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unhealthy-leon-brainrot · 2 years ago

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No more hiding in the tags because this shit deserves a proper comment/review.

I really shouldn’t have opened tumblr in the middle of my finals project. I can’t stop thinking about this fic now and how it’s finally over. Oh god– I AM SPIRALLING 😭😭😭

Ro. Bestie. You are fucking AMAZING. I don’t know how you do it but your way with words is crazy astounding. The angst in the beginning. (#ThatShitHURTED) The hurt/comfort. The lightheartedness. The softest and most sensual smut ever. THE CALLBACKS TO THE PUNS/JOKES????? The way you ended this series is absolute perfection. NO ONE’S DOING IT LIKE YOU.

THE REVEAL OF LEON’S FEELINGS AND THOUGHTS ABOUT THE RELATIONSHIP KILLED ME. 😭😭😭

“You’ve always just been Leon.”

“But am I worth it to you?”

“Always.”

Tears. Fucking TEARS EVERYWHERE. OF COURSE HE’S WORTH IT. 😭😭😭 I would literally lay down my own life for you, Leon. How are you not aware of this already??? 💀

Anyway, THE KISS. I COULD PICTURE IT SO CLEARLY IT HURTS. Why am I not kissing him rn??? 💔💔💔 I DESERVE IT.

And my GODDDD. The fucking SMUT. From the way he was nervous to how he really wants to be close to you??? AND BITING YOUR SHOULDER??????? Ro really expects me to read this last chapter with my sanity still intact… 💀 There is NO SHOT that I am still sane after finishing this series. (10/10. 5 stars. 100% recommended. Would do it again.)

I will reread this entire series again after this hell week is over. For now, these are my thoughts and I’m forever grateful for Ro for gifting the Leon Kennedy nation this masterpiece. 🙏🙏🙏

𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡; (𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥)

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: "If you could do all of this over again, you would dare to love him even more."

words: 3.4k

warnings: 18+ only

notes: here's the final part it has arrived!!! i was mad hatter bonkers when i wrote this. at my peak. tbh i'll probably do more with this series but as of now, she is complete!!

» part one // part two // part three

You’ve become friends with your kitchen floor over the last three weeks.

Leon calls when he can. He updates you on his trip, any injuries to expect when he comes back, asks if you’ve eaten or slept or spent time away from the house.

He understands your worry, and tries his best to soothe it away. The last time he slept over, he left you a shirt that smelled of him. He calls at designated times throughout the week, and informs you beforehand if he’ll be busy.

It’s sweet, and it’s thoughtful, but still. You worry. Loving someone who stays gone three weeks out of the month, who comes back to you battered more often than not, who you miss so deeply that your chest threatens to cave—you never believed you could cope.

You also never believed that he would love you back.

“When will you be home?” you ask, mid-sulk on the kitchen floor.

His voice echoes tinny through the speaker, concealed by static.

“As soon as I can.”

Your head tips back against the side of the counter with a heavy thud. “You said that last week.” At this point, you’ve worn yourself down to cold resignation, and it shows itself in the flatness of your voice.

“I know, but listen. I’ll make it up to you.”

“And how do you plan on doing that if you never come home?”

A tired sigh filters through all the crackling. “I’ll be home soon. I swear.”

You know that you’re acting foolish. That this is what you signed up for when you decided to be with him. But still. You miss him, and you’re worried and sad and he’s never been away this long. Who wouldn’t sulk in a situation like this?

“You’re quiet. Talk to me.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how unfair I’m being. This is your job. You can’t help it.”

“You’re not being anything. And if you are, then so am I.”

“But don’t you get tired of it? I’m worse than a fucking helicopter parent.”

He laughs, and the sound starts to ease you from your sour mood. You just need to hear it in person again. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of talking to you.”

“That is a horrible line.”

“But is it working?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

“Just making sure I haven’t lost my touch.”

He excuses himself shortly after, cites a change of plans, then tells you he won’t be available for a few days.

You take the opportunity to stress clean, to visit with friends, to fall back into some kind of routine because if you don’t then you will go insane from the overflow of anxiety.

But he comes back to you. He always does. Always tender-hearted, a little more broken, but he comes back.

On a Monday morning, no less. Half an hour before you start readying for work, still asleep on the couch. You recognize the sound of the lock turning, then of his footsteps.

He tries to stay quiet. Let you rest. But the sun already threatens to rise, and your brain-matter alarm jolts you awake anyway.

“Good morning,” you say, voice thick, skin still warm from sleep.

You lift your head from the pillow to see over the armrest, and find him removing his coat, turned toward you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. I tried not to wake you up.”

