19 not for the faint of heart
105 posts
Decayedbong - Dead Head - Tumblr Blog
Im sorry that I choose my favs with my pussy and not my moral compass. Wish I could be as boring as the rest of you
sometimes you gotta leave because you love them too much bretha
the end. of the line. | Leon Kennedy
Leon Kennedy x Reader
summary: everything comes to an end, and it seems you and Leon have reached yours.
word count: 2.2k🤏🏼
warnings: angst bro, angst.
a/n: took my cold meds, passed out and woke up to this.
One suitcase. One suitcase containing everything you own.
It feels a bit pathetic as you helplessly stare at the plastic exterior, reflecting the harsh fluorescence of a singular bulb that lights the kitchen. It looks so small from the stool where you’re perched, the once hot tea having gone cold, bitter taste swirling around in the mug that you grasp so tight.
The apartment looks bare now, stripped away from its soul. The walls are empty, pictures of you and Leon that were once decorating it, now nowhere in sight, vanished like memories that never existed. No candle sitting on the coffee table, your books vanished from the shelf, the little potted plant that was once on the window sill gone to a better home. On instinct, your hand goes to grasp the golden locket that hung from your neck every day since you had gotten it as an anniversary gift but your hand only grazes empty skin.
Its eerily quiet this morning, a stillness in the air that nearly suffocates you, slowly dumping the old tea down the drain, rinsing the dirty mug and placing it back on the shelf like you had never touched it in the first place. A deep unease sets in your stomach, riddled with guilt and confusion. You should have left a few days ago, like you were going to, like you had planned, disappearing instantly with nothing but a letter for Leon to find.
But you were so weak when it came to him, tears cascading down your face as you wiped away any evidence of your presence in his life, guilt ripping you apart as you did all this while he was away god knows where, doing god knows what, no guarantee that he would come back to find his home empty.
And you were so close too, standing in the middle of the cold apartment, jacket tight around your shoulders, handle of your suitcase propped up and your ticket gripped tight in your fingers, nails indenting the paper when your phone had rung, the noise bouncing off the walls.
You had stared at it, still ringing in your palm, the glare of the contact number numbing you, recognizing the number instantly despite deleting his name from your phone. How could you ever forget something that you had spent night after night staring at, in vigil and in prayer that he returns to you in one piece, untouched and unharmed by the horrors of his life. Deafening silence greets you on the line before he breathes out a soft hey baby, I know its late but could you come get me please. I really want to see you.
Yes, of course. Of course, you will come. How could you not? How could you ever deny him? He who sacrifices his nights and days to keep the world safe, he who puts himself in between whoever dares to threaten the delicate balance of peace, he who pays with his body and soul so no one else has to. Of course, you will come. It’s the least you can do.
But can you do it anymore? Stand by and witness as he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, crumbling underneath it bit by bit, cracks deepening in his façade, losing his light and returning home to you with scars you’re not sure will be able to heal this time. You can’t, you can’t do this anymore.
But you will bring him home one last time.
Your heart breaks when you find him, fluttering in disobedience as your eyes drink in his appearance, head hanging low and eyes shut underneath the lamppost, leaning against it for support. The rumble of the car engine mutes as you kill the ignition and throw open the door.
He doesn’t open his eyes as you near him, feet splashing in the puddles without care. The soft utterance of his name from your lips wakes him, eyes slowly peeling open to see you standing at a distance, hands clasped in front of you, tugging at your fingers nervously.
Leon opens his arms and you find yourself helpless as you are tugged towards him, unblinking as you notice the ghost lingering in his hollowed eyes, tousled hair and bandages peeking out from underneath his shirt. He holds you close, gripping you tight into him, face buried in your neck, his breath fanning harshly against your skin as though he’s breathing for the first time.
Tears sting your eyes, words knotted in your throat, your fingers gently threading through his hair, confused if you’re trying to soothe him or yourself. And suddenly he feels real; broken and bruised, smelling of sweat and iron but real and present unlike the phantom of his presence that haunts your shared apartment.
No words are exchanged, silence now a usual companion as you drive back home. Leon has his head tipped back against the headrest and you would think he was asleep if it weren’t for the way he was holding your hand in his lap, thumb stroking against your knuckles. You would stare at him at every stoplight, memorizing the dips and contours of his face under the red hues changing to green.
He’s slimmed, you realize, the hollowness in his cheeks more pronounced, the dark circles grinded more firmly in his skin with small cuts littering under his jaw. You tighten yours, swallowing back tears.
The apartment door shuts with a resound click, Leon swaying where he stands, hunched over as your pry his jacket off his form. Your suitcase is nowhere in sight, hanging his jacket from the peg and discarding the keys into the small bowl on the table next to the door.
If he notices your missing keychain from the house keys, he doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t comment on the missing photographs from the walls as he drags you with him towards the bedroom, doesn’t comment on the glittering golden necklace that rests on the vanity instead of around your neck when he slips underneath the covers, pulling you with him.
And you let yourself be consumed by him, submitting yourself to a moment of weakness. The pillow is cold underneath your cheek, facing Leon and staring into his eyes, noses nearly touching. The two of you breathe in shared air, his hand tracing lines into your back as you cup his cheek, holding him in place with legs tangled together.
The way he holds you is bittersweet, reminiscent of the days spent in bed, sharing laughter as the sun drizzled in, warming the atmosphere but all that’s left now is lingering memories, even the moon hidden behind a drape of dark clouds. There is no light this time.
Leon held you tight throughout the night as slumber pulled him under, lips brushing against the top of your head as you lay there listening to his steady heartbeat, tears soaking the soft cotton of the pillowcases.
His warmth still lingers around you as you stand in the kitchen, staring pensively at your suitcase, your ticket heavy in the back of your pocket. His footsteps are quiet as he approaches from the bedroom, the knots tightening in his stomach when he had woken up to find your side of the bed cold, all neatly made up, devoid of any sign you had been there in the first place.
The sun is finally out but it does little to make itself known, hiding just like the moon like it can’t bear witness to this finality. Leon stands a million miles away from you, sleep having done nothing to relieve him from his exhaustion, if anything he looks more tired. He doesn’t flinch at seeing you on the threshold, meekly standing with your packed bag. But his eyes betray him as you see them shatter. What a blessing and a curse that you know him better than you know yourself.
“Please...” He croaks and this time you flinch.
“No,” You shake your head, growing smaller under his watch, “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Tell me how to fix it.” The wobble in his voice nearly kills you, the lump getting heavier in your throat, “Just tell me how and I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“You can’t,” You whisper, staring dejectedly at the ground, unable to witness him come undone, “Not this time.”
There is desperation in his voice, “I can try. Please, just don’t do this.”
You look up to him, vision blurring and heart aching to see him look so small, hands bundled into fists by his side, pleading so strife on his face. You hate yourself in this moment for being a contributor to his hurt but you need to do this to spare each other from the inevitable.
