiar, burning taste that warms you to your very core. This moment, in spite of everything, was perfect.

Before Leon pulls away from the kiss, he holds you close to him, his fingertips digging into your hips as he begins to hump against your pelvis, the squelching noise and skin-on-skin contact buzzing in your eardrums. "I'm sorry," He whispers against your mouth throughout the groans that laced his tongue. You didn't know why he was sorry, but he was. "I love you." He kept repeating.

Despite yourself, you pull away from the kiss and lean your head back, breathing heavily as he thrusts in and out of you at a gentle, yet rough pace. "Leon," you mewl out, feeling him pepper kisses along your jawline and neck, but never quite biting down on your skin with his teeth. "Leon, oh, God, I don't—" The feeling of him is enough to make everything go dizzy and for your eyes to shut tightly.

In response, Leon shushes you and breathes laboriously against your neck, his moist breath sending shivers down your spine. "Take it," he whispers, "Please. You feel so good, do you like it?" Even when chasing his own pleasure, Leon is attempting to make sure that you're most comfortable, that you're safe and not in any pain. His caring yet abrasive personality causes you to moan in response, your wet lips parting. "I'll take that as a yes."

One of Leon's hands moves from your hipbone to your thigh, his fingers digging into the plush surface of your unclenched muscles, the tips of his fingers creating small divots that would ultimately become bruises. His cock bullies itself inside of you, stretching all of your walls around him and forcing you to accommodate just for him. 

"More, please," you try to beg through moans, face contorting in pleasure, the feeling of Leon's cock and his thrusts creating a coil in your gut that threatened to release any moment now. 

You hear him chuckle in response, "Aren't you greedy," he says between gasps and grunts, a bead of sweat dripping down his brow and splashing onto your cheek. Strangely enough, you didn't mind. "Guess I have no choice..."

Leon's thrusts build up in both force and speed, his body hunched over your own as he spreads your legs for easier access. Both of your moans are in sync with the other. A frigid yet passionate display of the love you harbour towards one another, one which neither of you knew about until now. You were so lucky to have Leon.

"Fuck," you moan, pressing your hips up against Leon with a whine. One hand tangles itself in his hair while the other travels down to rest just above your navel. You bite your lip to conceal your noises, but with the moans that escape Leon, you're unable to keep yourself quiet. "You're so hot, Leon, so good, I can't—" You whine at the feeling of his thrusts increasing in speed. "Rig- right there! Shii- shit, oh fuck, Leon—!" 

Your noises are enough to spur him on, a tight growl lacing itself inside his throat. Leon positions himself so that he rocks against that spot almost continually, and he relishes in the repetition that flows from your honeyed and soft lips. The feeling of your fingers digging into the back of his scalp, tugging lightly at his messy locks. You were perfection in his eyes.

"Want me to finish inside," his voice drops an octave as he fucks you like you were the last living being on earth. "Want me to fill you up?" The hidden aggression in his tone is not left unnoticed, but luckily all it does is make you moan even louder, one of your legs wrapping against his lower waist with your heel digging into the curvature of his spine. "I'm gonna keep you nice and full, I promise." "Please," was the response that came from your needy lips, the coil in your stomach just about ready to snap and fray like a faulty spring. "Please, ple- please, please, Leon—" You mercilessly chew down on your lower lip, the sound of his thrusts meeting your ears. The squelching and wet noises were like music to your ears, an obscene performance of pure lust. Your nails dig into the back of his skull.

Leon clenches his teeth, hissing through the gap between his crooked incisors, "You're so needy," a growl rumbles in his throat, "I love it." For you, that is what pushes you over the edge, causing your toes to curl and your back to arch, legs twitching and muscles convulsing in pure ecstasy as you come far quicker than you would've liked. "Le-Leon, Leon, Leon," you repeat his name like a mantra, frail moans and shattered breaths escaping your lips. He's chasing his own high, humping against you like a mutt in heat, mumbling your name and spewing out worthless compliments and praise. "I love you." You murmur with a coo, causing him to choke up and halt against you. 

"Want you so bad," he blubbers, "always have, feel so good inside. Never wanna let you go, please." His words are needy and soft yet harbour a high pitch to them that blasts straight down to your navel. Leon's cock buries itself deep within you, shooting ribbons of cum all over your insides and filling you up to the near brim. You mewl incoherently, thighs twitching against his abdomen. He lays against you, never cocooning you in his total weight, but rather weakly looming. Leon shows his tender, peaceful side to you in this manner.  His cock twitches inside of you as he pulls out, his cum leaking from you much to your disappointment. 

You both catch your breath, coated in sweat and bodily fluids. 

Leon pats sweat from his forehead before running his fingers through your hair, caressing his calloused thumbs against your cheekbones. His face is flushed a deep pink, bringing out his warm complexion and the loving gaze inside his greying blue eyes. He nudges his wet lips against your own one last final time, kissing you eagerly and hotly which leaves little to the imagination. As he pulls away, the tip of his tongue presses against your own, and he smiles gently:

"I think you burnt the pizza."

"Ugh."

[tumbleweeddesktop]

Wouldn't it be fun if X was Hades and Leon was Persephone?

Like the house of Hades is currently holding an assembly. X doesn't talk, he just uses telepathy and it just cranks up the fear by 100 at times.

So this ominous and terrifying underworld god is assessing his court on their monthly performance from his throne. Questioning with the full intent of interrogation if one of them slips up. The ongoing of the underworld is very important after all, a fact everyone present knew well.

Then, in the middle of a contractor nearly gets their life plucked out the second time, Leon just- walks into the room. Toga a mess and rubbing the sleep off his eyes, everyone chimes "My Queen" as a sign of respect and greeting.

Leon ignores it, yawns, walks over to X's throne and makes himself comfortable in X's lap before continuing to sleep.

And X just settles his hand on Leon to make sure he's comfortable before continuing the assembly.

Nobody mentions the extra figure lest they wanted to feel X's wrath.