“I have to get ready soon anyway.”

He takes a seat on the coffee table, and the light from the television casts a muted, cool glow over his face. You prepared yourself for this, he had warned you, but you don’t think you could ever truly grow used to the bandages, the gauze, the injuries that will turn to scar.

But he’s alive. And he’s here. And being alive means healing, so you can’t stay too angry.

“Or, you could take the day off.”

“It’s not that simple, Leon.”

“I’m friends with the president. I could give him a call.”

You blurt out a laugh, but his expression remains stoic and severe.

“Wait, you’re serious.” He nods. “What the fuck do you even do?” He shrugs, and you think to throttle him across the living room. “No, you can’t just say you know the president and expect me to not ask questions.”

“It’s not much of a story. I just work under him.”

You know he’s lying, and he knows that you know he’s lying. There is a very important story here that he doesn’t want to tell, and you're too nosey for your own good.

“Is this another thing you have to hide to keep me safe or whatever?”

He rolls his eyes and rises from the coffee table. Goes to pick up his luggage then turns to you, eyes fraught.

“Listen, I know it’s a shitty position to put you in, and I wish I could tell you, but I would rather you be mad at me than be dead.”

You sit up then, mirroring his own distress. “Leon, I’m not mad. I mean, I knew what I was getting into, and I know you wanna keep me safe, but I still feel scared. I’m doing the best I can.”

Whatever tension stifles the room suddenly deflates, right alongside the stiffness of his posture.

“No, I know,” he says, voice small, pitiful, sad. “I just—“ He shakes his head to discard the thought. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

The alarm clock on the end table begins to blare, a shrieking cry of overstimulation, and you think to throw it against the wall. Stomp it to pieces.

You don’t have time for this. Not now. Can’t leave things fractured.

He leaves to the bedroom as you lean over and silence the noise, and you listen to the squeal of the suitcase zipper, the sliding of drawers, the shuffling of footsteps.

Can’t leave things like this.

You stand timid in the doorway of the bedroom, watch as he sorts through clothing on the bed, shoves piles into drawers, and a melancholy smoke tightens your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you say, words choking on the ashes of regret.

You never meant to hurt him, to press hard on some invisible bruise, but you should’ve known. He’s lost so many close to him, seen death on an unimaginable scale. You should’ve known.

He spares you an acknowledging glance, then resumes unraveling then re-folding clothes. “You know I love you, right?”

“Of course I do. I’ve questioned a lot of things, but never that. Never.”

He lowers onto the edge of the bed, and the mattress groans. The sheets wrinkle. His suitcase angles to one side. A smile stretches his lips, and the sun rises again.

“I knew for a while. That you… felt the way you did.” His eyes meet yours, and the muscle of your heart freezes for a long moment. Your face buzzes, stokes to flame. “I didn’t want to say anything because I knew I couldn’t be who you needed. The person you thought I was.”

“I didn’t think you were anything. You’ve always just been Leon.”

“But am I worth it to you?”

He’s been fighting his own worries, that much is clear, and what little information he gave you, about his struggle with loss and the bone-deep roots of trauma, you should’ve known.

If you could go back, re-do this all over again, loving him is the very last thing you would change.

“Always.”

He nods his head, mutters out an, “Okay,” and turns back to his wrinkled clothes.

“How about we make some breakfast after I shower?”

“Now that you mention it, I have missed your cooking.”

An air of sickly-sweet affection bathes the room, and you smile at him all tender, so wide your cheeks begin to ache.

“In that case, you should get in touch with the president. My boss is an asshole.”

“I know a guy who knows a guy who can make people disappear.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

After a long moment of you being struck still by shock, he gives a teasing, conspiratory smile, and the world begins to turn again.

Like every other day he comes back home, you laze around until evening. A celebration in peace, safety, sanctuary.

“You know I’m probably gonna be fired, right?” you ask, sliding in next to him beneath the covers.

“Good riddance to your shitty job.”

He throws a heavy arm over your waist, pulls you close, tucks his face into the curve of your shoulder.

“What money would I have to pay rent?”

“Just move in with me.”

You huff. Leon and his simplicity, his easy-as-breathing solutions.

But it is a good solution.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” You lift his head with a tender hand, and press a teasing kiss to his lips. A cheek. The tip of his nose. “It’ll be a little harder to keep secrets.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You love him. Still adore him on the worst days. Would rip the stars from the sky, craft another moon, black out the sun if he asked.

“Okay, then.”