His chest starts to move faster, the tips of his ears glowing red, face contorting in disbelief, “You’re not even going to let me fight for us?”
“I can’t stand-by and watch you kill yourself, Leon.”
It comes out louder than you intended, hitting him like a ton of bricks. The silence is back, raw and all consuming. Leon’s erratic breathing is all you hear as you fight the tears that are threatening to spill. “Every single time that you come home, it’s like a piece of you dies. I can’t keep pretending like I don’t see it and I can’t keep pretending to be strong for both of our sakes. I…I’m tired of pretending that I don’t suffer seeing you like this.”
“You knew this before, you knew what it meant to be with me,” Leon whispers, dejection set heavy in his shoulders.
The smile you offer is watery, barely put together like haphazardly piecing together broken china, never quite the same ever again, some pieces lost forever. “What a fool I was.”
“You don’t love me anymore?” Leon asks, hesitation in his voice as though the mere idea of it will cause him to vomit.
And his words feel like a stake through your heart, tears falling freely down your face. This isn’t what you wanted, this is exactly why you wanted to leave before he came home. You didn’t want to add on to his already unending pile of hurt and certainly never wanted him to doubt your love for him: its why you needed to let him go.
“Leon,” A sob pulls through your entire body as all he does is watch in agony, suppressing the urge to close the distance between you two and hold you in his strong arms, stopping you from crumbling in front of him – helpless, again, as all he can do is watch you suffer, “I love you so much. That’s why I’m making this choice for us, I can’t hold on to false hope thinking that there won’t be a day where I won’t get the call that you aren’t coming home.”
“That’s unfair.”
You laugh bitterly, “I never said it was. But it’s the way it is, no? I can’t ask you to not save the world, to stay here with me or run away with me someplace far away where it’s just us. Because that’s not who you are, and I would always question if keeping you here with me is selfish.” Tears dribble down again. “And I want to be selfish, so much, but I think doing nothing would break you far more.”
“So what? That’s it?” Leon asks, sounding weary to the bone, ready to fall to the ground at a moment’s notice.
“Yeah,” You wipe away your tears, sleeve damp as you pull away, “I suppose it is.”
This time the grip on your suitcase’s handle is firm, holding you upright as strength saps from your legs, overwhelmed at seeing blues of Leon’s eyes dampen, silently accepting what’s happening in front of him. You don’t feel real in this moment, more akin to a stranger barging in on an intimate moment between two people you don’t recognize. The four walls surrounding you feel foreign, devoid of their usual familiarity.
A reel of moments flashes in front of your eyes; your first dinner date where he had cooked for you, spilling wine down your cashmere sweater, eyes blown wide open in worry as all you could do was laugh in absurdity. The first night you had spent after moving in with him, falling asleep together on the couch as a movie blared on the TV, long forgotten by then.
The balcony where the two of you had kissed, counting down excitedly to welcome the new year, a tall Christmas tree standing resolutely in the background. The long hug of goodbyes at the front door where he would bury himself in you, whispering promises of coming back to you, promises that he could not keep but still made. The teary greetings when he would return, beaten and bruised, melting in your arms with whispers of assurances.
You take a step back, feet heavy as they move, Leon moving forward on instinct, panic flashing in his eyes. You shake your head at him and this time he plants his feet, unmoving and turning away, unable to watch you leave. Your presence fades, melting away, the dim sound of moving wheels ceasing.
The door shuts with a resolute click.
this fic cured my scabies 🥹🩷
♡ Up all Night ♡
A/N: It was 1D's 14th anniversary recently and I wrote these to celebrate it. Happy birthday to Niall too <3 #foreveraniallgirl. This is just a silly post to celebrate those imagines/fics I used to read all the time 😭Typos and errors are intentional to really bring it back to that era of fics :3 BTW thanks for 100 followers!! :33 I will be doing something to celebrate so please look out for it.
CW: mentions of death / medical malpractice?? (idk), Emetophobia -- none of these topics are in depth. cringe writing fr
Imagine: Chris taking you to your first gynecologist appointment 💙
When Chris heard you were in your twenties and had never been to the gynecologist, he made you an appointment immediately. No partner of his was going to miss out on a Pap smear. If he was going to continue the Redfield blood line, he had to make sure that womb was healthy.
You’re holding his hand tightly. “Chris, I’m so scared…”
Chris shakes his head, “don’t worry, Y/N. I picked someone I trust a lot. I love you and you don’t have to be scared.” Chris heads up to the receptionist, checking you in for your appointment.
“Hello Y/N, we’ve been expecting you. Just go straight and head to the dor on your left and your doctor will be waiting for you.”
With a nod, you and Chris head to the door. You open the door, seeing…
Doctor Albert Wesker.
Wesker sits there handsomely in his white lab coat. “Y/N…” he greets, taking off his sunglasses. His red orbs piercing through you and sending a shiver down your spine.
Then his eyes narrow at Chris. “And Chris…” Sometimes you can feel the sexual tension between him and Wesker but your boyfriend is just a metrosexual.
“Lie down, Y/N. I will make sure your womb is sufficient enough to carry Chris’s seed.”
“Ok.”
You undress and get on the table. Your legs in the stirrups. Wesker’s nose scrunches up in disgust. Gah, Virginia. He never gets used to seeing them.
Chris is sitting on the chair, watching everything.
Albert scoots up in his swivel chair. He spreads your outer and inner labia. He inserts the speculum. The pain is intense (an: for real. personal experience 😓😂)
But something doesn’t feel right. Suddenly there’s a flood of liquid. Then Albert starts laughing maniacally.
Chris stands up immediately, shoving Wesker away. “What did you do to them!?!?!,!” He shouts, seeing the black liquid spill from your entrance.
“You fool. Did you think I was going to perform a Pap smear on them?” Albert laughs, pushing up his sunglasses and a glare reflects from them.
“This was just a ploy to release my uroboros and I thank you for your sacrifice, Y/N.”
Y/N cries. Their body writhing in pain. “Chris….” They sniffle. Their skin covered in sweat.
“Y/N I’m sorry. I didn’t expect this to happen.” Chris says, clutching your arm.
“It’s ok, Chris…”
“I..”
“Love…”
“…” Y/N takes her last breath.
“YOUR NAME!!!!!!!” Chris screams, falling to floor.
Rip Y/N. Fly high 🕊️
(mwuahahaha is y/n really dead or are they just passed out? will Chris save the world from Albert and his uroboros? Find out next time on… Pokémon xD)
Imagine: telling Carlos you love him for the first time 💙
It’s Saturday night. You and Carlos are watching TV in Jill’s rundown apartment. She’s never home and it’s better than letting it go to waste. Besides, you’re a poor college student. Carlos is currently on break from his last mission. All he wants to do is relax.
Carlos has been your friend since 9th grade. You’ve been glued to him ever since that faithful day, habouring a secret crush on the vaguely Brazilian/Portuguese man.