[despaiiring]

𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗸 "𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘀" 𝗼𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗹

❝Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.❞

B A S I C S –

Name: Frederick Theodore Odell. Nicknames: Fingers (earned during his pinball legend years), Freddie. Birthday: September 3, 1972. Pronouns: He/him. Gender/Sex: Cisgender/male. Sexuality: Straight until proven bisexual. Occupation: Owner of Pinball Wizard.

P E R S O N A L I T Y —

+ Sincere, compassionate, honest. - Coarse, passive, sloppy. Gruff as fuck. Generally in a decent mood, though he prefers not to talk to anyone, lest they put him in a bad mood. Will happily defeat kids at Mortal Kombat without batting an eye, though he will slip them free games for their losses. He's been in a seven-year depression but at least in the last five he hasn't been so angry drunk about it all.

A R R I V A L — ( MARCH 2017 )

After his divorced was finalized, Fingers puttered around Bellevue, Nebraska for a few weeks before setting sights on Aurora Bay. He bought the building in February, revamped the entirety of Pinball Wizard over the course of March, then reopened to the public April 1st. He still had not unpacked his full set of kitchenwares by the time patrons were filing in the door.

E X T R A B I T S —

– Does not technically have a pet but he does carry a small bag of treats in his pocket in case a stray cat or dog wanders his way. He also shares his sandwich crusts with the birds when he eats in the park (he doesn't have any idea he shouldn't feed them bread but it's fine). – Will destroy you at pinball and most 90's video games but can NOT do fuck shit in a board game. Boggle? What the hell are you talking about? – Can't stand meatloaf but sometimes he'll make it just to feel close to his grandmother again. He brings small ones to neighboring businesses but he always chokes down a slice first. – Ugliest fucking clothes in town I can tell you that. Someone get this man on Queer Eye stat!

C O N N E C T I O N S —

Santiago De Leon: friend of five+ years. What started as Fingers coming into the Four Leaf to get blackout drunk and meander back home (or to the backroom of Pinball Wizard) has ended in a pleasant, geriatric friendship. After some gentle encouragement, Fingers found himself in AA, and, better yet, found himself a friend. Xavier Matthews: AA buddies. Brought together by their inability to keep their hands off The Stuff, the two don't have much else in common, but they make it work. The Gutter Sluts: a weekly bowling team. While Fingers might've never seen himself as a bowling guy, sobriety brought out the competitive ball guy in him. Now he goes every week to smack pins and eat nachos with "the boys". Members include Bora Winters, Benji Hyun, Will Meyers, and Gideon Green. Founded by Mysterious Red, who gave them both their team name and team color before disappearing into thin air.

B A C K G R O U N D —

Freddie Odell never met his parents. Not really, anyway. They were there, he knew, for the first year of his life, but who remembers any of that infant shit? Freddie's memories only start to kick in long after his parents died in a car accident; for him, life started with Peggy (Gamgam) and Buzz (Pawpaw) Odell: technically his paternal grandparents, but for Freddie, they were home. Nebraska life was both simple and boring. Freddie had a decent childhood, all things considered. He grew up playing t-ball and then real ball though he only made it one full season before the bruises and general distaste for the sport ended that particular outlet. Fall meant corn mazes and apple picking and rolling in the haybales for winter, and summer meant spending all day running around town unsupervised until the streetlamps came on — or until one of their moms yelled into the night for their return. Even at such a young age, they all knew the kids were safe - knew they'd come back at the ring of a bell. Freddie's favorite thing, though, was when his Gamgam would get her hair done. They'd walk into town together, or drive if her legs were feeling really tired, and on the way to the salon Gamgam would slip Freddie a fiver, give him a smile, and let him loose upon the local arcade. After an hour or so, her hair smelling like chemicals and her breath smelling like sharp peppermint, she'd pick him up again (his mild disappointment to be leaving always noticeable) and take him home. This tradition started what would eventually become Freddie's ultimate passion in life... Pinball.

When Gamgam's biweekly visits stopped satisfying his urge to play, Freddie started begging for more, and then eventually gave up on asking and just started riding his bike alone. He spent hours in that damn arcade, building his skill until he was replacing every high score spot with his own initials. All the way through high school he played, eventually finding himself in competitions and garnering a name for himself among the underground pinball crowd. Fingers, they called him. And boy, did it stick. Freddie — sorry, Fingers — didn't give up on pinball when he went to school, either. He didn't actually want to be a lawyer, didn't want to be anything honestly, but Pawpaw insisted that Fingers do something with his life that wasn't just play Pinball, go with Gamgam on walks, and read. So Fingers went to community college for two years, and then he went to University of Nebraska, and he did the damn lawyer thing. And sophomore year? It changed his life. In walks Ginny Birdman, and out flies his heart. They fell in love fast but took it slow. Relatively. Dating made it easier to study together, even though Ginny always managed to be better at everything, but dating also made it easier to get distracted. Regardless of the hearts clouding their vision, they both got really good at what they were doing and graduated at the top of their class. Somewhere between studying and graduating they also got married, which is neither here nor there. Look, they graduated, didn't they?! Ginny was the real breadwinner in her career path and Fingers was happy to support her. He focused on small time elder law work, using his soft, assertive demeanor and easy ability to bond with the ancient ones to both make money and feel satisfied with his life's work. Life was easy, and passed in a blur. No problems. Not a single one. Except Ginny couldn't get pregnant. No matter how hard they tried, no matter the position or the ovulation window or the phase of the moon, it just wasn't clicking. They both tried to pretend like it didn't hurt, but when you know someone, really know them, you see their pain. Together, they suffered in silence as a wedge slowly began driving itself between them.

In the end, Fingers claims he doesn't know what happened. Twenty-two years of marriage down the drain, all coming to a terrible stop when Ginny announced she didn't love him anymore. What could he do but watch the love of his life disappear? What could he do but let everything fall apart? Buy a bunch of pinball machines, it seems. After Gamgam and Pawpaw's passing years earlier, he'd gotten a sizeable amount of money from their wills which he'd happily tucked away in both savings and bonds. With a portion of this money he bought several of the games from his childhood arcade (after quitting his job, of course) and decided he was going to open his own safe haven for flipping and paddling. Not in Nebraska, though. Not where the ghosts of his marriage haunted every corner. Southern California seemed as good of a spot as any. In February of 2017, Fingers migrated west to the coastal town where he bought up an arcade that had been closed for years, renovated it, and reopened under the name Pinball Wizard, even though many of the games have been updated to keep with the times. Pinball Wizard, his first real baby, has been a running success for seven years, and will hopefully continue to be until Fingers is long gone and in the ground.