His brows raise, and a hand tightens against your waist. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He smiles, then kisses you this time, cradles a hand around the nape of your neck and presses his weight against you. Your heart rate spikes in anticipation, a yearning that threatens to consume.

An unspoken promise, the way he holds you. How his hands dip warm beneath your shirt, ghost trails of gooseflesh over the curve of your belly.

“Can I?” he breathes against your neck, traces his lips along the thump of your pulse.

You’ve already fallen apart and he’s barely touched you, and such starvation should be undoubtedly embarrassing, but it’s him and you love him and you’ll probably always feel this needy where he’s concerned.

“Yes. Whatever it is, yes.”

He leans back onto his knees and rids you of your shirt. Follows the raise of your hips with hurried fingers, and strips your legs to bareness.

It’s all frantic, the limbo between clothing and nakedness. You forget to undo one of his buttons, an arm gets stuck in his shirt, he elbows you in the side while trying to remove his pants. By the end of it all, when you’re both naked and cuddled up, you’ve laughed yourself almost to headache. Definitely breathless. More in love than you ever could’ve imagined.

He’s a simmering heat against you, all muscle and sinew, a final ray of sunshine in the shadow of this apartment. You’ve never wanted, or craved, or starved for anyone more.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers, traces fingers down the curve of your spine. “I thought you said thinking was dangerous.”

His eyes, low-lidded and lazy, sparkle from window light of the evening sun. His last trip graced a spatter of freckles on his skin—the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, a lone speck just above his lip. You wish to kiss each of them, one at a time, endlessly.

“My thoughts have been better recently.”

You throw a leg over his hip, and a large palm follows the back of your thigh. Squeezes at the curve of your ass.

A noise starts in the back of his throat, halfway to whimper when you slot your lips against his and dip a hand between your bodies and curl cautious fingers around the head of his cock.

“This okay?” you ask, press a soothing kiss to his cheek.

He licks over his bottom lip, groans out a, “Hold on,” and rolls onto his back, pulling you with him. “That’s better, I think.”

The sight of him now—that same halo of blond hair, that same stare of tender devotion—almost a deja vu to months past, yet distinctly different in his naked vulnerability.

That’s what this is. Vulnerability. Terrifying in practice, yet sacred for all its beauty.

He presses a hand to your back, coaxing you closer, until you’re chest-to-chest and his heartbeat pitters through the cage of his ribs.

“Nervous?” you ask, gentle in tone, fearful of offense.

“Admittedly.” An immediate response, one that almost surprises you. But you know him, and he knows you just as well. Can probably sense the anxiety rolling off you in waves.

“Thank God. So am I.”

It’s no surprise that your sex life has suffered, whittled into the negatives, due to months of one-sided pining, and his hectic schedule grants no reprieve for blooming hormones.

And it’s odd. Not a negative sort. Just… different and new. That fun, awkward phase where you learn how to give and receive pleasure all over again, from a fresh perspective. A new pair of hands.

You lean over to sift through the top drawer of the nightstand. Leon’s hands settle on your hips to keep you steady. He seems to believe the same as you: falling off the bed and breaking something would really ruin the mood.

“This is always a must,” you say, tossing a bottle of lubrication onto the sheets.

He picks it up. Clicks the cap open. Takes a whiff. “Strawberry.”

“Regular lube tastes like shit.”

“It’s also half-empty.”

You shrug. “I get lonely when you aren’t here.”

“We could’ve done this a long time ago.”

You move back to sit on his thighs, take the bottle from his hand, and squeeze out a quarter-sized portion into your hand. “Too bad our boat had holes in it.”

“I will never live that down, will I?”

“Nope.”

He exhales a shaky sigh as you spread a slick hand over his length. Drops his head back against the pillow when you twist your fist over the tip.

“Good?” you ask, a little breathless, desire twinging at the base of your spine.

All he can do is hum in response, and his pretty eyes close, and his hips twitch up to meet your hand.

You could sit here forever, you think. Watch him succumb to pleasure, forget language, offer himself over to you. A show of trust in its most potent form. Maybe another time, you’ll have him use you, just like this. Fuck himself on your fist.

He grits out a low moan, the sound lancing through your belly, and you look down. The sight of him, blush red and slicked-up, a thatch of trimmed hair at his groin, thick and curved and so pretty—fuck, you really should’ve done this a long time ago.

His cock twitches in your grip, and an unbearable emptiness leaves you desperate. Wanting. Needy.

Fuck it.

You brace a hand atop his chest to reach between your legs, but he stops you. Curls a hand over your back, presses you hard against his chest, and noses at the shell of your ear.

“Didn’t take you for the impatient type,” he says, and you feel like you might combust.