If it can be believed, Carlos used to be a scrawny little thing. No muscles, socially awkward, and liked to collect yu gi oh cards and beyblades.
Then one day, he was buff as hell. Like he took venom and became strong (an: venom like the venom bane from Batman injects in himself to become stronger. sorry a nerd xD). It doesn’t help that he looks so juicy like a piece of steak that you wanna sink your teeth in. Just oil him up daddy, he’s a little soup boy, chompa chompa (if you get that reference, ily <3)
Anyway, your on the couch with Carlos. He’s on one side and you’re cuddled into his side. He smells just like old spice 💙. The Nanny is playing on the TV, Fran is just so hilarious! She’s always getting into hijinks.
You can tell that Carlos is starting to get bored, his fingers are tapping on the armrest. You bite your lower lip as you look at him from the corner of your eyes. Every time you’re near him, you get butterflies. You just want him to be yours.
“Carlos?”
He sits up straighter, looking at you. “What’s up?”
For a moment, you’re quiet, wondering how to say what you want to say. All these years of secret pining is just building in your chest.
And so, you sit up too.
“We’ve been friends for a long time,” you start, an audible gulp leaving you. “And we’ve seen each other at our worst, break ups, that time you got stuck in my ear and would not get out,” you giggle cutely.
Carlos raises a brow, “uh huh…” He wonders what you’re on about, really.
“I love you, Carlos Oliveira!” You shout, blushing like a tomato.
A silence falls over the room, only Fran’s nasal laugh can be heard in the background.
Suddenly, warm chunks of vomit are spewed onto the floor, the wall, the end table, couch, and you. He stands up, holding his stomach. “As if I’d ever be in love with you, Y/N!” He’s appalled that you would think so. Disgusted that you thought you were on that level to be his partner.
Carlos runs out of Jill’s apartment. That’s the last time you ever see him.
He doesn’t answer your calls, texts, emails, mail, radio communications, or when you come over. In fact he moves and you don’t know where he lives. Probably in Bratugal (Brazil + Portugal, impressive I know).
Y/N cries themselves to sleep everyday until they end up filling their (Jill’s) apartment with their tears and die.
Imagine: Your boyfriend Leon is the only donor.
Leon’s by your side, holding your hand. You’re on the hospital bed, wearing a white gown. You’re clenching Leon’s hand so tight, he’s lost feeling in his hand.
“Babe, it’ll be alright. I’ll be here the entire time.” He lovingly reassures you. He’s so lovingly reassuring all the time, always lovingly hugging you and kissing you, he’s so lovable!
“But… what if something goes wrong? I don’t even know who the donor is,” you say, your eyes watering.
“It won’t, babe. It’s a simple procedure.” He says, caressing the back of your head. He kisses the crown of your head as the doctor comes in.
“It’s time, Y/N.” Doctor Albert Wesker says, holding a clipboard.
You nod, “yes sir.”
You look at Leon.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
That’s the last thing you remember before getting knocked out (not physically, they gave you medicine!).
When you wake up, you’re looking for Leon. Your mouth is sore. Like you were chewing rocks.
Soon, Leon comes striding in. His head wrapped in gauze. Your eyes are wide, “Leon, what happened?”
As soon as Leon opens his mouth, you’re horrified. Just blackness with two front teeth. “Bab I told yew it’ll be ok,” he says with a laugh. “I was the only match for your teef.”
Oh my god, you think. Without teeth, Leon is so scary. Yeah he has those two in the front but… then it dawns on you. His teeth are in your mouth. You’re going to get cavities, gum decay, and no saliva because he drinks a lot.
You grab the plate that’s on your table stand and whack him in the head with it.
Leon dies on impact.
Immediately you regret it and cry for alber to come back.
“ALBERRT HELP ME.” You shout, crying as you crowd over Leon’s lifeless body. He’s so cold. Leon don’t go to the light, bby…
Wesker walks in and stands over Leon, with her uroboros powers, he resuscitates Leon.
“Oh my god, baby. I’m sorry I did that. I was overwhelmed,” you cry, hugging Leon.
Leon smiles, showing his two teeth. “I forgive you.”
Then you guys have hard passionate sex on the hospital bed. You end up pregnant with Leon Scott Kennedy Jr 💙 Congrats.
pullin up to the club after saving the president’s daughter like
absolute and total delusion (me too)
My brain functioning like this unironically
THANK YOU FOR 1,000 FOLLOWERS ON TUMBLR!!
I don’t have any particular drawings for the occasion, so I hope you enjoy this shitpost I drew sometime last year that I never posted 😅
Im considering redrawing this to fit my current art style, so maybe look forward to that…
Thank you again💕
- xan
sometimes you can really tell a writer has had a seasoned life by how invested they can make you become merely in the span of a written 6 day sleepover
connection buffering . . . ↺
di!leon x reader - long-distance relationship - part 2
previous part
you weren't bluffing.
you'd made the sign. wrote his name in big block letters, too confident in how you wrote the first half of his name. the 'EDY' crowds together at the end. 'E' shoves 'D' close to the end, 'Y' drawn paper thin and cocked to the side, threatening to topple off the edge of the paper. leon finds he's not too tired to laugh.
he had the whole goddamn flight to figure out what to say to you, but when he sees you standing there with that sign in your hand, scanning the crowd for a man you expect to be two inches taller, it all flushes out of him to make room for the queasy feeling in his gut. when you finally spot him (thank god; the words had gotten lodged in his throat, your name running around his mind again, again, again, lodged so deep in the crevices that he couldn't pry it free and force it out his mouth) your smile nearly blinds him. he shields his eyes with a hand, watches you bounce on the balls of your feet.
he flicks your sign with a finger. the only words that make it past the lump in his throat are, "messed up the kerning, huh?"
you tip your head, puppy-dog cute. more adorable in person. "the what?"
"kerning." silence. you shake your head a little, blank look in your eye. leon tries to swallow, feels barbs jab into his throat. ten minutes on the ground and he's fucking up already. his gut turns. he tries to blame it on airplane peanuts. "the space between the letters."
he should get back on the plane. if he flashes his badge and declares it official business they have to let him on, right? brass wouldn't be happy with him, but what are they going to do? he's leon fucking kenn--
you laugh and his thoughts screech to a halt, plane crash on the concourse. footsteps pound past him - or maybe that's his heartbeat in his ears. your laugh is prettier in person, too.
"okay, all right." your face lights up, eyes squished to make room for your smile. "why do you know that?"
mentally, he flips through a rolodex of excuses. he moonlighted as a graphic designer (false), he was really into fonts (no strong opinions, really), it's classified (outright lie). he settles for the truth, shrugging.