PENNED BY MIGZ. ( @aurorabayaesthetic )

[venomvalley]

FAIR PLAY

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: You’ve both made a bet, and neither of you are keen on losing. To even the playing field, you try something new—something that vibrates.

words: 3.5k

warnings: 18+ only (switch!leon, bindings, light choking)

notes: anon sent me an imagine that turned into a brainworm. and this is the result. i'm gonna go take a nap now jfc (added like 1k words from the first version)

You’re nervous. He’s smug as usual, wrists cradled in silk, tied to the bedpost. Shirt hiked up to his chest, pants unbuttoned.

A bet gone wrong, of sorts. That’s why you’re here—christ, not like you’re complaining. The view is wonderful, and anticipation leaves you fidgeting atop his thighs.

“Do your worst,” he says, little more than a thick rumble. He wants this, and he does little to hide his impatience. The clench of his jaw, the twist of his wrists.

“You don’t think this is my worst?” you ask, ghosting fingers over the divot of his hip, skirting close to the slick length of his cock. His abdomen twitches, and your lips stretch into a grin.

“I know you. Wouldn’t show your cards this early.”

“Think you can take a little more?”

“I’ll take whatever you give me.”

Fuck. You’re a sucker for his vulnerability, and that one sentence doles out enough to overdose you. The look in his eyes, severity in devotion. 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not playing fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war, right?”

Right. This is a battle of resilience, of wills. Much like sparring: assessing weaknesses, waiting for openings, a final blow.

Fucking and fighting don’t seem too different, after all.

“If that’s the case, you’ll be taking a lot more.”

His face falls when you climb off the bed, and the frame creaks as he jerks his arms in an attempt to free himself.

You level an unamused glare at his agitated form. “Don't be so dramatic. I’ll be back.”

“You’re evil. You know that?”

You sift around inside the bottom drawer of the dresser and lift out an indiscriminate cardboard box, then rise back up and turn to him, your eyes drained of jest. “Just say the word and we’ll stop.”

He’s stubborn, but he knows his boundaries. Knows yours. He promised you when this all started that he would never let you continue if he grew uncomfortable. And while these circumstances are rare, the type of play you engage in only when the mood strikes, he’s never crossed that line.

“No. No, I’m good.”

You join him on the bed again, take a seat on his thighs, and place the box on the sheets beside you. “In that case, I have a surprise.”

He blanches when you present to him a bullet vibrator, smooth and baby blue. A personal favorite of yours. “That’s not—“

“What? Fair?”

He stews in his frustration, furrows his brow and clenches his fists into the silk bindings. You press a soft kiss just below his sternum, soothe a comforting hand up and down his side, give a teasing lick to the head of his cock. 

“Damn you,” he huffs, a ruddy blush set high on his cheeks, eyes lidded and glossy.

He isn’t angry. Most likely an effort on his part to keep up bratty, combative appearances, lest he give in and break the bet altogether.

Regardless, your lips stretch into a boasting grin, and you lick a heavy, lingering trail from base to tip. He sighs out all jilted and stuttery, jaw relaxing, brows angled in upturn. Once again jerks the headboard forward.

“You’re gonna break that thing, so unless your idea of sexy is waiting twelve hours in the emergency room, I suggest you stop.”

“Just get on with it already,” he says, voice bordering on a growl that coils pleasured heat at the base of your spine.

“We’re making a bet, remember? Unless you’ve already lost.”

His head thumps back against the pillow, and you already miss the sight of his face. Can’t deny that you’re frustrated as well—how easy it would be to just raise up and sink down on his cock, all pretty and thick and slicked-up, just for you.

But the first one to give in loses, and you aren’t a quitter.

Unfortunately, neither is he.

He’s weighty against your tongue, tastes like the body wash from his earlier shower and the salt of precum, something beneath it all that leaves your mouth watering.

You bob your head up and down his length, and he spreads his legs as far as your knees allow, and the headboard bangs against the wall.

He pants above you, grunts out a chest-deep moan, and you gaze at his destruction with a mouthful of wet cock, swallowed down to the base, stuffed inside the tight sheath of your throat.

Just before he breaks, before you begin to gag, you pull away with a gasp of air. Spread the spit with a fisted hand.

He looks as fucked out as you feel, staring down at you with stain-glass eyes, a church window blue, and you’ve never really believed in the heavenly divine until you met him. A craving to worship.

The vibrator buzzes to life in hand, almost numbs the skin of your fingers with its intensity, and he stares down at the thing as if it gnashes sharp teeth.

“You wanna stop, you say the word.” He nods in response, throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

At the first touch against his skin, he jolts. Twists his face into a mark of pleasure-pain, bares the edges of clenched teeth. You ghost tight circles over his frenulum, the spit from earlier providing an easy glide.

He sounds pitiful beneath you, an offbeat rhythm of staccato whimpers that he muffles with a raised arm. His hips refuse to still, unsure whether to tilt forward or dig further into the mattress.

You steady your hand, press the toy more firmly against his cock, and he chokes out a pleasured sob—a noise so much prettier when he doesn’t seek to hide from you.

A hand curls around the front of his neck. A thumb soothes the line of his jaw. “Let me hear you. Please?”

He turns to face you, appearing almost agonized. The sharp sucks of breath through grit teeth, the high-pitched whines on each exhale. The dotting of sweat on his nose, the wetting of his hairline.

You twist the knob, and the vibration increases. His chest seizes for a moment, head tilting back to expose the thick line of his neck, a halo of golden hair upon the pillow. Your hand rises higher, fits nicely beneath his jaw, fingers resting upon his pulse—it hammers away beneath your touch, calls to you in rhythm. 