It’s all heat now, sweltering, an agitated energy that keeps you fidgeting in spite of his hold.

“I’m usually not. Guess you bring it out of me.”

A thick, wet finger slides into you, and you mewl into the curve of his neck. A tight fit, an effect of unused muscles, and you pull your knees higher toward your chest to open yourself up, the inside of your thighs sticky against his torso.

“More,” you sigh, clench hard around him.

“Already?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you, actually.”

“I’m fine.”

Another joins the first, stretches you wide, and you arch against him. Your face buzzes with static. Your breathing deepens. You fist a hand in the hair at the base of his skull and pull him into a bruising kiss. A lick of teeth. The wet curl of tongues. He tilts his hips, slicks his cock against your belly, slackens his jaw to sigh into your mouth.

You could die like this. Die happy and sated. You’re fit to consume each other and god, what a beautiful way to go.

This is love, you think. You’ve had partners into the past, felt strongly for them, cared deeply about their wellbeing. But nothing like this. Never like this.

He’s gentle when he pushes into you, much like the midday sun. The slight burn of heat, the caress he gives to your back, the kiss he plants on your shoulder. You cling to him, brace for the steady fill.

It hurts, like all other things in life. But he’s there, quick to soothe. And it’s always been that way, hasn’t it?

He’s soothed you with words, and actions, and the simple being of his presence. He’s kept you from loneliness, kept you sane, kept you safe. He’s always been there, like this.

It’s always been him.

And he bottoms out inside you. A welcome, satiating fullness that forces the breath from your lungs.

You wait for a few long moments, a selfish savoring, before you raise your hips then sink back down—and that split second of emptiness seeks to ruin you.

The arm over your back loosens to allow you movement, but he holds steadfast. Never breaks contact. Needs the closeness, the intimacy as much as you.

It’s a relieving thought. That he’s affected by this, too.

He attaches his lips to a spot on your shoulder, teases his teeth, threatens a bite when you quicken your hips and a heavy schlick echoes in the quiet room. The heat in your belly smolders, builds to flame, and you sigh out a needy whine.

A hands lowers between your legs, and his breathing shudders on each exhale, and you’re close. The tether’s pulled taut, ready to break.

He bites into your skin to muffle his moans, hugs you tight against him, and spills inside you. The rhythmic jerk of his cock sends you reeling, every muscle in your body tensing up, the hot clutch of your insides aiding his orgasm.

And then everything stills. Your bodies relax. Tensions disappear.

“Didn’t mean to bite you that hard,” he says, voice thick and gravelly.

“Think it’ll scar?”

“Didn’t break skin, so no.” He traces a finger around the indentations. “It would make a nice tattoo, though.”

“Would you pay for it?”

“Government salary, remember?”

After a few moments, he softens inside you, and you lift your hips to release him. A mess spills onto his stomach, and he flinches. Mirrors your wince.

“How about a shower?” you ask, already rolling off of him.

“Please.”

When you’re freshly clean and back in bed, sleep settles over you. Multiplies tenfold when he curls himself around your body, all warm and comforting.

“Will you really move in with me?” he asks, traces his nose along the curve of your jaw.

“If you’ll have me.”

“I’m the one who asked.”

You sigh into his hair, soft strands tickling your nose. “Then I have some calls to make.”

“I’m owed a couple favors.”

“As I’ve found out.”

He laughs, situates himself beneath the sheets. “I think I’ll miss this place. A lot of memories here.”

You cradle him against you then. Curl a soft hand over the back of his neck. In fact, you think you might cry as a sweet kind of melancholy coats the cavern of your chest.

Your entire relationship took place in this apartment. He sat on every piece of furniture. His blood’s been stained into the floor. His presence overwhelms each room.

But it’s a logical thing, moving on. No matter how painful it feels, how comfortable you’ve been staying stagnant. And you prepared for it—moving on from him.

Now, he joins you.

A funny thing, that.

“Yeah. I will, too, I think.”

“Greener pastures, right?”

“Speaking of, you know anybody who’s hiring?”

“A few people, actually.”

“Give them my number tomorrow.”

He exhales a laugh, and then he falls into sleep, with a protective arm slung over you, cradled against your body.

“Sweet dreams, Leon,” you whisper, and you press a kiss to his hair.

If you could do all of this over again, you would dare to love him even more. And more, and more, and a fond part of you knows that you could offer all of yourself to him, every atom of your physical being, and still—

Still, it would never be enough.

#i will be back soon 🫡🫡🫡 for any additional commentary i may have lmao #thank you once again to tumblr user uhlunaro 💐🫶

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