"late night wikipedia dive."
you laugh again. his heart is a bird, fluttering in his chest, battering itself against his ribs to get to you. what the hell is wrong with him? he hadn't felt like this in years, thought he wasn't supposed to feel like this anymore. when you were an adult you grew out of this sort of giddiness. he'd choked it down every time he'd checked his phone under the table at an intelligence meeting, dismissed it as heartburn. he's supposed to want. it's supposed to be a blaze that swallows him up. confident and bold and all-consuming. not fidgety and desperate.
he's not anxious. he's a grown man. he's met presidents, plural. he doesn't get nervous meeting people, even if they're stunning, even if his hands twitch to hold theirs.
does he hug you? kiss you? slip his hand into your back pocket and guide you out of the terminal, lead you blindly to a car that isn't his, take you to an apartment he's only ever seen portions of on a 15 inch screen, ask what he can make you for dinner in your own home? that's what he wants. skip over all of this and slide right into familiarity, fly right past all the work it takes to get there. you've done the leg work, right? you know how you feel about each other. he's here. that says enough, doesn't it?
he's eternally grateful that you reach through his thoughts and pull him into a hug. your face stuffs into his shoulder, words muffled. "i'm so glad you're here."
you inhale deeply and he swears his heart does a backflip. jesus, he needs to get a physical. this can't be normal.
it's you who loops your arm with his, you who tugs him into motion. you rattle off questions that he answers as best he can. it feels like drowning, like he can barely keep his head above water. his flight was fine, thanks for asking. no, he didn't get any sleep. he never sleeps on planes. it's a long story. he didn't need a nap, but yeah, he could go for a coffee.
you know this great place, you reassure him. really low-key. he treads water in the parking garage while you dig for your keys. you drop them - twice - and he wonders if you're struggling to stay at the surface, too.
as a last act before sinking into the passenger seat, he rescues your sign from the trash, folding it neatly and tucking it into his pocket.
he looks up from buckling his seat belt, beckoned by the way you call his name. he's still smiling when you cup his cheeks and kiss him.
by day two, he's decided you need a new apartment. he hasn't told you that yet, figures it comes off too pushy, but he would fly back down to help you move if you wanted. (if he thinks it hard enough, won't you ask him to?)
don't misunderstand - he likes what you've done with the place. honest to god, you're a miracle worker with decor. you could really shape his place up.
it's just that your front door is less than secure. your locks are ran through. it would take him less than a minute to break in. he doesn't even want to think about your windows. other than being drafty, they're just another completely unsecured access point.
you'd invited him to sleep in your bed the first night, and he had every intention of doing so. he'd just passed out on the couch before he had the chance. leon had woken with a pillow stuffed under his head, thick, handmade blanket tucked over him. it was sweet. really.
but it wasn't the same as sleeping next to you.
leon has every intention of sleeping in your bed that night. you'd filled the day with a tour of your city, pointing out your favorite and least favorite spots, telling stories that let him imagine the streets as a stage, you as the star, top billing as far as he's concerned. everything had been optional, as you'd feverishly reassured him after every stop. he could change the itinerary with one word. the only mandatory stop had been lunch with your friends. a good sign, he thinks. if you're confident enough to introduce him to the people in your life, then you see this going somewhere, right?
by the time you hit your last stop, it feels like he's emerged from a war zone. leon would know. he's been run ragged on back to back operations before, but this - the pressure of trying to be right for you, to show you who he is, waiting on pins and needles for you to sour on him and push back from the closeness he craves - this is truly exhausting.
you must feel it too, offering to pick up dinner on your way home in lieu of cooking. he waves away apologies, reaches past you to hand the cashier at taco bell his card when you try to pay. the food is gone by the time you pull your car into the parking lot.
both of you have the same idea. you're just as worn out as he is (makes him wonder if you're doing the same thing, all anxious energy, making sure to put your best foot forward, always stumbling and falling into a better impression than the one you set out to make) and bed comes naturally to mind. he slips into the side closest to the door and you stop him immediately, voice teasing.
"uh, that's my side." you poke at his ribs. the awkwardness had melted over the course of the day together. you were playful, eyes bright and laugh loud. touch came easy between you now, both playful and lingering. the comfort that had been stirred up and tossed into disarray by physical proximity had settled back in.
leon's eyes flit to the door over your shoulder. it's not a big deal, he tells himself. the odds of something happening were astronomically low.
but he knows his luck with astronomically low odds. one in a million is too risky. he's got to be closer to the door, won't be able to sleep if he's not. his hands wrap around your waist, urging you on top of him. he doesn't miss the way you stiffen, the momentary hitch of your breath, but you let yourself get swept along all the same, drape yourself over him as he guides you to.
"just sleep like this." leon shifts lower to make more space for you. he presses a kiss to your head.
it takes longer than he expected for you to relax. slowly, when his hands still at your back and his breathing evens out, your limbs loosen. your weight thickens atop him, pressing him further into the mattress. it's all he can do to remind himself that he's tired, that starting something now would lead nowhere fast.
leon stays awake until he's certain you're out cold. the door remains unbreached, your home still safe. he can't bring himself to regret his caution.
when he's finally able to sleep, he sleeps hard. he wakes to your fingers carding through his hair, his cheek cushioned against your chest, completely flipped around during the night. it's the best night he's had in years.
on day three, leon wonders if he should be more obvious.
he's been putting out all the signs, carefully curated his touch to be lingering, to make you burn for more, but each time you settle against him and offer up a contented "this is nice."
does there need to be a neon sign draped around his neck that says "take me for a spin", arrow blinking down toward his crotch? you'd let him press against your back during an afternoon nap, knee wedged between your legs, arm curled around your stomach to keep you next to him. he woke from dreams where he was bolder, where he wasn't afraid of losing you with that lingering confidence, pressed kisses to the back of your neck until that gauzy empowerment lifted.
hell, he'd woken up that morning laying half on top of you, his head nestled in the valley of your chest. you'd pet his hair til he woke from nuzzling your tits in his sleep.
he abandons subtlety during the credit crawl of eight-legged freaks, a 'classic' you had insisted on making him watch. (you'd laughed when he had commented he could keep you safe in the event of giant spiders. he hadn't been joking, but he still hasn't grown tired of hearing you laugh.)
"hey," he asks, hand curling around your thigh. his thumb smooths an arc across your skin, traces the path again and again. "do you wanna..?"
smooth, kennedy.
you look over at him with that same puppy-dog confusion that he's growing familiar with. instead of moving his hand, you draw your legs up and lay them over his lap. how the fuck is he supposed to interpret that?
"do i wanna..?" you parrot back, drawing the words out into the form of a question.
leon hates himself. he wishes he could back out of this. he clears his throat. how the hell do people broach this topic smoothly? he searches for the words, the silence stretching a little too long for comfort. finally, he says the first thing he can.
"like, sex."
real mature, kennedy, he thinks. he wishes he could backpedal, take it all back. he's certain your face warms. before he can issue a take down for his words, (maybe cut out his stupid goddamn vocal cords, if he has the time) you fumble out, "oh. like- right now? uh, i mean, do you want to?"
continuing with the maturity, he turns it back on you.