“If I could, I’d keep you like this forever.” A soft kiss to the side of his neck. “So pretty, aren’t you?”

You’re going mad, you think. You blame it on blood drain, a lack of proper oxygen to your brain. He trusts you to care for him like this, to provide what he needs, to know his limits. You. You. When have you ever felt more important? More powerful?

You tease a squeeze, barely a twitch of the fingers, but he reacts in kind. Bares his neck even further, chants out, “Fuck, yes, yes, please—“ and you’ve never been strong enough to deny him.

Your fingers tighten, and the vibration increases again. Only a few moments before his body gives you warning—he holds his breath, his muscles tense, his cock begins to jerk—

You pull away, the hand at his neck and the hand clutching the vibrator, until the heaving of his chest calms and his body slumps. Disappointed.

“This’s what you’re playing at?” he asks, tongue amidst the onset of word slurring.

You move to hover over him, hands braced on either side of his head. “Part of the bet. Remember?”

“No, actually.” He blinks up at you all bleary-eyed and slow, mesmerized, as if witnessing daylight stars for the first time. “I’m sure it was stupid as hell, though.”

“How about we make a deal? A truce.”

“A truce?”

“Admit we both won, and we can get to the point.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“You get to cum.”

He blinks. Considers a moment. Raises his brows. “Shit. Can’t argue with that.”

You steady yourself with a hand on his chest as you reach back to line him up. 

“Wait,” he says, voice croaking, and you stop. “Flashlight. Untie me.”

The knot you used is easy to unravel. Just a quick tug and he’s free. Rings of red encase each wrist, a sign of irritation, and you huff at him. Soothe a thumb over the skin. “What did I tell you—“

You’re shoved face-first into the bedsheets, and a heavy weight pins down your hips. A large hand presses steadfast between your shoulder blades.

You turn your face to catch a breath, and his lips meet your cheek. Soft and tender and loving, and you know he’s not angry with you, at all the teasing he (willingly) suffered at your hands.

“Hold still for me,” he says. A thick heat shifts between your legs, and the hand pushes harder on your back. “You did good. Think you deserve a reward.”

He slides into you, all tight and slick and you thank every god above that you prepared beforehand because he’s determined to cash in on that orgasm.

Each thrust jolts your body. A slow, deep cadence that leaves your ass smacking against his hips and a numbing pleasure curling like smoke from the pit of your stomach.

He whispers things unintelligible, spoken at the end of winded huffs. You like to think he whispers of you. His love. He’s never been vocal through the lens of verbage. Never could take dirty talk seriously. Maybe now, you witness him in his purest form, at his most vulnerable. Pinned down as you are, you certainly feel that way.

The rhythm of his hips stops, and you fist a hand in the sheets as he bottoms out, deep as your body will allow, curls protective over you, almost shielding in the way his arms bracket your shoulders.

“Jesus—fuck, Leon.” You grip hard at his wrist, attempt a tilt of your hips, but he has you right where he wants you. Filled up, restless, whining. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

He’s not angry, no, but he’s always had a penchant for revenge.

You just want him to move. Too much, too good, too hot. You sweat into the sheets, and he’s a space heater on the coldest days, and your heart threatens to break through the cage of your ribs.

“This isn’t about punishment,” he says, nosing along your jaw. “Here.”

He leans back, allowing you to brace your knees under your body, then smooths a hand down your spine. Spreads the cheeks of your ass, traces a thumb around the meeting of your bodies, the thick of his cock.

“You take me so well. Don’t you?”

You garble out an agreeing moan when he begins again with languid thrusts, a squelching savor of tightened silk, much like the discarded bindings on the pillow beside your head.

“You’re gonna kill me,” you say, pawing at the spread of his fingers, fitting your palm over the back of his hand.

“You can take it.”

He is. He’s going to kill you. You need more, something else, harder, fuck me, please—

He pins you down again, a large hand at your neck, pulls out until the tip remains inside you, pushes back in, hard enough that you jolt forward. Does it again and again and again.

“This more to your liking?” he asks, almost mocking, then follows the question up with a biting groan.

Yes. Yes yes it is. You think you’re drooling onto the pillow at this point. His hips angle perfectly, length brushing against the nerves that melt away at your insides. A burning, desperate intensity.

He notices the way your muscles tense, the way your breathing shallows, the way your thighs twitch. You’re close, and you pray he doesn’t stop.

You lower a hand between your legs, stroke fast over sensitive flesh, and he lets you. Hisses through his teeth when you tighten around him, gives a warning gasp before his cock jerks inside you, and he pulls out to spill onto your back. You’re left unbearably empty, sticky and warm at the base of your spine, muscles wrung free of tension.

Everything blurs. Your ears ring with static. He joins you, splaying out on his back, and he fares no better—breathless, laved in sweat that glistens beneath warm light, face ruddy at the cheeks. Beautiful. He looks beautiful. Beautiful and exhausted.

“That was. Good,” he says. Clears the gravel from his throat, an ego-boosting effect of all the lovely noises you pulled from him.

Your heart pounds, wracked by butterflies. The post-sex clarity has kicked in, and you always love him even more, every time your brain starts working again. All you wish to do is hold him. Remind him of what your love feels like, bathe him in under-appreciated intimacies.

“Just good?”

He breathes out all shaky, an attempt to reaffirm the rhythm inside his chest. “I can barely move right now. Cut me some slack.”

You rest a hand on his shoulder, ghost fingers over the echoed warmth of his skin. “Was that okay?”

“Very. Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

“Maybe you could tone down the brattiness next time.”

“Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“That is a fair point, Leon.” You smile soft at him, brush your knuckles over a feverish cheek, a depiction of devotion. All you can give for now. “Do you need anything?”

He shakes his head. Takes your hand. Presses a tender kiss to your palm. “We should shower later. Not now, though.”

You know him. He wants to be held. Always does when reduced to skin-shed vulnerability. He won’t say it, has rarely admitted it, but he looks at you with starry eyes and seeks out the pulse of your wrist, and you never have to wonder with him.