"i asked you first."
"i don't not want to."
leon shakes his head. his hand cups your ankle. "i really only take 'yeah' or 'hell yeah'."
"i just didn't think giant spiders got you in the mood."
"hey, the more legs the better."
leon knows deflection when he hears it. he's the reigning champ, after all, could play this game with you all day. but he has mercy; he chuckles, lets you get away with it and grabs the remote, declaring it's his turn to pick another movie since your choice was a mood killer.
later that night, curled up in bed with a video playing mindlessly from your tablet, you turn around to face him. he widens his arms to accommodate the movement, circles them tighter once you settle in.
"you're not mad?" you ask, pressing your face into his chest, already hiding from the answer.
"about what?"
"y'know."
"spell it out for me, sweetheart."
he can feel your breath puff against his chest, an exasperated huff. people have done this same thing to him time and time again. he always hated it, being forced to be forthcoming and earnest. (vulnerable, some people call it, but that always made him feel like a wounded bird.) now that he's on the other side, he sort of sees the appeal.
"'cause i don't wanna have sex yet."
there's a 'yet'. that's promising. he saves that little victory for later. his hand rubs slowly, reverently across the planes of your back.
he knows what he's got to say. he knows that he means it. putting the words to it is different. he needs you to understand, has to do this right.
"i didn't come all this way just to hook up."
you hum. "but you still want to."
christ, he's got to man up and say it.
"of course i do." you burrow closer to him, hands fisting against his side. he taps your back firmly. "hey. i'm not finished. i'm attracted to you, okay? like, really attracted to you. it's not- it's not just physical. i want to see if we can make this work. if what we had on the phone was real."
"is it?"
"yeah. i think so."
"sex isn't important to you?"
"it is. it's just not more important to me than you."
you pull your face from his chest, look up at him with big wet eyes. he brushes the backs of his fingers against your cheek tenderly, afraid you'll splinter and those tears will cascade down if he's anything but gentle.
"i think so, too."
you curl back into him, your touch melting from desperate to serene. leon can't help but feel accomplished - as though he's threaded the needle perfectly, cut the right wire just before the clock hit zero. gradually, his breathing falls into step with yours.
"besides," he murmurs, half-asleep. he drops a kiss against the top of your head. "your walls are thin. i don't want you catching a noise complaint."
day four is a glimpse of the life he could have, but it makes him realize what he needs to do to obtain it. the sickly feeling pools in his stomach, leaves him picking at the dinner you made. it's good, he swears. then the lie - just all the travel catching up to him.
he knows by day five that he's got to tell you everything. it's no longer a want - he needs you in his life. he's resolved to come clean.
he nearly does it over breakfast. you set his coffee in front of him, muss his hair before you take your own seat, and it almost comes spilling out onto the table.
i work in national security. i'm a federal agent. there's so much i can't tell you, but it's dangerous. god, it's dangerous. there's so much blood on my hands. it doesn't scrub off but i'm worried it will stain your skin. i think i could love you, if you'll let me. please don't say it back.
"plans today?" he says instead, sipping his coffee.
maybe tomorrow.
day six leaves him melancholy.
you'd insisted that today was for him. whatever he wanted, you would accommodate.
leon worries that his answer is boring. he wants a day in with you. an imitation of what it could be like to come home to this. the idle sounds of you milling about the house could lull him to sleep if it weren't for the words lodged in his throat.
you were doing the laundry. not yours, not his, but the, the definite article that's never felt intimate until that very moment. it silenced him to hear you refer to it that way. he's so tired of reading into every word you say, clinging onto every nuance. he'd forgotten how exhausting this stage of a relationship is. you couldn't send him home with dirty clothes, you explained, and he had no argument against that. his eyes traced after you as you puttered around, busying yourself with tidying. you're so at home. of course you are. it's your apartment. but he wants that. he wants to lift you from this place and into his own home, to watch you make yourself at home and busy yourself with the mundane.
he's got to tell you today. he can't do it over text. it's wrong.
when you finally settle down next to him on the couch, drawing a blanket into your lap, you breach the topic gently, give him a chance to do it himself. leon doesn't realize how obvious he is when he gets that look on his face, all forlorn as if he'd collapsed onto a fainting couch, hand over the back of his forehead. drama queen.
"what's up?" you ask, sitting close - but infuriatingly distant, not quite touching him yet.
"nothing. just looking at you."
bless you for trying to make it easy on him. it's always been like pulling teeth to get him to talk. he's trained to resist torture and coercion, should know better than to melt under a gentle hand or the way your body fits against his side.
you hum softly, disbelieving. so that's it, then. the silence, the 'i'm respecting your distance until you break' tactics. damn, you're good. leon takes a deep breath, chest aching with the weight of what he has to say. now or never.
"look- i'm not who you think i am."
you don't miss a beat. "in what way?"
he has to force the words out. he's acutely aware that this could ruin everything. you could kick him out. block his number, never speak to him again. good. it was safer that way. you deserved a normal life.
"i lied to you. about my work."
"yeah, i know."
"i work in security. national security."
"leon. i know."
his brain reels back a few steps, trying to process your words.
"you know?" he repeats, almost offended. how could you know? was this a set up?
you pull your phone from your pocket, tapping a quick query in. you turn the phone to him. article after article, a few interviews pinned to the top. every link is purple, clicked on and read through. the one that draws his eye is tucked at the bottom of the screen, makes his skin crawl to remember.
KENNEDY, HARPER CLEARED OF CHARGES
"i googled you." you set your phone down on the coffee table.
"and you still let me into your house?" he was serious, but you laugh. leon's brow pinches. "how long?"
you shrug, as if this conversation is about the laundry. "a couple months. ever since you told me your last name."
"months? why didn't you say anything?"
"i was hoping you'd tell me yourself. and you did, sort of."
his mind is still reeling. the drama of it all had his wound up tight. where does he put that energy?
he must look as thrown-off as he feels, because you chuckle, sweep the hair from his eyes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"i get why you don't tell people upfront. just don't hide stuff like that from me again, okay? seriously. i'll be mad."
it's more grace than he deserves. your acceptance churns his stomach. is there another meaning behind your words, a resentment coiling in the pit of your stomach?
you crack open your book and lean against his side. he settles his arm around you, moving slow, scared to frighten you away. only one chapter in, you pass him your phone, a take-out app order, asking what he wants. if you're mad, you hide it well.
day seven is a funerary procession. you help him scour your apartment for things he may have left behind, packing them neatly in his suitcase-shaped coffin. it's amazing how his things had flooded into your apartment during the short course of his visit. he had spread out, made himself comfortable. part of it had been testing how his belongings felt next to yours, how it all fit - the final test he had constructed in his mind. you'd passed that with flying colors, clearly. he's lost track of a shirt somewhere along the way, but he isn't concerned about it. he'll be back. he can look for it another time.
both of you linger at your front door. excuses are myriad, flowing from both sides. reasons to double back, reasons to keep his hand on your waist, your fingers in his hair, your lips on his.
but eventually the time becomes too urgent, the threat of missing his flight too real. he'd joked in the car that if he didn't turn up for work they might just send a helicopter to pick him up instead, expecting a laugh. you only smile, a wry twist of your lips that fades too quickly. you reach for your sunglasses and shove them on. the air is tense by the time you pull into the parking garage, cherry scented car freshener cloying.
“you gonna cry?” he teases.
you sniffle.
“oh my god.” he is such a jackass. “don't cry. i'm sorry, sweetheart. it's okay. jesus.”
“i just don't want you to go,” you squeak. your hands fist the steering wheel tight, knuckles turning white.
leon leans over the center console, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. he shrugs you closer to him, hushing you gently.
"let's plan another trip, okay?" he murmurs against your head, placing apologetic kisses there over and over. "c'mon. it's not forever. it's okay. i'm gonna call you when i land. we'll text, like we always do. it's my turn to pick the movie, so-"
fuck. his voice cracks. he clears his throat, blinks quickly to keep his composure.
"so, i'll pick a good one. wednesday night, okay? you, me, and a really good movie."
steadily, his promises slow your tears. the pressure of time detaches you from his hold. you're with him as far as you can go, waving him off to his gate. his heart sinks like a stone. he hates flights, never gets comfortable on them, but the way home feels longer than usual.
made it home he texts the second he's through the door. you're probably asleep. he hopes you are, at least. it's late for you, and--
yay
before he can bother telling you to go to bed, another message pushes through. his house felt empty before, but your message only deepens the feeling, hollows out the hallways and leaves his bed feeling too big, too cold.
i miss you already. call me tomorrow if you can.
leon squints at the screen.
"is that my shirt?"
you stop mid-sentence. caught red-handed - or, rather, grey-shirted.
it's your movie night since he made it back home. you're curled up in bed, your popcorn off to the side. he can fill in the gaps of your room now, knows what extends beyond the screen - and he knows that shirt. an old work tee of his that had mysteriously gone missing after you did the laundry. well-worn and soft. his name stamped on the back in big, block letters. possessive pride stirs in his chest to imagine you wearing his name.
sheepish, you promise, "i'll bring it back to you. how about next month?"
leon shakes his head. he pulls open his calendar, skimming through the busy weeks to clear the time for you.
"keep it. wear it to the airport for me so i know who to look for."
"you're not gonna make me a sign?"
"the shirt is the sign, sweetheart."
"are you gonna wear a matching one with my name on it?"
"i might." he opens another tab, googling how to make custom t-shirts. "you'll have to get here and find out."
connection restored -`♡´-
dividers from @/adornedwithlight
AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH
The Jill we could have had if capcom weren’t cowards and losers 😔
THANK YOU ADA WONG THANK YOU ADA WONG
ive only drawn her like a few times now but i feel like my art skills get better whenever ada wong is the subject everyone say thank you ada wong
Resident Evil Gaiden (2001)
little PSA: one of the most common "facts" I see about this game is that Leon dies. I've played this game twice and Leon does NOT DIE! I understand where the misconception comes from, there's a chance he died, but ultimately it's not an open and shut case so for the love of god stop saying that Leon dies in Gaiden like it's a fact because it's absolutely not correct.
Anyways I love this silly little game, feel free to hit me up if you're curious about it! I'm really happy to answer any questions and just generally talk about it :3
SCREW THE OPTIONS IM ENDING IT!!!!
i’m not kidding when i say resident evil writers are genuinely some of the best i’ve ever seen and it’s all just for this… Guy.
understanding the kennedy
✎ Sadly, Leon is not the most optimal guy to enjoy the time with cause he is the bluntest man out there, but your time spent together and your adventures in the process of survival prove just how cuddly and sweet he can be… in an elevator, preferably his hands on your body.
cw: fingering, dirty talk bc auugh i love his voice, mentions of gore? kinda, fem! reader, MDNI
You’re about to throw up, no kidding. Your dubious gaze flies between Leon and Ashley, bouncing between two blonde heads. Okay, so how did you end up in this situation? Let’s recap. First things first, you’re an agent with an orderly and strict life under the rules of the government. Being good at your job is what pockets so much trouble plus fresh green dough, which you deserve to earn to the bitter end.
Let’s proceed to the second reason. When the President’s daughter suddenly disappears and an anonymous tip comes in that she’s been sighted in a village in Spain you’ve never heard of, the President himself appeals to two names he can rely on with his very life.
You and Leon Scott Kennedy.
As crystal clear as it is that you’ve heard his name before, pretty much every ear in this business you’re in has heard of this man at least at one point in time. Funny thing is that this may be exactly where things get tricky. People only know a name, Leon, but nothing about the personality or the story behind his name. You’re very much aligned with this category of people. Yes, and in the middle of the mission, not to mention how crucial it is, you don’t exactly expect to playhouse with Leon Kennedy, granted. Still, it’s not entirely flattering that the man projects himself to you with nothing more than a short nod. He certainly doesn’t like to talk, albeit occasionally overhearing him talking to himself, or cracking one liner to infected villagers that make the skin chapped and dry in winter, paints a much different picture of Leon in your mind.
He schemes on his own and rarely consults your point of view when he takes the matter elsewhere, which naturally leaves you feeling inferior to him. The sour grimace on your face is always preceded by a wisecrack, conveying the image of a self-righteous and, conversely, insecure man. Is this what the infamous Kennedy is like?
“Psst, amp up your game, agent.” A laconic tone, a haughty flow to his voice, as if to say, ‘I know best around here, and you don’t.’
In a riot you never expected to stumble upon, the villagers clogged with armaments composed of pitchforks, axes and hacksaws, your life is miraculously salvaged by an anonymous clarion call of a bell. Now you are looting a random house in the village for Leon’s ridiculous reasons, or rather he’s the only one doing the looting because there is no way you would ever touch anything of these ailing locals.
“Hunnigan warned that the sooner the better, herring brain.”
“Herring brain?” His back is turned to you so you can’t quite see what sort of emoticon is hanging on his face. But the inflection is the same. Sarcastic as hell. He jams his elbow into the glass of the vitrine and it’s not hard to discern whether he’s pivoting to protect his prissy face or to prove to you how pinched his frown is. Definitely the former one even though his face is too pretty to harm.
Putting a grenade in his gear as if it will be enough to slaughter the entire village because it certainly won’t be enough, he tosses another curt retort back at you, not that you weren’t born yesterday.
“Oh, nice.” It’s woven with acrimony and malcontent. Seriously, where does his assertiveness stem from?
“We need to get to the mill straight away.” You try again. Nothing that can’t be solved with a little more civility, right? It’s worth a try.