“Give me your shirt,” you say, point to the drying mess on your back, and his expression morphs to blankness. “Don’t look at me like that. It was your idea.”

With a resigned sigh, he takes it off, and you aim a pointed glare his way as he wipes the fabric over the small of your back.

“What a gentleman.”

“Have I ever been anything less?”

Once the shirt is tossed aside, you pull him into a cradling hug. Tuck his head beneath your chin and trace a languid pattern over a muscled shoulder. “That’s debatable.”

Silence blankets the room as you return to a less winded state. He presses further against your chest, fits his ear over the gentle thump of your heartbeat. “You lost the bet, by the way.”

“See what I mean?”

His breath fans over your skin as he laughs, teeth teasing a bite against your clavicle. “I deserve that. Just as long as you give me my reward.”

“I’m letting this slide only because I’m too tired. So just… wait ‘til I can go to the store tomorrow.”

“No problem. I have the patience of a saint. Not like you’d understand.”

“Okay, you’re pushing it.”

“As I most often do.”

In the shower, both of you sit curled up on the hard tile, slumped beneath a spray of warm water. He complains when you reach for the shampoo bottle, when you rise onto your knees and tilt back his head. Of course he does. Wouldn’t know a thing about deservation if you hammered it into his skull.

“You’re gonna hurt your knees,” he says, looks up at you as your fingers lather the shampoo through his hair.

“I don’t care.” The ceiling light sparks a gleam in his eyes. Bonfire, galaxy, fractals. Soft as tears. You ghost a kiss between his brows. “If I did, I wouldn’t have offered.”

He falls silent. Closes his eyes. Steam fogs up the small space, smudges your vision as you massage fingertips against the base of his skull.

“That feels nice,” he says, swallows thick when you switch to light scratches over his scalp.

“Good. It’s supposed to.”

Hands circle around each of your thighs, thumb swiping over dewdrop flesh. He’s nervous, wary. “You don’t have to—“

“Leon. Will you just let me care about you? Please?”

“I am. Doesn't mean I’m happy about it.”

You pull away to fetch a cup from the shelf then hold it beneath the shower spray. Watch as it fills then overflows. “Well, that’s too bad. Does make me sad, though.”

His struggles have never been explicit topics of conversation, but they linger around him like ghosts. Demons, morelike. He discusses them in coded messages, a recitation of redacted files marred by black sharpie. What you’ve pieced together so far can be reduced to survivor’s guilt and earth-shattering trauma.

Raccoon City. Had no business leaving there alive. A stroke of unluck. Forced to exist with those consequences, to carry along such senseless deaths in ceaseless eulogy.

But you’re happy he did, couldn’t imagine a life without his presence, and that’s… that’s hard for him to accept.

“You wanna watch a movie after this?” you ask, slicking back his freshly-rinsed hair. “I got a bunch from that video store while you were gone.”

He wipes a hand down his face, shakes off the excess water. Collapses back against the wall with a soft thud, appearing boneless, malleable from your affections. “Willy’s place?”

“Who else’s?”

His gaze darkens, brows knit together in remembrance, and you lean a shoulder against the water-dappled wall. Curl your legs beneath you. “He hasn’t said anything else to you, has he?”

“No. Actually, he’s been on his best behavior. Even gave me a free movie.”

“Good.”

“By the way, what’d you even say to him?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You saying that makes me even more worried.”

He pulls you close, throws both legs across his—again, comfort in skinship. A greedy undertone to the action, (mine), that rends your insides to putty. “I took care of it.”

“I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware. In fact, you never fail to remind me.” You snort out a laugh, and he smiles at you all beautiful and worshiping, a stretch of inviting lips.

“Because you need to be reminded.”

You can’t be too angry with him. He needs the peace of mind. At least he knows, wholly, absolutely, that your safety is ensured.

He often makes mountains out of molehills, though. Such as the situation with one Willy from Willy’s Wiles. An angry Leon does one inappropriate comment make.

The man was an asshole, though. 

You scrub yourselves with a sweet-smelling body wash, from the (dis)comfort of the hard tile flooring. Sleepiness morphs into exhaustion some time between the first and second leg. Yawns become frequent and unavoidable. As you rinse off, the water raining from the shower head begins to cool.

Still, neither of you plan to move, and your stomach twists in disapproval.

You sigh at him, into the curve of his shoulder. “I hate to say it, but we gotta get up. There are things to be done.”

He’s nodded off four different times, yet he audaciously cuts you with a glare. “Says who?”

“Our water bill, my ass on this tile,” you stumble up to your feet, balancing a hand against the wall for support. “I’m also really hungry.”

“Food does sound pretty good.”

You push the knob in, and the shower turns off. “You thinking take-out?”

“Absolutely. You couldn’t pay me to cook right now.”

“Damn. The sex was that good, huh?”

“If you have to ask, then—“

“No. Don’t start.”

As he rises, his lips stretch wide into a grin. Droplets dot his chest, a glisten to his skin that you spread with tender palms. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, amusement thick in his tone, brows dipped low as he searches your face.

“Drying you off.” A blatant lie. You simply wish to touch him, to soak up his warmth—a reminder that he’s still here, still okay, still alive. “A little counterproductive, now that I’m thinking about it.”

You step away from him with a sigh, no matter how badly your chest aches. Something about him makes you short-circuit, makes you do silly things. You can’t help it, knowing what you know.

Mallets and hammers prove ineffective on his psyche. He’s stubborn, needs a gentler approach. Kind words, affirmations, intimacy—above all, he requires safety. Security. A four-walled sanctuary where he’s free to flay open his chest and bare his heart a while. 

And you like to think you’ve made some progress.

[kittycatkennedy]

BOTH SIDES OF THE MOON

SYNOPSIS: following an encounter with his Leon's ex in China, you're left feeling insecure. he's determined to make sure you know how much he loves you. (3.3k words)

PAIRING: re6 Leon Kennedy x fem!reader

CONTENT/WARNINGS: smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, handjob, 1 (one) instance of finger-sucking, p in v, reader is insecure and has like no communication skills + Leon is v reassuring, reader is part of the BSAA but it's not super important, some fluff if u squint? kinda??, halfheartedly proofread please forgive any errors

A/N: hi okay I've literally not written smut in. two-ish years. so please go easy on me 🫥 the title is from 'both sides of the moon' by Celeste, which isn't linked to the fic at all I just like the song. oh also this is inspired by uhlunaro because they have a fic with a similar premise :3

You know the look in Leon’s eyes. The glimmer of protectiveness that shines within icy blue, a look usually directed towards you – familiar in the sense that you know he’d bleed for you, kill for you, die for you without a second thought. Would throw himself in front of a bullet if it meant keeping you safe, because he knows you’d be right there behind him to stop the bleeding. Or pluck the stars from the sky, one by one, and string them together to make you a shining bracelet. Anything you ask, always, no matter what you want.

You stand opposing him on Chris’s right flank, gun leveled at the woman he blocks with his body. A ribbed blue dress with a low-cut neck. A red scarf. Boots of black leather. A legend, of sorts, one that he’d only relayed through whispers of his past late at night. Only when he’s most vulnerable, with naked skin bathed in blue moonlight and safe tangled in the sheets, he speaks of her.

Leon looks at Chris, then he looks at you, his lips move but he says nothing, stumbling over his words because there's nothing to say. Nothing to explain, because you already understand.

Chris’s voice rings out muffled in your ear. You can't really make out what he's saying. Only the steady thrumming of your own heartbeat growing louder and louder in your ears.

~

“Hey,” Leon says from your right.

Dressed in only his boxers, he walks up to his side of the bed, and there's a soft squeak of the springs and a dip in the mattress as he sits down beside you.

He's beautiful in the moonlight. He's beautiful and you're so weak that you make yourself turn away, lest you break down crying because, a week later, it still feels sore like a spread of blue and black beneath marred skin.

He leans over further, casting you in his shadow, and places a broad, calloused palm on the plane between your shoulder blades.

“Hey,” he says again, and now, his voice has lowered to a murmur. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, or are we playing twenty questions tonight?”

When no response comes, his hand travels from your back over the curve of your shoulder. Fingers dance across your collarbone and dive lower to splay out over your sternum, and he rolls you over to lay on your back with a soft rustle of the sheets.

His brows are pinched in concern and the hand between your breasts keeps you flat to the bed to make you look at him. He’s not pressing on you that hard, so loosely you could push him off of you without batting an eye, but you’re still rendered breathless because he’s looking at you like that, like he cares. And he does. More than cares, really.

Love. He loves you. It warms his skin golden beneath your touch. Reflects in his eyes when he looks at you with pupils blown.

“I'm worried,” he tells you after a moment, fingers tracing the slope of your jaw and tilting your head up so he can see your face in the light. “Can you please tell me what's bothering you? I don't like seeing you like this. And don't say nothing. I know it's something if it's got you this upset.”

There's a dip in your cheek where you bite down on the soft flesh inside. It's strange, the way you feel. To be honest would be to admit your insecurity. How very… juvenile, to question his unwavering loyalty over a singular encounter with a memory from his past. You needn’t burden him with your qualms about your relationship, not when he's got so much else on his plate already.

He's loyal through and through, down to the very marrow in his bones. You've never doubted that.

“It's nothing you did,” is the answer you settle on.

But it's not enough to smooth his ruffled feathers. No surprise. Whatever your problems may be, they’re his problems, too.

“Well, what is it, then?” he asks, easing the pressure from your chest and opting to cradling your face in both hands.

His tone has taken on this sort of unusual beggy quality. It's unfair to him for you to stew in your self-loathing, the insecurity and jealousy, and leave him to wonder what's wrong. You can’t let him think he's done something to hurt you. Because it's not him, no, it's you.

So you opt to reach for his hands, thumbs pressing against the pulse points on the inside of his wrists.

“I don't want to lose you,” you state plainly, and that’s what it takes for the pieces to click together in his head.

There's a long pause between you, filled only by your soft breathing and the rustle of sheets beneath you as he makes himself comfortable next to you.

“You never have to worry about that,” he responds. “I don't want you to worry about that. You're all I got.”

“That can't be true.”

“It is. You're the only one I want to come home to.” He trails off, lips pursed in thought. As if mulling over the right thing to say to cease your worries. “I can’t see myself with anyone else. You must know that, right?”

He's dead serious. Burning in reverence. Yes. You are everything.

You huff a soft laugh, a mere exhale between parted lips. It must sound a little forced. Regardless, you take his hand, your palm a perfect fit against his.

“Don't laugh at me. You're the only one for me.” He tilts his head forwards to kiss you, a sweet press of his lips against yours before he draws back.

He tucks you into a the crook of his elbow, your head resting on his bicep. As if to keep you shielded away from the world. Selfish in the sense that he never wants to share you, like you never want to share him. You’ll never have to, your rational brain says. Maybe not, though, says your irrational half. Maybe you’re wrong.

But he’s not going to let you think yourself into an early grave. He kisses you once, and you kiss back, and your reciprocation is all it takes for his kisses turn heated. Open-mouthed, warm, desperate to claim and to love and to worship, and he pushes himself up so his half-nude form is hovering above yours. Adoration is thick in his gaze, as if drunk off your taste and skin and warmth, and he looks down into your eyes.

“Listen to me,” he says, tone reverting to serious once again. “She's nothing to me. You are…”

Leon trails off, sitting back onto his knees so he can take you in. His hands slide down the curves of your sides, over valleys and plateaus, then curve around to the backs of your thighs to tug you closer.

“… everything. Tell me you understand me.”

“I understand,” you reply.

His breathing is shallow, gaze warm, and he licks his lips. “I'm being serious.”

“I know.”

“Okay. Don't you dare forget it. I'll have to remind you if you do.”

He kisses you again then, all greedy – greedy touch scorching hot against your skin, burning and rough, and greedy lips on your neck, and greedy in the way his knee pushes your thighs apart to make space for himself between them like he so often does.

“I love you,” he says again, a vibration against your neck, little more than a contented rumble from the depths of his chest.