The soles of his boots crunch on the chunks of broken glass as he trudges forward in front of you. Okay, Mr. Vanity. All humor aside, his gaze is unnerving, as if there are vines tied around your ankles holding you in place, so much so that you can do nothing but loiter in his presence, bunglingly.
It’s as though for a moment you forgot about his joke, mainly about playing bingo and his usual goofy mentality, how dare you be demeaned in front of him, seriously this guy is nonentity, for his sheer size, he has a giant head full of cheesy jokes and an enormous high forehead that he tries to cover with a fringe of his hair. Ugh, lame alert. But… He’s still handsome, let’s face it. Could be the work of charm that these drone men so rarely acquire.
Still, don’t give him the time of day on this one, not after seeing how obnoxious he’s proven to be.
You roll your eyes, undeterred, your steps already dragging you forward, and you make your way down the stairs to exit this ramshackle excuse for a house that smells of dung and blood in equal measure.
If only you could get out of the seconds, you’re in now, as you got out of that moment. It’s not that simplistic, it transpires.
“Hey Leon, there’s some armor. Bet you could use it like a bulletproof vest.” Well, Ashley is a cute girl and denial can be deemed as a blind existence, or deafness, whatever. But when she starts to fill up your patience drop by drop, as it has been the case ever since you reached the Salazar Castle, she gradually grows more and more friendly with... Leon, not with you. The president’s daughter’s words are clear and concise, one hundred percent of flirtation. It’s fine, you don’t care. But usually speaking to you as if you are not the part of this mission, or sometimes outwardly ignoring you, is an aspect you don’t understand.
“Little old fashioned for my taste,” Leon quips in the world’s blandest tone. Damn.
It’s a wonder what happened to the girlhood chumminess. Maybe Leon and Ashley are more apt to form a closer friendship, or perhaps you’re the low-key of the group, or else Leon alone spotting Ashley in the church fostered a stronger bond of trust between the two of them, when you went your separate ways and found out that Leon had gutted a lake monster or something. Absurd as fuck. To your credit, you weren’t a fat lot of good, a few diary fragments of your findings were the remains of a scientist who had scribbled on a piece of paper about a brand new virus, the plagas. Anyway, back to the shit you’re in. It’s pretty obvious that there’s nothing too serious damage of emotions here, in fact Leon is so thick that he turns Ashley down time and time again, not in a rude way, never in a crude way, but just with his inane and arid jokes.
“Too bad. I think you’d look pretty dashing,” Ashley’s chirping, but it’s no good. She gets no reaction. You think this is the signal for the end of their conversation, and you just follow the two of them into the moonlit room, keeping silent. I mean, why join in, since watching this awkward thing going on between the two of them is frankly like a cutscene in a sit-com. You know, Leon sucks at the whole flirting thing, you figure it out, so all that bravado, all that stoicism, it’s all a veneer. Insecure, yet cute.
The romp with Luis is a very specific narrative. It’s short and abrupt, so sudden that it’s unreasonably all tied to him. The only thing you know is that Luis has the medicine to treat the poisoning of Leon and Ashley by the parasite that was probably written on the pieces of scrap paper you found and... that’s it. It’s obvious that you’re his ticket out of here, and that he’s telling you how he no longer works for Los Illuminados as a way out of this clusterfuck while ogling your boobs is extra hassle.
He‘s a completely alternative man to the intangible and abstract man Leon is, flirting is Luis’ breakfast, lunch, appetizer and, of course, his dinner. Like the water, he has to drink so he can exist. Like his cigarettes, you can say.
One small maneuver could stop him, you could even tell Leon that you won’t go along with his scheme to trust this guy (he somehow doesn’t like the attitude), put a bullet in his head and take his life on the spot. But it’s the inner attention whore fairy in you that permits Luis to flirt like there’s no tomorrow simply because you like the limelight. That and he’s pretty cute, his hair looks great, you can work with that.
Basically, it’s a peculiar combo. There’s nothing stopping Luis. Even when you’re underground, literally underground, and you’re trying to get back up, there’s not a single thing stopping him from alternating between you and Leon, sometimes putting a few bullets in the infected villagers in between, and watching you and Leon do most of the work. Two hot agents wrestling their way out of the mess, what can he say? It’s hot. If Leon asks him to participate and assist, he just shrugs and says, “Hey, I’m the brains. You’re the brawn and the señorita is the vision.” A walking paragon of bisexualism.
But what impression did this little oversight strike in Leon’s eyes? Just one word, bleakness. The others are sour, unpleasant.
Trusting someone, especially someone he didn’t necessarily know, to get things fixed was beginning to become a habit of Leon’s. Yes, he wants to help everyone whenever he can and that’s where all the shit hits the fan for him. He is, notably, reluctant to put his trust in someone (formerly) working for a corporation that has razed a young rookie full of dreams and wrecked several lives in one simple night. Call it a survival instinct or whatnot. Besides, it’s quite asinine for Luis to act so laid back or to think he has that luxury in the midst of so much grime and squalor. The flirting game doesn’t cease, and Leon’s pestering you as well, blatantly flaunting around with a flamboyant of a flirt would suggest that you’re neglecting your expertise and don’t give a damn about the mission.
That’s exactly what bothers him, never for any other reason. Yeah, right? Uh, or... How an agent of your reserve, like you, falling for Luis’ tricks and snubbing Leon might be playing a small part in his aggravation.
“Really? I didn’t take you had such a low standard,” he says so casually in the elevator that’s now hauling you upstairs, in a rare moment when you can have some privacy, and you wonder if he’s never spoken or at least ever bothered to talk to you.
“What is that supposed to mean?” You quirk an eyebrow and watch as he cocks his gun, giving it a quick once-over, an idle thing he almost always does, but one that makes your skin prickle with welcoming tingles. What the fuck is going on? Intensifying gun kink moment, perhaps.
“WhAt is thAt suPpoSed to mEan?” He emulates your intonation effortlessly. Hey, come on, your voice isn’t that squeaky.
It would be a challenge for him not to miss the wintry glower on your face, he’s observant and to tell the truth, watching your face makes him feel good, at times. At times is the key ingredient. For after all, he had made that mistake once before, of falling into the maw of the sweet trap of the woman he had known overnight in Raccoon City and in whom he had tormented his heart. Except things are, otherwise, he’s not a rookie anymore and he even finds these traps interesting. Or rather, he likes you.
“You need to watch your mouth, asshole.” Your voice lectures him with a sharp vibrato.
“Huh?” Quite the sport that he is. What, was he guarding his stone-like reticence in order to torture you for hours on end? Or has he gotten over the familiarization period and is suddenly expecting you to click like best pals? Reading men is the toughest exercise in the world, everyone knows for a fact that they don’t use their brains, but reading Leon is much more demanding. It’s a lot of strain and it’s the kind of maltreatment that can cripple a person both physically and cognitively. It takes a lot to tune in to the energy of the likes of Luis, a verse of assertive words for a few more ambitious words and, well, he’s a good warm-blooded friend now. Then Leon? It is very very shaky to figure out what to do to stay on his good side.