And you love him too. More than he’ll know. More than he can comprehend. You can only hope he’s got an idea, even if just of a sliver of your affections.

You wait with bated breath as he reaches downwards once more, fingers hooking into the waistband of your bottoms and tugging them past the swell of your hips. Then down your thighs and past your knees till they're crumpled into a heap of fabric gathered at your ankles.

You’re left in just your shirt and underwear, but he pauses before letting them follow your bottoms. Like he senses that, despite his reassurance, insecurity courses rampant through your blood. A dark tar that grows and churns till you’re overflowing with it, till it feels like it might come up past your lips. Maybe it’ll make you burst at the seams and stain your crisp sheets black.

Leon’s thumbs trace the soft hem of your underwear and he shifts to settle himself all the way over you. Observing in the way he tilts his head and stares at you with unwavering intensity.

“You’re thinking pretty loudly,” he states, breath warm against your bare skin.

You sigh and drop your head back to the pillow. “Am I?”

He offers a nod before laying his hand across over your collarbone, skirting up to fit your jaw and tilt your head back down to meet his gaze. “Is there a way I can make you feel better?”

You murmur something noncommittal, turning your head to the side once again. You don’t think you deserve him, no, he’s so sweet and treats you so well and is trying to reassure you’re the only one and you’re too busy mulling in your own insecurity to reciprocate.

“I’m sorry,” you say meekly.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. If anything, I’m sorry.”

He kisses your lips, down your chest, pushing the hem of your shirt up above your breasts before stopping to circle a nipple with his tongue. Your skin glistens with his saliva where he’s kissed and licked and laved his tongue over sensitive flesh, a shining blue in the dark. Lower, lower, lower, lower yet, until he’s situated on his front between your legs, pulling you down by the ankles and pulling them over his shoulders.

Fingers dimple the softness of your inner thigh where he holds you still, keeping you in place against the mattress as he gazes up at you. Reverence. Adoration. He lays a kiss to your clit through the thin layer of fabric that separates you, an unexpected fleeting sensation that leaves your hips jerking towards his parted lips and gooseflesh to rise on your naked arms.

His efficiency is one of the qualities you love most about him, especially now – in a fluid motion he hooks a finger beneath the already-damp seat of your underwear and pulls them to the side, his mouth immediately enveloping your sticky cunt.

You’re only able to manage a feeble half-whimper half-gasp of his name, your fingers finding their home in his locks and tugging him closer. He pins you down with one hand on your hip, thumb stroking the smooth skin beneath the elastic band. His tongue runs between your folds before his lips find your clit again to suck and tease diligently.

Propped up on your elbows, you watch the mess of blonde hair buried between your legs, Christ, how lucky are you? To have him so willing to please, the lengths he’d go to to see you happy, to make you feel better without you even needing to ask? Must’ve done something great in a past life to have him all to yourself in this one.

A breathy moan escapes your lips and he withdraws his mouth in favor of looking at you, the shine of your parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of your chest as he slides two slicked-up, shining fingers into your needy cunt. Pleasure borderlines on too much, too good, the way he treats you with such tenderness is just what you wanted, and his talented mouth returns to your clit to run his tongue over it again and again and again.

When your legs kick into the air and your grip tightens marginally in his hair, he groans soft against your skin. You taste so good. So wet for me. Can’t fucking wait to be inside you.

He draws back for only a moment to yank your panties down your legs, tossing them towards the hamper. He pushes your legs further apart, till an ache climbs up your inner thighs from the stretch, then says, “That’s a good girl. Keep ‘em apart nice and wide for me, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay, anything,” you reply breathlessly.

As if you’d disobey him. Never. Not when he’s got you fucking spread-eagle and he’s devouring you, lapping you up like his life depends on it, and his fingers are buried so deep inside of you all the way down to the last knuckle, because pleasuring you brings him pleasure.

The lewd sound of you squelching between the legs as his fingers slide in and out of you reaches you, barely audible over your heart thrumming loud and fast in your ears. They curl deep inside, prodding against that sweet spot that has your back arching off the bed, nails digging into and bunching up the sheets.

And there’s that familiar coil in your belly, his dextrous fingers and talented mouth working to wind it tighter and tighter and tighter, and, with just one more curl of his tongue, you gasp and twitch and he works you through your orgasm. Never mind what he wants, it’s always you.

Once you’ve sufficiently slowed your harsh breathing, gasps coming slower and quieter, he lifts his slick-covered fingers to your mouth, and of course you don’t need him to explain. You take his index and middle past your lips, a soft, muffled whine slipping out at the taste of yourself, and he watches with hazy eyes as if in a trance.

You fall back, watching him get up on his knees to strip and moves closer to you. He pushes his boxers down to his knees, his cock springing free to tap against his stomach and he gives himself a languid few strokes. A pearl of precum wells at the slit and a curled palm spreads it down his length and he grunts low under his breath and fuck, you’ve never seen a sight so beautiful in your entire life. His bare body is lit by the gauzy light filtering in through the window, contours cast in shadow, all taut muscle and smooth skin.

Again, with breath stolen from your lungs, you reach to trade his hand for your own. A hitch in his breath. Quite possibly your favorite sound in the world, to hear him react like this, just for something as simple as your hand wrapped loosely around his throbbing cock.

There’s no doubt in your mind that Leon loves you. The way he stares down at you now, face half-obscured by darkness, with love so great it permeates the air thick like humidity and lingering like petrichor, you could never think otherwise. Think you must fall a little bit more in love with the groans he lets out, each one a salve, a balm, on the aching burn of insecurity formerly tainting your mood.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, soft and in between breaths. “So beautiful.”

“I think that’s you.”

“Have you seen yourself?” he asks, incredulous. His gaze moves between your face and the clutch of your hand pumping his slicked-up cock. “Never met anyone prettier than you. Nobody, not once.”

He takes you by the wrist and pulls your hand off of him – wouldn’t want to cum before he got a chance to fuck you properly – and, once again, presses you flat against the bed with a hand to your sternum.

“Like I said earlier,” He pulls your legs apart again, keeping them wide and bent at the knees. “Keep ‘em open for me, would you, sweetheart?”

With one hand, he takes his cock and runs the throbbing tip between your folds until it’s coated and shiny with your slick. A tap, then two, against your clit have your words dying in your throat but the way you squirm and try and pull him closer speaks enough, and he chuckles under his breath before he presses himself flush against your entrance.

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod feebly, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

Leon groans when he slides in – the perfect fit, always, just as you remember, and the sound goes straight to your core. Makes your head all fuzzy and cottony, cloud nine, maybe, and all that tethers you down is his fingers interlacing with yours above your head and his nose pressed hard into the crook of your neck.

A string of curses are murmured into your neck as he bottoms out, leaving a trail of kisses on your hot skin in between as he starts to move. The slip of his cock is all that’s necessary for your head to roll back to further bare your neck to him, and of course he takes the hint, kissing and sucking and biting. Praise is murmured into your ear as he slides halfway out then pushes back in, knocking into your cervix and drawing a gasp deep from your chest.

Your wanton moans are swallowed by his lips, tight against yours, tongue prodding for entry into your mouth until you have to break apart for air. “That’s my girl. Feeling good?”

Words stick in your throat like taffy, feels so good, so full, that they’re unable to escape. But your chin dips to your collarbone in another sort of nod, and that’s all he needed to hear.

His skin shines with sweat and he sits up to pull one of your legs up over his shoulder, heel digging hard into his muscle as you try to accommodate the new angle and the stretch. He’s going slow and gentle, and it feels really good, and he just knows. He knows this is what you needed, sure, his reassuring words were nice. But being this physically close together is it – it’s comforting and sweet and perfect.

He grinds his hips against yours, a sticky, slow drag that’s got you too hot beneath his unwavering gaze. Once more his thumb finds your clit, circling over it and smiling pleasedly at the quivering of your breath. You’re right there, he can tell, not like you’re much trying to hide it.

“I’m– Leon, I’m–”

“I know,” he murmurs, “C’mon, cum for me. Yeah, attagirl.”

He’s kissing you when you do, and the clench of your cunt and the vibration of your moan against his lips nearly makes him follow suit. And he holds you, your chest against his, and fucks you through it till you go slack in his arms. All pliant and sated.

But he’s nothing if not determined, and he’s determined to draw this out a little longer. Squeeze the last bits of pleasure out. There’s a shallowness to his thrusts, his hair is damp with sweat where it falls over his face, and the overstimulation has you gripping his hand so tightly that his fingertips begin to take on a purple-red hue. And he’s right there with you, clutching your hand just as tight as you hold his as his orgasm washes over him.

His cock jerks when he pulls out, his fist squeezing it tightly and stroking himself as he spills all over your belly. And then, as if his knees have given out, he falls over in bed next to you, gasping for air like a man drowned. Slowly, his iron grip on your hand relaxes and you draw it to your chest, shaking out the prickling pins and needles forced into your fingers.

Only when he’s caught his breath, which is minutes later, he turns his head to look at you. “You alright?”

You know what he’s really asking, of course. Double meanings. Are you still hurting over what happened in China? It takes you a second to think about, because for all the resentment you hold, the past is the past. Who’s in the past stays in the past. And the present is the present, and in the present, he’s here, with you, in your bed, staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him.

“Yeah,” you say, “Are you?”

He pushes himself to sit up, shifting closer to press his knuckles to your cheek. “As long as you are.”

[mermaidsbiann]

Rune Factory Unleash the gays week day 4: Free Day!

Here’s some meme doodles

@rfweeks

[heaven-asunder]

If it's not too much to ask and you're up for it could I ask for some Leon x Lest where Lest feels jealous for Maria? Sorry to be a bother

you’re no bother! thank you for your prompt! sorry its so late

Rune Factory Ficlet

Leon/Lest: Established Relationship

SFW

Lest tried his hardest to not let jealousy get the best of him. He knew he would never know Leon the way Maria had, and voicing such concerns would only hurt Leon. Finding her book had put Leon’s soul to peace, and that’s what mattered, but still, it nagged him from time to time. 

They laid together outside of Selphia’s walls, the sun brushing softly their cheeks, and the autumn leaves falling gently around them. Lest knew he shouldn’t worry. Leon had chosen him over his regrets, his pain, and they had come out stronger than before. Lest shifted on Leon’s chest, and Leon brought a hand to his hair.

“Okay, what is it?” Leon asked. Lest stiffened.

“What do you mean?” he replied.

“You’ve been moody and melancholy for the past few days. Out with it,” Leon said. Lest sighed.

“I just wonder sometimes if you measure me up to Maria. If I fall short,” he said in a rush. Leon was quiet for a moment.

“Maria was a sister to me. I loved her, but it was a different kind of love,” he said. “Why would I compare the two of you?”

“I don’t know. You two just had so many memories together...”

“And you and I are making memories now,” Leon said, firmly. He turned Lest to face him, and Lest once again found himself getting lost in Leon’s deep eyes.

“I love you, Lest. That’s all there is to it,” he concluded. Lest nodded, and Leon pulled him close, pressing a sweet kiss onto his forehead.

“Now, enough of that. Let’s talk of something else. I always enjoy when you sing my praises, let’s do that,” Leon said, laying back. Lest stifled a laugh.

“Oh mighty Leon! Please continue to grace me with your astronomical ego!” Lest said, theatrically. Leon cringed.

“Okay, maybe not like that,” he muttered. Lest laughed, and Leon smiled up at him. Lest felt a bit of that jealousy melt away. Leon was right. They had plenty of memories to make, and he was going to enjoy everyone of them.

[robin-jay-404]

I always see your vishnal tags on my page! quick question but who do u ship vishnal with ?

Mostly Frey or Lest, but if I had to pick a non-player character, than Vishnal X Leon is pretty 👀

But I also feel like Vishnal X Clorica would be cute, for the sake they work the same job and get along really well (and try to tell me Volkanon wouldn’t try playing matchmaker if he had an inkling of an idea they liked each other, man literally always setting up these weird town events)