“Whatever.” Your voice echoes with finality and your follow-up answer is disrupted by the juddering of the elevator accompanied by a beeping sound. Lights flicker and breaths are held in short gasps, as these things often don’t augur well. Then darkness blankets the space like the teasing gloom of a sky before the copious rain patters fall on the soil.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” His peevish voice is more sizzling, smooth like butter. So caressing against your skin, now you can give people with vocal kink their due. If it weren’t for his absurd jokes, you would fall to your knees thoughtlessly and su—
“Hey, I’m talking to you. Better tune your ears.”
“Wh-What?”
“Come on, are you daydreaming in the middle of a mission? Man, looks like you’re not as polished as the president thought you were.”
He points a flashlight directly at your face, before a clicking sound, an endeavor to render you legally blind.
“Stop it,” you hiss in rebuke to which he reciprocates with a ragged snort. There is something staggering about the fact that the man who didn’t say a word to you last night is surprisingly toying with you like a schoolboy. So much so that there can be no other conceivable answer to the vermouth tint of your cheeks. The grin on his face provides a unique glimpse of his crooked teeth. Or his soft jawline. Up close, he’s full of his flaws, but he looks cute, you can’t lie. And you can’t just imagine being dissuaded by someone so full of little foibles. Especially on duty, in a malfunctioning elevator.
“Shy, or am I living things in my head?”
“The latter and for the first, dream on, buddy.”
“Oh, well. I shouldn’t be dreaming then.”
None of these rejoinders are smooth, they’re frankly lame, painfully corny. Except that you have an infinite penchant for pretty-faced men and their languishing eyes, namely Leon.
Which is why in the darkness you can’t visualize how his hand is tucked into your pants. The sound of his fingers curling inside you is the root catalyst for the darling mantle on your cheeks, and the pilgrimage is the secondary motivator. Alongside his drenched and glove clad hand, his other hand is under your shirt, cupping your right tit, which is sticking out of your bra, with gusto.
“Tsk tsk, how long have we been on post, hm? For how many hours?”
He bombards you with queries as if you have the breath to center on his inquiry. How blunt. Leon jeers when he sees your eyes blinking disproportionately at his. You’re a dumb blur, wet and yes, only for him. Not for Luis, not for anyone else. It’s just a finger dipping in and out of you and the second he sticks a second one in, you adopt a piquant pout, your lips pursed, eyes glazing over. Too pretty a spectrum for Leon.
“Let me answer that for you, sweetheart, it’s been about 7 hours and you’re getting fingered by someone you barely know.” His scratchy drawl tickles your ears like a freshly scabbed wound scratching vigorously like he’s the only thing that will soothe the pain inside you.
“That’s what all your bitterness was for? To get me and keep me for yourself?” His questions almost never conclude, fingers pumping and scissoring the daylights out of you.
“Ashley walks out ‘cause you only want me for yourself. To be all yours?” In return, a protracted, keening whine rolls out of your mouth, your lips bruised from his previous kisses, his teeth. Ouch, so utterly ignominious. When this is over, you will definitely remember this moment and break your sleep. His swelling hubris just like the twitching dick inside his pants gives Leon a feeling of entitlement and conceit. At least he looks more appealing in that way.
“Wish I could understand your blabbering, beautiful,” he jests, his thumb darting over your puffy clit, rushed but attentive as he knows you’re inching close. The face buried in your bosom, his lashes and hair delicately brushing over your skin, shrinks the knot in your belly, warmth flutters. Leon’s urge is stirred by the tight grip of your lovely cunt squeezing the fingers inside of you that are ebbing and flowing incessantly. A harsh and crass mark, a tiny imprint his teeth leaves on your neck, faint, purple, the kind you will carry with you tonight, on this mission and for a time being as it appears.
A seal that is almost bruising, hard enough to draw blood and so irascible because it can’t draw blood, a brand that quickly grows purple, a sting that is the right match for the pinch it leaves on your nipple. A brand that says you are Leon’s, for a fleeting while. It’s absurd that it’s been so long since the last time someone fingered you that you can’t remember cumming. Guys just suck at this shit. And you never dreamed that you would just melt and cum in the fingers of a trite man like Leon. The sight of you paralyzed in rapture is so captivating that his craving to lick and devour you is eclipsed by the sudden illumination of the elevator lights. Pulling out his two fingers, he finally succumbs to his instinct to taste you and allots them close to your lips.
In a very non-sanitary, even grossly insensitive method, his fingers are swabbed thoroughly, as if your tongue were a gauze pad when he pushes them inside your parted lips. He’s spectating you in a blissful trance, and if he were to claim that he didn’t put his fingers in place of his cock gliding between your lips, he’d be the world’s biggest fibbing bastard, and he’s not the world’s biggest fibbing bastard—mind you. Only at the last second does he catch your hand sliding down his hip, grabbing it by your wrist.
“Ah, ah, not so fast.” He winces in pain and the longing to impale himself inside you eats him up, but he has some principles, and he doesn’t want to break them. So, he wipes his fingers on your shirt once they’re out of your mouth knowing it’ll leave a big ass stain. For real? Well, ew.
“H-hey, why the hell?” Your outburst is both about the dick he’s detraining from you and his juvenile antics. He just shrugs his shoulders and hitches up your jeans, notwithstanding that your panties are still damp and caked in juices.
“Sorry, but I’m keeping myself back for the right time. Maybe we can finish it in a hotel after the op, yeah? That’s if we survive.” Oh, but really? Did he just cockblock you?
“Don’t tell me virgin or something?” You just can’t let him let go that easily.
“Too bad it turns out you are a loser to cum on a virgin’s fingers.” Message received.
He reaches down under your shirt and grabs your utility belt lying pointlessly on the floor and your holster. On his knees, like a man designed to minister to you. What can you say? He knows he’s a fucking pain in the ass and he looks hot, that’s for sure. He fastens the belt around your hips, not too tight, certainly not too loose, snaps the holster back to its original place on your thigh, and adjusts the straps with a fair dollop of precision.
“There you go, agent. Ready for action and about to kick some serious cultist ass.” He pushes himself to his feet and strolls out of the elevator, as if his fingers, which minutes ago had been rearranging your pussy walls, had never been inside you. When he opens the elevator door, the gray eyes that await you greet you with a look as if they know everything, as the man waves the inoculum tube in his hand.
“Finally, eh? You should have paged me, Leon.” Luis says flippantly, while Leon looks at him with a dismissive dazzle and your insistence on biting your fingernails out of abject embarrassment is the solitary subject on your mind. Never ever again. (Lies!) It’s not like you’re here to shoot a porn video, right?
yeah basically
he’s so cute im gonna kill myself